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

 

Smith’s Secret Diary

 

Last night’s dinner was good, but we shut down early.  We knew we were going out again this morning, and anyway, there is still a shortage of captive women.  After our first two pitchers of beer for our table, we had weak cocktails.  We know this fight is not over; the struggle continues. Not that we didn’t have our fun training the new girls, but an untrained girl cannot compare to a girl whose desire is solely to give pleasure and has been trained to do so.

 

This morning Wilson Frick gave us a briefing and our orders.  Our Native American friends have reported that they broke up a large formation of survivalists and mercenary contractors heading north to their own lands by the simple expedient of stampeding a bison herd through them.  The enemy broke formation and scattered. Some women and cattle will be returned to us today or tomorrow, and the enemy headed west.  The fuel truck they were using to refuel their ATVs was captured. 

 

Our task now is to track down the broken small groups and one by one neutralize them.  Mr Frick is very anxious to get Tiffani the dancer back. “She is worth almost the rest of the girls combined.”  She was a loan from Willard Frick, the chieftain of the Frick clan, so to lose her would be a huge loss of prestige for the Lazy F in the Frick Family.  And if the other families ever heard?  That might even mean losing the leadership of the Old Families!

I know a lot about the structure of the clans of the Old Families now; but I still haven’t had a chance to report to my superiors.   I will keep faith with them, but I really want to quit when the job is done and commit wholly to the Lazy F. I have found a home here.  After forty-five years on the planet, time to settle down.

 

I need to figure out who the other spy is; the one feeding information to the survivalist attackers. If I can figure out who that guy is, maybe they won’t suspect there is another person gathering intelligence here.  I did find out something, a little nugget of the sort that interests my handlers: Fliss was in the Navy, and just about to muster out when she was captured right here on the Lazy F by old Willard Frick himself.  It was Willard’s spoiled daughter Chelsea who renamed his father’s new slave as ‘Fliss’. 

 

I wonder what that Chelsea would look like in a collar and a brand?  By all accounts she is a wild one, capricious and cruel. The kind Granny Mowbray says would be better off branded rather than lowering the tone of Free Women.  There is a thought I shall not share with my handlers, or anyone else.

We will spend the day tracking the enemy west, towards the haunts of the Wyld Wymen.  They only have spears and bows, I guess, but they do know their lands; the broken and wooded lands west of our range.  They can ambush our enemy there if they try to force their way through in an attempt to escape our range.

 

I asked Woodrow Frick if he was worried that the Wyld Wymen might make common cause against us with the survivalists.

 

He answered, “no, they can’t even make common cause amongst the bands against us.  They are always splitting and feuding with each other.  There is more than one former head-wyman that was sold to us by schemers from her own band and ended up in a container on a silver ship.”

 

“They will swarm like bees or wasps against an intruder, but it is instinct with them, not a reasoned policy. Now let us get the trucks loaded and go after our enemies.”

 

As I was fuelling one of the trucks that would tow the trailers that would get us and our horses into position to ride into the Badlands near the territory claimed by the Wyld Wymen, I saw Fred loitering around the vehicle compound. He seemed to be looking into the cabs to see if any had had the keys left in them.  Since the attacks, we have been much more careful about leaving unlocked vehicles.

 

I wonder what he was doing there? Shirking some work is my guess. I sent him off to his assigned guard duty.

 

Off we go. I hope we corral some girls and deal with some enemies today!  I bet if I find Tiffani I will get a good reward!

 

From Slave Inge’s narrative.

 

Last night serving at the victory meal was demeaning, strenuous, and something else as well. I was certainly methodically violated, first in the little alcoves, then as the lamps burned lower, right in the main tent.  Even though it was terrible, there was something that I didn’t want to feel in the hands of those strong men, with their strong hands, and their skill in binding women, either to a ring in the alcove or to the bolts set right into the table itself.

Certainly no mercy was shown to a slave.  Worse I was encouraged to encourage them by using sensuous movements and begging at the end of a chain. In some ways it was terrible, in others it felt totally natural, like an atavistic response.

 

 I comforted Stanford on our way back to the slave cells under the Ranch House.  It was not her first time serving these men, yet she took it harder than me.  As we stood under the cold shower, she explained that she had panicked during the later stages of the evening.  

 

“I was starting to almost enjoy it; I was feeling like a slave, like it was my born destiny to end up this way.  They are reprogramming me, Inge, they are reprogramming me to think like a slave, to want to be on my knees.”

 

Stanford started blubbering.

 

“I was not brought up like this!  I was brought up to think for myself, to be a strong independent woman!  These men, these cowboys, without a thought in their heads except fighting and drinking and screwing women, handled me like my dignity and my education and my intelligence meant nothing!”

 

She was overwrought and overcome.  She was led to her cell, and I to mine.

 

I thought a bit in my cell, cuddled with Reading, also named for her University, and Sarah my friend. They held me after my ordeal, an ordeal they too had endured and petted me until I slept.  They did not say anything, but “there, there, it will be okay.” There was really nothing to say.  We all know it will not be okay.

 

Thinking things through, I don’t think there has been enough time to re-program Stanford or any of the rest of us. Not yet at least.  The disquieting thought I had before drifting off to sleep on the concrete of my cell, was something that I had read:  that it is easier to de-program a person than reprogram them.  What if the old saying is right?. That all women secretly long to be slaves, to be subject to men, to be protected and owned?

What is society has reprogrammed us away from 10,000 generations of a natural order, and we are being deprogrammed back to our natural state.  Even that disquieting thought could not keep my awake after my day of toil and my night in the tent.

 

Slave Juliette’s Narrative

 

The two cowboys who took me yesterday had planted an unpleasant thought in my head.  That I was not sexually responsive enough as a slave; that my reactions to being mastered were not intense enough; that I was failing and shaming Patrick.

 

I am finding it hard, even in a collar, with Patrick’s initial on my thigh, and traipsing around naked all the time, to let go of my entire life since I can remember – being respectable, being contained, not over-reacting to sexual stimuli.  

 

I wanted, I want, to be the kind of woman men marry; not the kind of girl they trifle with. I agreed to be Patrick’s slave for a night, then when I ran away I was sentenced to at least a week as his property.  Patrick and I both highly respect and follow the law, but this week is making changes in my thinking. At least for this week I want to be his best whore, his best slave.

 

I do pant for him. I do take pride in arousing him. I want him to exult in possessing my body.  But after this week, will he still love me, will he respect me, will he still want to marry me?

 

Last night he re-inked his initial P on my left thigh. As he brushed on the letter with indelible ink, he would stop to cup my rear, or stroke my sex, or run his fingers along my thigh. While he was waiting for the first coat of ink to dry, he took another brush and dipped it in water and used the damp hairs at the end of the brush to tease and tickle my clit, and dampen my pussy hair.

 

I responded in a way the Cowboys would approve, but Patrick made me wait until both the first and second coats of the ink marking his initial had dried.  Then I was a good slave girl.

 

Funnily enough though the ink was wet and cold, it felt hot, almost burning, when Patrick put it again on my thigh.

 

This morning after I had prepared breakfast, served Patrick, and then eaten myself, and all the cooking and eating utensils were washed and put away I was permitted some clothes.  Not clothes to cover myself, but my climbing boots and some socks.  Then I was fitted into my climbing harness.

 

I had a chance to get used to how the harness felt on me while I prepared a picnic lunch.  We were going to be away from camp all day.  Of course when we set out on our hike to the cliff face, I was the beast of burden who carried our lunch, our water and our extra gear.  Slaves do all the extra tasks

Being in the harness when I was essentially naked was entirely different from being in harness when I was clothed.  Clothed it felt like armour, as though it was extra protection.  Naked, its straps and harness seemed to accentuate my vulnerability. None of the straps covered my bits, but by being so close to them, the straps, the chest strap, the crotch and leg straps seemed to draw attention to what they were near but did not cover.

 

Patrick and I spent a lovely strenuous day.  We hike to the farthest cliff face from the river and climbed to the top, a moderately difficult climb up, and an equally arduous climb down.

 

After a quick lunch of sandwiches, Patrick used his slave girl as a cruel barbarian would, then we had a quick nap in the grass.  The straps of the harness were tight. I felt like a bondage model.  

 

We spent the afternoon hiking to a cliff face on the north side of our valley, one we hadn’t climbed before.  It took us about an hour to climb to the top. I felt it was quite an achievement.  The sweat stood out on my body, drying in the breeze as we stood together at the top.  I felt so close to Patrick.

We heard voices coming towards us from a tumble of rocks that separated us from the river.  It sounded like hikers, rather than enemies, but I tugged at Patrick so we could start to descend before they came into sight around the rocks.

 

Patrick shook his head.  “I want to see if there is any news. You can stand up, no need to kneel.  Unless commanded of course.”

 

So I stood there, naked and exposed in my harness as three hikers, with overnight packs and tired looks came around the rocks and walked towards us.  They stopped when they saw us, especially me in only boots and a climbing harness. And of course my steel collar and the short chain hanging down the front of my body.  Until other people came into sight, I had almost really forgotten it was there.

 

There were two men and one woman. As they approached in response to Patrick’s friendly greeting they could not keep their eyes off me.  These were the first civilians, if I may use the term, I had seen in this state.  By civilians I mean people not from the ranch, the Lazy F, where apparently slavery and nudity were common.  These were ordinary people, from outside the strange world I had found myself in.  It was all I could do not to crouch down, not to cover myself.  

 

Instead I obeyed Patrick’s orders to stand tall.  The last time I had disobeyed his orders, I had ended up on the ranch, displayed and exhibited for an entire day.  In addition I had earned this extra week of slavery. In a way, I was curious to what their reaction would be, what my reaction would be.

I felt small under their eyes, lesser than they, less of a person, more of an object of curiosity.

 

Their eyes devoured me.  I cast down my eyes, but I don’t think it would have mattered.  Even with my eyes looking down, I could feel their eyes, and they weren’t on my face.

 

Patrick introduced himself, but not me.  I stood there mute, unacknowledged.  Their names were Saffron, Samuel and Jason.  They all shook hands with Patrick. They did not offer to shake hands with me.  I just stood there, excluded from the conversation, even with ordinary people. 

 

Jason asked if there was a way down into the valley that did not involve climbing; that they could use a short cut, so they would not have to hike miles out of their way.  Patrick said there was not, but it was a simple walk around the cliffs and they would come out again by the river.  He offered to show them on our map and let them make a rough copy.  He turned me around, extracted a map from the backpack I was wearing and led Jason and Samuel some distance away to a flat rock where they could trace out their route.  As the three men walked away I heard Samuel murmur something and then Patrick’s hearty laugh, “No, she’s a nudist, loves to show off.”

 

I felt humiliated.  Patrick knew how shy and reserved I really was. I held my head up, so I wouldn’t cry.  I met Saffron’s eyes, then lowered them.  I could feel her walking around me as I stood there, like a statue.  I really couldn’t move.

 

Saffron was taking in my whole body.  She was more observant than Jason and Samuel, or maybe she noticed different things.

 

“You have a collar and a chain.  Most nudists don’t wear those accessories.  She pulled my chain, forcing me close to her.  I could smell her perfume.  I was sure she could smell my sweat from exercise and being out exposed in the sun. She kept hold of the chain as she turned me around.

 

“The collar is locked onto you.  Do you have the key, or does he have it? What I mean is, can you free yourself or are you at the mercy of that yummy man?”

 

My mouth was dry.  I could not speak.  I shook my head.  Finally I was able to speak. “No, I can’t unlock it myself. I don’t have the key.”

 

“So, he has the key, and you do not?”

 

“Yes, Master Patrick has the key.”  I could have shot myself.  I had just betrayed my true situation, not a nudist, but a collared piece of property. I wanted to shrink down, but Saffron held the chain close.

 

“Master Patrick. So you are his slave, his sex slave.”

 

“Yes.” I added before I could stop myself, “Yes, Mistress.”

 

Saffron grinned.  She traced the P that Patrick had inked on my thigh the night before.

 

“So the P is his mark?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Does he share you around? Would he give you to Jason and Samuel if they asked?”

 

“I have been shared Mistress, I don’t know if he would share me today.”  I wanted to say that Patrick would give me to Samuel and Jason, if they gave Saffron to Patrick, but I didn’t dare. I did not want to offend her.

 

Patrick strolled over. The two male hikers were still copying the map.

 

Saffron was bold, “she looks well in your collar.”

 

“Yes,” said Patrick. “I am finding out that many women look well in a collar.”  He looked her up and down. He twirled his finger, and surprisingly Saffron turned slowly around.  I think she was surprised that she did so.  Patrick put out a hand and took one of her wrists, then joined it with the other behind her back.  Saffron was standing now, with her shoulders back and breasts thrust out under her shirt.  She was breathing heavily but did not call out. Patrick reached out and undid her top fastened button.  

 

“Your throat might look well in a collar too,” he said.

 

As we heard Jason and Samuel returning with our map, Patrick released her.

 

Patrick gave them his business card, and we watched as they hiked off.  Only Saffron took a backwards look.

 

As they went out of sight, I collapsed in Patrick’s arms.  His arms were so strong.

 

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It took a half hour before I was able to climb down the cliff face to our hidden valley. An hour later we were swimming in the river to clean off the exertions of the day when we heard someone swimming towards us.

 

We waited by the bank of the Bighorn, while a very beautiful woman climbed out of the river. She wore a very thin, very short sleeveless dress.  There was a collar around her throat.

 

“Who are you?”, Patrick demanded.

 

“My owner calls me Tiffani, Master.”

 

“I am a dancer.”