On the Banks of the Bighorn Part Eighteen – by Tracker

 

Paradise in Camp; Hell on the Ranch

 

Paradise in Camp

 

Juliette Chen’s Narrative

 

The morning had almost gone, and I was very hungry.   Patrick had been kind enough to remove the rope collar from around my throat.  After two and a half days, and being dunked in the Bighorn river, it had begun to chafe and irritate me. While I slept, Patrick had removed it from my neck for which I was grateful.  He had secured me instead by my left ankle, for which I was not grateful. The way he had secured me, with the other end of my rope attached to a stake driven into the ground, meant  I could not reach our food store, high in a tree to not attract dangerous animals.  I could see the food, but I could not reach it. There was a squirrel chattering on top of the food storage box, trying to get in, but he couldn't reach our food any more than I could.  

 

Birdsong filled the air, the breezes here among the trees were softer and much gentler than the stiff brisk winds of the prairie. The sun was filtered through the leaves and boughs of the trees. It was much more pleasant than being exposed to sun and wind on the bald prairie as I was yesterday.  There was no audience to see my nude state. Nature was much kinder today. 

 

Of course, all my nerve endings on my uncovered skin were still receptive to whatever stimuli touched me. Clothing, I realized anew, as I had, yesterday and the day before, deadens our responses to the natural world and whatever events happen to us.  I felt so much more alive to all sorts of physical input than I had when I was clothed.  On this, my third full day of nudity I was feeling that more and more.  No, nudity is the wrong word.  Nudity is when you are nude with other nude people, all in the same state, by consent.  I was naked.  Naked by order of my Master Patrick.  I had signed that foolish contract and so must be naked today, and then for seven more days as punishment for running away and being disobedient.  Patrick told me that in the note he left before he went to get more supplies.  He also told me to eat, and to clean myself.  I can’t reach the food but I am all washed and prepared.  I hope Patrick remembers to get lotion and sunscreen, my skin was so dried by my ordeal yesterday.

 

So, here I wait, for the return of my Master, Patrick.  Eight more days, I don’t know how I will handle eight days of this.  Role-playing is one thing, but some of the things I have had to do, some of things I have seen, have had an effect on me. When I begged Patrick to fuck me like a slave girl last night, I was horny after a day of stimulation true, but I was also horny to be dominated, to be taken.  I did not want Patrick to make love to me, I wanted him to take me, use me, to fuck me like a slave girl, for real, not just roleplay.  I am sure it will pass off as we become ourselves again, because such a feeling was very disconcerting.  So now here I wait, patiently wait, for my Master to come. The breezes pass over my skin, the sun warms me, I am alive to nature.  Hurry Patrick, your slave girl is horny for you.

 

Patrick still hasn’t come.  I am so very hungry, the growling of my stomach scared the little chattering squirrel that was running about our camp.  It would come and chatter right at me, not afraid at all.  Maybe it recognized that I can’t chase it. Maybe it recognized that I am restricted by my leash.  When I get up to more about the camp, it will stay just outside the range of movement that the rope around my left ankle allows me. The birds in the trees twittered on, by now used to me as a grounded creature of no danger to them at all. I shouted, just to feel human and not a helpless leashed creature, but soon the birds and the squirrel ignored me again.

 

When Patrick comes, I hope he feeds me.  Then I hope he attends to other needs of which I have become aware.

 

Patrick Masters’ Narrative.

 

I turned north when I reached the Bighorn river.  If I kept straight on across the bridge, I would reach the turn off to the ranch, and the round-up area that was part of the consulate of the Grand Duchy of Lutha, where enslaving women was legal.  I wondered if I would ever see sights again like those I had witnessed yesterday. I thought with urgency of Juliette, even though I had bought a $42 glass of whiskey just a couple of hours before. That Viki, once in the alcove, certainly was able to please a man! I wondered how long before Mac the bartender untied her.

 

I stopped briefly at the bridge to see if I could spot anything interesting, like a group of collared women say for example.  I was surprised to see a pick-up truck with two men standing in the back with rifles.  This seemed odd, as one would have expected such a guard yesterday when they were rounding up stray women, rather than today. A few wisps of smoke seemed to be coming from the ranch area. They must have had quite a celebratory bonfire last night. The smell of smoke was pretty strong too.  As I watched, the men in the truck started watching me through binoculars.  I waved in a friendly Montana way, but got no response. 

 

I got back in my Subaru 4x4 and drove north along the east bank of the river until the road turned away from the top of the banks leading up from the Bighorn.  I carefully drove the Subaru into the familiar tangle of rocks and hid it out of sight. I had just finished checking that I had left no tell-tale tire tracks and was back in the shelter of the rocky outcrop when a truck roared by. For some reason I had hidden myself from sight, not wanting any visitors to our camp, or anyone to know where the Subaru was. We had some valuables there and there was no reason to take chances.  The deputy sheriff had warned us about the Free Soil survivalists who regarded anything they wanted as their property. I heard some shooting from across the river; maybe the ranchers were hunting out coyotes or even wolves. I had heard that the ranchers were displeased that wolves were being reintroduced into the National Parks.

 

I bundled up the supplies I had purchased and lowered them down the cliff.  I was just securing the pulley mechanism when I heard the truck again.  I peered out from behind the rocks, staying low.  It was the same truck from the ranch, or one very like it. The truck had stopped, and two men were talking by radio.  The truck has the Lazy F painted on its side.  Once the men were finished on the radio they got back in their truck and headed back in the direction of the bridge over the Bighorn that led to the ranch. The demeanour of the ranchers today was very different to that with which I was greeted yesterday.  I prepared to climb down the cliff to our camp, happy to be out of whatever trouble was happening on the other side of the river.

 

Juliette Chen’s Narrative

 

I heard Patrick’s footsteps as he approached the camp.  He was carrying a heavy burden, enough supplies for seven days or more. I expected him to be looking tired, but he seemed invigorated even though he must have been up around dawn, which this close to the solstice I knew came early.  As he approached, I greeted him.

 

“Good morning, Master.  You were up early, your slave missed you, it was cold in the bed without your warmth.”

 

I had been kneeling at his approach, then put my head down to the ground, between my outstretched arms, as I had seen slaves do in movies set in olden times.  Then when he was standing over me, I reached out and kissed his boot.  For the next seven days, our status would be master and slave, and our conditions reflected that.  He was standing tall (Patrick is over six feet) and was shod and fed.  I was naked, on my knees, and hungry.  I had not been able to reach the food while he was gone, even though I had been given permission to eat.

 

“Did you have a good breakfast? Are you ready for some fun?”

 

I hung my head down to the ground between my outstretched arms.

 

“I could not reach the food, Master, the leash did not stretch far enough.  I cannot untie your knots, and I was not sure that you would want me to in any case. And between the sun and the wind yesterday, and hanging with my hands tied over my head, I am very sore, Master.”

 

Yesterday and last night, from the ranchers, from the lad Alex and later from Patrick I had learned to use the word Master in every sentence.  Between the quirt and Patrick’s razor strop I had learned quickly

 

“We can’t have you going hungry. I should have checked the distance. I would never be needlessly or wantonly cruel.”

 

He lowered the food safe from its position high in the tree, and took out some food and brought it to the table.  He took out some food for our breakfast.

 

“Make breakfast for two, make what you like because you had to wait.”  While I prepared our breakfast, my stomach was growling.  Patrick smiled his lovely infectious smile that I love so much.  Once I had removed the items I needed to prepare our breakfast, he packed up the food safe with the unneeded supplies plus the ones he had brought.  His eyes were always on me.  I was conscious of his male gaze, but was no longer ashamed.  I had been too much exposed for that, and was grateful that he still wanted to look at me. I was his slave, at least for the next seven days, and he could look as he willed. I had no more bodily secrets and could not pretend to be a respectable reserved woman, with a right to modesty.  As I could no longer claim modesty, I vamped shamelessly in front of him, trying to stop just short of provoking him too much.  It I did that, our breakfast might grow cold while he enacted his desires.

 

After breakfast, he ran his hands over my sun and wind chafed skin.  He took out some lotion, and having me lie down on the table, started working it into my skin, soothing and moisturizing.  Old words came to me, ‘He anointed me with oil’.  He anointed me everywhere on my back and legs, the back of my neck.  He soothed the places the weather had dried and the places the quirt had touched while teaching me obedience. He rolled me over and anointed the front of me, starting with my toes and on up my body.  I jumped and moaned as he lotioned my thighs, the place between my legs, places that the sun could not possibly have reached.  I was so close to moaning in relief when he moved on up my body.  I was breathing heavily, showing unmistakable signs of readiness, but he moved on.  As he began with my lower belly, I tried to move down the table towards the fingers, but he held me in position.  Patrick has strong hands.  He massaged my lower and upper belly, up over my ribcage.  He spent a lot of time on my breasts, which had got a lot of sun.  I almost came again, but again the strong probing fingers moved on. Eventually he gently used lotion on my neck, especially the place chafed by the rope.

 

I was so ready to be a yielding slave girl, but Patrick had a ceremony to preform first. He had me kneel down, then with my hands raised high above my head, he took an item out of his bag.  It was a shiny steel collar, like the slave girls on the ranch had worn.  

 

“I got this in town.  It is made by an outfit called Frick Restraints, a subsidiary of the Steel Company.”

 

“Why would a little store in a small prairie town carry such items?”  Then I felt a little bit stupid.

 

“Don’t speak until you have permission.  The Town is close to the ranch.  I am sure they are a big customer.  A place like the ranch would have an influence on local culture too.”

 

Then with a click it was done.  Secured around my throat, fitting perfectly. I would have expected more drama, but in the slave girl world I supposed such things were normal and quick.  The collar was not heavy, but I always knew it was there.  It felt different from having the rope collar.  That had been carefully and lovingly woven by Patrick for his captured girl.  This was the commonplace everyday collar of a slave, not that of a beloved capture. Then I forgot all my musings as Patrick aroused me again and put me to use as a collared slave girl.  Just as Patrick had done last night, he made me testify.  Testify to my arousal, testify to my release, testify to my giving in as a slave girl. I testified to my arousal and release as I never had as a respectable modest woman.

 

Because he saw I didn’t have the strength after yesterday’s ordeal to go on our program of hikes and climbs, Patrick pulled from his bag two books about the mythical planet Gor; Nomads of Gor for him, and Captive of Gor for the slave girl, me.

 

We read the rest of the day, taking off time for a swim in the afternoon While we were down by the river, we heard shots on the other side.  Patrick told me he thought there might have been some trouble. 

 

So we passed a blissful day reading, breaking only for Patrick to anoint my skin, and then force me to testify again a few times.  I testified joyfully.  Patrick is a very good lawyer.

 

Hell on the Ranch

 

From Smith’s Narrative

 

It has been a very bad twenty-four hours.  

 

I was very tired indeed last night.  I am exhausted now. I went to bed early last night.  I took Fliss with me, but I am afraid I left her unsatisfied because I fell asleep before her tunic was off.

 

At around two AM, I awoke to the sound of gunfire, right in the ranch house area.  I put on my pants and boots hurriedly, because a man is five time braver in boots and clothes.  Fliss was cowering under the bed as I grabbed my Glock.  I ran out the door. There were firefights everywhere, it seemed.  The mess hall, the beautiful building with its timber framing, was starting to burn.  I tried to run towards it but was immediately targeted from several locations.  The whole night was a blur as we beat the attackers back. Until dawn we then fought fires and counted our losses. Around noon we went on the counter-attack and drove them away from the ranch.  It was a very near thing and our losses were many. The passage way between the mess hall (or banqueting hall) was only held by the slenderest of margins. I had thought that Captain von Tarleheim was a chocolate soldier, based on his fancy clothes, but it turned out he was a trained fighter and died like a man. At the end it was just he and Granny Mowbray holding the passage between the Ranch house and the mess hall.  By the time Woodrow Frick fought his way through to protect the house, they were both wounded, with the Captain dying soon after. Granny, the tough old bird that she is, didn’t even flinch as a bullet was dug out of her shoulder.

 

“Couldn’t let them near the Cornerstone, had to protect the Stone.  The Stone built upon the Rock.”

 

“The Stone on the Rock,” echoed Woodrow and Hawkins. Hawkins didn’t yet know that his father, Ol’ Tralawney, our gunroom armourer, had died defending the gun room and armoury.  I didn’t even know that, tough, kind man, had a last name, let alone he was James Hawkins’s dad. Hawkins’ face is pale and set now.  He will have his revenge on the attackers, and perhaps on the world in the future. I think all kindness drained out of him tonight.

There was tragedy down by the barn too.  The bastards set it on fire with the horses inside to draw us away.  Young Alex, that nice kid I met on the stage yesterday, was staying in the boys’ schoolhouse cottage.  He led the boys and a couple of the girls from the girls’ cottage in getting the horses out.  It must have been a horrific sight.  The horses plunging in fear as the hay and the old wood of the barn burned around them.  Granny Dallas who was chaperone at the school is dead, and Alex and Donna Black are severely injured and hovering near death.  They are not expected to survive.  The other kids are also burned or injured to some lesser degree.

 

All told, we have lost at least ten dead, while cattle, horses, and female livestock has been driven off. By the end of the day, we have driven the foe back, and will make another push tomorrow.

 

I have grabbed a blanket and will sleep near one of the guard posts.