Cheesebox on a Raftbyclinton09©
[©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18; THE ACCOUNTS ARE FICTIONALIZED AND DO NOT REFLECT UPON ANY ACTUAL PERSON OF THAT PERIOD; FOR AGES 21 OR ABOVE]
[Foreword: This account reflects upon the American Civil War period. As such, 100 years before TV, Playboy, and the like, it re-counts sexual escapades, such as they were, in the Victorian vernacular. In other words, there are far hotter pieces on this fine website than this historical tome. Additionally, many readers will find the ending disturbing. We thank you for coming on board, however; ship's company dismissed.]
It was an exciting moment for me. Up until this point, I had been bored to tears serving aboard various '90 day wonders', those cobbled together merchant ships sporting one or two cannons, converted to blockade the Southern ports. Now, the Navy (USN) had re-assigned me to a new boat secretly being built in the Brooklyn navy yards.
I was assisted in securing lodging not far from those shipyards. Being a farm boy from Ohio, I must say I was impressed by Manhattan: Such a whirligig of trolleys, carriages, local railroads, single riders, and pedestrians. Of course we had horses back in Ohio, but pedestrians? By the hundreds! I am sure that horses would always be a part of Manhattan, of course, but the endless number of people moving about was a new thing for me.
As I was new to these parts, my friend Patrick (also a Navy officer but a native New Yorker) took me to a local dance. Among the various unmarried people was a clutch of four women. Three of them were Brooklynites, while the fourth was a cousin from Kentucky. Eileen was her name, with fair hair and the prettiest visage I'd ever laid eyes upon. As I tried to 'make time with her', my friend Patrick grabbed me and took me aside, with apologies to the ladies.
Patrick: "John, have you gone daft? Are you crazy?"
Me: "What in the world are you talking about?"
Patrick: "About that girl you are courting; her friends told me she was 19. Didn't you notice something about the girl you seem to be sweet on? Her skin is not alabaster pale white, as it should be. A woman should be shielded from the sun and the toils of the field. Her arms fill out her sleeves, her hands rough-hewn. She obviously is a farm girl. Haven't you heard about such women, being a farm boy yourself from Ohio? These 'maidens' work long hours in the sun, their fair skin being ruined until it looks like leather--like tanned leather."
Patrick: " Their bodies are not soft and feminine; instead, they have solid, almost rock hard bodies, their very unladylike muscles showing upon their arms and their stomach. Their legs, tanned as they were, would have shapes to them and also be solid. Their figures would not be the soft, pale, smooth form of a Michelangelo or DaVinci painting. Their waists would become wasp-like, small, from the hard work; their rib cages sweeping upward towards their breasts. Their breasts would NOT be soft, pale, and gently lying atop their bosom. Instead, these farm wenches would have breasts tightly formed and 90 degrees from their bosom, pushing outward."
Me: "Whew, I'm glad you warned me! I cannot imagine falling in love with some blonde wench, her skin bronzed from the sun, her breasts large, firm, and upright. Heavens, a large breasted tanned blonde with a tiny waist and legs tanned, shapely, and firm. To think that farm boys are left with no choices but to amuse themselves with this riff-raff!" [My friend, relieved at my rapid grasp of things, patted me on the shoulder and left the dance hall. For my part, I went to the clutch of four girls, aged 18 to 24, to see if I could secure a more proper woman to court.]
Well, since Eileen was new to the area, the three friends were anxious to get her a beau. In spite of the worthwhile warning from my friend, I split off with Eileen. Soon, we were seeing each other more regularly. It was not always possible to go out, as a chaperone was not always available, but we made due. It turns out she was quite the dancer. The only thing was, she did not keep a proper distance, actually brushing up against me a few times.
I was shocked that I felt the buttons of her blouse poking against my cotton shirt. The shocking part was, those were NOT buttons! My heavens, her nipples must have been hard. I suppose it was cold in that dance hall. I was afraid that she was not a proper girl, so I tested her. I actually put my hand upon her upper arm. She slapped me as any woman would. That was a relief.
I was anxious to 'test the waters' with her, so I proposed marriage. She was delighted, saying yes. Soon we were wed. I could not afford much of a honeymoon, so we had to stay in the area of nearby Long Island called, collectively, the Hamptons. My heavens, what a pathetic collection of dilapidated weather-worn homes, hard up against the sea.
The citizens there were completely oblivious of this terrifying creature, which they called a 'horseshoe crab' walking on their beaches. They also were willing, even enthusiastic to consume an equally strange and terrifying beast they called a 'lobster'. As much as I knew that horses would always be a part of New York, I was even more certain that THAT area would never amount to anything. My opinion was not improved when the owner of our bungalow held me up for a full dollar for each night that we were to stay there...-
Eileen and I had our bungalow near the sea. I was so excited. I must confess that this would be my first sexual encounter. Growing up in a strict, proper home, I had never so much as seen the ankles of my beloved mother and sister, let alone their figures. I will admit that I had had illicit, evil thoughts about them, imagining their naked ankles, naked arms, even naked shoulders. I was so ashamed.
So, here I was in the crude bed of this cabin. It was night and all the light we had was from a whale oil lamp. Out of the darkness came my new bride, Eileen. She was naked and such a vision as I had never dreamt of. All of those things that my friend Patrick had warned me about were true.
Her blonde hair and blue eyes were tainted by the sun's work on her perfect complexion, making her slightly brown skinned as if she was partly Negro. Her figure was not soft and even but instead had harsh angles, with a large bosom, tiny waist, and shapely legs. Her ankles were slender, and her feet delicate. I pulled up the covers and was surprised to see that a part of me 'saluted her' rudely. I had never seen myself so 'at attention'; why, it must have been nine or ten inches long! I was so shocked that I threw open the covers, letting her see it too.
To my shock, Eileen climbed onto the bed and placed her innocent mouth upon my proud staff. Then she proceeded to move herself, hair flying, up and down upon it. My eyes did close as I gazed upon the ceiling of that little shack. Her hands clutched my bags, gently squeezing them. She seemed to sense my excitement and increased her speed.
Finally, for the first time with a woman, I released my seed. She made a gurgling sound for a solid minute I would guess. Then, she removed herself from that mighty staff, looking up at me with her sparkling blue eyes. Eileen then slightly cracked open her mouth, whereupon a deluge, a flood of this thick milky liquid came out in a torrent from all sides. It drooled down her chin, dripping until it covered her over-sized breasts in milky goo. She stroked my hair and then went to freshen up.
Again, she emerged from the gloom and joined me in bed. I told her that I was surprised about the volume of my seed. I assured her that that would be it for the night; my staff needed its rest. To my surprise, her hand proceeded to stroke the length of that staff; up and down it went in acceleration. Soon, it was mighty once more.
Just as I was telling her that I was too tired and spent to make love properly (i.e. with me on top, of course), SHE climbed on top of ME. Before I could express my outrage, she had proceeded to place that staff within her womanly depths. Then she 'rode' me like a bull, her hips and firm bum slammed down with frightening speed and power. Those farm girls; my heavens! For my part, I could not believe that I was about to release my seed inside a woman for the first time...and with her on top of me! This must have been the first such occurrence in the entire New York metropolitan area!
Before I could object, she had slammed herself down one final time. My bags were shaken; they bounced what seemed to be a foot. Then, those bags of seed tightened against me. With unbelievable relief, joy and ecstasy, my staff got even larger, expanding deeply inside my new bride. With a manly groan, I broadcast my seed, deep inside the warm depths of my incredibly sexy new wife. The end of my staff, lodged as it was deep inside of her, seemed to be encased in this enclosure within the depths of her womb.
My staff was wiser in the ways of love than its owner; it seemed to sense where it should deposit its seed. It did, copiously, endlessly, until the excess dripped noisily out of her. She swooned over and kissed me before collapsing, joining me on the bed.
I was enjoined from telling anyone about the new ship that was being built not far from my temporary Brooklyn third story walk-up. However, as she was my wife, and we were in New York, hundreds of miles from any rebel, I felt free to talk.
She showed an intense interest in my work, which made me feel good. There seemed to be no end to her questions about when I would be embarking, leaving her alone. She also wanted to be re-assured that I would be safe; what measures were they taking to make sure her hubby was going to survive? I finally was exhausted from all her questions; I told her the date I would be leaving and the fact that I WOULD be safe, protected from any Southern guns by solid Yankee iron of eight inch thickness of bolted metal. Eileen seemed so relieved upon hearing the details of how safe I would be. She also said it was a relief to know when I was leaving, as she could plan to prepare and send me off properly.
I was present when the ship, christened 'the Monitor' by the inventor Ericsson himself, went down the ship way. It almost foundered upon hitting the sea. We went aboard and were shocked at the novel design. A rotating castle was on top for two heavy Dahlgren guns. There were pipes for bringing air down below, pipes for communicating from deck to deck, and steam engine power for turning that turret and running a fan belt for air. Our mess had the nicest china, imprinted with 'U.S.S. Monitor'.
As the newspapers were running riot with horrifying tales of the Confederate beast--the converted ironclad 'Merrimack'--we knew that we had to rush down to save our blockade squadron. With a tow boat, a sea-going tug pulling us along, we slowly made our way south.
Along the way, we stopped for coal, provisions, and communications (mail and telegraph messages). In the messages was a telegram from a trusted friend who lived near me. He told me that my wife was seeing an older gentleman caller at night. I was stunned. Before I jumped to conclusions, I took the time to write a letter, gently posing some questions to my jezebel(?) of a wife. I posted the letter, then read our up to date orders, which reported the uneven battle. The Confederate ironclad was having great success in the Roads against our blockading ships. This just made it more plain that we were needed down in the area comprising Virginia's Hampton Roads and the surrounds.
We made it there, arriving at night. The Congress was afire, the Minnesota still fighting. Our captain, John Worden, presented his orders. We were assigned to protect the fleet against any inroads by that converted ship 'Merrimack', which the rebels re-christened 'the Virginia'.
I needn't go through the events of that fateful March 1862 battle, as I am sure that you, dear reader, will have read about them already. To sum up, we battled the Rebs to a draw. If they had had rifled shot for their cannon, we might have been in trouble. On the other hand, if our captain had violated the Navy safety rules and used full powder charges on our Dahlgrens, they certainly would have been in a devil of a fix.
As it turned out, of course, our brave captain was temporarily blinded by cannon fragments, forcing us to pull out of the battle. From that point, the battle was over, a perfect draw. As you know, the ironic thing was that the Rebs ended up destroying their mighty ship, unable to make it seaworthy to transfer it south. Just as ironically, our ship, the Monitor, foundered not far from there, off North Carolina. Our ship went down for a similar reason, as we were unable to make it seaworthy to transfer it south.
I was granted leave after the tumultuous battle against the Virginia. I returned to Brooklyn, finding my wife just as beautiful and just as interested in the whereabouts and safety in battle of that little ship, the USS Monitor. First, of course, I had to ask her about that 'man' she was seeing. She hadn't responded to my letter.
She said she never got my letter. That mystery man was in fact her father. He was an honest businessman, caught between the north and the south. He was trading commodities like cotton, which was illegal but de facto allowed by the War Office. That took him the breadth of this divided nation, from north to south. I did not pursue this line of questioning further. What ended my informal interrogation was the dropping of Eileen's house smock. She sure had a way of changing the conversation.
It had been months for me. I had a great deal of seed in my bags. They were swollen, needful of release. My gorgeous wife had lost her tan, I am afraid, but none of her other charms. Her oversized breasts, well shaped legs, everything was in place, firm and strong. I could not wait for the intimacy to resume.
I mounted that lovely blonde farm woman, now my loyal wife. As before, she was in fantastic form, her musculature impressive for anyone, let alone a woman. With her powerful thrusts upward to meet mine, we quickly had made hodge-podge of that bed of ours.
Our bodies, desperate for release, slapped together with tremendous force and separated alternately with equal force. Finally, with a placing of my lips upon hers, I could sense her muffled cry of joy. I joined her, venting my passion with a mighty broadcast of seed. I was no physician and knew not of a woman's interior portion, but I was certain that I had covered every square inch of that warm wonderful place with my seed. Her womb now overflowed with my potent spew. I was so proud.
From elation to dejection, that was the trip that I took within the next day. In the morning, the postman brought notice from our physician that he believed that my wife was pregnant and had been so for weeks. If I hadn't known about the mystery man being her father, I might have deigned to count those weeks. Instead, I embraced my beautiful wife, that inquisitive young woman. THAT was the elation.
Hours later, well into the afternoon, there came a knock upon our door. As I opened it, I saw an officer from the Navy department. That was disturbing, but more disturbing was the gentleman with him. Wearing the formal clothes that most of us only wear on Sundays, I could tell it was a 'Pink' from a mile away. What would the Pinkerton agency (used by the military for intelligence and security) or the Navy have as a reason to disturb us?
The Pink introduced himself and the officer with him. They interrogated me about my doings, whereabouts, and knowledge of my wife. I convinced them that I knew nothing untoward about her. Then, we heard a rumbling from the other room. My wife was bolting! As she tore down the stairs, the Pink followed in hot pursuit. She found a saddled horse across the street and had just mounted that steed. As she turned to make her get away, I heard the unmistakable sound of "HALT!", then the thunderous report of a Colt Navy revolver. To my horror, my beloved wife fell to the cobblestones. I ran up to this murderous blaggart, prepared to face his lead with only my fists. Just then, the officer told me to stop.
The Pink: [To the throng of people now looking at us, some of whom knew my wife and I.] "Get some help; call the local constabulary. Notify the nearest hospital to get a wagon. Hurry!"
The Pink: [Turning to me.] "We just had to know for sure that you were unaware. My orders were to arrest your wife AND you. My orders allowed me to shoot your wife, ON SIGHT." [He could see I was completely shocked, confused, and broken.]
The Pink: "Your wife was a spy for the South. A southern agent. When she showed interest in when you were leaving, it was just to get intelligence on the Monitor's expected departure. I can't believe that you didn't suspect her when she asked how safe you would be, and how you KNEW you'd be safe. I must say, if you weren't an accomplice, and I'm still not convinced, then you were naïve, borderline a fool. That man she was meeting? No, it wasn't an affair, it was indeed her father. He was taking her information and giving it to his handler when he made his illegal but overlooked cotton trades. We arrested him a week ago, according to a dispatch received today. He will be tried and executed by all odds."
This was all illuminating. Fascinating spy stories, they were. In the event, however bad it looked for me, I loved Eileen and rushed to the hospital once those two (the Pink and the lieutenant) had gone.
I was taken to the ward where she was. Her injuries were far beyond what medical science could treat. Looking down upon her, I was supposed to have patriotic fervor and delight in her downfall. Instead, I saw what Anthony in 'Julius Caesar' called 'a bleeding piece of earth'. The most beautiful woman in the world laid before me, our child in her womb.
I held her hand tightly as she smiled at me. Her eyes spoke to me, as she was too weak now to say anything. They told me that she had acted for HER country, as I served MY country. She asked for forgiveness, understanding, and yes, love. Weeping openly, I bent down and kissed those lips a final time. Holding that hand, looking at the love of my life, I saw her vanish from this earth. I was frozen with grief, only leaving when two orderlies physically lifted me and assisted my departure.
I was tempted to return her to her family plot in Kentucky. Realizing that that would be an impossibility, I took her to nearby Long Island, to the Hamptons where we were in love, however briefly. The small graveyard was only yards from the angry sea. I sat in the sands and gazed upon those restless waves. I prayed for her soul, and the soul of our child who would never be.
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