Chapter 16: Fran, the doctor's widow

The second time I went to visit Madam Von R--'s doctor friend, he had good news for me. A compatriot of his, another doctor, had died, he said, and had shelves filled with various medications.

"I'm sure his widow has no use for the stuff," he assured me. "She's a fine woman, but I have no idea if she is politically inclined." He gave me directions and a note of introduction.

It took most of the day to make the trip with my light wagon, and I was hungry and tired when I knocked at the widow's door. It had just started to rain, and I was anticipating a long, sad conversation with some gray-haired crone. I was not prepared for the woman that appeared, a full-blown beauty in wonderful dishabille.

She raised her flickering candle and squinted out at me, her free hand holding her night clothes together between her pointed breasts, a long, bare leg appearing boldly. Her dark hair tumbled loosely about her shoulders, and she was barefoot, obviously preparing for her bed which it where my mind immediately put both of us. "Come in, come in," she said quickly. "Get out of the wet."

"Need to get my horse in." I told her.

"Around back. It's open," she said. "I'll meet you at the back door."

After I saw to my horse, she was waiting, now shod, belted and buttoned. I handed her my note and studied her while she read by the candle's light. She looked up at me and raised an eyebrow.

"You're a rebel," she said. It was not a question, but I nodded.

"My husband was not. Didn't hold with war at all, with killing."

I told her my name and she said hers was Fran. "Francine actually," she said with a small laugh. "My mother rather favored the French. A Huguenot her father or grandfather was, I've forgotten which."

We stood awkwardly in her back room. The house was quiet, and I assumed we were alone. She might have been twenty-five, perhaps even thirty, with a fine forehead, strong nose, and square chin; she was no delicate beauty, but a lovely woman with a fine, voluptuous body, full-hipped, long-legged and very healthy. She smelled good too. My root trembled, throbbed and filled.

"I suppose you can have his things, his supplies, although they might bring a good price. I have no idea." She wrinkled her forehead. 'Are you hungry?"

I smiled and admitted that I was. She took me to the low-ceilinged kitchen which had obviously been added to the house, and sliced me some ham and then cut me some bread, holding the loaf against her body and sawing toward her pointed boobies in a disturbing manner. I ate well and drank her cider while she watched, tapping her toe, my note at her lips. "Perhaps, ' she said, after thinking for a while," I should get someone's advice before I give all his drugs away."

"How long would that take?" I asked.

"Day or two," she said, sitting across from me, legs crossed at the ankle. "You sure were hungry."

I smiled. "Good ham," I said, licking fat from my fingers. "I can sleep in my wagon."

She looked at me with her big, dark eyes and nodded slowly. "I suppose," she said. "But that shed leaks."

"Wouldn't want to inconvenience you or, well, you know, cause scandal," I said, well aware that her presence was stimulating my lust nerves and had my blood flowing southward.

"Humph," she said, "locals all think I married Tom for his money anyhow. Don't have a friend among them, not one."

"He was older than you?"

She nodded. "Fifty years nearly. I had a husband and two children until the fever swept through here four years ago. The doctor tried to save them. Then he asked me to come live with him. So I did. Then we wed. Then he died."

"Short biography," I said as a tear formed at the corner of her limpid eye.

"Indeed," she said. "I'm from up north, near the big lake, Champlain. Maybe I'll go back. My husband farmed here, tenant farmed."

"British are stirring up the Indians so I heard."

"Yes," she said, "I know. But, well, I've nothing to hold me here."

I held her hand as the tear dislodged itself and slid down her cheek. She brushed it away. "Come," she said, "let's off to bed." She smiled at me. "I need a man."

"Fran," I said, staying put and still holding her hand. "Are you sure?"

She leaned across the table and kissed me full on the mouth, gnawing and sucking, sliding her tongue into my cheek and letting her robe fall open.

The doctor's bed was large and heavy with big posts at each corner. They gleamed in the candle light as we disrobed. She slid under the quilt, and after I pulled the shirt over my head I was bare as she and ready to join her.

"Want me to blow out the candle?" I asked, trying to ignore my aroused condition which was almost painfully obvious.

She shook her head, tumbling curls and smiling up at me as my fat prod rose and trembled before me, stretching out, bobbing left and right. She lifted the corner of the quilt and I climbed up beside her. We made happy throat noises as our hands explored each other and our mouths joined.

"Been a long time," she gasped out between kisses. "Poor Doc, he only managed to get it up twice in the year and a half we had together. Then it wouldn't stay up. He cried in my arms."

We kissed and our legs tangled with my spear poking at her here and there.

"But shoot," she said, as she grasped my spear and brought it to her curly cunny, rubbing herself deeply and then seating it soldily, "I didn't know he was eighty-some." She took her hand away and grabbed both my arms. "Go slow now," she sighed as I entered her, my hands holding her large, firm buttocks. Things parted, lubricants appeared, blood roared, and we merged. I strained and rammed into her slowly and deeply, stretching her to accommodate my long bone.

After a while I became aware of the noises the bed was making. It creaked and groaned and then popped in a regular manner and as our tempo of thrust and recoil accelerated, the noise became something like "kreeah, kreeah, kreeah," over and over, and I wondered if the big bedstead was coming apart. Fran groaned, spasmed and shuddered beneath me, and the bed went, "kree, kree, kree," as I got down to the short rows of my plowing. Then a rope under the mattress parted with a loud twang, and I came, gritting my teeth and pumping out my pleasure as the mattress rolled like a ship at sea.

"What was that?" she gasped out as we slowed together.

"What?" I asked in jest. "Did you hear something?"

"Thought I did," she said, changing the position of her legs about my body, reaching still higher on my back, grunting with effort.

She arched up so her head and shoulders were pressing down on the pillows, and I grabbed the thick headboard with both hands and served her steadily and fully while she writhed and shook on my spear. "Hee-ahh," she cried when she came again. I lowered her shivering rump to the mattress, hefted her legs up on my shoulders and rogered her until I exploded again, and then again, and one final, stone-shaking spurt that brought a gasp and shudder from the woman.

We fell apart, moaning and trying to catch our breath as the bed's noises slowly subsided. She turned her back to me; I adjusted my body to her and clamped one paw under a lush breast, waiting for my still-firm member to recover. She wiggled and slid a hand down to help me get into her again, and then somehow, joined like that, spoon fashion, we slept.