Rebel: The Beginning

She bent over holding the foot of her bed, her absolute favorite position, and I tossed up her skirts, unlimbered my tired weapon and had at her, holding her plump buttocks and heaving with all my might. She squealed and jumped, bouncing on her toes, gasping within a minute or two, and I drove on until I surprised myself by coming again, stretching my body up and moaning with pleasure and exhaustion, my hands full of her ripe breasts as she shook with passion. I left her kneeling by the bed, gasping for breath, dripping thick fluids down her thighs, drooling and smiling.

I hurried down the steps, grabbed Mr. Brown's prized rifle from his wall, found the bullet mold and powder horn, borrowed Johnny Harmon's horse and hurried into the town, barely in time to catch up with my new company. I turned the horse loose, confident his owner would find him eventually.

We riflemen left Frederick Town on the 19th of July, marching north. We reached Boston, every single one of us, on August 9 after crossing 550 miles of hills, streams and bad roads. There we joined up with Dan Morgan's Virginians and enjoyed ourselves firing at British sentries and officers, often at a range of 200 yards or more. I watched many men fall before they even heard the shot that killed them.