A Woman Called Silvie

by realoldbill

Copyright© 2014 by realoldbill

Sex Story: During the American Revolution, a soldier is given an unusual assignment.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Historical   Rough   .

The lady under discussion evidently had some very influential contacts in our army. She was a stunner, they said, who gobbled up men, whose appetites were peculiar and who was never satisfied.

The colorful rumors about her grew with each telling. She had seduced Arnold in a fast-moving carriage; she had done it with Wayne standing in a hallway behind a rack of cloaks; she had even bedded Washington himself and devoured the old man's cock, one dispatch rider declared in awe, leaving the big horseman breathless and hobbled.

Whatever the truth, she evidently had a very odd and official looking document that stated in careful terms that she was to be clandestinely provided with a clean and virile man of at least average intelligence and, if possible, of more than average size on the first of each month for as long as it could be safely done.

The document stated that the man's duties were in part-payment for services rendered by the lady to the Continental Congress and its army and were to be kept quite confidential.

Since our company was fighting as rear guard at the end of that month, and I have no idea what month it was, probably late summer or early fall, the order came down to us without explanation. All the above I discovered much later. Lieutenant Foster, acknowledged by one and all as a cocksman without peer, was the obvious choice for the onerous duty, but he was suffering from the trots, the soldiers' disease as we usually called it, and was in no shape to stand guard duty much less stand at stud. For that was what was understood; the man chosen was to horse the women to her prescription on the first of the month until she declared she was satisfied and dismissed him. The assignment was limited to three days, and the lady's farm was a good day's ride away.

George was selected by the suffering lieutenant, but declined the honor having found himself lice-ridden after his last foray under the quilts in a mossy tavern. So, in time and because the woman was said to be of more than average heft and the agreement called for a man of some size, the duty fell on my modest shoulders. Sometimes size does matter but not often.

I accepted it as an honor, unsure that it was, and endured the usual jibes. I knew I had the necessary equipment, but I was not sure of my stamina, having miserably failed to please some of my bed companions in recent times, mostly, I hoped, from our meager diet as well as their greedy disposition.

Foster forced me to bathe, pare my nails and scrub my teeth, had one of the camp followers cut my hair, found me some less disreputable boots and clean linen, warned me to display my best manners and sent me on my way to the foul hoots and ribald advice of my fellow soldiers, all of whom envied me I am sure.

I arrived at her fine, brick home late on the last day of the month; I do remember that, and I was feeling a bit foolish, I remember that also, I felt like a tyro paying court to a grown woman, a stripling at his lady-love's door. And I was expected. Her bowing servant showed me in without delay, and I met the lady in her sparely furnished parlor in curtained half-light.

She was, as the rumors had said, a large woman, long-legged, wide-hipped, deep-chested and broad shouldered. She stood almost six feet tall with her shoes on and must have weighted eleven or twelve stone including her fine mop of light-brown hair and the thick gold bangles on her wrists.

Our eyes were nearly on the same level when she stood from her desk and offered me her hand. Her grip was firm and sinewy, and her smile was open and honest. She had good teeth, gray-green eyes, a sharp nose, large mouth and a strong chin. Her body was a heart-stopper.

She immediately reminded me of carved figures I had seen on the prows of warships. I tried to conjure up a synonym for voluptuous but only managed luxurious which was hardly the same thing. And she was young, very young indeed declared the soft lines of her face, certainly not yet thirty.

She was dressed in high-necked, tight-waisted, unadorned black that was certainly far from stylish in those days, a bit old-fashioned perhaps. She waved me to a chair, asked my name, said she was Mrs. Shoemaker and that I was welcome, indeed, most welcome. A small smile crossed her lips. She admitted she was pleased to see me and then covered her mouth with her hand, feigning embarrassment.

She asked if I was hungry, and when I nodded, still trying to comprehend my astounding good luck, she rang a small bell and ordered some cold food. She sat very straight in her chair. Her fingers danced on her mounded thighs and one toe tapped to unheard melodies. Impatience rather than nervousness, I assumed.

We talked about the war and the retreat, about Cornwallis and the Germans, about the weather and the crops. She somehow exuded sexuality or sensuality, and I found myself stimulated and quickly eager, despite my belly's growling for food. She was, I decided, going to be, very easily, the largest woman I had ever bedded, and I looked forward to the engagement.

Her farm, she said, had not been bothered by the enemy and, besides, she admitted with another smile, Washington had all her horses and other draft animals. She planned to let most of her fields lie fallow.

I wondered if my visit was in payment for the herd or for some other service to the high and mighty, perhaps of a more personal nature. Washington, after all, was a giant of a man, well over six feet and surely seventeen stone if not more. The food arrived, and I forced myself to eat slowly and enjoy the cider, biscuits and ham while her essence continued to stimulate my blood, my pulse, my cock.

"You in mourning, ma'm?" I asked, counting the black buttons that marched down the valley of her chest and wondering if stays encased those high ribs and narrow waist and pushed up those large mounds.

"Yes," she said quietly, looking down at her toes. She had rather large feet. I noticed, clad in short, soft boots. "My husband died," she took a breath thrusting forth her pointed breasts, shoulders back unconscious of the effect, "let's see, four, no five months ago. Hereabouts, the tradition is for a full year of wearing crepe."

She essayed a small smile, a nervous habit it seemed. "I cannot marry for a year nor consort with men. You must stay out of sight, I fear, during your time here, but my servants are trustworthy."

"He a farmer?" I asked, subduing my growing curiosity and making polite conversation while my lust filled brain undressed her, laid her flat and screwed her silly and my belly welcomed the sustenance.

"No, no, a minister of the gospel," she said quickly. "Very well known, well respected. The, um," she hesitated, "the animals I gave to your army were actually his and were, perhaps, his sons and heirs rather than mine. The will had not been read when I did so." She lifted an eyebrow at me, and I nodded.

"His sons, not yours?" I asked, finishing my food, licking my fingers and imagining her long legs about my waist, her mouth agape with passion.

"Oh yes, I was his third wife. The rector was seventy-seven when he passed over. You should have seen the crowd at his burial, heard the singing, very impressive."

I waited, my plate empty and my horn filling.

"He has, let me think," she said with a small smile, tapping her lips with her forefinger, "oh my, eight, no one died, seven sons and six, yes, six daughters, all of them older than I am. It is quite a complex will, and I am, I'm afraid, very low on the list except for certain rights."

She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me shyly. "I fear I am not very popular with his family. If I should stumble during this mourning time, I might lose everything I have inherited. There are even great-grandchildren with pending claims on my share."

The room where we sat was not quite dark, but her eyes seemed luminous in the fading light. I stood and came to her side, offering my hand. She took it and rose beside me. I put my hand on her broad back, and she lifted her chin. I kissed her, and her arms came around my neck.

Her body was warm and wonderful, firm but yielding. Our mouths parted and rejoined, and she clawed at my back and made a noise in her throat. She indeed was wearing stays and my hands rose to the firm sides of her upright, pear-shaped breasts, lifting them even higher, squeezing them in toward each other.

She pulled her lips from mine and leaned back against my grip, our bellies and hipbones mashed together, thighs touching and my hardness surely as obvious to her as her boned girdle was to me. "Come," she said, taking my hand and leading me up the wide staircase to her large, front room. I do not believe there were any more words between us until I entered her.

"Hah," she gasped, wiggling her buttocks deeper beneath me and raising her crossed legs higher on my back. When she reached her first climax, she literally screamed, a short burst of sound escaping her previously clamped teeth as her head lolled back and her body tensed and spasmed again and again, clamping and releasing, clamping and releasing.

At that time, I had never seen a painting by Titian, but now I have and that's what she was, a full-bodied girl that Titian would have loved even if she did not have red hair. She surged with power and lust and tested my abilities and endurance. I believe that I passed most of the tests for that day I was unusually randy and fortunate enough to be able to stay hard well past my first juddering ejaculation.

Much later we lay side-by-side, hips touching, hands on each other's belly, raking through mats of hair, trying to breathe normally, still shivering with pleasure. Her appetite matched her size.

"How old are you, Mrs. Shoemaker?" I asked, looking at the high, plastered ceiling and enjoying the warmth and smell of our mutual efforts.

"Silvie," she said, "I'm called Silvie, and I'll be twenty next month. How old are you?"

I told her. "How long were you married?"

"Nearly three years." She buried her fingers in my groin, grasped the base of my slack rod and then poked at my aching stones. "Are you wed?"

I shook my head and smiled at her, my fingers exploring deep in her mound. "So you were sixteen and he was, what, seventy-something?"

"Seventy-five I think." She grabbed my head and pulled my mouth to hers.

"Why?" I asked when I could speak.

"Didn't have a choice," she said, finding my turgid root again and holding it firmly, fingers tickling at my stones.

I turned toward her, captured her far breast with my hand and the closer one with my mouth. They were full and upright, conical rather than round, the nipples fully engorged. She turned a bit toward me to make my attention easier. She stroked my swelling pike with one leg atop my thigh. My leg rubbed at her moist nether lips and thick, curly muff.

"My folks died when I was twelve, no eleven, almost twelve. I went to live with my mother's oldest sister and her family. Two of her boys and a friend of theirs raped me, out in the barn, one rainy afternoon, over and over, hours and hours it seemed, bending me over a plow and then chasing me into a stall, whooping like red Indians. They were about your age then. My uncle said it was my fault, the way I looked. I cried and he scowled. I think he was tempted to have me, too. I know the look."

She pulled my rigid stalk into her softened and pouting lips, and I arched my hips forward. It disappeared, every thick inch of it into a narrow and pulsing passage. She sighed and grabbed my butt, pulling me farther into her as I held as much weight as I could on my elbows.

"So my aunt arranged the marriage. The minister was a good friend of hers somehow or other. They might have been kin. Oh my, mygod, mygod." She rolled us over and scrambled atop me, her forehead on my chest and her knees up into my ribs, hands on my shoulders, humping steadily, snorting with each thrust of her wide pelvis.

"He was a good man," she said, heaving on my pleasured spike, up and back, up and back, tight and clinging, slick and hot, her teeth clenched as my butt muscles bunched and relaxed, trying to match her efforts, her big breasts wobbling in my face, and my hands sliding about on her wide rump.

When we quit again, exhausted, and after I visited the outhouse and crawled back beside her, spent and ready for sleep, she picked up her story where she had left it.

"He was a good man, the rector," she said brightly, kissing my eyes before turning over. "I didn't regret it, not really. He was very kindly and considerate."

I snuggled in behind her and she held my hand to her breast, teasing out her nipple.

"He knew something about women since he had outlived two wives. He was a thoughtful lover, dutiful you might say."

I lay peacefully, very happy with life, her extended nipple between thumb and forefinger.

"He came to my bed every Sunday evening, and he stayed until he was convinced I was satisfied."

I pushed her thick hair aside and kissed the base of her neck.

"I seldom had to pretend."

We slept.

I awoke hugely erect, the head of my prod looking as big as my fist and already anointed. The thing felt like an iron digging-bar. With few preliminaries, I sank it into her from behind and soon had her head and hands up against the wall as I rammed and thrust into her wonderfully deep quim and her large body responded with matching movements.

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