Sheila McLean was a name that brought my member to quivering attention. "Did you ever hear of a doxy called Irish Sheila, Mistress Sheila McLean perhaps?" one of my tavern mates asked, deep in his cups. I held my peace having already sucked him dry of information and not wishing to buy him any more of what the tavern was selling as gin. "She's as fine a piece of ass as the lord god ever made, that she is," he evered making wavy motions with both hands to show the shape of the woman. I remembered. My cock jumped at the memory.

"And where might this paragon lie?" I asked, crossing my legs to conceal my obvious interest as my brain unloosed a torrent of salacious images that brought blood surging to my loins.

"Lie it is," he said with a laugh. "She's being shared about, that she is," he said, "but not for the likes of us, me bucko, not likely."

A bit more drink, and he told me where he had heard the girl's name and her fame as well. She was, he swore unsteadily, supposed to be the busiest and best-paid courtesan in all of Philadelphia and the favorite of both the politicians and the staff officers. "An' she don' care which side neither," he said, "Jus' as leave roger a Redcoat as a Continental, long as he's got the brass. She might'a crawled inta Howe's bed f'all I know, when 'is mistress was away."

It did not sound like the young woman I had met and enjoyed some time before, so I had to investigate. Anyone with those kinds of contacts could be of value. At the time the town was filled with rumors of cabals and treason, of bribes and plots. The inn and coffeehouse he had named was hardly on my round of informants, but there were plenty of places to observe the entrances, and on a late afternoon two days later, I saw the shining blonde head of a full-bodied young woman in a fancy dress who might well have been the widow I had enjoyed solacing up in West Jersey a while back.

She left the back door in a sedan chair with drapes at the widows, and I followed until she was delivered to a narrow brick home in a fashionable neighborhood. She stepped out, flipped up her hood, hurried up the steps and disappeared inside without looking back, knocking or waiting.

I went to the skinny backyard and found a small shed and necessary. I rested my back and watched the house until nightfall. No one came or went as far as I could tell so when the last light was extinguished on the third floor, I pried my way inside, doffed my boots and crept up the carpeted stairs. I stood in the dark hall at the first landing and huskily whispered, "Sheila."

I assumed her servants, if any, slept in the steep-roofed garret above, so I whispered her name a bit louder. I light flowed under a door. I tried the latch and entered, closing the heavy door softly behind me.

"Is it," I asked quietly as I approached the canopied bed and flickering lamp, "truly Mistress Sheila McLean, the parson's young widow from Newark?"

"Aye," she said, sitting up and holding the covers to her chest, her long hair glowing in the moonlight, nearly transparent, like filaments of dripping honey, her eyes wide and wary. "And who might you be, y'hulk?"

"Well," I said, "it has been a while."

"I have a gun." she said, " a pistol. And though it is small, it is loaded."

"Do you really?" I said calmly as I shucked out of my long-tailed coat and tossed it toward a chair. I told her my name.

She gasped, tumbled out of bed and ran to me, arms spread wide, nightgown flowing behind her. I gathered her in, answered her kisses and felt her sob and cry against my chest. "I need help, please, please," she sighed and then sobbed again. I patted her back as my trembling member filled and rose.

"Come, come," I said, leading her back to her bed, more than eager to have her. She sat beside me, head down and hands between her legs. Her mop of very light hair hung to her knees and waist.

"I've tried to play both sides, made a dumb mistake," she sniffed, "and it finally caught up with me. I'm in trouble."

I pulled off my boots and stood to unbuckle my heavy belt and undo my waist.

"What are you doing?" she asked between sniffs.

"Undressing," I told her, bending to lift her chin and find her lips briefly. Then I shucked off my britches and stood before her, rising proudly until my pride stood well above the horizontal.

"I remember you," she said quietly, pushing her hair back from her face and looking askance at my upright shaft which stood quivering before her nose, thick and hard, trembling and pulsing, its fat head nearly crimson. She put her hand on it, bent and licked its sensitive tip.

I sucked in my breath as she mouthed my glans. I think my heart stopped; I'm sure it missed a beat or two.

"We can do better than that," I said, both hands buried in her fine hair as she ran her tongue around my cock. I pulled her head back.

She freed my prod which jumped up like a well-made sword. "Truly," she sighed, cupping my stones gently, "I do need your help."

I peeled the frilly gown from her lush body, tore off my shirt, and we rolled under her covers and put our mouths and bellies together. I got my ram well seated in her writhing cunny, pulled her atop me with her legs limply beside mine, held her rump and said to the top of her head as I sank deeply into her and she collapsed upon me, "Now tell me, my little love."

She was wonderfully tight with rippling quivers. It was like putting on a new glove. I tried to relax. A long, hard part of me could not. I growled and enjoyed her.

She took a deep breath, and I could feel her nipples hardening against my ribs. Her face was turned to the side high on my chest. I switched off my brain, cupped her firm buttocks and let my body do as it wished.

"A man," she said clearly, her breath warm on my skin, "my that feels good, a man, a powerful man has threatened me, made demands. Says he'll jail me and throw away the key, sic the dogs on me." She shivered and arched up.

"You had better start at the beginning," I said as my spear flexed steadily deep within her, and I tried to regulate my breathing and heart rate, being patient, enjoying where I was and not wanting the pleasure to end too soon.

"Yes, yes," she said, wriggling to get more comfortable I suppose and grinding her pubic area into mine. Our hairy regions meshed. She squealed briefly. She was warm and moist, gripping me tightly and caressing the whole length of my striving prod with her pulsing channel. "Let's see, after you left me, and that was mean, by the by, I took up with a bookseller, a decent man, but he had a wife, of course. He gave me the blank, little, chap book I still have and suggested I write it all down, every man I had known. I've been doing that ever since. That's the problem I guess."

"Doing what?" I asked, my mind not on what she was saying as my buried pike demanded action. I kneaded her round buttocks.

"Keeping track of the men I've known, their names, what we have done, how well we've done it."

"All of them?"

She nodded and heaved her hips at me gently, making a very odd noise deep in her throat, nearly a growl.

"Including me?"

"Especially you," she said with a chuckle. "I give each one a number depending on, well, on how well he pleases me, how well equipped he is to do the job, what do they call it, how well hung, that sort of thing. Of course how long he lasts, how many times a night; all that sort of thing."

"You fool," I said, thrusting deeper and bringing forth a small spasm of delight and a gasp of pleasure. She had a strong and vibrant body.

"Men are so vain," she said, pulling her knees up past my hips and pushing down on my chest to sit up on my loins. She raked back her hair with both hands, as exciting a gesture as I had ever seen. With moonlight on one side painting her silver and lamplight on the other, glowing orange, she was the image of hedonistic desire, her pointed breasts jutting out at me. I grabbed them.

"Indeed," I said as my poor root jumped straight up within her, "and women, of course, are not."

"No, right, we're just weak vessels, receptacles. We have to endure what men do, what they want, the vile pigs."

I laughed and held her hips, giving her a half-dozen of my best from the supine position. She bounced happily on my shaft and gave me back another dozen or so as she lifted herself and sank repeatedly on my upright mast, slamming her soggy groin into mine and nearly ripping my foreskin off.

"It's true," she gasped out when she paused, her bubbies jiggling, and I reached out and held both her breasts in my big hands. "Look at you pawing me and enjoying my poor body."

"Aye," I said, "it is sad what you must endure."

"So I've written it down, thought of making a story some day, and one of my gentlemen found out, found out the book exists and that he is in it. A woman friend of mine told him I suppose, the shameless hussy."

"Who? Who is the man?"

"I can't tell you." She paused and put a finger to her pouting lips. "They call him the president."

"Of the Continental Congress?"

She inhaled and nodded, licking her lips. Her nipples had become engorged and protruded between my fingers. I squeezed them gently. She moaned and closed her eyes.

"My lord woman, Hancock?"

"No, no," she said, rocking from side to side, her eyes still closed and mouth open. "You should know him. He's from Maryland."

"And he has threatened you?"

She nodded again, gasping rapidly. "He wants the book."

I felt her body beginning to heave and spasm as she neared a climax on my throbbing shaft. I tightened my grip on her firm breasts and enjoyed the contractions that rolled over her and thrilled me as our bodies ground together. She cried out and whimpered letting her head hang down, sobbing.

"Oh damn," she sighed. "Damn, damn, damn. Now I've done it again."

I rolled her to her back, reared above her and enjoyed myself at some length despite the rope bed's complaints. It took a good bit of time and nearly brought the bedstead down, but she finally responded, kicking her legs toward the ceiling and climaxing again and again before I pumped out my aching ballocks into her grasping cunny. She milked me dry, and I collapsed beside her, breathing like a broken racehorse.

"You are," she gasped out, holding my hand, "you are the only man in my book with the number twelve by his name. None of the others are even tens."

"And the president?" I asked, swelling with pride and wondering what the number meant for I surely was nowhere near twelve inches in length.

She giggled. "Five, I think. I believe he is a five. But there are men who are ones and twos, who are much worse than he is."

"No wonder he wants your book."

She was quiet and her hand sought out and found my limp weapon, my spent member, my bent sword, more a six than a twelve.

"How many men are named in your little book?" I asked as she stoked and kneaded.

"Oh, I've numbered as I went along," she said. "And I went back as far as I could in my memory. I may have missed some before I met you but none since."

"How many?"

"Two hundred and fifteen," she said quietly.

"Two hundred different men?"

"And fifteen. Yes," she said, stretching out my limp tool on my hairy belly.

I was quiet, enjoying her ministrations.

"Well," she said, "I've been doing it for almost nine years. That's not so many. Just, let me think, just twenty-five a year. Not even one a week."

"But lately?" I asked, turning toward her and kissing her mouth.

"Well, yes," she said. "I did do a lot of different men last year. I put the dates down too."

"For money?"

"Sometimes, but usually for presents; baubles, books, clothes, all sorts of things, even chocolates and a nice fur hat."

"Why do you do it?"

"To live, to eat, for this house, the servants." She paused. "Because I enjoy it, usually I do. Let's do it again. You're surely ready." She squeezed my rigid shaft tightly, and I suppressed a scream.