photo copyright 2009 by Lucretia
Going Down with My Southern Lady
by Rawclyde !
The confederate soldier lay dying in the dust of the ruined fort. The last cannonball of the battle boomed and crashed into the stone wall above him, toppled the wall down all around him as he lay there twitching.
Every one of his comrades were dead. He was the last rebel alive. The enemy had won the battle.
He moaned. His eyes opened. He watched an ant blindly run about and disappear behind a chunk of stone on the ground. The soldier was surprised to find himself still alive. And an ant too. Silence reigned all about, spread its shawl across the scene like a protective mother, giving the soldier a last moment of ~ of peace ~ before he died.
Eventually ~
He heard a lone bird chirping nearby. The bird was singing a joyful song. The soldier, wiping flaky grime off his brow with a shaky hand, wondered why.
It took him about 20 minutes to struggle into a sitting position ~ his back propped up against the last piece of wall still standing.
"Glory," he whispered to what was left of his life and cause and personal poetry. The single word was a ribald whiff of wind that floated from his grimy lips, drifted away and left him incredibly alone, alone except for the singing bird. For a brief moment he wondered where this cheerful little choir was perched.
The consciousness of the dying soldier wavered, grew misty like a rainbow and just as colorful ~ entered another world ~ and he could see his lost southern lady.
She was standing before him, draped like an angel in soft and fine white cloth. Her shoulders were smooth as ivory and possessed all the wealth of the world in a deep tan. Each pore of her body, he knew, breathed like a flower in a field. Her breasts, such a curve, were barely covered. Her blond hair was long and clean and let down. Her smile. Her smile ~ a charming miracle of selfishness.
I'm it.
He could see the egotistic message in her pale blue eyes. And he helplessly loved her. Yes, she was everything. She knew it too.
The dying soldier's conscience soared and he remembered once when he had discovered her, a full grown woman of eight and twenty years, standing behind a big ancient tree where she thought nobody could see her. But he himself was already hiding from work on one of the branches above ~ napping ~ and he saw her ~ her and the little black slave boy.
The slave boy, who stood about tall as the woman's hips, was crying. His tears were great like the Mississippi River, flowing with just as much mud ~ mud for thought, for prayer, and thick with the deepest, most justified sorrow.
He was a slave. Her personal servant. He had fresh red welts from her whip on his back.
And she embraced him with her soft hands, tenderly pressed his head, his lips, against her dress ~ against her constant ache.
He threw his little arms around her and held tight.
Eyes closed, she hummed a soft tune, swayed from one side to the other, her hips, in a dream. She leaned her back lazily against the tree in which our hero was hiding from the grueling tasks of the day.
The woman's blouse was one of those whose neckline swoops low across the breasts ~ and the man in the tree could see ~ he could see the exciting edge of one of her nipples.
Her breasts ~
So revealed and creamy, perfect, heaved up up up and down as she began to breath harder, harder, as the little buck below breathed heavy and hot against her ~ and as a hundred birds sang with our silent spying hero in the branches above.
I'm going to be a soldier soon, he was foolishly thinking, and win this beautiful woman's hand!
Now ~
There was a rock next to the lady and her little house boy. The rock, framed in weeds and dandelions, was about 16 inches high. It was upon the top of this rock that the woman rested one of her slipper-ed feet. Her slippers, or shoes, were open toe-ed, and her toes, oh her toes! They were such a sight ~ so pretty!
She raised her dress up over her knee, pulled it up past her naked raised thigh. Thus the black boy could kiss her cool skin here and slip his wet tongue under her panties.
She sighed lustfully, shifted her dreamy dance from back n' forth to forward n' backward, bumped against her servant's face like a drink of cool clear water from a bubbling brook.
"Rip my panties off, Henry," she ordered in a whisper.
Oh nasty woman!
~ thought the man on the branch above.
The child servant obeyed. The man in the branches wondered how many times the little fella had done this before.
"Suck. Oh suck me, Henry! Oh Henry! Poor little nigger Henry!" whimpered the hot southern lady. Beads of sweat appeared so fine upon the tan and creamy slopes of her breasts, trickled into the shaded valley between them.
The black boy stuck his tongue up into her, buried his nostrils in her musty light brown and curly pussy hairs. The man in the branches could see the tongue work to the right, to the left, plunge, circle ~and the man could hear the slurping sounds. A hundred birds sang the background music. It was a warm afternoon in the shade.
Southern Lady had extended her butt out and away from the tree by many inches while her back still leaned against its bark. The rough bark was scratching her skin and slightly tearing the back of her blouse. She was an urgent but graceful bending bow about to shoot, not an arrow, but a syrupy orgasm into the face of her little negro.
The man jumped out of the tree. Of course he was white. And he was lucky!
The dying soldier, sitting up against the remnant of wall, bowed his head and smiled. His eye caught the magnificent sight of a single purple flower that the broken-down wall had failed to crush. Surrounded by broken stone and rifle shells, the flower was still alive. So fragile, symbol of tender sweet things ~ it had survived!
How had a flower managed to grow in this fort in the first place?
A bee dropped out of the sky, buzzed around the flower. The man silently laughed. He was almost dead.
The terrible pain had turned into blank numbness ~ the pain in his shoulder, his leg, his head, and in the spreading pool of his blood. He hadn't slept for days. There was a bullet in his shoulder. Blood was running down his tattered gray coat. His leg was bloody hamburger. He was one big wound.
Good-bye, world.
Slowly he was able to fetch a leftover cigar butt, old and crisp but not half smoked, out of his shirt pocket. He found a match there too. His last smoke was a fine smoke. Ahhh, to die with your boots on while smoking a cigar!
He shivered. So cold. But the lazy blue stream of ascending tobacco smoke before him made for one final memory, oh so warm, and real as real can get, in his drifting conscience of cruel rainbow colors ~
"Get out of here, you little shit!" he rudely gritted at the lady's slave and slapped him aside. The poor urchin ran off. The man stood before the southern lady.
"Prying rooster," she frowned at him.
"I know, Rosie." He said her name like it was a church. He was trembling.
The hem of the woman's dress slipped a few inches down her boldly raised thigh. She put her hand to her blushing cheek, smiled wicked as a woman could get. Selfish. Greedy. Gorgeous and knowing it.
He moved close. Their lips met, only their lips, at first. Then he pushed the hard oak in his pants against her barely veiled juicy kunt. They roughly grinded into each other. Her arms swung around his neck. A brazen shoulder pressed against his cheek.
Then ~
With a sure hand she pushed his face down against her sweaty tits. The blouse fell over her hips. She pressed him down further until he was on his knees, kissing her worldly belly, licking the lint out of her belly button.
Her hand at the top of his head coaxed him further down down ~
Her dress and blouse fell to the ground ~
The naked southern lady, so smooth, so unblemished, stood before him. This sight, and her poignant perfumes, melted diamonds to sand in his ragged soul. He looked up at her ~ for a hint. She looked down at him ~ a bold adventure a crackling in her eyes so pale blue. He continued the job the black boy had begun. Now it was the boy who watched ~ watched from under a distant bush.
Humbly the man knelt before her and sucked on her flaming pussy. It was a forest fire. A volcano. God. Her pussy was God.
This man she pushed further down to kiss her lily thighs, so cool, like a drink of water. He nibbled her perfect knee, licked her calf. Down he went, kissed her ankle, sucked her toes. Finally he started eating the dirt on which she walked. With a misty eye he gazed up, saw the arrogant amused curl of her lip and he sang:
"God created angels
To fly above your head.
God created devils
To be stepped on by your toes."
She lay down beside him on the ground. They made love ~ their first, last, only time. The black boy, hiding under the distant bush, curiously watched.
Mercy.
The sun was setting. The sky was red. Two blue union soldiers with the muzzles of their burned-out rifles pointed to the earth, stood above the dead man whose back rested against the portion of wall. The dead man's legs were stretched across the rubble. His head was bowed. There was a very short burned-out cigar butt in his lap.
The two union soldiers exchanged glances.
One of them lifted the tilted cap so that the dead man's face could be seen.
"He's smiling," said the other.
"Yes," said he who had lifted the cap. "He's smiling like he just got layed."
(copyright Clyde Collins 1989/2011)
