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From: oldbill2@comcast.net
Subject: {ASSM} Rebel 053 Two Women (MMFf)
Lines: 435
Date: Sat, 22 May 2004 23:10:01 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Rebel 053.txt" begin>

Rebel 053 (Old Bill) (MMFf)

Two Women

	Foster sent us, me and George, out to do some requisitioning.  
Our orders were to get something for the men to eat, anything, but 
especially corn and flour.  "Do it legally if you can," our officer said 
with a smile as he gave us a sheaf of quartermaster forms, "but get 
us some grub."  We took two tired riding horses and a wagon and 
mule, both old as dirt, and we started scouring the countryside.  It 
did not take us long to figure out that a lot of men had been out 
doing the same thing before us so we widened the scope of our 
endeavor.

	In the morning we would find a place to picket our mule and 
leave our wagon, and then we set out in opposite directions, 
planning to be back at our camp by high noon.  After two days of 
doing this and still coming up empty-handed, George returned 
saying he had found a farm with a true-believing Whig on it who 
was willing to share with the great Washington's army.  So he took 
the wagon, promised to meet me at the same place that night, and I 
hurried off to try to top his accomplishment.

	I found the small farm which looked reasonably prosperous, 
dismounted and knocked at the sturdy back door.  The door 
opened a crack and a woman's eye and nose appeared.  I knuckled 
my forehead and told her my mission.  She shook her head and from 
inside the house came a curse.  She closed the door firmly but quietly 
and disappeared.  I went back to my horse by way of the well and 
found a barefoot girl patting his withers.

	"What's going on?" I asked her.

	"He don' like nobody," the girl said, squinting up at me in the 
bright sunshine.

	"Your paw?"  She looked to be sixteen or so, right scrawny 
but budding toward ripeness.

	"Uh uh."  She shook her head.  "I'm `prenticed, and my Ma's 
`dentured.  He's the master, he is."

	"I'm looking for food for the army," I told her.  She seemed to 
be wearing nothing but a homespun shirt-dress, a shapeless thing 
that hung from her bony shoulders and had big, useless, wooden 
buttons down the front as its only decoration.

	"He won' give y'none," she said.  "Miser, that's what he is."

	"What's his name?" I asked.

	"Mr. Miller," the girl said with a sour look.

	"He treat you all right?"

	She shook her head.  "Tries to poke me regular," she said, 
looking down at her bare toes. "Same as his boys.  One a'them done 
it too.  Hurt me."

	"And your Ma?"

	"Beats her when she won' do what he wants.  I hide when 
he's drunk which is most always.  His boy's crazy I think."

	A cry, nearly a shriek, came from the house, and the girl 
shuddered and scurried back into the darkness of the barn.  I 
hurried to the back door, lifted the hatch and went on in, uninvited 
but feeling I had to investigate.  More than curiosity, I hoped.  
Somebody was whimpering and gasping.

	The fat, gray-haired man sat back in the big chair with the 
woman's head held firmly into his groin, her arms up on his thighs.  
His hands were tangled in her hair and his eyes were closed.

	"That's it," he moaned.  "More, more."  He slapped at her and 
then his whole body spasmed.

	I yanked the woman away from his spurting prick, and she 
rolled across the floor with the back of her hand to her mouth, eyes 
wide.  I pulled the man to his feet, a bit surprised at his weight, most 
of which seemed concentrated in his huge belly and stumpy legs.  I 
bent one of his arms up in the middle of his back and marched him 
out the back door, kicked him a time or two, and tossed him into the 
dusty yard. He smelled like a rum barrel.

	He sputtered and growled, red-faced, climbed to his feet, put 
his limp member away and charged at me like a mad bull.  I side-
stepped, tripped him and he ran head first into the steps, 
windmilling his arms.  One of the treads caught him on the forehead, 
and I heard his neck snap like a dry twig.  He rolled over, flung his 
arms wide, kicked his feet and expired, head resting on the bottom 
step at a very odd angle and one leg bent under him.

	"Damn," said the woman standing in the doorway.  I heard 
feet behind me and the girl rushed past, leaping over the body to 
grasp her mother.

	"Is he?" the woman asked, holding the girl tightly.

	I nodded, prying a fat watch from the dead man's pocket and 
pulling a ring from his pudgy finger.  "Any kin?" I asked.

	"Two sons," the woman said, "both nasty as he is, was."  She 
made a small smile.  I put the watch back where it had been and 
screwed the ring on too.

	"Know the sheriff?" I asked.

	The woman shook her head as she and her daughter both 
stared at the dead man.  I grabbed one of his feet, towed him into 
the barn and threw a piece of worn tarpaulin over him.  The women 
stood in the doorway watching.

	"Where the nearest son live?" I asked.

	"Nex' farm, jus' over the hill," the girl said, pointing. I 
mounted and rode slowly in that direction, trying to assemble my 
thoughts.  My goal was still food for the troops, but now I had a 
dead man and two tasty women to think about.  The women's 
bodies slowly pushed the other thoughts from my head.  The older 
woman, who might have been thirty, was full-breasted, wide-hipped 
and long-legged, and I soon longed to plumb her depths and watch 
her face change while I plunged into her a hundred times or so and 
she kicked at the clouds. The younger one was plenty ripe enough, 
but I preferred some experience in my rogering, more meat, too.

	The farmhouse proved to be small and new looking with a curl 
of smoke coming from its stone chimney.  The man who came out the 
front door to meet me carried a shotgun and a mean look.

	"What do you want?" he yelled.

	"Miller?" I asked.

	"Josh Miller," he said as I dismounted.

	"I'm seeking food for the army, the Continental army," I said.

	"Keep moving on.  I ain't got none to spare."

	"Been an accident," I said, jerking my thumb over my 
shoulder, "back yonder; came to tell you."

	He cocked his head and waited.

	"Women said you were his son.  He's dead," I said, "your 
father.  Broke his neck, fell on the back steps."

	The man leveled his shotgun at me.

	"You kill him?" he asked with unblinking eyes.

	I shook my head.  "He missed a step, cracked his head and 
died.  Did he drink?"

	"None a'your business," the son said, the gun unwavering.

	"Just thought I'd tell you," I said, sticking my toe in the 
stirrup.

	"Wait," he said, "I'll ride back with you."  I waited and we 
rode back, him behind me, shotgun in his lap, without any more 
words.

	He looked down at his dead father when I rolled back the 
canvas, lifted his head, saw the redness on his forehead, cleared his 
throat and stood.  "This here farm's mine now," he said, "mine and 
my brother's."

	"How about the women?" I asked.

	"Them too," he said, "the stupid bitches.  Only good for one 
thing, both of `em."  He made a crude gesture with his fist and 
forearm.  "Old man paid five pounds for the pair `bout a year ago, 
after Ma died."

	"How about I take some of the corn?" I asked, "maybe half."

	The shotgun came up again.

	"Wish you would quit pointing that thing at me," I said.

	"You best move on," Josh Miller said as the older woman came 
into the barn.  "You," Miller said to the woman, "clean him up so's 
we can bury him."

	"Wouldn't touch him," the woman said, spitting to the side.

	The man backhanded her, knocking her off her feet, and I 
stepped up and took the gun out of his hands.  He growled as I 
dumped out the pan and took the weapon off half-cock.

	"I'll help you dig a grave," I told him as the woman got to her 
feet, wiping blood from her mouth.  I handed her the long gun.

	"All right," he said, "some shovels over there."

	So we dug a sizable pit near where the young man said they 
had buried his mother.  Then we rolled his father's body up in the 
tarp and gently dropped it into the hole.  I let him shovel in the first 
dirt and then we filled the grave, beat down the mound and 
covered it with stones.

	About the time we finished, another man rode into the yard.  
He could have been Josh Miller's twin, but he was his younger 
brother.  One of his eyes stayed fixed on his nose.  "This here's Jim," 
Josh said in introduction.  "He popped that girl's cherry first night 
they was here." He slapped his grinning brother on the arm, and the 
man smiled.  "Paw's dead," the older Miller said.

	The younger one just blinked his good eye.

	"Jim don' talk much," his brother said.  "He lives here; works 
this farm."

	The man had a vacant look about him and seemed to shamble 
as if he was not put together just right.  One hand constantly 
twitched.  His brother led him back to the barn, talking steadily into 
his ear.

	"Get that girl out here," Josh said to the woman who sat by 
the well, obviously waiting for something to be decided.

	"Annie," the woman cried, and the girl came running down 
the steps, bare legs flashing, and stood by her mother, her pointed 
breasts rising and falling rapidly.

	"We's decided," Josh said to them.  "Martha, you'll come home 
with me, work on my place, and the girl can stay here with Jim.  You 
know he likes her."

	"No," said the woman clearly.  "I wont leave her with him."

	"You'll do what I say," Josh Miller stated.  "That's the law.  
You signed a contract for both of you bitches.  You gotta serve, 
damn it, faithfully it says."

	I had been at the barn, checking my horse's saddle and trying 
to ignore what was going on when the woman screamed.

	Josh had her by the arm and was clamping his hand over her 
mouth.  "You can have that one, Jim," he said to his brother with a 
laugh as the girl's mother kicked at him.  "Wear her out, boy."

	The younger man crowed and leapt forward with surprising 
speed.  He grabbed the girl and tore her dress from her shoulder, 
biting at her throat and clawing at her small breasts.

	"Whoa," I yelled, drawing my big knife.

	"Stay out of this," Josh said through clenched teeth, his 
forearm about the woman's neck.  "I'll kill `em both if'n I want to."  
He ripped open the front of the woman's homespun dress and 
grabbed at her upright breast, squeezing hard.  The woman gasped, 
her eyes fixed on my face as Jim wrested her daughter to the 
ground near the well and pulled her dress up while he held down 
one leg to keep the girl from squirming away.

	I hit Josh in the mouth with the hilt of my bayonet in my fist, 
and Martha spun free of his grip.  Then I kicked Jim in the ribs a time 
or two, and he came roaring up at me just as his brother jumped on 
my back.  They knocked me down and pummeled me pretty good.  
After that it got kind of confused, but when the dust settled, I was 
standing with a few new bruises and two young men were moaning 
and bleeding in the dust, both mortally wounded, cut deep and 
often.  Martha had gotten the girl's dress back around her, and they 
stood by the well, looking shocked.  The fight had not lasted long, 
but I was blood spattered and breathing hard.

	I turned Josh over with my toe and watched him die, trying to 
hold his guts together.  His brother had crawled to the side of the 
well, pumping out blood from a couple of deep wounds so I 
stomped his face down in the mud and held it there until he quit 
squirming.  I wiped my knife on his backside and put it away.

	"You hurt?" Martha asked, pushing the girl toward the house.

	I shook my head.

	"I'll get you something," she said as I drew up a bucket of 
water, drank deeply and washed off my arms.  She returned with a 
stoneware bottle, and I gulped down some raw corn whisky.  When 
I handed her back the jug, she drank too and then took a deep 
breath.

	"Now what?" she asked, her hand on my arm.

	"Can't say.  Any more kin of these men?"

	"Not that I know about," she said as her daughter 
reappeared, her shapeless dress pinned together.

	"I guess you're both free then, if you want to be," I said, 
putting my hand on her shoulder and brushing back her hair.

	She nodded.

	"Hate to waste time digging another grave," I said.

	"There a swampy place back in the woods, not far," the girl 
said, looking down at the body of her tormentor whose head was 
barely visible in the mud.

	We got a rope on each man's feet and I led my horse into the 
trees, following the slim girl and towing the bodies.  It did not do 
the dead men's faces much good.  When we came to a sluggish 
stream, I searched the bodies and then deposited them among the 
cattails and wildflowers.  I was sure the birds and animals would 
make quick use of them, but that thought did not bother me.

	The woman gave me a handful of biscuits and I went back and 
fetched George and the half-filled wagon.  We loaded up at both 
farms with all our creaky vehicle could hold and then bedded down 
with the woman at the main house.  I warned George that the girl 
was very young, but he just smiled.  "Ripe enough," he said and led 
her off to bed.  She did not resist my friend's embrace or kisses.

	Martha welcomed me to her bed, having made no protest of 
any kind about her youngster lying with my friend.  We enjoyed 
each other, letting our bodies have their way and blanking our 
minds as best we could, allowing no thoughts of the future.  In the 
morning I took my hard tool out to the necessary and relieved 
myself.  George met me on my way back to the house.

	"Trade y'women," he said, scratching at himself.

	"Why?" I asked, putting my spar away.

	"Too damn tight," he said.  "Like screwin' a knothole."

	"I'll give her a try.  You be nice to her mother."

	He clapped me on the back, and I went to the other bed, 
shucked out of my britches and rolled in beside the girl.  She 
yawned and her eyes popped open.

	"Where's George?" she asked, putting her hand on my chest.

	"Visiting with your ma," I said, pulling her close and capturing 
her mouth and bottom.

	"You want to swive me?

	I nodded and licked at one of her upright nipples while I 
kneaded her buttocks.  She moaned and held my face to her chest.  I 
moved to the other small breast and sucked there for a while, feeling 
the nipple harden while my hand explored her hairy groin and 
mounded slit.  Then I kissed my way south, played with her navel 
and found her tiny clit with my tongue. She squealed and trembled.  
It did not take long to get her stirred up and eager for action.  I lay 
beside her, got her hand around my iron-hard mast and had her put 
its swollen head into her tight cunny.  As I dove into her, her mouth 
gaped open and eyes widened as her hand slid down to its broad, 
hairy base.

	"Hold it there," I said, "until you're ready for more."

	She gasped and nodded as we began getting our hips into 
concert, playing in and out, slowly out and deeper in.  She was tight 
but eager and I soon had her arched on my spear, gritting her teeth 
as I rammed the blood-hot spike into her moist, warm interior.  She 
came, climaxing on my thrusting shaft in spasms, spraying spittle into 
my chest, and I lay back and pulled her atop me.

	Her hand came away and three or four more inches of tubular 
gristle drove up into her.  She squealed and wiggled, rotating her 
bottom on my spear and lunging up and down on it until she 
climaxed again and then subsided, gasping for breath.

	"Oh, oh, oh," she moaned, collapsing atop me, hands on my 
shoulders, knees at my hips.  I was still planted deep within her and 
still had not achieved my release despite some fast and furious 
thrusting and a lot of jumping and flexing on the part of my eager 
partner.  We lay quietly, enjoying the feel of my member quivering 
and surging within her.  I flexed it from time to time, sometimes ten 
or fifteen times in a row, and when she began to respond, I rolled 
her to her back, got up on my elbows and finished the job, pumping 
out my pleasure into her as she came again, kicking the bed with her 
feet and pounding my back with her fists.

	We lay tangled together, getting our breath, well satisfied.

	"I've never done that a'fore," she whispered.  "Never.  That 
was scary, but awful fine."

	I kissed her gently.

	"More?" she asked.

	"Want me to get George back?"

	She shook her head and found my spent weapon with both 
hands.  It was not long before she had it standing upright and 
impaled herself, easing her lean body down on the thick shaft inch 
by twisting inch until she was firmly in the saddle, thoroughly 
stretched I was sure.  She smiled down at me, kicked me in the rump 
with her heels and said, "Walk on."

	We advanced to trot and canter in easy stages and ended with 
a long and highly enjoyable gallop that brought us both to another 
gushing climax that flooded both our groins.

	We breakfasted and then spent the morning going over deeds 
and other legal papers, forging dead men's signatures and making 
sure the woman understood that she was now the owner of both 
farms and that she and her daughter were free.  We found plenty of 
hard money for freedom dues, urged them both to marry as soon as 
they could and then, hating to do so, we left with our food, 
promising to try to get back.




This is the last story in the rebel's second journal. The third journal 
will be opened shortly.

The editor wishes to thank all those making suggestions and 
corrections. Since these stories were written long after the events 
described, errors and/or exaggerations should not be surprising.



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