Chapter 6: My Mistake

On November 2, a date I'm not likely to forget, the day before we were to mount up for the long trip down the coast, I spied a lovely young woman, a real heart stopper, being carried through the streets in one of those fancy sedan chairs. I wish I had not. She glanced my way and smiled before hiding behind a frilly fan. Her smile promised things I was always thinking about. She had hair the color of spun gold and as classic a profile as any I had seen depicted in images of Greek or Roman beauty. She would have been beautiful in any age.

Since I had nothing else to do and my member had taken control from my feeble brain, I sauntered along behind the two hefty black men toting her swaying chair. They stopped before a hatter's shop on a narrow back street, and the young woman stepped out, showing a slender ankle and silken leg, looked around and entered the store, her upright posture displaying her young bosom, rounded hips and narrow waist. I was surprised that the liveried men and their lacquered chair then departed. I still find it hard to believe what happened next.

I went to the tobacco shop across the brick-paved street and bought a short clay pipe and a twist of what the clerk claimed was Dutch-processed leaf but tasted more like floor sweepings. I found a place to rest my back, tucked my root behind my thigh and puffed away until the golden girl emerged, wearing a small, tri-cornered, green- velvet hat with claret-colored feathers that matched her obviously-expensive dress which was dark green with reddish-purplish trim and fit as if it had been sewed on her.

She looked about as if surprised, put a green-gloved finger to her pouting lips and began walking toward me. I knocked the dottle from my pipe and waited. I enjoyed watching her swing those long legs, rotate those full hips and bounce those round bubbies in that soft, tight-fitting riding habit with its wide lapels as she crossed the street, eyes glittering, and I know she saw me watching because she started trying to walk without all the jiggling, her tiny, silver-buckled shoes flickering beneath her flowing hemline, stepping quickly in front of each other like a tight-rope walker.

She stopped before me, close enough that I could smell her perfume and see the flecks of color in her hazel eyes and the soft, pale fur on her cheeks and upper lip. She raised a dark-gold eyebrow, smiled warmly and looked up at me, tapping my wrist with her folded fan as if she did not have my already-undivided and quickly erect attention. The top of her golden head came up to about my chin. The feather on her new hat brushed my cheek. I remember that dozens of small, bright buttons adorned her cuffs and collar. Her hair looked like spun gold, her long eyelashes were arched, ebony quills. She was like spring, full of young life and radiating sexual energy. My poor pike strained for release. She popped her lips open from a soft pout.

"Sir," she said, quietly and with a tiny head bob, curly locks bouncing, a half smile and barely-bent knee, "may I assume that you are a member of the Continental army?" With her fan she waved at my casual dress, spattered leggings, black stock and the blade bayonet and cartridge box hanging from my heavy belt. She seemed to ignore the bulge behind my strained cod piece which had been crying for my attention.

"A good guess, Miss," I said, making a small bow and one of my best smiles. I wished I had worn a hat so I could make a leg and doff it to her. At least my hair was neatly combed and properly tied back for a change, I was freshly shaved and my stock was clean. I wondered how I smelled, unusual for me to even wonder that. She smelled wonderful, spicy and inviting as an apple tart. In fact, I know that eating her came almost at once to my filthy mind.

"Could you possibly walk me home? Tisn't far. My father is in the adjutant's office, Colonel Forbes, perhaps you know him. He hired a chair for me, but there seems to have been some sort of mix up. There are many crude men about these days, cutpurses and the like."

She took my arm before I could say anything and held it against her with both hands, her fan dangling from her wrist, and we started walking. She stood very straight, and my elbow managed to rub against the side of her stays and her high, firm breast with disturbing frequency, bobbling her orb up to the rim of her jacket's velvet lapels. If she noticed this pleasant fact, she showed no sign of it but chattered on about the fine weather, the terrible price of hats, the tedious war, the talky congress and how awful the recent news had been.

I cut my stride a bit, but her long legs did not seem to have any trouble keeping up with a steady marching pace. We made a fine sound on the brick sidewalks, and she drew leers from several passing men, all of whom lifted their hats or touched their forelocks to her. I felt my member swelling against my leg as she bounced along beside me. I resisted the growing urge to pull her behind a tree, strip off her clothes and prong her silly, but those were exactly the images my mind conjured for my entertainment. I could actually visualize her long legs in a V-shape above my back.

I told her that we had received some good news and went on to describe more than I knew about the defeat of Ferguson's Tories on Kings Mountain in what they called the "Up Country" somewhere down in the Carolinas. She seemed very attentive. Her pursed lips reminded me of hollyhock buds, soft and pink, eager to open. I wondered how they would feel around my swollen spike. Despite the thickness of the velvet, her hard little nipples were clearly discernible as her good posture thrust them forward, very high and pointed, stretching the thin cloth of her frilly blouse with its hundreds of narrow pleats.

When we reached a small, bare park, she stopped, twirled in a flutter of skirt to face me, her high, bulbous breasts still bouncing under ruffles, and said, "But I don't even know your name or rank, sir." She wore a narrow black ribbon around her neck with a small, gold locket dangling in the hollow of her throat. She looked happy and secure in her beauty. I felt another singe of tumuscence that ran about halfway up my spine, and I had great trouble keeping my hands away from her lush body, my mouth and fingers wanted her. I wanted those swelling nipples, that well-hidden, juicy-lipped orifice.

I surely did not appreciate any girl this pretty calling me "sir," but I told her my name and said I was in General Greene's headquarters company which was headed to the Southern campaign. I did not bother to tell her I was a private again since the captain had recently taken away my stripes for reporting late and drunk and for cussing at him and his slattern. I believe I had made corporal three times by then, but you can check my records in the last book.

She hesitated briefly, looking slightly bemused or amused, and then said I could call her Amelia Forbes and claimed cheerily, with another small curtsey, that she was pleased to meet me. She seemed to measure me as if she was planning to buy me a coat or a coffin. Her bright, heavy-lashed eyes joined in her smile and her dimples flickered into life.

I was doomed, bushwacked, disarmed, immolated but certainly not unmanned. I felt very manly indeed and wondered if my aroused state was becoming visible. Her creamy skin was flawless, translucent. I could almost see the blood flowing beneath it. Minuscule gold rings hung from her pink ears, barely visible in her blonde curls.

She said she would be sure to tell her father of my kindness and went on to say that she had met General Greene the previous evening at a soiree of some sort. "Someone told me he was a Quaker," she said with wonder, taking my arm again in a most pleasant way, one arm through mine and her other hand on my forearm. "This town is full of them, but few are soldiers." We resumed our walk discussing the lack of diligence on the part of Congress, the width of farthingales, the cloudless sky. I felt deep and persistent groin stirrings as my pulsing prod slid farther down my thigh and my cods began a trobbing ache.

When we reached her tall, skinny, red-brick home that sat right on the street behind two marble steps and a narrow, red-painted door, she invited me in and insisted I sit in the front room while she saw about some tea. There did not seem to be anyone else about, and, unfortunately as it turned out, I could not think of any excuse to refuse.

As usual, I was following where my eager prod led, but I was surprised not to be welcomed by a servant of some sort. Many Philadelphians, I had discovered, owned slaves or indentured folks. Even some of the bawdy houses had liveried help. This place was very quiet, strangely still. I could hear the boards creak and a clock tick. "We're just renting here," she said when she returned with the china tea things and set the wooden tray on a side table.

She had unbuttoned her jacket and her bouncing and mounded charms poured forth beneath a froth of lace, evidently pushed up by the stays that gave her a waist I surely could have encircled with my hands, and I very much wanted to do that at that moment along with several other, more violent and pleasurable things. "We're from New York, way up on the Mohawk, near where that terrible fight took place, Oriskany. Poor General Herkimer was our neighbor." She sighed sweetly, raising her bosom as she thrust back her narrow shoulders and rounded her back to display the curve of her firm buttocks.

"That's one I'm glad I missed," I said as she poured hot water into the tea pot and an odd smell emerged, sort of metallic. Her hands were very steady. She concentrated on what she was doing and let me admire her lithe body and golden curls as she bent to her work. The top of her shift was also lace trimmed and the hollow between her young breasts was deep and dark, a place I wanted to explore, to lick, to rest in, to run my cock up and down.

"This isn't really tea, of course," she said, smiling at me and tossing back a curl with a shake of her head, "just some herbs and mint. I'll put some sugar in yours." She handed me a cup and saucer and then sat across from me on a small, upholstered chair, her knees primly together, buckled shoes touching, breasts swelling out on both sides before her upper arms. We both sipped and eyed each other.

It was an interesting taste. I watched her watch me, her foot tapping to some interior melody; impatient, I wondered, for me to leave. I enjoyed watching her breathe. She held her upper arms close to her body, thrusting her breasts up and slightly out to each side, they rose and fell wonderfully, enticingly, steadily. Her belly puffed out like a small pillow, a place to rest my head or my cock.

"Where have you been in this endless war?" she asked, setting her cup down. "I was just a child when it began, goodness, five years ago isn't it?" She folded her hands in her lap and played with a button at the hem of her short, velvet jacket.

I was tempted to ask how old she was, guessed she was not yet twenty from the soft lines of her smooth face, but instead told her, trying to sound humble, that after the British left Boston, I had seen some action in '76 on Long Island, at White Plains and then at Trenton in the winter. Her eyes widened. I did not tell her about the first time I took leave of the army or of my brief ocean voyage with Admiral Howe or about the nightmare slaughter near Paoli Tavern when I hid in the woods. "I was in the fight down here at Brandywine. I missed the one at Germantown, heard that was a mess, dense fog and all. And a few others, Monmouth."

I counted the rest of them off in my head. It had been a long war. "This is the second time I've been to Philadelphia," I said, trying to sound sophisticated I suppose. I kept covering my groin with cup and saucer and could not relieve the pressure on my prong.

"My dear intended, the young man I was to marry, a true gentleman you understand, he was killed or captured, well, he just disappeared at Monmouth, actually vanished it seems. We aren't sure, still aren't sure. He was with Baron Steuben, the German, you know, on his personal staff." She pointed to a framed miniature on the side table, fingered her tiny locket and took a small handkerchief from her sleeve. Head down, she dabbed at her eyes and sniffed.

"I was there, like I said, Miss, terrible fight that was, hot day, awful. We should'a beat Clinton that day. Washington swore up a storm; threw his hat on the ground. Lord, a remember how hot it was. I never saw him so mad, must'a cussed for half an hour. " I thought about the scar on the back of my leg and of the bloated bodies we had buried. "Your young man may be a prisoner, you know. It's hard to get good information."

"General Washington?" she said, eyes alight, ignoring the prisoner question. "Have you really seen him, met him?"

I nodded but told her I doubted that the big Virginian would remember me. He might though since he was one of the few men in the army taller than I am although a number of men, including Washington, out-weighed me now and General Knox probably outweighed me and Washington put together. If I could have stayed in Philadelphia a while longer and let some of the more-solicitous ladies tend me, I might have gotten back up to fourteen stone or so.

"My Philip, my sweet dear, true love, he was only a lieutenant in a New York regiment, he told me that General Washington was the best horseman he ever saw," Amelia, or whatever her name was, looked over my shoulder toward the sunlit window, her eyes damp, luminous. She licked her soft lips nervously and then stared down at her feet, making me wonder if she was weeping.

She picked up her cup and saucer in a steady hand but did not drink any more, just sat with her lips slightly parted. Her tiny handkerchief had disappeared, and her globular breasts were straining to escape from her lace, their nipples now distended and hard.

"I hain't seen any better," I said, draining my cup and standing, feeling the need to leave, suddenly realizing it was awkward, perhaps even stupid, to be alone in this quiet house with anyone as pretty as this tempting girl, especially an adjutant's daughter, and a very young one, and particularly when I was starting to feel very riled, very eager to get up between her long legs and roger her until she squealed. Standing relieved some of the pressure. After the whores of the Philadelphia caves, she was a shining comet, a prime attraction, and I felt a bit dizzy with temptation, or something. I guess, as it turned out, it was some thing or other.

She jumped up, jiggling her round bubbies and almost spilling her tea, set the rattling cup aside and stepped in front of me, lips parted, breathing quickly, eyes shining, hand on my arm, top button undone somehow, stay strings showing. "When Philip and I were betrothed, sir," she said very seriously and quietly, almost a whisper, her eyes wide and beseeching, lips compressed to a thin line, "engaged, bespoke, whatever they call it now, he gave me a ring," she held up her hand and showed me the thin, gold, twisted band, "and I know I shouldn't tell you this, but we did, we had," she dropped her voice to a whisper and stood even closer, swallowing, looking squarely up into my eyes and rising on her toes, making me believe every syllable, "well, we had love relations, like married people do, you know, in bed, just a few times, never all night. Father did not know, of course, that Philip, well, he put his, his," she looked down, licked her lips, trembled an dsaid, "he put his stiff member in me."

She gulped and looked up at me, a hand still on my arm, her grip tight, her eyes moist, turning slightly so her back was to the window. She licked her lips and pouted as if waiting for me to say something. Her hair, which was tied in a bundle high on the crown of her head, seemed to shimmer in the light. Her scent rose even stronger, intoxicating might be the word. Her cheeks flushed pinker, eyelashes fluttered, a pulse throbbed in her slim throat. It was, in retrospect, quite a show. My overtaxed brain jelled and my thick member somehow insinuated itself beneath my waistband having risen when I stood.

"That's normal," I finally said and cleared my throat, wishing she did not smell so good, so fresh and flowery, so musky and ferny, "it's what many folks do these days once they decide to get married. Some men want to be sure their brides can have children." I spoke very rapidly. "Awful lot of ladies that know they's carrying babies see the preacher, y'know, then have them four-month miracles."

I smiled down at her, and she gripped my arm harder, her velvet-covered breasts and the lace-ruffled shirt between them almost touching me, chest swelling, rising and falling most invitingly and making my head swim, her gold hair a spidery halo in the window's soft light. My ears were buzzing, cock aching, brain locking up. I did not know where to put my hands although I knew where I wanted to put them.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly like a bellows, bulging at me, and she gulped and swallowed again, her breasts nearly out of her bodice and her belly touching my groin. I gently put one hand at the small of her back. Our thighs touched and she got one leg between mine. My other hand found her firm butt and squeezed.

"Could you do that with me, please," she said, as if she were asking me to open a paint-stuck window. "It was wonderful, what we did, but it was more than two years ago." A tear rolled down her plump cheek, and I bent and kissed it away, tasting the salt, and moving my hands to hold her slim shoulders. That was my second mistake of the day.

She hurried on, the words tumbling out, as my hands moved down toward her rump, pressing our stomachs together, "There's no one here, the servants have off until sundown. I'm sure I remember how we did it." She rubbed her heaving chest against my forearm, buttons somehow all undone, her chest flushing even pinker. "My father won't be home before then either, maybe until dark. I think about it in the mornings sometimes and squeeze my legs together, you know, but, but..."

She hugged herself, almost pushing both breasts out of her lacey shirt and her voice returned to the whisper. She lifted the leg between mine and her thighs rubbed against me and squeezed. She put her hands high on my back and stroked up and down very firmly. "Philip gave me this thing, made of hard wood, shaped much like his dear little member, but it's not the same, not anything like." She sighed very prettily, rested her head on my chest, and I was not even tempted to refuse her. The statue of William Penn could not have refused her. The elm tree out back could not have refused her.

I took her in my arms and held her, feeling the whalebone of her encircling stays, caressing her silky hair, my amoral prod rising to push against her soft belly, and I knew she felt it from the way she wiggled her hips against me. I bent and kissed her gently, and she kissed me back hard, biting at my lips, rolling her head from side to side and then thrusting her tongue in and out of my mouth, squirming in my arms and moaning.

She surprised the hell out of me, so I kissed her some more with her feet off the floor, one hand under her butt until she pulled her face away, panting and gulping, nodding her head up and down. By then her belly was mashing into me as I held her by both the firm, humping, velvet-clad hips. She certainly did remember how to do it. My cock under my waistband stood out hard and painful, prodding at her soft belly.

She took my hand and we almost ran up the narrow stairs to a plain room with a small wood-framed bed covered by an old quilt. Sunlight poured through the single, curtained window. She undressed quickly to her lacy, silk shift and fancy, pink-ribboned stays, pulling off her stockings as gracefully as it can be done and placing her stylish clothes neatly on a straight-backed chair. I sat on her soft bed, yanked off my boots, and stepped out of my breeches and drawers and then stood before her. My swollen member rose, crooked but ready for work under my long shirt tail, hard a nails, long as a hatchet handle. I thought she might change her mind if she saw it or my ugly wound marks and hairy body.

In the soft light from the curtained window, she looked squarely at me, smiled and slid her hands up under my old shirt, ignoring my engorged weapon which poked up at her chest, feeling the gouges and scars on my chest. "You've been hurt," she said, helping me skin out of the shirt and then tracing some of the more livid marks with her finger tips and tongue while I caressed her ears, neck and the tops of her high, round breasts, holding my jumping member off to the side as best I could and turning my hipbone into her pulsing belly while my cock rolled up and down her her hip and thigh.

I watched her nipples show themselves above the lacy edge of her satin-bowed corset and touched them with my thumbs, rubbing and rubbing as they extended like tiny finger tips. She looked down and plucked at the pale ribbons and my fumbling fingers helped her tear the flimsy whalebone garment loose. It had small flowers embroidered on it, an odd thing to recall. She tossed it aside, sniffed, licked her lips, and raised her arms, childlike. I lifted the silk shift from her porcelain-white body and dropped it on the chair.