Chapter 7: The Colonel's Woman

In the city of New York in the summer of 1776 I found a fine jumble of buildings and people all, supposedly, under the control of a Scot who called himself Lord Sterling. Lord Chaos would have been better. By the time the British fleet arrived, probably half the city's population had fled and most of those who remained, other than the hundreds of harlots, certainly did not favor the revolution. They were waiting for the British to save them or make them rich.

I was back in a Maryland unit, a fairly new one, but it had a drummer and a flag and an officer. His name was Foster and he was a nasty son-of-a-bitch.

One of Lt. Foster's superior officers had taken over an abandoned house and installed his haughty, high Dutch, Hudson River wife and her multitude of servants. He then began an effort to drink up everything worth drinking so it would not fall into the enemy's hands. It was a noble and selfless goal in which I volunteered to assist, but instead he put me and the rest of my company to work as thieves, stevedores and guards. It was not bad work since it gave us plenty of opportunities for stealing and whoring.

The colonel's wife turned out to be a relatively young and very handsome woman with golden hair and a ripe and splendid body that she openly displayed in the most stylish, showy and deep-cut gowns. I do not believe I ever saw her wear the same dress twice in the six weeks I knew her. While her husband had us out confiscating furniture, paintings and silverware from the homes of Tories, she was patronizing the local dressmakers, jewelers and hairdressers and having a fine old time with a ball almost every other week and salons for the dandies in the afternoons. Her reputation for amorous activities widened and deepened as time went on. They said she was insatiable as well as greedy.

As things got more serious and the town emptied, the woman became somewhat morose and, for some reason, took a shine to me. There is no explaining women. I was just one of a dozen men in and out of her home, and my uniform, at the time, was a ragged collection of things I had accumulated or taken from men who no longer needed them because they were dead or soon would be. I generally wore a long hunting shirt clamped in with a heavy belt over breeches of an uncertain color. My boots were in good condition and British more often than not, but my stockings were usually a disgrace. I seldom had a proper, black neckcloth or a decent hat and never wore a wig. My hair was long and clubbed back. I was hardly the kind I had seen her entertaining.

I suspect at that time she had more male admirers in those parts than anyone except Washington himself, and I am sure the Old Fox was not entertaining them as well or as frequently. Indeed he had been at her home on at least one occasion and danced several times with the mistress of the house who was happily bulging out the top of her flat-fronted silk dress. I actually saw that.

"Come here, my man," were the first words she spoke to me from the top of her stone steps. I looked up and spied her smiling face between her impressive breasts.

"Ma'am," I said when I reached her level and could stare down the front of her smooth, tight-fitting gown with all its embroidery and beads. I had noted that her eyes were blue, light blue, almost transparent. She had what looked like a small mole on one of her jutting boobs but it may have been an applied "beauty mark."

"Where is everyone going?" she asked with a worried look at the heavy traffic moving past. Everything from ox carts to stage coaches was on the road, heavily loaded and in a hurry. She smelled musky, not unpleasant but unusual. Her color was high; her eyes agleam.

"Out of Howe's way," I told her, enjoying her odor and the glow of her fine hair which was piled high with ornate combs and braided hanks. A long string of pearls or beads ran through her oily curls and drooped beside one ear. Her breasts rose and fell as if trying to escape.

"Cowards," she pronounced, grasping my arm. "You're staying, are you not, your company I mean, to protect us? I suppose we won't entertain today." She said the last almost to herself.

"Long as we're ordered to," I said, tempted to suggest ways I could entertain her. "Till there's somebody to fight. Up to Lt. Foster, Ma'm, not me."

"I have a home near Albany," she said as if she had not been listening. "Come in here."

I followed her into the deeply shadowed hallway and then into a crowded sitting room, watching her hips roll and her long dress swish from side to side. The room was overfilled with wooden and upholstered furniture of all sorts. There was hardly room to walk.

"What will happen to all this?" she asked with a wide gesture. "Can I trust the British?"

I smiled at her. "Not even if you stay and guard it," I said. "Most of it's stolen, well, liberated or confiscated as they say, and I doubt that our British friends and their American cousins will let you keep it."

"Dreadful," she said, taking a deep breath and releasing a sigh, both exciting to observe since her dressmaker had planned for neither. I wondered how tightly her stays were laced. "It would do fine up north where we've a large home, my father's place. Follow me."

Driven by her lush beauty and my idle curiosity, I set my musket aside and toured the house with her, ending up in her boudoir admiring some jewelry as she sat before a mirror displaying various pieces across her creamy and impressive chest. Her tight dress, soft mouth, and bare shoulders along with the quiet house presented too much temptation. I'm not sure where the servants were, but I am sure they were about, discreetly. My palms itched; my horn was overheated, temptation won as usual.

"Don't you think this is a bit gaudy?" she asked, holding a thick golden necklace of red stones to her throat and looking at me in reflection, showing a fine, open smile.

I slipped my big paw down the front of her satin dress and squeezed her firm jug. She groaned, but she did not protest, just put the necklace down carefully and closed the box. Then I bent and took her mouth with mine before she could yelp and enjoyed the feel of her flesh in the cup of my hand until she struggled loose and her gown popped open and slid well down her arm. "Help me get out of this," she said in a husky manner, starting to unhook the flowing sacque from its embroidered stomacher.

It did not take us long to get her down to shift and stays, and then a bit of unlacing left her nearly bare and wiggling in my rough hands with stockings and petticoats thrown in all directions and her hair fairly undone, pearls still dangling precariously. Her body was firm and warm, lush and inviting, mature and willing. And mine.

She spun and laughed before me with her locks flowing like a torrent of golden water behind her, spilling beads and ringlets. I put my belt and bayonet aside and struggled my shirt over my head. She stopped, gaping, hand to her mouth as I undid my waist buttons.

"Lord," she said, with her fingers touching her lips, her other hand at her furry groin like one of those fountain statues, "but you are certainly hairy, like a bear, and big as a horse, a stallion for sure."

She smiled, touched my chest and then unbuttoned my codpiece and turned to the bed as my overheated tool sprang forth. I admired her rounded buttocks as she rolled back the quilts on her high, mahogany bed with its huge headboard and sturdy foot and then stood beside the bed, waiting for me, feet apart, hands on hips. When I was a bare as she was, she looked at me from top to toes and held out her arms. She licked her lips. 'What do you weigh?" she asked. as I stepped beside her, growing impatient, "Two hundred?"

I gathered her in. She wriggled wonderfully, rubbing her firm nipples across my ribs while my shaft explored her deep slit. "Perhaps," I said, "and you?"

She leaned back, put her hands around my neck, and said, "How do you like to do it?"

Chapter 8 »