THE WHITE LADY

by Mack the Knife

Edwan Kendrik stood his post with determination.

It was, for him, another night of standing watch over the cemetery. He never understood why the garrison had this duty. Nor did he understand the necessity for a man, every night at sunset, to post himself at the paved pad that marked the center of the graveyard. Other men in his company had told him it was an old tradition and that his regiment had performed this historical duty for centuries. Who was he to question tradition?

He gazed about himself, his spear at parade rest. His red tunic grew damp from the penetrating fog that was rolling in off the river and filling the bowl of the cemetery with a diffused milky haze. The tradition called for the bearer of this duty to stay the entire night. That meant he had almost nine hours remaining of the eleven that marked this late spring night. Edwan squinted and tried to examine his surroundings. He could barely make out some nearer gravestones in the mist. A few of the mausoleums of the wealthy clans that dwelt in Reesport loomed like shadowy hills at the very edge of vision.

The only thing he could see with clarity from his post was the White Lady. No one knew who the model for the statue had been, nor who crafted it. It had arrived, folk said, more than two hundred years ago.

The statue was carven of white marble -- almost veinless, pure white and smooth. The statue was beautiful, and depicted a woman running, with her gowns flowing behind her in an unnatural breeze. The artist had been more than a mere master of his craft. Divine inspiration must have been upon him when his chisel had shaped the White Lady. She seemed to run, in truth, and seemed to be running toward the center of the circle, though she never reached it. Her hair trailed out, as if her pace were sufficient to cause it to fly like a horse’’s mane at a gallop. The expression on her face was the most mysterious part. Different viewers swore it was a differing expression, and even the same viewer would think it other than what it was the last time they had seen it.

Edwan liked the White Lady, as did most of the men on the rotation to serve as her escorts for the evenings. She somehow made the grim graveyard less haunted, and more a place of warmth. He saluted her in the darkness created by the overcast and marked by the flickering of the lone torch that was set in a low pillar near her feet. He turned another circuit, his eyes, as always marking an utter lack of movement among the gravestones and little houses of the dead.

One soldier he knew, a young lad named Marc, had served this post. On his first night of duty, his torch had been faulty and sputtered and died before midnight. The poor lad had feared leaving his post, and was found in the morning, huddled at the White Lady’s feet, crying. He claimed she had kept the dark spirits of the graveyard from destroying and consuming him. The captain had given the poor lad a week’s furlough and an extra week’s ration of beer to get him back into shape. Marc was okay now, but still swore that the White Lady had saved him.

After a night on duty here, soldiers were entitled to two days off duty. This was the main reason that there was actually a list of volunteers for the job. It had become something of a status symbol to be accepted and called upon to serve. People whom they had recently reprimanded, or who caused the captain or one of his lieutenants displeasure, were forbidden to serve.

This night, Edwan wished he were not serving. It was wet and dreary, and the fog kept his torch sputtering. He feared it would falter. He had spares, of course, but in this devil’s murk, he would have a very difficult time lighting one. They were all soaked with the same damp as made his blond hair stick to his scalp.

The fog was growing thicker.

He now could make out the faint shape of the White Lady and the rest of the cemetery was gone from his view behind the wall of fog. The torch’s light marked its position, but the illumination it cast penetrated less than three paces of the dense pea soup that was now drifting over the graveyard.

Edwan sighed and looked back toward the White Lady, now just a silhouette in the thick bank of cloud. “I will lose even your beauty this night,” he murmured to her. The soldier was not the only soldier who spoke to the White Lady, they often told one another of the conversations they had with her, one-sided conversations, of course.

However, he was quite certain that she never answered.

“Why, soldier, would you miss me?” a female voice said from the fog.

Gripping his spear in both hands, he spun to face the White Lady. A diffused glow came from that direction, the flickering torch’s feeble light trying to penetrate the fog. Even she was now obscured from him.

“Who is there?” Edwan asked in a commanding tone.

A brief silence followed. “My name is unimportant,” the voice said. It was a lovely voice, and had a sense of melody to it.

His breathing was erratic and loud now. He peered into the fog, trying to make out the shape of a person, perhaps one of the female soldiers was here to tease him in the night. He was a bit of a prankster himself, and had pulled enough gaffs on fellow soldiers, of both sexes, to have earned such a comeuppance. However, he saw no one.

“If this is a joke . . .” he said, his voice trailing off as he realized threats would be meaningless, and seem petty if it were just a joke.

The voice seemed to come from all around him. “I do not jest with you, Edwan,” she said, though now humor tinged her tone. “You have watched over me for a long time, and I appreciate that.”

He blinked into the fog. “Are you trying to say you’re the White Lady?” Edwan asked, his knuckles white on the oaken shaft of his ceremonial spear.

The woman laughed. “If I wished to say that, I simply would,” she replied.

His heart skipped a beat as he turned toward the dim light source north of him. “I cannot believe you,” he said, though the quaver in his voice did not even convince himself.

She laughed again. It was a beautiful sound, and he did enjoy hearing it, even if its mere presence was impossible. “You do not need to believe in me, I believe in you,” she said.

A motion at the edge of his limited vision caught his eye. A shape was moving between the flickering torch and himself now. He spun about and crouched as the shape appeared to move toward him. The shape solidified, or took form, from the mists. It was a woman. It was the White Lady!

She walked toward him, no longer running. Her gown was of diaphanous silk, and stark white in color. It matched her alabaster skin, and long white hair, that cascaded down to her shoulders in curving waves. Her feet were bare, and he heard them on the flagstones, slapping as she walked. The only colors to her were her eyes and her lips. Her eyes were huge and colored a luminous green, and seemed to glow of their own light. The lips were crimson, and looked soft and were smiling. He blinked, trying to banish this mirage from his eyes, but she stepped closer still.

“Do not be frightened of me, Edwan,” the White Lady said. Her lips curled upward more, and white teeth showed behind the red of her lips. “I wish only to thank you for watching over me all these years.”

“B -- But, I’ve only had this duty for less than a year,” the soldier stammered.

She looked at him and stopped walking, standing but three paces from him. “You, Edwan, have done so for a short while, but you soldiers have protected me since my maker crafted me,” she said.

He swallowed, his nerves shaken and his hands trembled, causing the spear point to quiver. Her beautiful, slender face looked saddened. “I frighten you greatly,” she said. “I will go and trouble you no further, it was a foolish thing of me.” She started to turn away from him, the edges of her gown floating in the unseen currents of the air as she did so.

“No,” he said, his voice a bare whisper. “Don’t go,” he added, his eyes imploring her.

She turned again. “Then put aside your fear, Edwan,” she commanded. “For I cannot harm you, or any soldier who has defended me all these years.”

She walked forward again, and stood at arms’ length from him. “Put down your spear, this night, soldier, you need not protect me.”

He knelt and laid the spear on the paving stones and stayed on one knee. “I do not know that I am worthy of your appearance in flesh,” he said, keeping his eyes lowered.

She touched his neck, caressing it with her fingertips. They were cool and smooth, and they sent a jolt of energy through him that caused his whole body to twitch. “You are worthy, as I am only a creation of the hand of a man, and you were crafted by the gods.”

He looked up and saw warmth in her eyes, even as the cool fingertips slid over his cheek. In the darkness, her white silken gown, her skin, and her flowing hair stood out in contrast. She pulled back her delicate hand and reached to the neck of her gown. The straps that held it on her shoulders slid aside and the gown fell to the flagstones in a fluttering wave, like feathers almost.

Widening his eyes in amazement, Edwan gazed upon the perfection of her form. She was flawless. Her skin was fair and unblemished by any marks, her breasts curving in total harmony with her overall proportions, her hips just wide enough and not an inch wider. He could see muscles playing beneath the surface of her light skin as she lowered her long, slender arms. His eyes drifted inward and to the thatch of white hairs there, over a pink slit. He noted the blue tracery of veins under the skin, barely noticeable, as the blue veins in the marble had been.

She smiled at him. “You find me comely?” she asked.

He nodded. “You’re too beautiful for my eyes,” he replied, “and far too beautiful for my crude words.”

She tilted her head, and touched him again. “Please, stand, Edwan,” she said. “I would not have my lover upon his knees, worshiping me.”

He looked at her with large eyes. “Nevertheless, you are worthy of praise,” he protested, and his face had a look of anguish upon it.

The lady smiled again, taking his hand in her cool grip. “Then praise me in deeds, Edwan,” she whispered as he stood. “Praise me with your touch.”

The night seemed to darken more as he stood up, and he noted that the torch had died. Perhaps I have died with it, he thought as he felt her hands upon his tunic, untying the straps that bound it about him. It fell from his shoulders and folded upon the ground around his sandaled feet. Her smile widened a small bit.

“You do find me appealing then?” she said, regarding his swelling manhood.

Edwan smiled and blushed in the same action. “How could I not?” he asked. “I thought you beautiful as a carven stone. As a woman before me, unclad and lovely, I cannot help but desire you.”

The White Lady said: “You need not desire that which is offered.” She still held his hands, and pulled them to her, placing them on her delicate shoulders. The skin beneath his palms was cool, smooth, and very soft. He moved them to her neck and among the silken strands of her hair. He could feel dew from the fog upon the fine white hairs, and the soft skin of her neck. She, with a slow and deliberate motion, tilted her head this way, then that, letting the cords and tendons in her throat slide under his palms and fingers.

Edwan felt a sudden shock as her own hand enwrapped his swollen cockstem, cool fingers feeling his girth at the base of his shaft. He moaned as he felt that contact fire nerves throughout his body.

He took that intimate contact as invitation to explore her fully, and moved his own hands down to the gentle swell of her breasts. Her back arched and her lips parted as he brushed his thumbs over her pointed nipples, he watched as her head tilted back and a moan escaped her lips. Her breathing, like his, was rapid, and came in short gasps. One of her hands was venturing over his chest and touching him over his several battle scars and seemed to be drawn to warmer spots. The cool smoothness of her fingertips was driving him crazy, as if droplets of water were fondling him.

One of his hands left her breast and moved downward, dragging his fingers over her sculpted stomach, over the flawless, smooth-as-silk flesh. He felt again, silky hairs as he slid his fingers over her pubic mound then he, for the first time with this woman, felt warmth. The moist slit beneath the small triangle of hairs was warm. Warm, moist, and very inviting. When his fingers touched her clitoris, she twitched and gasped. He even felt her grip on his organ tighten as she responded.

She may not be a real woman, he thought, but she is certainly reacting like one. Her legs had moved apart, granting him greater access to her nether regions. He felt a tremble run through her legs as he parted the lips about her entrance with his finger. He then slid the middle finger into her, appreciating the smoothness and slickness of her insides.

Her hand on his cockstem moved to the tip, and pushed back the foreskin, letting her fingers tickle at the base of the head. Their cool touch was exhilarating, and he feared that he would climax right away at her touch. However, she seemed to know how to keep a man stiff and ready, without bringing him to his final act.

The expression on her face was one of utter ecstasy as he leaned forward to kiss her. Again, he found warmth, in her ruby lips. As those lips parted for him, though, he found a cool tongue within, and then in his own mouth, as she kissed him in return. The hand that had been wandering his chest was now upon his neck and the soldier rewarded her cool touch with another moan from him. She pulled away from the kiss and looked down at his cockstem. Tiny pearls of precome pooled at the tip and dripped from him at long intervals with the teasings of her fingertips.

His finger slid out of her and she sighed as it came forth. She was lowering her body, and her hands bid him to stay upright. She knelt before him and leaned forward, taking his swollen pole into her mouth. The warm lips wrapped about the helmet, then the cool tongue tickled it with tiny fast motions. He fought the almost immediate orgasm that threatened to explode upon the very first contact of her lips. However, she seemed eager for him to have it. Her head began moving faster over his shaft, applying gentle suction, and flicking her tongue, stimulating his manhood past its tolerances.

He cried out as a blinding orgasm took hold of him, and wracked his body in something between pleasure and pain. He felt his seed spilling into her mouth, and felt the tongue warm at the flow of liquid over it. She swallowed several times, keeping his flow moving with the action of her mouth and tongue.

His last twitches in his cockstem stopped, and she ceased moving her head. Where her hand rested upon his thigh, he felt warmth come to them. The hand holding his organ in a light grip warmed as well. She smiled up at him, and laid her head upon his belly. He stroked her feathery soft hair and could feel her breathing upon his skin. She felt like a normal woman, now, warm and inviting. The lady was still beautiful beyond anyone’s right to hold, but she felt more real now, somehow.

The lady pulled him down using her now warm hands on his hips. As Edwan's face neared hers, she kissed him, and they exchanged tongues for a long moment. He felt her pushing upon his shoulders, trying to lay him back. He went willingly, once he knew her intent. As he laid prostrate, she climbed up him, moving like a cat. “Do you know how to satisfy a woman with your mouth, Edwan?”

He nodded. “Of course I do,” he said, “but I must ask you, how do you know so much of lovemaking?”

She smiled, her expression inscrutable. “Do you think the soldiers who perform this duty always do so alone, throughout the long nights?” she asked, her eyes flashing with green fire and mirth.

He thought for a moment. “Not from what I’ve heard, no, most don’t, or many don’t,” he said.

She nodded. “In truth, all enjoy the occasional visitor,” she said, “save one.” Her kiss was powerful, and her lips smashed his as she fed him her tongue, and probed the back of his mouth with it. The White Lady pulled back. “I’ve felt so bad for you in your lonely vigils.” She kissed him again, then her voice became almost pleading. “May I beg you to use your tongue upon me, I have so wondered how it would feel.”

He smiled and said, “Gladly, but you may find it better if you lie upon your back.”

She shook her head, moving farther up his body, her knees now on either side of his head, and his arms between them, so far were her thighs spread. Her opening was just over his mouth as he gazed up over her fine white pubic hair to her lovely face, framed by her perfect breasts. No sculptor had a right to be so talented to have shaped the flawless beauty upon which he gazed.

He extended his tongue, sliding it over the delicate folds of soft flesh. This brought a moan from her and she braced her hands on the ground to either side of his head. As he withdrew his exploring tongue, she gasped in air. “It is even better than I imagined,” she said. “Please, more,” she begged. He began lapping at her labia with an earnest energy, leaving her clitoris, for now, as a surprise for later if she were so inexperienced as she seemed.

Her hips began to adopt a rhythm of motion, forming small circles. As he watched, her own hands began to explore her chest. She squeezed her nipples between two fingers with each hand and groaned out loud as he felt renewed moisture flow from her depths. Edwan, at last, flicked his tongue over her clitoris, letting it just tap the bud. She gasped and he felt her legs tense against his cheeks. He then latched onto it with his lips, sucking and sliding his tongue over it in a long slow motion.

After but a few moments of this, she screamed. Her head tossed back and her white hair flowing down onto his belly. The scream was ear shattering even with her head three feet from his. Had they been in a normal sexual position, he would now be deaf. A sharp ringing began in his inner ear even as he thought this. He lifted her, half expecting to find her weight unmovable by his muscles. However, she was light as any woman her size and he moved her upward two or three inches. Then he began tickling the little tight ring of her anus. She groaned and spread her rump’s globes apart with her hands as his tongue burrowed into the ring, spreading it and entering her. He noted one thing that had been bothering him since he had started. She had no smell, or taste, for that matter. He lapped at her tight ring, then her vagina, no, there was no taste to either. Edwan stimulated her rump for several minutes, switching between it and her wet slit. Finally, she seemed to have had enough. She stood, moving with grace, to her feet.

“Turn over,” she whispered. He rolled onto his belly and felt her legs over his calves. The lady was kneeling over him. Then he felt his own butt spread by her slim, glassy-smooth fingertips. Then he felt an incredible sensation, as her tongue slipped over his own anus, then into it. He could feel her probing into him and exploring his tight innards. Her tongue was very long, and narrow. He felt the pleasure of her stimulating his backside and her hands creeping under him to grip his cockstem. Edwan felt her smile with the crease of his ass as he stiffened in her hands at her ministrations. Her tongue slipped out of him and she stood again. The soldier looked back and she smiled down at him.

Edwan rolled again, his organ poking upward like a small flagpole. She took a step up his body, with her legs still on either side of his waist. Then she squatted down, not kneeling, but squatting. She reached between her long, perfect thighs and gripped his manhood. She lowered herself down upon it, and he felt her warm opening accept him. The lady moaned somewhere in her chest as she slid down until his pubic hair and hers were pressed to each other, then she knelt.

She put her smooth hands upon his chest and started to rock back and forth, with their pelvises as the pivots. Soon, he saw moisture spring from her flesh as she began to move with more insistence. She grunted for the final few motions, culminating in another of the screams of deep and abiding release. He watched her face this time, and saw a lovely form, but a terrifying determination and even fear in her features. As she looked down, she saw that he had watched her, and she smiled hesitantly.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked her.

She slowed a little. “I fear never being able to do this again,” she said. “I probably should not have done it this once.”

He grunted with exertion as he made up for the slowing of her pace by bucking his hips and pushing his manhood into her tight cunt.

She felt him stiffen and began to move faster again. He saw her expression shift again, to the same excited, yet fearful pose. His orgasm wracked him, though, and he arched his back, lifting the couple off the ground as he spent his seed deep into her womb. Edwan felt her clenching and relaxing her muscles inside as she rocked her pelvis upon his. After a few more moments, his flaccid organ slipped from her slit and fell over his leg. She laid down then, spreading herself over him like a blanket, and Edwan held her with his hands, and kissed her neck and shoulder.

A shift in the wind was felt, or rather, a wind was felt, as the night had been stifling and still. She looked up as her hair lifted from its place upon her shoulders, her eyes fearful and wide. “I must go now,” she gasped, and pulled upward. Edwan did not wish to lose contact with this goddess that came from the fog to his arms.

“Please, Edwan, let me go,” she begged, in the same tone she had used before to encourage him to pleasure her.

He relented, hating the fearful and worried expression on her face more than he wanted to keep her. She grabbed her gown and fled, pulling it over her body as she ran, looking just as she did on the pedestal, but this time in motion.

He sat up then put on his own garments. The fog was lifting, and he walked over to the White Lady, again back in her place. He thought now that maybe she was smiling and seemed pleased this night. He grinned up at her and kissed her knee, which was as high as he could reach without climbing upon her pedestal. “Thank you,” he said.

Nearby, crouching behind a gravestone, sat Tianee, a serving girl from the bar that Edwan frequented, and she peered over the top of her hiding place at him. “You are more than welcome,” she whispered, tears pouring down her flawless cheeks. Delicate hands folded the silken white wig, with care, into the pack then tousled her own fine black tresses loose of their enforced confinement. She frowned as she put the cloak over the expensive silk nightgown, it had cost her three weeks worth of tips to buy. The wig had cost her four.

She was smitten by the brave soldier, had been for almost a year. Yet terrible shyness struck her when he was near her. Becoming the White Lady had given her courage, at least for this one night. She cursed herself for her temerity, but slipped away before the fog could lift and expose her deception to the man she longed to have as hers.

Would he forgive her? She supposed he would.

Would he love her? She was afraid to find out.

THE END

Copyright � Mack The Knife 2005

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