Poor Will

Here I sit on a rough hewn windowsill, amidst gnarled branches strumming wretched anthems on shards of glass. Ah, this is a fine day, the first day of spring. At the start of spring, the landscape here bears little difference from that of winter, existing as a theoretical axis- a turning point promising better days to come. We've had an odd winter this year; the snow has all but melted.

It's warm today like summer, and except for a lack of green on the ground, it reminds of springtime back in the old country. I've been here so damn long, counting the days making the years, that I know this day well. On this day, the first rays of the morning sun align perfectly with loose nail of the wall's center cove molding. What can I say? It's how I mark time.

My name is William, otherwise dubbed Poor Will. I've been calling this old two story framework house my home for more years than I'd care to remember. But wait, someone's coming up the drive.

A young couple disembark their dilapidated Model A coupe. They laugh as its engine coughs, some moments after being off, as if hinting indignantly for a thank you. I've never got to ride in such a modern conveyance; my four wheels were powered by horses. You could say, in my day, it was hay burners all the way. But I digress. Let's watch.

The young man takes some steps away from his best girl to fish his phallus from his trousers. She covers her mouth and giggles as he sends forth a steaming amber stream to slash through the crystalline remains of a snowdrift. Very impressive, but his ample inches don't hold a candle to mine; I was really hung, as they say.

I know these two quite well, her especially. Her name is Becky; his...I forget. Oh wait, it's George, I remember now, her army boy. They met here twice last fall, entertaining me with their lover's trysts. Be good to her, George, as I feel protective of her; I did, after all, watch her grow up. She was born in this house, back in 1920, or so said the calendar.

When she was eleven, her folks scraped their funds together, in the form of so many fifty cent pieces, resolving to leave this place for better lodgings. I should mention that their savings came from their sale of home brew, a profitable side line to farming back then.

They never knew of the huge stash of many, much older coins in the wall. I made efforts to have them found, as I hated to see them suffer in poverty. They couldn't understand my hints, so I made myself useful by warning them of the feds finding their whiskey still. Fortunately, Becky never knew of any uncouth happenings here to taint her childhood memories.

I missed them when they left. Becky did return, on rare occasion, to play with her abandoned toys in secret. How often I sat as the guest of honor at her tea parties. Some of the time, I thought she could see me.

More about me, Poor Will: Back when I first came to these parts, this was a house of ill repute. I had yet to know physical love, and it was my curiosity, more than anything, that brought about my downfall. I came to see a girl on the recommendation of a man on my survey crew. I knocked on the door to meet an unassuming woman who relieved me of my money before directing me to Rachel's room.

She winked as she poured me a tin mug of strong liquor. I followed her, with my knees weak and my heart in my throat, up the dimly lit staircase. I ventured upward, ruefully awash in the air of cheap perfume and even cheaper booze. On meeting Rachel however, I was duly impressed.

She was all she was said to be, voluptuous and beautiful beyond description. She wore a ruffled bodice with laced up black stockings. Her brown eyes sparkled as she cranked the wick of her bedside lamp and patted the mattress beside her. I stumbled, having lost my balance while untying my boots; I toppled head first into the welcoming flesh of her lilac scented bosom. She laughed at my apparent eagerness to make her acquaintance.

"Well hello, I'm Rachel," she murmured, "And who might you be?" I was right on top of her. My lips trembled, nuzzling the dry warmth of her elegant neck. I closed my eyes to the bliss of this sinful encounter.

"Call me Will, I'm Will," I managed. I kissed her clumsily behind her ear while kneading at her teats like a hungry kitten. Lusty surges threatened my early release.

"Will, I must ask with respect that you climb off me. You must relax," she said. "This is your first time, isn't it?" I hated how this beauty was called a whore.

"Yes ma'am," I muttered, blushed and flustered. I struggled to recall the gory how-to's and where-of's, slurred out to me by my cohort back at camp.

We sat side by side on the bed, holding hands as she gazed into my eyes. My erection subsided as I learned of her expected wage. I offered her up a hefty tip of fifty cents which she took and slipped into a crack in the wall. "Why Rachel?"

"Well Will, a girl has to look out for herself. They expect a percentage of tips downstairs. I'll get it back someday. Then I'll be free."

I wondered if she'd marry me. Marry me, Rachel. I swallowed tears.

We heard a commotion downstairs. A big drunken brute, by the sounds of things, was demanding Rachel's services. Rachel hurriedly dressed as I fumbled to jam a chair against the door knob. If only I'd noticed it opened outwards.

I fought the good fight but was woefully outmatched. He must have weighed in at three hundred pounds, with fists like sledgehammers. I blinded him with the contents of my mug, thinking quickly under duress to even the odds. I'd turned to check on Rachel when he lunged. I turned on my heels to receive a precision uppercut, sending me hurtling across the room. I went limp at the cracking of my nape on the window sill. All went a sickly black.

When I came to, I was floating above my swinging remains in the sterile light of day. The bastard had lynched me from a tree, in an effort to cover the killing. My corpse hung there all day with urine and semen staining my trousers. I went down in local history as Poor Will, the remorseful cat house suicide patron.

I was buried outside the churchyard fence in an unmarked grave, uncomfortably close to a stinking outhouse. I fashioned an invisible tombstone declaring me to be Poor Will, the dead virgin. There was no funeral.

I awaited the fabled light at the end of the tunnel but it never came. Instead, I was captured at dawn by what I'm only allowed to tell you, is in name, my Keeper. He lurks downstairs. He comes up, now and then, to recite how I will never again be free to roam. He has 'killed' me many times over the years. It's a hard thing to explain.

But enough about me. On with accounts of the living, or 'the water', as we call them.

My dear Becky with her darling George stumble up the stairs, clamoring onto the mouldering bed in my room. He's good enough to unfurl his army blanket beneath them, before pouncing on her willing young body, to be applauded by the groaning bed springs. Considering all their newly wed excitement, I must salute him. How they do excite me with their lover's embrace. I gather, by gusts of their conversation, they are secret newly weds. Also, I learn George is shipping out to fight the second World War, the poor bugger; I don't envy him that, but I do envy him the things he's doing with Becky.

Becky's pleated dress mingles atop his army jacket on the chair nearby. He's on top of her with his pants around his ankles; she's gazing dreamily up into his eyes. Her tan stocking's garter straps approach their breaking point, threatening her precious hosiery. One of her garter belt stays snaps loose as she parts her long, strong legs for him. I float closer with morbid arousal. I feel a tense fullness where my cock would be upon witnessing my Becky's first time, her vaginal initiation.

He gathers her supple breasts from her brassiere cups to meet his suckling lips and wriggling tongue. She laughs and fumbles with his shirt buttons. His actions make Becky moan. He draws her perfect strawberry nipples, one then the other, into his mouth; her eyebrows rise to her pleasure. I'm troubled by how roughly he tears her panties to expose her sweet, gleaming sex lips. How they shine amid her matted pubic curls. As he grinds against her, I'm disgusted by his gaped mouth expression. I bid you be gentle, young man.

"George, be careful with me!" cries Becky. Her new husband rams at her virginal mound, trying frantically to invade her slippery tunnel, yearning to bury his selfish organ into the tidy, pink passage between her thighs, her thighs so fresh, so girlish. I tremble at the sight of them.

I examine Becky's pussy to find, despite George's past endeavors, is still barred by her hymen, so proudly intact. He gasps as the super heated folds of her pussy slip around his drooling cock head. She grips handfuls of the ancient mattress as he pains her sex with considerable force. He edges his flared glans under her barrier to tear at the intimate skin of her.

"Ugh!" he grunts triumphantly, as his turgid manhood levers past her bleeding perimeter, plunging fully into her tightness with ball slapping force. Her face contorts in pain and pleasure as the long awaited melding is achieved. My Becky and George move as one being, churning with animal lust. His buttocks tense below her crossed ankles while bucking so fervently, so passionately, into his bride.

I, although being fully heterosexual, am tempted to mount his hard, round rump, to partake in all the excitement we share. Instead, I look on, wincing, at the harsh ooze of blood spilling from around her newly opened womanhood. His cock shaft is streaked with the translucent redness mourning her deflowering.

The brass bed knobs hammer the wall, freeing flecks of wall paper to pepper Becky's lovely blonde curls. I stoop in close to blow them away. She opens her eyes wide, wondering at an icy breeze washing her face. I back away as she's sensing, and perhaps glimpsing, my hovering presence. I shouldn't have done it, but couldn't help it.

Specks of lint swirl within beams of the dying light. He's heaving into her, crushing her bottom into the bed as she writhes below, cinching him in the grips of her powerful legs. Her firm breasts crush into his hairy brawn. She utters, "I love you so much! Oh god George, fill me!" With one last scrotum shuddering thrust, it's done. His cock's base pulsates as a wasp's stinger, injecting his creamy venom into her fertility.

I'm moved to try for an orgasm of my own, to mark the event. I stop. My Keeper is looming in the doorway with his cock out. He's been watching all. He snorts as a flash of clear essence spews from his shuttling fist. He leers and lurches back down the stairs, growling and grumbling incoherently. I fade from being, as per- usual, after trying to interact with the living.

They lay entwined; their lips, fingers, torsos, all undulating together in wake of orgasmic consummation. I have reformed into being to hover above them. A strange, new awareness overtakes me. As George cuddles his bride within their bed roll, a light grows from within Becky's wistful form. All my surroundings converge, collapsing my boundary. I am a sentient spark of light as new urgency compels.

Becky rolls onto her back, glowing and caressed in her lover's arms. I thrill at my first contact with her downy flesh; my form is penetrates the cocoon around her. I succumb to the vortex pulling me into her precious tunnel. I'm inside; I see nothing, I want nothing. There is the familiar but distant tones of my Keeper, railing and raging, demanding my return to his wasteland realm. Damn him to Hell, I've escaped.

I should panic. I know I should. But what is this peace? My senses overwhelm in ecstasy to slumber. No longer will I be alone. I will lay in wait.

Some months later, Becky's wracking sobs arouse me. George is coming home, with condolences from the King himself.

In time, we'll attend his funeral. I crave her ripe pregnant form, her draped in a widow's blackness, her veiled river of tears. She had received him before the earth. I want to comfort her; I cannot.

One day, Becky will seek a glimpse of him in me, and fail.

I will make this up to my Becky. I, Will.