Ransom Miller paddled his fur-ladened canoe around a bend in the Missouri. The river was too wide and too slow to worry about rapids, and sand bars were no problem for the canoe. In fact they made great camping spots. But the underwater logs, whirlpools, and log jams were always a problem. Ransom new better than to be lax. Even though he was nearing Saint Louis, there were still Indians and cutthroats prowling the banks of the waterways. Ransom had nearly lost his life on three different occasions in the past six months. He would not grow…
Ransom spotted a flash of white on a sandbar ahead of him. He backpaddeled, squinting suspiciously, until the white flash was repeated. A woman was doing laundry on a sandbar extending well out into the river. He stared at the nearby forrest suspiciously, while he let his canoe drift forward. Silently he approached the woman on the sand. She appeared to be young and pretty. Her hair was auburn, glowing in the sunlight. Her legs were bare up beyond the knees, the hem of her skirt was tied to her belt to keep it out of the water. She obviously believed that she was alone.
“Hello!” he called while he was still a hundred yards off. She jerked upright, shading her eyes with her hand. Yes, she was very pretty. With her skirt still raised, and her breasts wet from the clothes she had washed, she was a sexy little thing.
“Hi,” she said with a fleeting smile.
“Can I land yonder and make myself some breakfast?”
“Sure, it’s not my sandbar. You traveled long?” she asked, looking at his towering pile of furs, and wondering how the canoe kept from tipping over.
“Nearly a thousand miles, I recon.”
“A thou… a thousand miles?” she sputtered in disbelief.
“About that,” he nodded, pulling the canoe up on the bank. He first dipped his coffee pot into the river, then began gathering driftwood here and there across the yellow sand. He used his fancy pistol type striker to start his fire. It was roaring in next to no time. The striker, a replica of the old horse pistol of the 16th century, was his proudest possession. It never failed to amaze onlookers, until now. The woman continued washing clothes as if she had seen such things daily. He slid the tiny pistol-like striker into his belt and began gathering rocks for his fire.
“I wouldn’t use those,” she said, while folding a wet shirt into he basket.
“I know, they will explode. But I won’t be leaving them near the fire long enough for that. Care for some coffee?”
“I recon,” she nodded. She took a red shirt out of one basket and began swirling it in the water. She then soaped it with a yellow bar of soap, and began kneading it against a rock. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was so damned sexy, built for nothing else, if he was a judge. His eyes kept returning to her beauty. She looked at him. Ransom was caught looking at her wet, and clearly visible breasts. The water had turned her white blouse invisible.
“Sorry,” he said in embarassment.
“Don’t be, they are there for a purpose. Gawking is as good a purpose as the next.”
“I wasn’t…” He stopped when she gave him a cynical look.
“Ok, I was gawking. I haven’t seen a pair of breasts like that since… Hell, I guess I’ve never seen a set so pretty.”
“Are you married?” he asked hesitantly.
“Are you offering?”
“Me? Hell no!” he exploded.
“Relax. There’s not a thing in that canoe that would interest me, you included.”
“I bet there is,” he said, suddenly sly.
“Like what?” she folded the red shirt into the basket.
“G… gold,” she became suddenly excited. “You’ve got gold?”
“A nugget this big,” he held his fingers out, making a ring the size of a half dollar.
“Mister, if you’ve got a nugget that big, you can have anything you want for it,” she gasped.
Ransom stared at her speculatively, deciding that she was truly interested. He stood, dusted the sand off his worn pants, and headed toward the canoe. He returned with what looked like a common bag of bullets. He shook the heavy bag and dug through the gold. He fished the nugget out and held it up to the light. Her gasp drew his attention back to her heaving, all too transparent shirt.
“There’s probably ten ounces of gold here,” he said, turning the nugget. “For that price I could get a hundred women in Saint Louis. But this,” he said, fishing a smaller nugget out of his pouch, “is just about right. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, I would,” she took it quickly and examined it. She hefted it in her hand and smile. She dropped it into her laundry basket, turned and began unbuttoning her blouse.
Ransom was amazed and nervous. Fearing an audience, he looked around the river. There was nobody in sight, and he could see for at least 30 miles downstream, and five up. He hurried to his canoe and pulled out an elk hide, which he used to cover his precious beaver furs. He laid it out beside the campfire.
“What’s your name?” he asked, watching her breathlessly as she undressed.
“I’m Ransom,” he said, gulping as her bare breasts sprang free, unencumbered by the clinging blouse. They jiggled slightly in the sun. The nipples were small and delicate. The areolas were light pink and dainty as well. But her breasts were firm and breathtaking. They were by far the best set of breasts Ransom had ever seen. Of course he was not as knowledgeable about women as some men claimed to be. He had only been with a handful.
“My God, you are beautiful,” he sighed.
“A woman couldn’t ask for a better compliment,” she said, untying the sash from her waist. She allowed the skirt to slide down of it’s own accord. She stood in a set of white cotton pantaloons. After a brief pause, to allow him to admire her nakedness, she stepped up to the fur and knelt.
“My turn to watch,” she said, looking up at him. He was about to tear his clothing from his body, but he sensed that she wanted more. She wanted him to go slow. Knowing that he would reach Saint Louis today, Ransom had bathed and changed into his clean set of underwear just hours before. Now he was glad he had. Addel wasn’t missing any detail.
While Addel knelt on the elk fur like an Indian squaw, Ransom undressed slowly, one piece at a time. But even then it only took a moment to get naked. Unlike her, he stood in all his naked glory. His semi-hard penis stood out before him. It had wilted slightly while he undressed. He knelt in front of her and put both hands on her pantaloons. He pushed them down gently. She leaned back to allow him to pull the cotton undergarments off her legs.
“My God, Addel, you are perfect,” he gasped, looking at the patch of brown fur above her pussy. It reminded him of one of he beaver pelts. He reached down and smoothed her pubic hair down, as he would one of his pelts. Suddenly, his shaking hands fell to her perfect breasts.
It was well known that some women had larger breasts than others. Italians, though there were few in the country, traditionally had much larger breasts than Indians or French women. But Addel didn’t look French. German, perhaps.
He moaned as his hands claimed her firm globes of flesh and kneaded them gently. He knew that a firm grasp could hurt a woman. He was, above all things, a gentleman.
Addel leaned back on the fur, using her legs behind her for support. In a moment her knees were touching him, her pussy was open and inviting. It was small, with firm puffy pussy lips which made it pronounced.
Her head touched the furs and her arched body lay before him, ready for his manipulations. Being a persistent fellow he lunged forward, pursuing her immaculate breasts. In the light, at the new angle, he could detect the lightest dusting of freckles. Was she Irish? Who the hell cared. Whatever she was, she was ready.