Introduction

This is entirely a fictitious story, but it is based on many true ones just like it.

The American Civil War lasted from 1861 to 1865. Millions of men from both sides fought in it and more than 600,000 never came home. The victorious Union soldiers received plenty of benefits from the federal government. Apart from having their citizenship restored, the defeated Confederate veterans did not.

By the late 1880s, however, some of the former Confederate states were granting pensions to their veterans once they reached a certain age. These pensions would continue indefinitely to the old soldiers’ widows once they died. This led to some interesting abuses. In parts of the South that were especially poor, it was not uncommon for elderly veterans in their seventies and eighties to marry teenage girls in the 1920s and 1930s. These marriages were basically convenient arrangements whereby the young brides would take care of the aging men in their final years and then collect their pensions once they died. As Wikipedia points out, “Some of these unions were in name only, while others lived together as married couples.”

Because of the vast age differences between husbands and wives, there were Confederate widows who lived into the 1990s, and, in a handful of extreme cases, the first decade of the 21st century. This practice was not just confined to Confederate veterans; Union soldiers did the same thing. The last widow of a Civil War veteran was Helen Viola Jackson, who died in 2020 at the ripe, old age of 101—155 years after the conflict ended!

Part One

My name was Samuel Forbes Kennedy. I’m long dead now because I was born in 1844 in Arkansas. I enlisted to fight for the Confederacy in 1862, about three weeks after my 18th birthday. Almost all the men from my village who enlisted the same day I did were killed by the time the war had ended. I escaped that fate because I was a gunner with an artillery unit, not one of those brave, foolhardy men who coolly marched headlong into enemy fire. The worst injury I suffered in my three years of service was a shrapnel wound that barely grazed my forehead when a Yankee shell exploded amongst our cannons. The slight nick created a scar for life that I liked to show off as proof of my military service. That same shell killed two of my friends, slicing them into smithereens.

When the war ended, I found work as an independent bookkeeper because I had a knack for dealing with numbers. I made many wise investments over the years which helped me and my wife, Martha, live quite well. Although Martha was two years my junior, she died in 1902 from cancer at age 56. We had been married for 34 years. (We had no children because Martha was infertile. That was a great disappointment in both our lives.) For the next two years, I basically did nothing but sit around my large house just outside of Fayetteville in the northwest part of the state and feel sorry for myself.

However, one afternoon in 1904, I ventured into Fayetteville itself to treat myself to a meal at a popular diner. I overheard three men about my age at a nearby table discussing an article that was in that day’s local newspaper. It was about teenage girls who married old Confederate veterans like me so they could eventually inherit their pensions. These loveless unions were arranged to lift these nubile girls out of extreme poverty—which was quite prevalent in Arkansas—and to provide female companionship for elderly veterans. It was a win-win situation, I thought. All three men in the diner were appalled, though, believing it was blatant abuse of the state’s finances. I silently disagreed. To me, it was a brilliant way to take advantage of the system. I figured I could personally benefit from this trend as it sounded like men such as I would be in great demand by poor teenage girls seeking husbands!

Before I headed back to my village, I made a stop at the local newspaper and paid for a classified ad to run for a week. A secretary helped me compose it. It said, “Want to make an old soldier happy? Well-to-do 60-year-old Confederate widower seeks female one-third my age for matrimony and companionship. Lucky applicant would be my sole heir.” The ad contained my name, address and telephone number. It would begin to appear in print the following day.

The newspaper had an early morning edition, which meant my telephone started ringing shortly after 7 a.m. I had to create a schedule for potential wives to visit me as I got 32 telephone calls on that first day. I was still getting calls the next day when my first applicant arrived at 9 a.m.

Part Two

The first girl who walked through my door—was just that—a girl. I had expected respondents to typically be 20-year-olds based on how I had worded my newspaper ad. Nevertheless, I welcomed this young charmer into my house to have a chat. I could tell she had done her best to look presentable, but her rust-colored dress still had a couple of small holes in it and a prominent rip on the left shoulder.

“My name is Jenny Monroe,” she told me in one of the sweetest voices I had ever heard in my 60 years. “I’m 18 years old. I come from a family of sharecroppers. My parents told me about your ad in the newspaper and sent me here to apply. It took me more than an hour to get here, so I’m a little bit tired from walking.”

“Have you had any breakfast today?” I asked her.

“No sir,” she said. I think she was slightly embarrassed about that.

“Let’s correct that right now!” I stated. I poured her some grape juice, gave her a bowl of hot oatmeal with brown sugar on top of it, and toasted some bread slices for her. When I offered her some strawberry jam to spread on them, her face lit up. It was just a typical morning repast for me, but it must have seemed like a fantastic feast to impoverished Jenny. She wolfed all of it down fairly quickly. I offered her seconds. She gladly accepted.

Jenny was eating slower this time, so it allowed me to take a good look at her while we engaged in pleasant conversation. I told her my name and my life situation. I explained that I was a lonely old man who missed his late wife terribly, but I was hoping to find a new, young one to take Martha’s place. The female I chose would be my sole heir once I died because I had no children nor any living siblings. I eyed Jenny. She was not bad looking at all. I figured she could use a good hot bath, but she had a natural beauty about her that couldn’t be denied. Jenny also had a nice build for an 18-year-old girl. I liked shapely females—and I always had!

Jenny explained she was one of five children and the eldest of the bunch. Her parents struggled mightily to make ends meet every week. “I think they want me married off so there’s one less mouth to feed,” she confessed. “I guess I’d feel the same way if I were my mother.” This girl was smart, perceptive well-spoken, and darn cute. I was growing fonder of her every minute.

I offered Jenny some hot tea. She said she’d never had tea before! That startled me, but I insisted she ought to give it a try. I put some milk and sugar in it for her. She liked the tea, but I could tell she really enjoyed the sugar. It was a true luxury to her.

There was a lull in the conversation while Jenny drank her tea and munched on the store-bought cookies I provided. Then Jenny said, “I almost forgot something: My mother says I should tell you that if we get married, I’ll cook, clean, and do any chores you need, make lots of babies with you, and take care of you, too!”

I sat there dumfounded for a moment or two. Then I said with a great deal of affection, “Well, Miss Jenny Monroe, age 18, you are the first applicant of a great many I’m supposed to see today and tomorrow. You are also the last applicant I will see because I think you are absolutely precious and adorable. I want to marry you for all the reasons you just told me—especially the part about making plenty of babies together. I just have to cancel all the other girls’ interviews and then we could get married this afternoon. Does all this appeal to you?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Kennedy!” Jenny exclaimed.

“For heaven’s sake, Jenny, you’re my beloved fiancee now. Please call me Samuel or Sam. I answer to either one of those names. Let me start making some cancellation phone calls to the other applicants. Then we’ll figure out what we’re doing for the rest of this busy day.”

It occurred to me that Jenny and I may have set a world record for the fastest courtship leading to marriage.

Part Three

I offered Jenny the use of my bathtub—another luxury—which she happily accepted. I was tempted to peek at her in her birthday suit while she bathed, but I figured I’d be getting a glorious, full sexual encounter with her soon enough, so I behaved myself for the time being. I managed to stop most of the army of hopeful applicants from arriving with phone calls, but four of them did show up before I could tell them not to do so. I gave each of them 50 cents for their troubles—which seemed to make them very happy. None of them was as pretty as my Jenny was. I would be getting letters from applicants for three weeks. Altogether, my classified ad drew 56 phone calls and 63 letters from applicants.

I decided Jenny needed some sprucing up before we got married. I told her we had to make two stops before we were wed. I drove her to a female clothing store in Fayetteville and bought her five different outfits, including one that would serve as her wedding ensemble. She had tears in her eyes. Jenny seldom got new clothes; usually she got someone’s discards. Acquiring five different new outfits at once was beyond her imagination. Jenny teared up, which made me cry, too. We embraced and kissed...and kissed...and kissed some more. The female store clerk became somewhat impatient with us. I apologized to her.

The second stop we made was to Jenny’s home—soon to be her former home. The poverty there was obvious. I introduced myself as the old Confederate veteran who was going to marry their oldest daughter today and give her a life of luxury. I wasn’t sure what their reaction would be, but it was one of relief, especially after Jenny showed them all the new clothing I had bought for her. Jenny had an 11-year-old sister named Jessica who may have been prettier than the girl I’d be marrying in a little while. She cutely asked me if I had another friend who also desired a young wife! Jessica obviously wanted to be a well-dressed, affluent girl, too. Jenny collected her few possessions. I invited the whole family to attend the wedding, but they were too busy to come—and probably too embarrassed by its circumstances to attend even if they could. Everyone wished Jenny well. They all knew Jenny was moving up in life. Five years would pass before Jenny saw her parents and siblings again. By that time, she was the mother of four children.

The third stop was at the local office of the Justice of the Peace where we bought a marriage license, filled out the appropriate paperwork, and officially tied the knot—all within about 40 minutes. She donned the pristine white dress I had bought her earlier that morning. She looked quite beautiful in it. My home would be our honeymoon suite. I was certainly looking forward to having a bedmate—and quite a delightful one to be sure—for the first time since March of 1902.

Part Four

When we got home, Jenny insisted on cooking me a wedding meal. My ice box contained some fine cuts of beef. I had an assortment of garden-fresh vegetables, so we consumed a fine feast. I even opened a bottle of French red wine. Jenny had never seen such a thing, much less sampled it. She certainly enjoyed it, but I limited her to one glass. I wanted Jenny to be coherent, not tipsy, for our upcoming lovemaking session. I found it quite unbelievable that just ten hours after meeting Jennifer Monroe for the first time, she’d be entering my bed as my lawful wife. What a day it had been so far—and the truly fun part was just about to start!

“Mrs. Kennedy—remember, that’s your name now—it’s time to come to bed so I can make love, to the best of my ability, to my beautiful young wife. I promise I’ll do my best to please you sexually.” I paused and asked her a rather personal question. “Have you had sexual relations before, Jenny?”

She quickly told me, “When I was 11, a 14-year-old boy named William, who lived nearby my family’s home, sweet-talked me into doing some sex things with him near a pond. We had been at it for about five minutes, when my daddy caught him. Daddy whipped the tar out of him! He was going to cut William’s balls off with some pruning shears, but my mother stopped him before he got a chance to do it. I never saw William again. I wasn’t punished because I didn’t understand what I was doing, but mother gave me a long talk and explained to me everything about sex. I told her I liked what William was doing to me because his dick felt good in my pussy. Mom laughed and said I was never to tell Daddy that. Does that answer your question, Sam?”

“Yes, it certainly does,” I replied with an understanding smile. “Jenny, I’ll try to please you even more than William did. I certainly hope your father isn’t lingering nearby with those famous garden shears. I want to keep my testicles.”

I asked Jenny to slowly undress before me as I sat on the bed. I hadn’t had sex for almost three years, so I was very primed for action. I directed her through a striptease. I began by asking Jenny to remove her shoes, her lovely white frock, and her stockings. Brassieres weren’t around in 1904, so Jenny’s new clothing featured a corset as a similar undergarment. That came off next, followed by her pristine panties. What a turn-on for any 60-year-old male to have! Now that Jenny was bathed and beautiful, she truly was a gorgeous teenager standing before me completely nude—and quite ready to begin copulating! She wasn’t the least bit shy about exposing her body to me. Maybe the existence of a marriage license had made her more relaxed than I figured she’d be.

Jenny had sexy, teardrop-type breasts that featured prominent and perky nipples. I knew I’d enjoy them! “I love your tits, honey,” I told her with glee. “My late wife had big, round firm ones. They were what attracted me to her all those years ago when I was a young man. Your set of goodies will be something different for me to cherish. Let me start now.”

I rose from the bed with an obvious erection in my trousers. I moved behind my young wife and fondled her tits affectionately while kissing her neck in a sensual manner. “Gorgeous! That’s what you are, Jenny, my love! You’re just gorgeous. I could caress these things all day and all night. In fact, I might do just that!”

I lifted her off her feet and plopped her onto my bed. It was a spacious piece of furniture. Martha and I spent lots of time here trying to produce children before we were informed it was a physical impossibility for my wife to get pregnant. That disappointing news didn’t dissuade us from having an active sex life until she became deathly ill. We averaged five fucks a week. When we were first married, the mean number was higher than seven per week. I was a happy man.

Jenny was restoring my happiness. It had been decades since I enjoyed the carnal pleasures of a teenage girl. When I was a lad, I had a good friend whose family was slave-owners. For fun we would fuck the girls—especially the young, nubile ones. I especially liked screwing one named Bertha. Because of those romps, I figure I must have some mulatto descendants somewhere in the South.

I promptly undressed, exposing my wonderful erection. Sometimes at my age, attaining a hard-on was nowhere near as easy as it had been when I was 20, 30, 40, or even 50. The sight and thought of fucking Jenny made me feel as youthful as ever, though. “The South will rise again!” I joked as I stroked my stiff phallus to its maximum height. I don’t think Jenny understood the pun I had just made, but that wasn’t important. However, fucking my new, young wife was of great importance to me!

I joined Jenny in my bed. I immediately embraced her, kissed her passionately, and then I began sucking on her luscious young tits. “These really are beauties, my love!” I told her. “You will definitely breastfeed all our babies. They shouldn’t be denied such a treat.”

I began to finger her pussy, which made Jenny recoil at first, but then she began to enjoy the sensation. I asked Jenny to similarly stimulate my penis with her hand. She obliged. I could tell this was something new to her, but she did a splendid job. Fucking was next on the agenda.

“I’m going to give your pussy a good, lively fucking—as long as my heart holds out,” I told my lovely, young spouse. Jenny helpfully spread her legs. I climbed aboard and quickly thrust my manhood inside her vagina. I had only an average-sized dick, but Jenny’s petite vagina was wonderfully tight for me. Jenny smiled and groaned happily. I slowly but inexorably pushed my dick to the maximum length inside Jenny’s warm and wonderful love channel. I proceeded to slide it back and forth like I had done with Martha for all those years. I could always please my first wife in bed. I hoped I’d have the same success with my second one. Some skills you never forget despite the passage of time.

“I love your pussy, Jenny!” I told her unnecessarily. “My dick feels right at home!” My 60-year-old body could only take so much of this girl’s coital charms before erupting. After about five minutes of vigorous, intense screwing, I ejaculated strongly inside Jenny. If Martha made me come as hard as I did with Jenny, I would have remembered it. I had no intention of pulling out of my bride for quite a while. I continued to thrust my semihard penis inside her gently while we had a lovely conversation.

“It’s been quite a day, Mrs. Kennedy, hasn’t it?” I commented. “We met, we ate, we married, we shopped, we visited...and most importantly, we fucked like rabbits. Now that’s what I call a day full of fun.”

“Do you think we made a baby, Sam?” Jenny asked me sweetly as I continued to please her with my stiffening penis.

“I like our chances,” I replied, “but just to be absolutely sure, let’s stay in bed as long as possible for the next few days and keep on fucking.”

That is exactly what we did. Our schedule for the next 72 hours was fucking, eating, sleeping, and more fucking. Jenny was a very enthusiastic bedmate. She thoroughly enjoyed assuming the dominant position on top of me until I ejaculated. I think I had eight cum shots in three days, but I may have lost count. I loved how we’d fall asleep in each other’s arms after a particularly aggressive round of screwing. After our seventh fuck, Jenny said, “Sam, I definitely like you more than William, but he had a nice penis too—for the five minutes he had it inside me.” I had no reply for that remark.

Our first son, Darcy, was born nine months and two days after our wedding day. I was the happiest 61-year-old in Arkansas when I became a first-time father. Jenny and I ended up with six children in the space of nine years. I certainly was a lucky man to be regularly screwing a comely 27-year-old beauty when I was 69. To us, the age difference was irrelevant. We loved each other dearly and got along splendidly. We seldom had so much as a quarrel.

Jenny and our children inherited all my possessions when I died a contented man at age 93 in 1937. Remarkably, Jenny married another Civil War veteran, Thomas McGee, after I had passed. Thomas was born the same year I was. On their wedding day, he was 95 and Jenny was 53. She wanted to make another old guy happy late in his life. I’m sure she did.