I do not think I saw a single woman of bedding age, and I certainly do not know where or how they hid them. I looked.At a cross roads tavern in a backwoods settlement too small to have name, a wizened old man told me that a big troop of Tory cavalrymen had just come through and were headed down toward Ninety-Six. He said he had never heard of anyone named "Tarleton." I asked him how that settlement down there got its name, and he chewed and laughed and said it was 96 miles from hell. When he stopped chuckling at his own wit, he managed to tell me which roads to take if I wanted to follow the horsemen's route.At the next farm that was near enough to the road to see, a poor looking place red in the setting sun, I spotted a woman taking clothes off a line and decided to try to talk my way into a hot meal and a place to spend the night. When she saw my horse trotting up her lane, she hurried a bit, took her basket of laundry to the small back porch of the log house and shoved it inside. I love the way they move. The room changed. The atmosphere grew heavy. He moved toward me but unbuttoned his pants and stepped out of them along the way. He paused for a moment to lift his shirt over his head. He stood right next to the bed, me not ten inches from him, and reached his right hand down to my left breast and grabbed it lightly, pushing it forward and then catching it, forcing it back. He repeated. With his touch, my eyes closed. His hands caused electricity to shoot through my chest and seem to end up in my crotch. There was instant warmness, wetness. I opened my eyes to look at him. I couldnt see his face without moving back. As I turned to look him in the eyes, my breasts swaying with the change in position, I saw the large cock head pressed tightly against his stomach, peeking out from the top of his boxers, and as I came to rest completely on my back, I saw the smile on his face. Things had appeared to be going in slow motion, but it suddenly sped up. He came down.
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