Granting Amnesty
The last town's name, he couldn't pronounce. That was a few hours before sunset. Dark clouds, stacked high were coming in from the east, promising a storm.

Pulling his Yankee blue coat tighter, the downpour already had it soaked. Thunder rumbled like a hundred cannon. His hat was limp from fat drops of rain. His beard, itching enough on its own, (he hated beards) was itching twice as much because of being wet.

Each step was hampered, dry throat choking dirt was now a mud bath. He could feel how soaked his feet were getting.

Lighting flashed bright, showing a thicket of bare trees to the north. He could just make out lantern light in a small cabin. Cocking his revolver, he moved in that direction, praying there were no Confederate troops there. More then once, he almost lost his boots to the thick mud, gripping them like vice.

Stumbling up the wooden steps, not knowing he was making enough noise to wake the devil, thunder boomed, scaring him like a green private facing enemy fire for the first time. He looked in the window, his heart felt relief, the cabin appeared empty. That's when he heard the cocking of a revolver behind his head.

"I'm seeking amnesty." A warm fire gave blessed warmth, would the flames be the last his eyes would see? The barrel of a gun was pressing against the back of his head. "Turn around Yankee." A woman's voice? He was shoved hard into the cabin's door a moment ago, a barking voice commanding him to go inside. Turning, he expected to see a cowardly solider hiding behind the skirt of a southern woman. Instead, he saw only a woman, her grey eyes warm, but wary.

She flinched when he handed her his gun, saying "I hate guns." She quickly lowered her gun, shaking in her hand. "I can feed you," she said. Her soft eyes studied his, "I don't know amnesty."

Beans and biscuits, a truly welcome meal. His last was a few peaches, some days ago.

He was given the floor to sleep on, she shutting the door to her bedroom.

The storm woke him, thunder shaking the cabin, he saw her, lantern shaking in her hand, her eyes scared. "What's wrong?" He asked. She seemed to have trouble swallowing. "W-Will you come in here?" She motioned to her room, as he stood, his hand dropped to his gun. Her eyes, pleading, he went into her room. "Will you lay next to me?"

Her bed, barely big enough for one, their bodies pressed tightly. She burst into tears, sobbing into his chest, her body trembling.

Holding her tight, her blonde hair flowing down her back, soft in his hands. She nuzzled into his body, her sobs abating.

As the storm raged, they kissed, forgetting the war, the storm, that they barely knew each other, giving what the other needed.

Moans replaced her sobs, both naked, under the covers. "Kiss me here?" She whispered, her hand in between her legs. Soft, silky hair, just as blonde, touched his fingers. She grasped his cock, its length took her breath away, "I'll try to kiss there."

On their sides, his mouth kissing, sucking the most tender lips, warm, wet, delicious to him. Her lips kissing his purple head, letting her tongue taste the salty skin. She gasped, "there!" Her body shaking, her moans deep, urgent.

She cried out when he filled her, blood dripping from her lips, her virginity gone. Pleasure replaced the pain, something in her stomach fluttering as he thrust harder. She smiled many times, holding him as he went deeper, harder. His moaning harsher, she smiled so sweetly, feeling his seed splash inside. "Was that amnesty?" Curled in his arms, the storm almost over. "In a way, yes." April 14, 1865

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