On the Banks of the Bighorn Part Seven - by Tracker

 

A walk in the woods leads to Disaster.

 

From Smith’s Secret Diary

 

Just back in, writing this quickly before turning in for the rest of the night.  Well it is just after 3:30 AM and already I have seen the sights for the day, or the week.  Space Ships, aliens, bigfoots, or is that Bigfeet and more.  Randy Schlesinger had told me to get to bed early last night, giving out I had a middle of the night patrol shift.  Around midnight, he awakened me quietly and we went out to the corrals.  Randy connected one of the cattle hauling trailers to a Ford F250 and had me do the same.  Then we backed them up to the holding building by the steel girl corrals. Woodrow Frick was there and behind him was the big boss, Mr Wilson Frick himself.  He told Randy to fetch out Rachel Wall from among the captives.

 

Randy came back hauling a woman, about thirty, handcuffed, or braceleted as they say here, and of course naked.

 

“Mr Frick, I don’t see why you are holding us captive too, we delivered the brainy beauties just as agreed.”

 

“Until they are shipped, we needed to keep up the pretence you and your crew were fellow victims, not part of the plot.  You know that. Besides, CNN blew up this story, instead of a little regional thing that might blow over it is worldwide.  We couldn’t have one of your crew getting careless and being spotted by the wrong people. But now we have another problem. We are three items short for delivery.”

 

Rachel Wall was both defensive and sulky.  She was as aggressive as a naked woman in handcuffs can be faced with four clothed men.

 

“We delivered twenty.  It was not my fault that you lost them.”

 

“We didn’t lose them.  They were let loose. You wouldn’t know anything about that.  Someone, maybe one your crew, letting slip information about plans that they should not have.”

 

“No, I answer for my crew!”  She started off defiantly, then trailed off as Mr Wilson Frick looked at her.

 

“Yes, you do. You do answer for your crew. Can you absolutely, positively, beyond doubt, assure me that none of them, none at all, at any time, broke security?”

 

Rachel slumped, “no.”

 

“We need three more.  There are seven of you.  Six, because we will exempt you for your previous loyalty and efficiency.  From those six, nominate three to take the place of the escaped women.  Choose quickly.”

 

“You can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to sell out half my crew.”

 

“Choose.  Or I will choose.  And I will choose you and two others.”

 

You don’t get to be a captain, even over a female crew without recognizing reality and making quick decisions.

 

“Anne Bonnie.”

 

“Your first mate?”

 

“She is getting uppity and mutinous; you can have her.”

 

“That’s one.”

 

“Merry Rhead, and Eliza Swan.  They are Annie’s closest mates.”

 

Wilson turned to Randy Schlesinger, “You know the three she fingered?”

 

“Yes, sir”

 

“Put those three in Smith’s trailer, put Rachel and the other three pirates in yours.  Chain them at the back, the first in.  I don’t want them going in the shipment by mistake, we are not giving away any more items than we contracted for.  They won’t pay us for extras, the cheap bastards.”

 

Once Rachel and the lucky three were chained in Randy’s trailer, we loaded the other twenty-seven women: ten from the ranch and seventeen that Rachel had delivered.  Just as we were ready to pull out, Woodrow and Wilson Frick each came out of the gunroom holding automatic rifles in each hand.  Mr Woodrow Frick handed me a rifle and then climbed into the passenger side of my truck. 

 

“There may be trouble, this crew had been getting pushy the last couple of times.  I am coming along just to remind them not to mess with Fricks.”

 

The two trucks bumped through the night over ranch tracks to Curly-Eye Meadow.  We unhitched the trailers, facing the back of the trailers towards the centre of the meadow.  We then set up the two trucks so that their headlights crossed at the burned space in the middle where nothing grew.  The trucks were each about thirty yards from where the lights crossed.

 

We waited.  It was cold and dark, and nothing was happening. A beep came from Mr Frick’s pocket, he took a little box from his left-hand jacket pocket, never putting down the rifle in his right.  He nodded.

 

“They are here.”  He took my rifle and had me and Randy load out the women.  While I had been with Mr Frick, Randy and Woodrow Frick had attached collars to the women’s necks and connected the collars with chains.  How they had done it so quickly and quietly I could not figure out. Practice, I guess.

Woodrow handed me one lead and Randy grasped the other.  We made the girls, delightfully naked, kneel in the lights and waited, as the Fricks stood, cloaked in darkness.  There was a whoosh, like a lot of air was suddenly displaced and a silver ship was just suddenly there.  A space ship!  It settled directly on the bare patch, where nothing grew.  A square of light appeared as a door opened.  Three men walked out.

 

“You have our cargo?”

 

“Thirty, as agreed.  You have the payment?  Arms and tech equipment?” Randy’s voice was flat.  There was something he didn’t like about this.

 

“About that.  We decided we will just take the cargo.  You see, we brought friends!”

 

Two big bear like creatures shambled out of the silver ship at surprising speed.  They looked about ten feet tall and a cross between a grizzly bear and a neanderthal man.  Mean looking.

 

There was the crack of a rifle and the man in the middle fell.

 

“Smith”, I heard a voice and Mr Frick tossed me a rifle, then came to stand beside me.  Woodrow Frick was beside Randy, both now armed.

 

“We brought friends too,” said Randy.

 

One of the men was bending over the dead body of his leader, “You bastards!  You killed my brother.”

 

The other man just looked at us.  If looks could kill…..but they can’t.  I kept my rifle on him.  He was the danger man.  I was sure he had a weapon he was ready to use, hidden somewhere on his body.

 

A third beast appeared in the light of the door to the silver ship.

 

He made angry sounding growling noises, but intelligible English came from a box strapped to his chest.

 

“Enough of this.  I told you not to try this.  Not with the Fricks.”  He turned to the crying man kneeling by his dead brother.  “Stop crying like a woman.  Be a man!.  You lost.  I told your brother not to try this, and he disobeyed.  Now make the payment and load the cargo.”

 

The big beast turned and went back into the ship followed by the smaller two.  I think I now knew where the Bigfoot legends had come from. Good thing I didn’t have a camera, or I might have been tempted to do something foolish.  Mr Frick and Woodrow Frick kept their rifles covering the two as they brought forward cases, I assume they were payment, and we then handed over the leads to the chains of women.

 

“We’ll take them off the coffle one at a time, so we can process them and load them into the capsules,” the danger man was still assertive.

 

“You’ll take the chains aboard all at once and process them on board, mess be damned.  Your fault, you fucked around and found out.  We will throw in the chains, just this once.”

 

The man was angry, but jerked on the chain, sending the kneeling girls sprawling.  He kicked them to their feet and pulled them towards the ship.  A whip in the hand of the bereaved brother moved them alone.  Once the second chain was loaded, the biggest of the beasts appeared again.  “You are warriors, we will leave you your kill to process as you will.”

 

The door closed. The silver ship shone in the headlights of the trucks. Then with a whoosh of air, it was like the sky folded over it and it was gone!

As we returned to the trucks I asked Randy, “process our kill?

 

“Among his kind, the warriors eat what they kill.”  He smiled at me.  “But we are not beasts.  We’ll just bury him.  Shoot, shovel, shut up.  You understand that last part?”

 

I assured him I did, but here I am writing things down. I don’t know if I will ever get out a report, though.

 

After we got back to the ranch I hosed out the trailers where some of the girls had soiled themselves.  Then I sat in the darkness, shrouded by night, looking at the stars and trying to process all this.

 

As I sat, thinking, hidden by darkness, Woodrow and Wilson Frick came out.  They didn’t see me.

 

Wilson Frick said, “a nice assortment, many shades for the buyers to choose”.

 

“All brainy, all beautiful, all shades, all slaves.”

 

“Yep, on Gor, slavery is a condition, not a colour.”

 

“The share the condition of being the slave sex.”

 

“And yet there is infinite variety.”

 

I kept quiet.  I felt like Jim Hawkins in the apple barrel, learning all the plans of the pirates. Like Jim Hawkins, I didn’t dare reveal myself.  But unlike Jim, I wasn’t sure if I should report what I heard or fully join the buccaneers.

 

“That makes them worth owning.”  Woodrow paused.  “There were a couple of English girls in that shipment. Don’t you find that British girls make good slaves?”

 

“Women make good slaves. Collar meat, you may be biased because we’re American.”

 

“But it is odd, that they, the British, conquered the world, yet their woman are such excellent slaves?”

 

“British men enslaved the world, but British women look good in collars.  Ar is the greatest power on Gor, yet there are former women of Ar in collars from Port Kar to Treve, paying the price of their beauty.”

 

“Maybe British women are so submissive because their men were so dominant and collared girls of many lands?”

 

“Those men seem pretty weak now, Woodrow.”

 

“Our American culture has lots of weak men now too, uncle.”

 

“That is something we have to change.”

 

They moved off.

 

I glanced at the stars. Words from an old song came to my mind.  A song I hadn’t sung since I was in school.

 

How often at night, when the heavens are bright,

With the lights from the glitterin' stars,

Have I stood here amazed, and asked as I gazed

If their glory exceeds that of ours?

 

I had seen a sasquatch, a bigfoot. A childhood dream, but now perhaps a grown-up nightmare.  I felt like Sean Bean seeing the cave troll.  Space aliens, and they had a cave troll or three.

 

I went to bed.  Morning would come early as the roundup continued.

 

Julie Chen’s narrative.

 

Patrick looked at me, as he absorbed this information.  I stood looking back at him, shivering in the early morning cold. He was dressed and I was naked.  I was very conscious of that. He had on a shirt and jacket, pants, boots and a woolly cap.  I wore nothing, nothing except a rope collar around my neck, with a braided leash descending to my knees. I was aware of the leash as it passed between my breasts.

 

Patrick reached out his hand for the book that cursed book.  I passed it to him.

 

“A slave would kneel while her master was reading her terms of enslavement,” he remarked.

 

He looked at me.  I clumsily moved to my knees in front of him.  It was so cold.

 

Patrick read out loud, “Over the next twenty-four hours around the camp the two fall into a tempestuous loving dominant submissive relationship.  

The barbarian parades her around glorying in his possession of such a yielding captive. He chastises her at the slightest sign of disobedience, making her submit in all possible ways.”

 

“So this runs to dinner time tonight.  Submit in all possible ways.”  He smiled.

 

“Can we alter the contract a bit, we hadn’t read that part?”

 

“We had agreed before reading any of the contract.  By our agreement, this continues.  It was you who wanted the contract anyway.”

 

“I’m so cold”.  I whimpered.  I hate whimpering.

 

“Kneel with your back straight. When you slouch, I can’t see your breasts.”

 

I knelt straight shivering.  It was strange, kneeling naked at the feet of your lover.  I wondered if it would make a permanent change in our relationship.

 

Patrick spoke.  “I have some tasks to warm you up.  Make a fire to heat water so I can shave.  Then, while I am shaving, you can make my breakfast.  You can start now.”

 

I rose up, the pebbles and sticks I had been kneeling on had hurt my knees.  As I went by him, Patrick stopped and swatted my ass.  “You acknowledge my commands with a Yes sir, or a Yes Master.  Do you understand that, slave girl?”  He waited.

 

“Yes, Master”.  Why was it so hard to look him in the eye when I was collared and naked?  I started a fire to heat the water for Patrick’s shaving and used our little camping stove to begin to prepare breakfast. I bustled about the camp trying to keep warm, aware of Patrick’s eyes on my naked form.  When the water was hot, I brought it to Patrick, my Master.  He had me kneel holding the kettle as he finished stropping the straight razor.  The mitt holding the kettle was the only clothes I had had since he had stripped me the evening before. Looking at the leather strop, the horrid thought went through my mind that I hoped he did not use that on me.    

 

Patrick had me pour the heated water into a basin, and then I was forced to kneel on the picnic table, holding the mirror while he shaved.  When he was done, he took the mirror from me, and then turned it around, showing me to myself, kneeling naked, a rope around my throat, a leash trailing from it like a dog’s.  I looked beautiful, but vulnerable.  Then he petted me.  I was furious.  But it looked in some way almost natural. But being naked outside was so revealing, so removing us from equality.  I wanted to cry.

 

Instead I served Patrick his breakfast. While he ate, I knelt.  I had my breakfast from what he took of the plate and made me eat from his hand.  He was really getting into this.

 

“Clean up from breakfast, wash yourself, then put on your hiking boots and socks, nothing else and report to me in fifteen minutes.”  He then turned to his book.

 

He looked up.

 

“Yes master.”  I hurried off.

 

Fifteen minutes later, I stood before Patrick.  I had cleaned up after breakfast and then hurriedly cleaned myself.  I had brushed my hair, washed myself and my face and put on my ankle high hiking boots with the cutest socks I had brought with me.  In my mirror, I had examined myself carefully to see if I detected any changes but I seemed the same.  I put on sunscreen, slathering it on all over, because it looked like Patrick, or Master, as I had to call him, was not going to allow me any clothes, not even a pair of shorts to cover my sex. I was sure by now I would be allowed no covering on my upper body.

As I stood before Patrick he just stared at my body.

 

“Lovely.  Turn your hip towards me, the hip with the mark.”

 

I did so.  He stood so close to my body I could feel him.  He ran his hands over the mark.  

 

“Yes, that ink has soaked into the skin satisfactorily.  Even when this is over at sundown, it will remain for a week or more, l’m afraid.”  He grinned the infectious grin that I so loved.

 

He took hold of the leash that hung down from my collar and paraded me around our little camp, like a pedigreed pet at a dog show. Then he made me heel, just behind and to his left side.  First he walked me slowly, then at a trot.  Men don’t understand how doing that when a girl is unsupported hurts!  The third time, he stopped at the birch grove behind the tent where he had stripped me the night before.  He let me to the fallen tree, the one with the bark worn off and bent me over it.

 

“Patrick”, I protested.

 

He gave me a slap on my ass.

 

“I mean Master.  Not outside, not outside the tent.  Please Master.”  I was begging now. Until we played this stupid game, he was always respectful of my shyness.

 

Patrick gave me another slap on my other ass cheek, glorying in his possession of such a yielding captive, he quoted.

 

Patrick took some leather laces, that we kept with our emergency gear for replacing broken boot laces and making quick repairs.  He walked around the tree until he was on the side where my torso was balanced on the branch, my belly to the wood.  He took a spare tent peg, one with a ring at the top and pushed it into the ground with his boot.  While I watched in disbelief he tied my hands with the doubled laces and the secured the ends to the peg in the ground.  I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want another swat.  I was in the hands of a strong man and had agreed to submit.

 

He pushed my legs apart.  Bent over, I knew my sex was fully visible, I just hoped now, I was not going to be taken in ‘all available ways’.  I had never  been fucked outside before. I was surprised at how receptive I was, given how completely all my norms of shyness and decorum were being shattered. I had not expected the orgasm I experienced; usually in any situation in which I am not comfortable I freeze up. 

 

Patrick finished and I heard him walk away.  It was just me and the squirrels now.  A rabbit  hopped across the clearing, there were birds squabbling in the trees.  I did not dare move from the tree.

 

Patrick was in front of me, untying me from the tent peg.  He untied my hands, but left the peg in the ground.  Seeing the peg still in front of my eyes reminded me it was not even nine o’clock and I belonged to my Master until the end of the day.  Patrick told me to come and kneel in front of him.  I was getting used to this, Patrick checking out my naked body.

 

“Back straighter, thighs further apart, please.”  ‘Please’, so Patrick was still adjusting to this as well.  Patrick stood almost over me, his boots, in the vee formed by my spread out legs.  So close to the domineering maleness of him. I was breathing in quick short breaths again.

 

He held out our two daypacks.  “Ready for our hike?”  No I was not ready for our hike.  I was not ready to leave the camp.  I had accepted being naked in the camp, kneeling in the camp, and being fucked outside in the camp; but to walk around naked, being paraded, even in our secure private little valley?

 

I raise up my face to his, opened my mouth to protest and said, “Yes Master.”

 

We took a strenuous three hour hike around the valley as we had planned before all this scenario stuff had happened.  Well, not exactly as planned. I had not planned to be naked, or on a leash. I had not planned to be groped, and in a grassy meadow, put through paces like the show dog Master had made me feel like earlier.  He had me on all fours, checking my conformation, he had me on my back, legs apart and raised.  I almost cried then. When he led me out of the meadow, he made me crawl on my hands and knees while he held the leash.  He loved displaying his slave girl!  Often he would stop and stroke my body, touching my breasts, cupping my backside and even cupping my sex.  Fortunately there was no one else in our little valley except the birds, the squirrels, and the rabbits, or I would have died of embarrassment. Just before we came out off of trail, by the river, he took me again.  Luckily we were screened by brush, but we could hear the river rushing by, we were so close. How I relaxed enough for my body to climax I don’t know.

 

I did not want to come out into the open by the river: there could be boats or canoes passing by, or people on the other bank, but Patrick pulled on the leash and I followed.  Honestly, in the previous three hours I had become a lot more comfortable being naked at least just with Patrick.  Naked on the riverbanks made me freeze up.  I was so relieved when Patrick allowed me to jump into the river.  It was cold but a relief to a girl who had been hiking in the hot sun. Patrick jumped in too, but he was wearing trunks, not naked like me.

 

The weather radio in Patrick’s backpack started up with a bulletin.  Patrick swum to the shore with powerful strokes and climbed out.  

 

He walked down to the rocky ledge by the deep pool where we were swimming.  He bent down.

 

“That was an alert.  The surge of water released by the Bighorn dam is coming this way shortly.  In about fifteen minutes, we have to out of the water, or we might be swept away.  The current eddies right around this calm deep pool and goes almost straight across the river.

 

“Oh let me just enjoy the river a little longer, Patrick, I mean Master.”  He laughed, as I said that.

 

Soon after I was glad I had not been caught getting naked out of the river as a rubber raft with two athletic young women floated up to us.  No way I was getting out of the river with them watching.  Not only was I naked, but I had a rope around my neck, with a leash attached, but even worse, I had Patrick’s mark on my hip.  A mark meaning I was owned.  NO WAY was I getting out in front of them.

 

Go away, I silently urged them, Go away.

 

But they wanted to talk to the handsome man by the shore.  Sluts!

 

Patrick warned them about the coming surge of water.  They laughed and said that that was what they were waiting for!  They wanted to surf the surge down the river as part of their American adventure.  They chirped away in their European accents, Scandinavian I thought.  They flirted with Patrick but he kept looking at his watch.

 

Patrick’s head came up, he had heard something!

 

“Juliette, get out of the water, right now, I can hear the surge of water coming. It is getting close!  Get out now!”

 

But I couldn’t. Not in front of those girls!  Not wearing a leash, not with a mark on hip like a slutty slave girl!  I just couldn't.  In the past day I had shed some of my inhibited shyness, but I couldn't do this.

 

“Get out now. Get out now.”

 

But I couldn’t.

 

Patrick Master’s narrative.  

 

I was getting frantic now. I could hear the surge of water coming.  Juliette had to get out.  I was by the Bighorn on the rocky ledge, ready to lift her out.  If I had jumped in then, I would not have been able to get her out, not if she resisted.  For some silly reason, she would not get out of the water.  She was disobeying for some obstinate reason.

 

Of course the two Danish girls had to get involved.  

 

“You are not the boss of her.”

 

“You do what you want, girl, don’t be pushed around by a man.”

 

“You American men, so backward, so unrespecting of women!”

 

Then, “Maybe this will distract you from your bossy ways,” one of the girls, lifted up her Danish Flag t-shirt and flashed me.  I was so angry and worried about Juliette I didn’t have time to look.

 

Juliette finally started moving towards the shore.  I would get her out to safety.  Then those two stupid Danes pushed their boat between Juliette and my outstretched hand.  The first swell of the dam water arrived as Juliette tried to get around the rubber boat and the girl with the oar intervened, pushing the boat to keep Juliette from safety.

 

Further swells arrived, knocking the topless Viking wench off her seat into the bottom of the boat.  The boat spun round and then across the Bighorn River it sailed carrying away the foolish Danes.  I reached for Juliette, but it was too late, she too was pushed by the current out into the river and towards the far shore.

 

She crawled out onto land just as the main force of the released water hit. The river boiled with whitecaps as the water rose and the width of the river increased.

 

For the next twenty-four hours, I would be trapped on this side of the river while Juliette was trapped on the other.  The radio said to expect the river to be high and fast for the next day, while for safety reasons the bridge by the Lazy F would be closed due to dangerous high water flows.

 

I was on one Bank of the Bighorn, while, naked and alone, Juliette was on the other bank.

 

It was her own fault.  If only she had obeyed me in time!

 

But I had a score to settle with those Danish girls too.