Although technically an incest story, much of it has a fantasy side about the feelings of a ghost. If you do not care for ghostly fantasies, you may wish to skip reading this. Otherwise, enjoy.
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Full house?
Well boy, you did a great job there. I thought for sure you couldn't beat my three of a kind, but lo and behold, you have a full house. I haven't lost in a night of poker in a long time. OK, you won, so I reckon I'll tell you what you wanted to know. You want to know how I, a man in his mid-twenties, can be such a good reenactor of what you call the Civil War. Heh, let me tell you boy, there was nothing civil about it.
You wonder why I call you "boy", even through you're several years older than me? Well, actually I'm far older. I celebrated my 167th birthday back in April.
No, I am not bullshitting you. I was born that long ago, in April of 1841. The reason I'm so good at reenacting is because I lived the life of a Confederate soldier. I see you scoff, but it's because I knew you wouldn't believe me that I haven't told you or anyone else about my origins. Well, besides my Melissa of course. If you trust me, nod your head. Ah good, you are nodding. Note that my story starts a little gloomy, but it has some bright spots, including two episodes of hot sex that allowed me to be where I am today. Ah, I figured after telling you about the hot sex your ears would perk up. Just promise you won't tell Melissa about me telling you; she'd kill me, and I'm not ready for my second death yet.
As I told you, I was born on April 12, 1841. I grew up in a small town in Ohio named Appleburg. It's always been a pretty town, with the apple blossoms in the spring, and the maple trees in the fall. Growing up, the prettiest girl in town was Melissa Apple, whose great grand-father founded the town and Gregory Apple, her father, essentially ran the town, being its mayor and sole banker. To emphasize that the family ran the town, Melissa's grandfather had apple trees planted all around the town, in a gross display of ego. No, the Melissa you know as my darling wife isn't 167 years old either, as it were.
Where was I? Oh yes, Melissa Apple, my original Melissa. Oh, she was a pretty girl. You have no idea how easy you boys have it now with the ways girls dress. Almost every "camp follower", from whose "activities" you would call a "ho", would be considered modestly dressed compared to modern females. No, I am not an old fuddy-duddy; I may have been born in the 19th century but I am still a male in his twenties, and I appreciate how the modern woman dresses. Anyways, Melissa Apple was the blossom in a family full of seeds rotten to the core. Sorry, I came up with that thought over a century ago, and you were the first person I could use it on. The sun had a way of glowing through Melissa's fiery hair, and her pale skin was almost the color of an apple blossom.
It was May of 1859. Melissa had come by my family's farm to acquire some money father owned Mister Apple. My folks were gone, so I was there to answer the door. She asked if I could possibly find the money, as her father promised to spank her hard if she dared come back home without the money. She hated doing her father's dirty work, but you did not dare question one's parents back then. Her father always kept her away from most of us boys, and she seemed to relish being on her own.
Anyways, she asked if she could have a tour of our farm while waiting for my parents to come back. Thinking nothing of it, I took her to show her our recent plantings, followed by the hen house and our new way to keep wolves from the chickens. But our next stop, the barn, was both my greatest mistake and greatest idea I ever had. Upon seeing our clean haystack, she told me she always fancied me. I told her I always fancied her too. The following minutes I will never forget no matter how many lifetimes.
"Caleb," she said, "I've never gotten to kiss a boy. Will you kiss me so I know what it is like? Father promised me to one of his business partners, but I hate him. I would rather you be my first."
No matter the year, whether 1859 or 2008, if the prettiest girl in town asks you to kiss her, if you are any kind of male you kiss her. I proceeded to kiss her, but she was not impressed.
"That's how you kiss your sister."
"Hey, the only girls I've ever kissed were my sisters, except for my mother."
"I think a boy should kiss a girl like this..."
With that, she once again went with a kiss, but placed her tongue partially in my mouth. I responded in kind. I had no idea about that kind of kissing before, although nowadays you call it a French kiss. I never wanted it to end, nor did she. Our kiss did not end until we both collapsed into the hay.
Yes, I know it's a cliché about young couples back in the day rolling in the hay, but there are reasons clichés start. All I could describe it was magical. We were two eighteen year olds in our first embrace of the other gender, and we could not get enough. I started to feel the blood rushing to my nether regions. For her part, she began to glow.
"Caleb, to hell with my father; I don't want my first time to be with someone I don't know." With that, she undid her dress, and her undergarments soon followed. Most girls in the day had more clothing; it soon occurred to me that she had planned this rebellion.
One look at her breasts made me forget all about her parents, my parents, or anyone else. It was the first time I saw a girl's breasts. Hers were a perfect cream color, with nipples pink as a peony. I began to caress her breasts, and returned to our tongue kiss.
"Kiss my nipples, Caleb, kiss my nipples."
