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Massachusetts Bay Colony.

Not many rejected Betsy’s charms.

Captain Owens was away for two years cruising the waters from the British Caribbean to Nova Scotia. It was off Cape Hatteras, in a hurricane, that an improperly secured cannon broke loose and crushed Mrs. Elizabeth Owens’ husband. Crushed him to death. As was customary, he was buried at sea.

It took a month for the British Naval Command in North America to get word to his wife.

Betsy grieved for all of five days before her lips found pleasure on her knees pleasing a Major in the British army.

A week later her secret garden welcomed the stalk of a captain in the Boston militia while she was on her back.

Over the next year, the widow Mrs. Lloyd found solace on her back or her knees to the joy of officers in the British army and navy, and among American patriots.

To be honest, more so on her knees.

It was Joshua Loring who swept her off her feet, although to be fair her knees and back had been on the floor almost as frequently as her feet.

Joshua Loring, like her late husband, was an American in the employ of the British Navy. Unlike Harold Owens, Captain Loring was stationed in Boston as an aide to General William Howe and not at sea.

Joshua Loring found the widow Elizabeth Owens fascinating; he found her secret garden and bright red lips even more fascinating.

But there was more. Although, a British Naval Officer, Joshua Loring had been born in Boston and was a devoted patriot, a spy.

One night, a year after their first rendezvous, whispering in Mrs. Owens’ ear while thrusting away, “if I’m not mistaken ma’am, you’re in league with those men who oppose the King.”

“Mr. Loring, I’m in league with your manhood, and I have to say it is a marvel.” She moved expertly beneath him.

“Just as I find your secret garden a delight, but should you become familiar with a Mr. Hall, you might let him know that the British are moving troops indicating they might be interested in our friends in Lexington and Concord.”

The next morning when the Widow Owens left Mr. Loring’s bed, she hurried to the shop of a friend who knew Mr. Hall, a high-ranking member of the Sons of Liberty, and who she was very familiar with, if you know what I mean.

It was less than two weeks later that the British did indeed move on Lexington and Concord. The Americans were ready.

Three nights after the British debacle, “Mr. Loring, how can I ever thank you?”

“Mrs. Owens, I’ve always found your ruby red lips as pleasing as your secret garden, perhaps . . .”

“Say no more. I’ve been thinking that might be a way to reward you for your contributions to our cause.” The next sounds that came from her mouth were “hmmmmmmm, hmmmmmmm, hmmmmmm,” as Mrs. Owens slid those ruby red lips up and down the shaft of his manhood.

Later that night, her lips thanked him again. And the following morning, again.

A month later, even though he knew what she was, and was fifteen years her senior, Joshua Loring asked Elizabth Lloyd Owens to marry him. A chaplain in the British Army performed the ceremony.

Within weeks of the wedding, Joshua Loring introduced his new wife to General Howe, commander of all British troops in North America.

It was lust at first sight for the general.

Within a month, Joshua Loring, was assigned to the British garrison in Montreal. His wife stayed behind in Boston.

She stayed behind in Boston and became the mistress of General William Howe. It was no secret; she was on his arm at balls, galas, parties of all kinds.

He showed her off like a trophy; the spoils of war if you will. The General was forty-six. Elizabeth was twenty-four and considered one of the most beautiful women in all the American colonies. Her breasts were large, perfect mounds that he found enchanting.

But more than that, General William Howe was fascinated by her secret garden. Not just fucking it; her blonde secret garden was a delight. He found Mrs. Loring indescribably delicious. As delicious as he’d ever had. The taste of a woman wasn’t new to him.

It started when he was a young sailor and his shipmates brought him to a brothel in St. Petersburg, Russia. It was his first time. “Billy, go with Tatiana. She’s almost old enough to be your mother. She can teach you a lot about being a man.”

Her English was halting, but when she took off her clothes. Like any young man he was fascinated. He was enthralled when Tatiana spread her legs for him. “So, you like Tatiana’s kiska.”

He just nodded; staring. He was to learn that kiska in Russian means kitty.

“Many men have told Tatiana that she has the best tasting kiska.” She was teasing him. Little did she know that he didn’t get the joke. For the next hour young Billy Howe, with her instructions, used his tongue; licking her pussy from almost her asshole to her clitoris. When he got there, “like that sailor boy. My kiska likes to be licked right there.” Her orgasms, and there was more than one, were real.

Before he left, Tatiana gave him a blowjob; it was the least she could do; he was paying her. She’d never had a sailor pay for what Billy Howe paid for.

His ship was docked in St. Petersburg for a week. He was off duty four of those days. Every day he visited Tatiana and insisted on using his tongue. Billy Howe wasn’t just fascinated; he was addicted. Addicted to the taste of her pussy.

Tatiana did take his virginity, but before he left, he insisted on a taste. “One more time, please Tatiana.” She laughed but spread her legs for the young sailor. “Billy, tell me again how delicious Tatiana’s kiska is.” In every port along Europe’s Atlantic coast, he requested the same thing in every brothel. The girls giggled behind his back, but of course, they were there to please their customer.

It was the same along the French and Italian ports on the Mediterranean. He found the girls in the brothels in North Africa exotic and their taste exquisite.

He enjoyed being on his knees between those whores’ legs with his face in their pussy. However, it was a prostitute in London who introduced him to another way. “Sir, let me ride your tongue. Many of my customers claim it’s the best way.”

He was from a family, distance relatives of the Crown. His family was appalled when he married a commoner and Irish commoner at that. “How could you?” His mother chastised him.

He couldn’t tell her, could he? Tell her that there was nothing like spending hours and hours with his face in his wife, Eileen’s gorgeous red pussy.

For Eileen Connors, her wedding night and the days and weeks after were nothing like her mother had prepared her. Sure, he stuck his manhood inside her, but she discovered that her husband preferred to stick his tongue in there.

Eileen Connors could not explain to her family why after three years of marriage she wasn’t pregnant, could she?

She was beside herself when she rode his tongue, which she discovered she could not get enough of and neither could he.

Now, Eileen Connors was in London, and the General in Boston. A man can go without pussy for just so long.

“Oh General, oh General. Betsy’s cunny has never felt like your tongue makes it feel. It’s all yours whenever you’re in the mood.”

“Mrs. Loring, you are such an enchanting woman.”

“And do you find my cunny delightful? Show me again, General.”

The magnificent home that General Howe commandeered on Beacon Hill had a large study, just off the General’s bedroom; a bedroom he shared with Elizabeth Loring, and although the house was elegant and very well-built, Elizabeth could hear everything. All the strategy sessions included.

She was able to get word to the Americans in the days before the British assault on Bunker Hill.

Elizabeth also warned the Americans that the British were evacuating Boston.

That might be the end of their relationship; after all she was a Bostonian and her husband, Joshua Loring, would expect her to be in Boston when he returned from his mission.

TO BE CONTINUED

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