Belinda (9 page)

Suddenly she remembered the bodies in the other frames around the camp's perimeter, and her state of arousal was instantly replaced by unmitigated terror. If the bodies had looked ghostly in the firelight, in the grey of morning they looked positively stomach churning as the stark reality of their mutilated and rotting state was revealed. It took every ounce of willpower to avoid screaming hysterically as she realised she too would soon look like those wretched cadavers.

In desperation she tugged and tugged against the bonds that held her, and her heart pounded when she felt one thong give slightly. Scarcely able to believe there was any chance of successfully freeing herself, she continued giving the strap sharp tugs in different directions. It soon fell away, and her hand was free. Terrified that she might have been seen she watched the sleeping Indians, trying to control her breathing, which sounded loud enough to wake the whole state. All was well, and she was just able to reach her left wrist and undo the bond there. It was then a matter of seconds to release her ankles. She felt physically sick as she picked up her dress and tiptoed stiffly towards the surrounding trees. If she was spotted now she would not get another chance and would end up dying like those other poor souls. Fortunately there were no dogs to raise the alarm, and the horses were on the farthest side of the camp.

Fighting down the terror-inspired nausea lest the sound of her vomiting aroused one of the sleepers, she made it to the cover of the woods. She turned and peered back anxiously through the greenery, but the camp was still quiet. It's a shame to leave such sophisticated company, she thought bitterly, but I really must be heading west. She didn't let fear turn into excitement, however, until she had tiptoed for a few hundred yards and then, still naked and with her dress clutched in one hand, she ran for her life, not knowing where she was going but not caring as long as it was away from that hideous camp and its demonic inhabitants.

Once again Belinda was on horseback, but this time there were some significant differences compared with her last ride.

For one, she was sitting behind the rider instead of in front of him, and secondly this rider was a civilised rancher who was taking her to safety rather than torture and death. It's the little things in life that make all the difference, thought Belinda with a smile as they galloped along.

Tom McLaren was a big man, both in character and physique. Well built without a hint of fat, he was returning from a successful trip where he had arranged a buyer for as many cattle as he and his neighbours could deliver to St Joseph.

He was dressed in the traditional cattle rancher's style; light brown leather waistcoat, check shirt, denim trousers and leather chaps, topped off by a black wide-brimmed hat. He had almost run Belinda down when his black stallion and accompanying packhorse had come galloping around a bend to find her in the middle of the track by the woods.

She had told him of her horrible experience with the Indians, and he had been very concerned. He assured her that all the regular Indians were very peaceful just then and that what she described sounded more like an infamous pack of heathen murderers that had been exiled by their own people, who called them the Devil Men. He was amazed at her skill and fortune in contriving to escape, but was not surprised to hear the Indians had allowed the Danish couple to go. It seems it was the traditional thing for the Devil Men to take only one prisoner; the youngest and best looking woman or man in a group.

At first Tom's main attraction was that he was going some six hundred miles in a westerly direction, a journey he said would take around twelve days of hard riding. She liked Tom, and had decided to give his offer of a job as housekeeper helping his wife a trial run. If it worked out, fine. If it did not it would at least be a sophisticated break in her Spartan quest for her uncle.

For five days Belinda sat behind Tom, her bare vagina below the long dress pressed hard against the constant movement of the horse's broad back and her hands wrapped around Tom's waist, just above his thick leather belt. To her surprise he made no moves towards seducing her, let alone beating her as seemed to be the standard in this harsh country. When they slept on the uncomfortable ground at night he kept well away and always respected her privacy.

All of this had a reverse effect on our heroine, who had become accustomed to sexual abuse and had now begun to expect it. Her desire for him grew and grew, and she began to find her frustration caused her more pain and misery than any of the beatings to which she had become inured. She resorted to masturbating beneath the coarse blankets he'd loaned her from his ample panniers, but her agony continued. Had there been an older and wiser person to confide in she would have learnt that her turmoil, confusion, and inner conflicts were hardly surprising, given that she was not yet twenty and had seen her secure and comfortable home life destroyed and replaced with vagrancy and cruelty.

By mid-afternoon on the sixth day, having been riding since dawn at quite a fast pace over easy country, the constant rubbing of the horse's back into the apex of her thighs and the feel of Tom's strong stomach beneath her palms finally conquered her feminine shyness – but only after she had wrestled at length with her high moral standards. These somehow seemed to matter less when the two of them were alone in the wilderness; it was as if they were the only people left on earth and could formulate their own code of ethics.

She let her hand rest on his belt as they rode along, but then allowed it to slip slowly downwards, in a gentle search for his penis. She did not have to look far. Almost immediately below the belt she discovered a lump and her heart thumped as she realised it was the tip of his cock, which was clearly erect. Thus encouraged, she moved her fingers down a little further and pressed them against the shaft. Tom said nothing, but he throbbed beneath the denim and her grip as she tightened her fingers around the bulge. It felt as enormous as she had imagined it to be whilst beneath her blankets over the last few nights.

They rode along in silence and she became bolder, feeling and crushing his rod all over, her chaste principles completely if temporarily abandoned. She didn't care if she did feel angry with herself afterwards. She pressed herself tighter against the horse's back and squeezed her thighs against its sides. At last, with tremendous difficulty, she managed to undo Tom's brass-buttoned fly, and feverishly plunged her hand inside to feel his bare thighs and that truly promising member. She pulled it out and blissfully rode along massaging him slowly but firmly in the warm open air. She found that if she kept her hand tightly wrapped around it but completely still, the movements of the beast beneath them caused it to pump up and down in her fist. Tom didn't make a sound, until suddenly he emitted a taut groan and Belinda felt his hot seed spurt between her bunched fingers and trickle over her hand and wrist. She milked him gently until he was coming no more. She then gathered up her torn and dirty dress at the hem and, reaching in front of Tom again, dutifully wiped him dry. She then gripped his shoulder with one hand, slipped her other under the dress, and teased herself furiously until she bit her lip and shuddered to her own wonderful orgasm.

They rode on, and not a word was said.

To Belinda's disappointment nothing was said that night either, apart from the normal conversation, and he once again left her untouched at bedtime. But the next day – and each of the following days – she repeated the performance, first masturbating him as they rode along and then finishing herself off behind him. How strange, thought Belinda, that he hadn't even offered to spank her. Perhaps that phase of her life was finally behind her. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she realised that here was the first decent man she had met in a long, long time and that she, the highly principled music teacher, instead of appreciating his goodness had acted as the filthy defiler.

At about five o'clock on the tenth afternoon they rode over the brow of a hill and there was Tom's ranch below, in a grassy plain with a river flowing through it against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains.

Tom dismounted for a minute to admire the view and to point out, quite unnecessarily, his homestead, a big log cabin with many windows and a porch that was bigger than her room in Liverpool. Other buildings were scattered about the immediate area, and of course there were cows everywhere. It all looked completely magical as the sun started to set behind the mountain peaks, making the snowy tips glow ruby red.

Tom looked at her firmly. ‘Belinda, before we join my wife,' he said in his easy fashion, ‘there's something I just got to do. Would you mind coming back down the hill a way to those trees? I would prefer that my wife doesn't see this.'

Belinda's heart leapt so hard it nearly knocked her off the horse. Oh heavens, she thought, he is actually going to make love to me as a farewell present. But now that she was within sight of his home and about to meet his wife, who would clearly be as wonderful a woman as he was a man, her passion had faded and her righteous standards had restored themselves in her heart and soul. Her uncharacteristic passions and behaviour during that long horseback ride were now fading as fast as any nightmare upon awakening. And yet she felt she could not refuse him, for amongst other things, he had taken her about a quarter of her way west and had also offered her a civilised job with his wife for as long as it suited her to stay. She had little option.

‘Whatever you say, Tom. I've loved your company, and you probably saved my life by getting me away from that Indian area. I will come with you.'

Before she had finished the sentence he was leading the horse, with her still on it, back down the hill. He stopped by a clump of trees and tied its rein to one of them. Belinda's heart was thumping as he looked up at her legs; she had lifted her skirt up high to let the breeze in.

Then he held out his hand and helped her down. He stood facing her with his hands resting on her waist, and she gazed up into his eyes.

‘Belinda,' he said carefully. ‘I sure enjoyed what you did to me every day as we rode along.'

She smiled at him, the warmth of her clitoris increasing with a combination of anticipation and the memory of his fine cock in her hand.

‘Trouble is, I oughtn't to have let you do it, me being happily married and all.'

Belinda was about to reassure him it was nothing, but he continued.

‘So I figured, the best way to stop me feeling all bad about it is for you to admit it was your fault, because I sure wouldn't have started nothing like that on my own, and then for me to make up for it by punishing you. Please do that for me, Belinda, or I'll never live with myself.'

He spoke with such sincerity – and what he said was true. She had been the one to start it, and if one more whacking in her life could help a thoroughly good man like Tom feel better, then she would just have to take it. Anyway, the six hundred mile ride was worth a lot more than some of the miserable payments she had received in Liverpool for being beaten without any tender feelings being involved.

‘I'm sorry, Tom,' she whispered nervously. ‘I played on your masculine sensuality. It was a cheap trick and I had no right to make you feel bad or to jeopardise your happy marriage.' She looked down and added softly, ‘If punishing me will make you feel better, Tom, then so be it.'

Tom nodded grimly and pulled his riding crop from its sheath on the side of the saddle. Belinda felt her bottom contract at the sight and thought of it.

‘Stand by the side of the horse, please,' he commanded firmly. ‘Face the saddle and lift your skirts.'

Belinda was quite happy to expose herself to him. Her bare vulva caught his eye, but he looked back at her face immediately as she turned obediently. She was taken a little by surprise when his strong arms wrapped around her thighs, but then he heaved her up and lay her across the saddle so her head was dangling over the other side and her rump was high in the air. She was reasonably well balanced, but caught hold of the stirrup for extra security. She felt the breeze play around her soft buttocks, and then Tom said gruffly, ‘You ready?'

She nodded, although he could not have seen that from where he was standing. She heard a swish and gave a little short scream of expectancy… but nothing happened.

‘It's all right,' said Tom, ‘I was just testing and getting the feel of my own strength. I don't want to be too hard on you.'

And with that the crop stung across both buttocks with exceptional viciousness. He clearly did not know his own strength if that was meant to be reasonably gentle.

‘Say you're sorry, Belinda,' he drawled.

‘Sorry!' she cried as the pain surged through her body and then receded to its red-hot source.

The riding crop again whistled through the air and landed in exactly the same place across her bottom. That hurt.

‘No,' she screamed, ‘I'm sorry!'

This little ritual was repeated ten more times to a total of twelve. Each strike was in almost exactly the same place, with her pleas for clemency getting louder each time. The Indians had terrified her, but even they had not hurt her so much as this strong man with his unerring accuracy. But in spite of the pain she resolutely stayed in position until he had finished.

Expecting a thirteenth stroke, she flinched as she felt his hand touch her bottom gently and heard him say, ‘Get down now.'