by Jeff Mann
“Morning, Ian.” Drew’s eyes flicker open. “You wanting up my ass again? I think I may be a mite sore yet. Give me a few days, though, and I’ll be raring for more.”
“I have two things for you, Achilles. Here’s one.” I tickle his nose with the blooming twig. “Flowers for my sweetheart. We may be soldiers, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be a little romantic every now and then.”
“Thank you, Ian,” Drew says, taking the twig. “They’re pretty. We have these trees back home. They bloom early on the ridges in spring.” He sniffs it, then lays it on the pillow beside him. “You’re mighty sweet.”
“After the long winter this war has been, you’re my spring, Yank. And here’s the other gift.” I lubricate his soft cock. With rapidity, it swells in my hand. For a second, gauging its length and thickness, I hesitate, slowed by doubt. But when I look down into his questioning eyes, the curious smile creasing his lips, the powerful breadth of his breast, I leave off hesitation.
“What are you…? Oh!” Drew’s eyes widen as now, cocking my rump, I anoint my own hole with the grease. “Oh, Ian. Really?”
“I want you to be my first. And my last. To quote a well-loved Yank.”
We take our time. Drew’s member is as prodigious as the rest of him. It hurts me considerably at first. “Burning stick, you said,” I gasp, pulling off him, waiting for the pain to subside before trying again. The head’s the thickest part, the most difficult to accommodate. Several times he manages to ease it partially inside me, stretching my hole’s resistant ring, only to pull out when my whimpers of discomfort grow too great. At last, after several tries and more scoops of lard, my body abruptly opens to him, as if something inside, dubious at first, had suddenly changed its mind. With a surge of pain, the big head slips inside, transfixing me. Slowly I descend, sliding down the shaft till my impaled buttocks rest upon his groin.
“There,” I gasp. “Finally!”
Drew sits up, careful to stay inside me. He folds me in his arms. “Oh, Ian, that’s…oh, Ian. Yes!”
Our mouths find each other. We kiss hard. Gently, he thrusts into my ass, with shallow strokes at first, then more deeply. Slowly, slowly the burning fades, as my passage grows used to him, and now I see, or rather, feel what Drew had described, the deep pleasure found in being filled up inside, once the initial pain has waned. I squeeze my inner muscles around his shaft, evoking from him a bass moan. Now my movements and his compose a rhythm, as he moves in and out of me. He kisses my breast, roughly working my nipples between his fingers and fisting my cock.
Now, lifting me into his arms, he shifts, till he’s sitting on the bed’s edge and my legs are locked around his waist. “Oh, Ian! Thank you,” he whispers, rocking me against him, pumping my prick tight and hard.
Now he stands, thrusting more deeply into me. I cling to him, press my face against his shoulder, and moan. Inside me, there’s a throbbing, a sweetness radiating as if from a fire flaring at the root of my spine. He thrusts deeper still, and the fire rises.
“Ian,” he grunts. His long thrusts into me transform into short, fast stabs. Suddenly he throws his head back. “Oh, oh God!” he shouts. Tensing, he grips the back of my head and pushes my face against his. We kiss and kiss and kiss as he explodes inside me, filling me with his semen.
“Drew, Drew…” I pant, pushing my cock against his hairy belly, clawing his back as my own orgasm nears. Drew spits into his hand and clutches my sex. A few seconds of his tight touch, and I finish, spouting seed over his belly.
Drew stands there, swaying dizzily, his eyes half-closed, his face gleaming with sweaty satisfaction. He slips out of me—the warm full feeling replaced with a strange emptiness I’ve never known before—and lowers me to my feet. He pulls me onto the bed, where we lie side by side, recovering drowsily. In a while, he reaches over, rubs his fingers in the seed I spilt in his belly hair, and lifts his hand to his mouth. He licks my juice off, slowly, deliberately.
“Tastes like strength. Like I’ve said before.”
“Now you’re my first. That was as wonderful as you’d described.”
“Are you sore, little man? Down there?”
“A little. No matter. It was worth every wince. It was a gift I needed to give. Now we’ve shared our bodies completely. Nothing can bind us together more tightly.”
“Except the years to come,” says Drew, pulling me into an embrace. “We’re young yet, Ian. We have so many days—and nights—yet to share. So many delights yet to come, delights like those we’ve known here. Thanks to Miss Tessa…and a little bit of lard,” he adds with a low giggle. Fetching the sarvis twig from the pillow, he snuffles it before brushing it across my face. “Speaking of Tessa, we’d best straighten up this room and get dressed. I sure am ready for those leftover biscuits and sausage.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
I brew coffee, after parching some beans I found in the pantry. Drew and I gobble breakfast and split a pile of wood before our bodies, so recently battered by George, commence to pang us, causing us to turn to less strenuous pursuits. Inside, I begin Drew’s reading lessons, having him practice writing out the letters of the alphabet with pencil and paper, then having him locate some of those letters in the poems I read him last night. He’s a fast learner, though he gets “What,” “Why,” “When,” and “Where” confused.
By late afternoon, Drew’s washing dishes in the kitchen and I’m on the porch cleaning our guns when the clopping of hooves warns me of someone’s approach. Probably Tessa and those Newport men, but who knows? After the many unpleasant surprises we’ve suffered lately, I’m taking no chances.
I dart inside the house and close the door. “Upstairs, Drew,” I say, loading my pistol. “Someone’s coming.” Drew grabs our coats and hats and I gather our weapons, determined to leave no evidence of our presence in sight. Then we hurriedly climb the stairs, deposit our belongings in the front bedroom, pull the window curtains, and close the door.
Guns at the ready, we wait as the sound of hooves moves closer. Now there’s the ring of voices. I part the curtains a crack and peer out. It’s our hostess, fording the creek atop the chestnut mare. Behind her is a cart drawn by mules, upon which ride two Negro boys in their teens.
“Relax, buddy. It’s Tessa. And two black boys.”
“Thank God,” Drew sighs. After leaning his rifle in a corner, he stretches out on the bed, knits his fingers behind his head, and chews his lips. I watch as the boys stop the cart in the front yard. Dismounting, Tessa carries wooden crates, feed sacks, and burlap bags from the cart’s bed onto the porch. Under her direction, the boys load up the bodies and conceal them with blankets. Tessa hands them some paper money and soon the cart mules are clopping back the way they came. Within minutes, the valley is silent again.
“Boys?” Tessa’s voice resounds through the house. “They’s gone now. Y’all get down here! I got a letter from Lorena Mae. And I fetched us provisions aplenty.”
Relieved, we clomp downstairs. Tessa seizes Drew in a tight hug, then does the same to me.
“Lorena’s all right,” she says, dark eyes glowing. Tugging off her head-kerchief, she pulls a tattered envelope from her coat pocket and waves it. “Praise God! She’s still with the army, with General Lee’s men, still holed up in Petersburg. I’ll read it to you in a bit. Are y’all feeling better? Are you still hurting? Your faces are still bruised up awful bad.”
“We’re sore yet, Miss Tessa, but we’re improving,” my Yank replies. “That honeymoon sure helped.” He grabs my hand; we exchange happy grins.
“Any lard left?” Tessa snickers, patting Drew’s flank.
“Oh, Lord.” Drew blushes a deep red. “Uh, yes, ma’am, a little.”
“Y’all keep that batch upstairs. I got more in the kitchen. I’m in need of it today. Got some frying to do. Behold!” she says, pointing to a towel-wrapped bundle on the kitchen table. “A freshly kilt chicken. Courtesy of Mizz Crawford. We can have that for dinner. And on the porch they’
s a bag of corn meal, some turnips, cabbages, and potatoes, buttermilk, side meat, and some fresh beef and bacon we need to haul in. And here’s a little tobaccer for you, sugar,” she adds, handing a bag to Drew. “Those bandits’ money, along with the little that’s left of what Lorena gave me, came in handy.”
“Ma’am,” I ask, “who were those boys in the cart, and what are they going to do with the bodies?”
“Those were Mizz Crawford’s sons, Ben and Tom. Their brother Frederick was planning to come along, but he’s sick in bed. I told ’em to throw them curs in the New, or bury ’em in the woods, long as it’s far from here. Them Iron Riders raided a few folks down around Newport last month and burnt Mizz Crawford’s barn, so the brothers were glad to get holt of ’em. Tom said he might feed ’em to his hogs, but I think he was joking. Not sure. Don’t much care. They’re gone, boys. Let’s wash our hands of ’em.”
“Hogs? Damn.” Drew shudders, grim-faced.
“Hogs. Yes. Fit end to such mens, I’d say. Mr. Drew, would you stable that new mare of mine? She’s a sweet tempered thing and a smooth ride. And Mr. Ian, would you be kind enough to bring in the provisions? I’ll cook us up a nice dinner in the meantime.”
While Drew and I complete our chores, Tessa, humming “Lorena,” melts lard, cuts up and fries the chicken, makes skillet gravy, and boils potatoes. Everything is, as usual with anything Tessa cooks, delicious.
After dinner, Drew feeds the fire. He and I take our customary place on the love seat. Tessa pours us little glasses of brandy, then settles into her rocking chair, unfolds the letter, and reads it to us.
March 2, 1865
Petersburg, Virginia
Dear One,
I write this letter in great hopes that it will reach you, despite the ongoing siege and the likelihood that its carrier might fall into enemy hands. The days continue terribly long here. Artillery booms all day and night, and we soldiers subsist on less and less, trying to keep warm in the muddy trenches and behind the rainy breastworks. The poor civilians of Petersburg huddle in cellars. No one has much to eat. When I recall the wonderful meals you once prepared me, it brings me to tears.
Oh, Tessa, what a grand city this once was! And before the years of war abraded and eroded everything, how splendidly its people hosted us, even up to this last winter and that grand New Year’s feast the citizens arranged for us soldiers, a generosity I shall never forget. Grant, may God curse him, is like a snapping turtle, its teeth sunk into some unfortunate’s limb, refusing to let go. How much longer our army can hold out, only God knows. Our lines stretch farther and farther, thinner and thinner. And if those lines break, Richmond will fall and this war will be lost. Many men are deserting, and more every day. On the one hand, I despise them. On the other, I pity them, for I share their deep ache to come home, and victory looks nearly impossible now, despite all our prayers and all our sufferings and losses, and all the bravery and endurance our Southern people have displayed for so long. The Yankees, they are too many, too strong, too well equipped. They are like a great blue Hydra, that monster in those myths I read you: cut off one head, and two more replace it. On our side, when a man falls, there is no one new to take his place. Those of us who stay, only loyalty to our poor country and our love for General Lee keep us here.
But forgive me, love! I began this not to share my gloom with you, but to say, I am still whole. My wounds have been many but they have been minor, and so the doctors have not examined me in a manner so thorough that my secret might be found out. I am bandaged, but I am well. Well enough to pick off two Yankees just yesterday! Loren Martin has won a bit of a reputation, if I may so boast, as a deadly sharpshooter. I think of my brother every time I bring one of them down. And I think of you, and our little mountain eyrie, and why I went to war, to keep predacious invaders out. I pray to God every night that you are safe, that the money, food, and ammunition I left you are holding out, that my friends in Newport are treating you well. If they are not, then I will treat with them—harshly!—when I get home. You are welcome to tell them that.
I did tell you about General Pegram, did I not? What a gentleman, what a soldier. He died at Hatcher’s Run, a mere three weeks after his wedding. I weep for him still, as well as his widow. Were I to lose you, I would not go on. I would climb from this trench and offer myself as a fine target to those Union bullies across the way. I would have no reason to live.
My faith is in you, Tessa. I know how strong you are. That is one of the many reasons I cherish you. And I am strong too—do not doubt it—stronger than many of these men. Do not doubt that I will come back to you. This war, long as it has been, cannot last much longer. And when it ends, in victory, God willing, but more likely, I fear, in bitter defeat, I will come home, and your love, and our peaceful mountain home, will console me in that defeat and in that bitterness.
Do not reply to this letter, my dear. The siege has grown so tight and so grim, I doubt that any message would make it through the lines. Just know that I dream of you at night, and in my dreams I hold you close, lovely one, and we share an endless summer.
Yours, Loren
“Lord, Lord,” Tessa sighs, wiping her eyes. Folding up the letter, she slips it into her dress. “Ian, sugar, I’m liable to cry, but…would you play me my song? ‘Lorena’? Then I think I’ll hie me to bed. I’m bone-weary after that trip, and my head’s aching something fierce. Do y’all mind turning in early?”
“No, ma’am.” Drew pats my thigh. “We rose fairly early ourselves.”
“Y’all can’t wait to climb back into bed together, can you? Well, I don’t blame you. When Lorena Mae comes home, I’m going to keep her in bed for a week. And the only reason I’ll leave her side is to cook her fine meals and feed the horses.”
Tessa falls silent, crossing her hands in her lap and closing her eyes. After adjusting the strings’ tuning, I pluck out the melody to “Lorena,” evoking in her sad murmuring and sighs. I’m halfway through “Amazing Grace” when Tessa’s head droops and she begins to snore. Quietly Drew and I finish our brandies. Hand in hand, we climb the stairs.
CHAPTER FIFTY
At first Drew seems simply eager for love. He undresses slowly. Naked, he drops to his knees, hauls out my sex, and suckles it passionately, like a ravenous infant. He bends over the side of the bed, reaches back and spreads his ass-cheeks with his hands, teasing me with glimpses of that tiny entrance into ecstasy. Clambering onto the bed, he lies on his back, legs bent, fingering his own hole and stroking his own prick. It’s a delicious erotic spectacle, and I couldn’t be more grateful. Soon I’m naked as well, Drew’s again moistening my sex with his hungry mouth, and now he’s bent double beneath me, his calves hooked over my shoulders, his golden-furred thighs pressed against his chest.
“Give it to me, Reb. Give me what I want,” he whispers huskily.
I take a hurried moment to grease us up. But then occurs a startling succession: right after the ardor-hot head of my cock enters Drew, tears begin coursing down his face.
“Drew! You’re crying,” I say, pausing. “Am I hurting you?”
“Naw, oh, naw.” Wrapping an arm around my back, he pulls me closer. “You feel so good inside me.” His wet eyes stare into mine. He clasps the back of my head, drawing my face nearer, and kisses me.
“Keep on, Ian!” he sobs. “Don’t stop! Take me. Love me, Reb. I need your cock inside me bad. I need you so bad. Fuck my hole, Reb.”
“Gladly, boy.” I pull out a couple of inches, then slide back into him, shaking with delight. “Your profane talk just makes my member harder. But why are you crying?”
“I’m…I’m just imagining how Tessa must feel…knowing her woman is so far away and under such duress, in such danger. Poor thing! I pray to God that soldier-lady makes it home. I’m just suddenly so afraid I’ll lose you. Just a month ago, we hadn’t met, and I was independent and strong, but now…I love you so much, Ian.”
Crossing his ankles between my shoulder blades, he urg
es me on. “Oh, Christ. Fuck me! Yes, oh…I just…I can’t stand to think of…of you far from me, or in pain, or in danger. I couldn’t stand to ever lose you. I’ve only known you for a few weeks, but…I don’t think I could live without you.”
“You’re not going to lose me, Drew,” I whisper, covering his wet face with kisses. I rock him in my arms, thrusting into him, simultaneously comforting and pleasuring him, whispering words of reassurance as I ride him hard, as, almost simultaneously, I finish up inside him and he finishes in my hand. We collapse into each other’s arms and curl together beneath the warm blankets. Drew releases one loud sob before falling silent.
Our sleep is sweet, deep, and without interruption. What wakes me is Drew’s insistent shaking. “Ian. Wake up!”
I rub my eyes. It’s dawn. Drew’s dressed. He’s standing by the bed, face etched with anxiety.
“Drew? What? Is something wrong?”
“I went downstairs, intending to check on the horses, and…It’s Miss Tessa. She’s got a bad fever!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Drew and I tend Tessa for days, in her little cot near the fire. It’s a mild version of the grippe, I think, or a form of catarrh. Her nose and throat are full of mucus. Her skin is hot. Her limbs are weak. Her chest is racked with coughs. Drew keeps the cabin warm with armloads of wood and a regularly fed hearth. I fetch rose hips from Tessa’s little flower garden, making her the ruby-red tea that my Aunt Alicia always swore would keep off the scurvy and dismiss diseases of the nose and throat. Having studied Rufus’s culinary practice back in camp, I become the new cook of the house, roasting beef, frying cabbage in bacon grease, stirring up cornbread, mashing potatoes. Following a recipe Tessa directs me to, I even manage a passable sweet potato pie flavored with brandy.
