On the Banks of the Bighorn Chapter Twenty Five – by Tracker

 

Training Day

 

“My owner calls me Tiffani, Master.”

 

“I am a dancer.”

 

Slave Juliette’s Narrative

 

From the minute I saw her, I hated her.  Even before she opened her mouth and uttered her name in a husky voice, so obviously fake, I hated her.

She moved out of the water like Venus rising from the waves, her green short dress clinging to her body like it was painted on.  She glided towards us, and then she knelt in a smooth movement, seemingly going from her bare feet to her knees in an instant, continuing on to what I recognized from my Gor book, Dancer of Gor, as an obeisance position.  Her arms were towards Patrick, her head pressed right to the earth of the riverbank, her rump in the air.

 

I hated the smooth grace with which she did this.

 

Patrick was smiling. I guess any man would.

 

“Follow me to my camp, Tiffani, I must report this to the Lazy F.”

 

The two of them set off towards our camp, Patrick striding on his long legs, the petite girl heeling him perfectly on his left side and a little behind. To keep up she made a little skipping half running motion. She was a dancer all right, that slut.  The green silky dress was still tight against her body as if it were painted on.

 

I followed along behind, ungraceful in my walk because I was carrying two heavy buckets of water.  The chain that hung down my front from my collar to my sex was bumping into body with every step.  Ahead, the dancer laughed at something Patrick said, a laugh like a peel of bells.

 

I hated her.

 

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At the camp, Patrick took out the small communicator that Master Frick had left and contacted the Lazy F ranch.  He reported the arrival of Tiffani, the dancer.  A voice told him that they were grateful he had found her for she was very valuable.  They were very occupied with their combat with the people trying to take over the ranch and asked Patrick to keep her for two or three days.  “Of course, you will have full slave rights over her until we come.  Until we arrive, you will be as if you are her actual Master.”

 

I did not like the sound of that. I was supposed to be Patrick’s slave, at least until the end of the week. I did not want interlopers in our valley.  It was bad enough when we had encountered those three hikers on the top of the cliff in the earlier part of the day, but now we had one in our camp.  A day had which started well had turned to disappointment.

 

“Prepare dinner for three,” Patrick ordered, as Tiffani rubbed his feet, ankles, and calves.

 

“Let me sooth you, Master,” she cooed.

 

I turned to preparing the soup.  If I could have cut her up and served her for a first course, I would have.

 

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The next day.

 

From Smith’s Secret Diary

 

I had hoped to be sent to Town to pick up some supplies.  We were short on ammunition and fencing, plus we could use some animal feed and some food for the banquets; Granny Mowbray had a long list. I stopped by the truck compound to tell the truck master that I hoped to be going to Town tomorrow.  

 

Fred was there, inquiring about a day off and a vehicle to Town.  He was told to get back to his duties.

 

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Yesterday had gone well, pushing on towards the Badlands occupied by the Wyld Wymen, we found some of the enemy moving back towards us in disarray.  They had attempted to force their way through the lands of the Wyld Wymen and had been ambushed as they did not know the territory.  Even spears and arrows from ambush can be deadly.

 

We dealt with our foes as they deserved, recovering five women, kajirae from the Lazy F.  Two were Ranch house slaves, well trained, the three others were bunkhouse kajirae, well enough trained for the likes of the regular riders.  They were well enough I guess, but once having had a well-trained pleasure slave like Fliss, it will be hard to go back to regular collar-meat.

 

Pushing on we had encountered the chieftainess of a Wyld Wymen band, who had more captives: some of our kidnapped slaves, a couple of formerly free women, now stripped and tied, some of the adversary’s women, and even one captured contractor.  A price was agreed for the lot; today I am to return to pay and collect.  I will take a truck pulling a horse trailer as far as possible then ride in the rest of way. I was given specific orders about the Lazy F Free Women being held by the Wyld band.  Because they had been captured by the enemy and stripped, tied, and put to use, they were to remain captives with the rest.  To preserve the standing of their families - their former families, as Mr Woodrow Frick stressed to me - they were to be collared and included in the next shipment for the Silver Ship.

 

This seems harsh, but I guess it is the way of the ranch.  Until they are collared, they are to be treated as Free Women Captives, but to have no contact with their families, or rather, their former families.

 

When I reached the transfer point and paid the ransom, the leader of the band flirted openly with me and with Hawkins.  He flirted back, but did not dismount, or remove his hands from his weapons.  He enjoyed the flirting though.

 

He told me on the way back, “they can be feisty, some of those Wyld Wymen, but turn your back on them with a friend nearby and they’ve got you trussed up in binding fibre before you know it.  Of course, they know, I would do the same to them, but flirting is fun though.”  He spurred his horse ahead to the head of the column to move our captives along more quickly.  A formerly free woman begged to be untied, to be freed.

 

I answered something I had heard Wilson Frick say, “only a slave begs to be freed.”

 

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Slave Inge’s Narrative.

 

I was kneeling at one end of the corral, watching some of the other slaves being put through their training. Sarah, Reading, Stanford, and I knelt in nadu in the sun and breeze under a bright blue sky.  A gorgeous day to be alive; even in a collar. Harvard was finished with her training too, but she was being put to use over by the corral fence.  Fred, the cowboy, who didn’t wash as often as he should, had her bent over a horse water trough.  He seemed distracted, even as he enjoyed her, gazing off in the direction of the ranch’s trucks.  I looked that way too, I still hoped a little to get away, and the possibility seemed more and more remote.  The yearning for such a risky move had diminished too. My condition is starting to sink in as permanent.  Harvard too, seems to be adjusting, as Fred would thrust forward, she would thrust back.

 

With Fred occupied some metres away with Harvard, we could chat amongst ourselves.  The only other Masters were two boys trying to get some of the other new slaves to understand the Leading Position. The boys were not excited to be here; I had heard one of them complain to that Granny Mowbray that he would rather be working with his bull calf for the upcoming 4H show.

 

She did not let him shirk his tasks. “Duty before pleasure always.  Your friend Alex is still in intensive care, along with Donna Black, both hurt rescuing our horses.  You must pick up the slack.  Don’t forget your quirt, some of those girls can be recalcitrant.”

 

So the boys, with Fred supposed to be supervising, had spent the morning teaching us to be led.  Bent over at the waist, with wrist secured, either by bracelets, or later, ‘by the Master’s will’ we learned to be led.  Our heads by the trainer’s waist, our hair gathered in his left fist, we were led around the corral.  As we became more proficient, our bracelets were removed, but our hands had to stay in position as though secured by steel.  Then the boys increased the pace, first walking rapidly, then running.  We had to keep up, head pressed close to the trainer’s waist.  We could not see where we were going with our heads so low, we had to take our cues from the subtle movements of the trainer’s hip as he twisted and turned.  It was exhausting. The other girls had mocked us for our clumsiness in picking up the required skills, and the boys had encouraged us with their quirts.

 

Now we were the ones to rest as they were put through their paces.  They were much slower than we to pick up their training.  We did not mock them out loud.  We preferred to talk among ourselves while Fred was occupied with Harvard.

 

“These people, these men, are deviants, throwbacks,” Sarah was emphatic.  “I am sure that most people nowadays are civilized and would hate to see this and would put a stop to it!”

 

Reading disagreed.  “I used to think that.  That most men were good, and it was just a few that wanted to control and subjugate women.”

 

Sarah broke in, “but surely it is only a few weaklings who can’t get women any other way who want to tie up women, to force women, to enslave women.  Anything else goes against civilization, and progress.”  Sarah was a good Dane, and believed in progress and the advancement of civilization.

Stanford spoke up, “a lot of civilizations were built on slavery.  Greece, Rome, the thralls of your Scandinavia, my own United States, the great European empires.  All built on slaves.”

 

“But we are beyond that now!”

 

Reading said, “I used to think that, but my eyes were opened last year by my boyfriend at the time.  He was very considerate of women, kind, gentle in manner and touch.  He was not my first.  I mean I was ‘opened for use’ as these monsters say before I went to Uni, and in first year, I had lots of boyfriends, a new one almost every month.  Most of them weren’t much use to a girl, not as much use as my bob, my battery-operated boyfriend.  But Roland was different.  He was thoughtful and kind, in bed and outside too. A perfect gentleman, very good at pleasuring a girl.  You know, every single time his tongue would visit my ‘lady town’ before he stuck his thing in me.”

 

“I would do anything for him, and did almost everything with him.  I wanted to make him happy, so one day I asked him what his fantasies were. I wanted to make them come true.”

 

“You know what his fantasies were?  He wanted to tie me up; he wanted to take me in bondage.”

 

Like that, she nodded towards the horse trough, where Harvard, hands secured behind her back, a rope around her neck securing her to the trough was again serving Fred.

 

“He wanted to take me with his strength, even though I was totally willing to give.  We had a big fight.  He said you cannot deny nature; men are bigger and stronger, so they can take what they want.  Worse, he said that women want men to be that way, to take them, to cherish them, protect them.  To own and protect them like property.  We broke up after that.”

 

Stanford said, “a lot of men want to take and own, and I think now that women, some women anyway, want to be taken, want to be owned.”

 

Sarah hotly denied that, “only a few women, very few, victims of bad upbringing.  They are sluts!  Are you a slut?”

 

“I think maybe I am.  Or maybe I am becoming one.  There was a moment in the victory banquet the other night, when I begged for more use, and for tighter ropes.”

 

I remembered her cries.  I had tried to blot them out, but I remembered. I hadn’t had to beg.  The men at my table had tied my tightly, used me comprehensively and completely.

 

A boy came by and shushed us.  We knelt there, naked women, with brands on our thighs, collars around our necks, legs spread wide; women subject to the whims and orders of males.

 

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Slave Viki’s narrative.

 

I am very bored here, hiding in my hotel room in Town, waiting for instructions from my Master.  He is trying to make a plan to get me out of this situation before the Fricks discover he was involved inadvertently in the attack on their ranch. Not that he values me, a slave, so highly, oh no.  He just doesn’t want to get caught.

 

So here I sit, hiding in my hotel room, pretending I am a sick hiker, staying out of sight. What do I think on.  Well first, how there is no decent tea in all of Montana!  The girl who brings me room service brings me a mug of warm water with an ancient teabag beside it on the tray.  That is not tea; it is warm tea flavoured water.

 

Yesterday she came with fresh sheets.  It was a nice idea, but I wasn’t expecting her.  My fault, as a good operative should always be aware of possibilities.  I was only wearing the long T-shirt I had found in the room, and my anklet.  The anklet, no matter how high tech and app-controlled is no real substitute for a collar.

 

Worse than being partially undressed (or overdressed for a slave) was that I had the small communicator out.  The rounded six-inch cylinder one. (Gorean men are not subtle).  She formed the wrong idea.

 

“You must be feeling a little better.”

 

“I was hoping it might help improve how I felt, but it did not.”

 

Then she noticed my anklet.  “Oh that’s nice, did you get it on eBay?

 

“No, a man put that on my ankle.”

 

“I think I have seen something like that before, both on girls passing through bound for the Lazy F, and on some of those hippie witches going to join up with the Wyld Wymen.  Those females are all witches and pagans you know.”

 

I nodded, I wasn’t impressed by what I had heard about these wyld wymen.  I had met real Panthers on Gor, so these wyld wymen sound like pussies compared to them.

 

She returned to admiring my bracelet.  “I wonder where I can get one like that.  It is so pretty.”  I thought she was pretty as well.  I put on my special glasses and took a few pictures as she moved around the room, changing the bed and putting out fresh towels.

 

“What is your name? Maybe I can get one of these for you.”

 

“Patricia”

 

“Well Patricia, I will see what I can do.”  I smiled as she left the room.

 

I know I am going to be blamed  for the failure of this mission.  It wasn’t my fault, but I am the slave, so I will be blamed.  If I can put Master in the way of collaring a girl right from under the Frick’s noses in their own backyard, It may put a little credit to my account.

 

Patricia is very comely. She will look good in a collar.

 

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Slave Juliette’s Narrative.

 

Life in camp has been unbearable today.  Tiffani has destroyed our secret Eden and made a mockery of our privacy.  She started by asking Patrick how many times a day he put me to use.  She asked questions about my responses and my arousal.  Patrick was only too glad to answer.  She made it sound like she was just being helpful and trying to make everything in camp better for me.

 

It was embarrassing and worse, and every time I would walk by, she would correct me, and say walk like this, or sway like that, all the time making me feel bad.

 

When I confronted her outside of Patrick’s hearing, she just said sweetly that she was trying to train me to be a better slave.  

 

That is not her job!

 

At least twice now, she has pinched me and given me orders!

 

She had better watch it! I am bigger and stronger than her.  If only I could be sure that Patrick would take my side.

 

I don’t want to be trained by that smooth, gliding slut!

 

If she tries it again at supper, I will have to do something drastic!