Cowgirl
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In many ways a cowhand is similar to a sailor. He'll spend days or weeks on the trail, with scarcely another human in sight except for his fellow cowboy, and when he returns to civilization he craves some lovely feminine companionship; craves it so much he'll often fantasize about it, experience mirages like men dying of thirst in the desert.
Thus it was with Stanley's men that summer afternoon when the stranger rode into their midst. The men figured they had to be imagining things -- either that or they'd been eating loco weed.
The stranger was a woman. And not just any woman, but a jaw-dropping, palm-sweating, I-need-some-desert-time-alone kind of woman. The first thing the men noticed was that she smelled like a lady. She rode into the camp proudly, sporting an eager grin on her smooth-jawed face, and reeking of cleanliness and fancy city parfumes.
The men saw she was dressed in fancy cowboy dudes: sleek, tight-fitting, cordoroy pants, with scarcely a speck of dust on them, brand-new leather chaps, boots that must have a cost a hundred dollars _each_, an oversize red-and-white checkered fannel shirt, a red bandana tied in a neat knot around her throat, and topping off the outfit, a ten-gallon felt cowboy hat tied to her head by a slender string that looped under her chin. The men didn't know whether to drool or laugh.
"She's a goddamned city slicker!" grunted one man finally, and he was echoed by a round of guffaws.
"I'll slick her city," growled another, to even bigger laughs.
The woman didn't flinch, though a deaf person would have heard the comments. Instead she grinned at men and tried to wave her hat at them, but got the string tangled under her chin.
"Howdy, boys!" she finally managed, waving the hat broadly. "My name's Beth Ann Morgan, but everyone calls me Betsy. I'm from New Jersey. This is my first time in Montana. Wonderful place. I'm sure proud to be here. Stanley Herdass sent me. I'm your new cowhand!"
The stunned silence that coldly greeted this introduction would have quieted most locals, or even the town drunk, but not Beth Ann Morgan. She rattled on, oblivious to the manevolent eyes heading her way.
"Now I know I've got a lot to learn about cowherding, so don't think I'm not willing to learn. I've been dreaming about being a cowgirl for as long as I could dream, and Daddy finally told me to get out of his factory and go out West and get it over with, so here I am, and I'm gonna be the best durned cowgirl in the entire state of Montana!"
The boys just looked at each other in shock. Finally one man began to laugh. He was a big man -- Big Joe was his name -- and he was widely respected by the other men. He laughed and jostled Kenny, the foreman. "Don't ya see? It's a joke! Stanley's playing us as fools, boss!"
Instantly the other men caught on. Cries of "Of course!" and "That Stanley!" and "Pretty funny." echoed around the campsite. The girl sat on her horse and watched the men chatter for a moment, and then she shrugged and tried to leap off her horse.
Her leap was less than graceful, but in the end it did accomplish her objective of separating herself from her horse. She landed face down in a muddy patch, soiling her outfit. This caused the men to laugh so hard they fell to the ground themselves, giggling and huffing like schoolgirls.
"Well I'll be damned if I've seen anything like that!" hooted Big Joe. "Where'd Stanley find this bird?"
"Don't know," added Spice, the Chinese cook, waving a large metal spoon at the girl, "but from the view in my quarter she's a mighty fine woman."
The men laughed at this, eyebrows and other parts of anatomy going up as they watched the girl wiggling on her hands and knees in the mud. She sat up gingerly. Her brand spanking new shirt was caked with a thick layer of dripping black mud, and while she was moaning the dreadful fate of her clean clothes, the men were oggling the pronounced mounds of flesh on her chest that the mud emphasized in nearly obscene fashion. Whistles of appreciation echoed around the campsite.
"God bless Stanely Herdass!" sighed a man.
"I take back every mean thing I ever said about that bastard," breathed another.
The men sat transfixed, watching the girl as she attempted to wipe the mud off her chest.
"Oh, my new clothes are ruined!" moaned the girl in dismay. "I just bought them two days ago in Rodeo City."
The men started to laugh again, but when they saw the girl's drooping eyes filling with tears and her delicate, quivering lips begin to pout, their laughter quickly died. Kenny, the foreman, stepped forward.
"Uh, it's okay, ma'am. We can rustle up some clothes for ya from the men here. No need to cry." Awkwardly, he patted the girl on the back. She looked up to him with grateful, shining eyes.
"Oh, thank you! I'm terribly sorry to be such a burden." With Kenny's help, the girl shakily got to her feet.
"I'm Kenny," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm the foreman."
"Oh, good! Stanley mentioned you. Now he and I came to a strict understanding, you know. He and I don't want you treating me any different from the men. I'm just another cowhand. I want no special treatment."
Kenny looked awkward. "Are you serious, lady? You're really wanting to be a cowboy?"
"Yes, sir. I've read every book on the subject, fiction and non-fiction, since I was eight years old."
"This is not some joke by Stanley?"
The girl flushed and shook her head viciously. "Now look, Stanley told me there might be some resistance to having a girl out here, but he said you had some kind of welcoming thing you do to new men that sort of intitiates them and makes everyone feel like brothers. Well, that's what I want. I don't want to be treated any different than any man."
If jaws had dropped when Beth Ann rode into the camp, now they positively broke off and fell to the ground. The men stared at each other, at Beth Ann, and shook their heads in amazement.
"We must be dreaming," mumbled a tall man. "Yow!" he yelped as someone pinched him rather cruelly. He grinned as he looked at the three oh-so-innocent men behind him. "Well, I'm awake now and she's still here, so I guess not!"
Kenny scratched his head and looked at the girl. "Lady, I'd don't think you know what you got yourself into here. This here is Stanley Herdass' land, and he runs the tightest, toughest outfit in all the West. Why there are twelve-year veterans that pale at the mention of working on his ranches. It's not a place for c***dren and not a place for women."
Beth Ann folded her arms in front of her chest defiantly, drawing moans of displeasure from the assembled men. She glared at Kenny. "Now look here, mister Big Shot Foreman. Stanley Herdass himself gave me this job and I'm not going to let you or any other men here fuck it up for me!" She spat on the ground. "Treat me just like any of your men and we'll get along just fine."
In twenty-six years of herding cows Kenny had never been talked to like that by a man that still lived, let alone hearing it from a woman. Rage seethed through his body and he fought for control. He didn't want his men seeing that the woman bothered him. So he gave a casual shrug. "Hey, if that's what you want. But I bet ten dollars you're going off crying to your Daddy by morning."
The girl clapped her hands in excitment. She snatched up the startled foreman's hand and pumped it vigorously. "You've got a bet. Thanks, Kenny. I appreciate this. You won't regret it." She paused, glanced at her chest. "Now about those fresh clothes..."
A slow grin came over Kenny's chiseled face. He snapped his fingers. "Ringo. Give me your shirt."
"Hey, come on, boss, it's cold out here."
"Now, Ringo."
The man shrugged and quickly shucked off his fithly sweat-stained shirt and handed it to the boss. Kenny took it without comment. "Danny. Where's Danny boy?"
"Here, boss." A lithe young boy came up to the front of the men.
"You're about her size. Give her your pants."
The boy's mouth opened for a second, and then he snapped it shut. "Yesir," he mumbled, seating himself on a wooden crate he tugged off his boots and removed his thick jeans. He stood in the evening light, legs pale and skinny, a shirt and thin pair of once-white briefs his only garments.
Kenny tossed the clothing at the feet of Beth Ann. "All right," he said. "Get changed."
For a second the girl glanced around, as though expecting a private hotel suite to pop up in the middle of the wilderness, and then she saw Kenny's hard gaze, mocking and triumphant. Beth Ann relaxed her face and smiled at Kenny. Hesitating only a couple seconds longer, she began to strip.
First off were her boots, which she kicked off easily, as they were rather large for her petite feet. The chaps came off next, discarded in the mud. Next was her mud-stained shirt. She carefully unbuttoned the series of studs down the front and opened it, revealing a massive womanly figure encased by a slim white cotton brassiere. The men were gulping and fidgeting as they watched.
Beth Ann tossed the muddy shirt aside, standing indifidently before the men. She glanced up at Kenny. "This brassiere's got some mud on it too," she said boldly, her blue eyes locked with his iron gray ones. Neither budged. Moving quickly, Beth Ann reached her hands to her shoulders and unfastened the tiny buckles that held the cloth in place.
The campsite was as quiet as a empty grave as Beth Ann tossed the brassier aside. She stood half-naked before the men, the soft pale flesh of her bosoms graceful and delicately indecent. Each breast was tipped with a thick red areola and capped with a stiff nipple that every man watching could have sworn was poking directly at him personally.
"Lordy have mercy!" yelped Bayton Bridges, oldest of the gang of men, pawing nervously at his large gray beard.
Even Kenny appeared shaken, glancing awkwardly back at his men as though uncertain of his support. He quickly regained control, however, and nodded at Beth Ann to continue. She stared at him for a moment, hands on her hips, naked breasts taunting him, and then she continued.
She turned her back to the men, unbuckling her belt and gradually letting her cordoroy pants slide down. They gathered indecently around her ankles, looking dull and lifeless. Beth Ann didn't move for a moment, fully aware of the dozens of eyes studying her long sleek legs and juicy thighs. Around her hips were a pair of scant pink panties, trimmed with lace, and purchased for what a typical cowhand earned with a month of grueling labor.
Slowly Beth Ann stepped out of her pants and turned and faced the men. She made no move to hide her body, but kept her hands on her hips, defiant and bold.
For a long while no one spoke. Then a small man with a grizzled face like a piece of dried fruit siddled up to Kenny and, cupping his hand to the other's ear, whispered. Kenny's dark and cold face began to smile as he listened, nodding.
"Excellent suggestion, Leroy," he said, drawing away from the man. He smiled at the girl. "Leroy thinks that since you are already nearly undressed we might as well proceed with the 'welcomimg' ceremony you mentioned earlier."
The girl's eyes narrowed as she studied the man. She spoke cautiously. "What is the welcoming procedure?"
Kenny, shrugged casually, turned slightly away, as though bored by matters. "We whip you," he said. Though he appeared to be looking away, his eyes were locked on the girl, spying for a reaction, any reaction, no matter how subtle. But the girl did not seem alarmed or surprised.
"So a whipping is part of the initiation?" she asked. Her voice was as strong and bold as ever.
Swallowing hard, Kenny nodded. A bead of sweat appeared on his brow. "Yes. Stanley wants only tough men on his ranch. Whipping is common discipline here at the Slanted H. New men must demonstrate a willingness to accept such discipline. We must work together closely; our lives depended on each other. We must be able to trust one another. We cannot work together if we don't respect you."
The girl nodded. "By accepting pain I demonstrate my courage and my commitment. I understand. I expected something similar. But why should I respect you?"
For a few seconds, Kenny's jaw pulsed in fury but he bit down on his tobacco tightly. He smiled thinly. "After I whip you, I guarantee you'll respect me," he muttered.
Beth Ann shrugged. "All right. Let's get this over with. How it is done? I want it just like you do for new men. Don't treat me any differently because I'm a woman. I won't have none of your damn male sympathy!"
The foreman glanced back at his men who were staring at him like they'd just been stuck with pitchforks. The girl had just erased any hope of them going easy on her. He shrugged. "Go ahead and get completely undressed." His voice faltered as the girl's pink underpants struck his chest. He caught them reflexively, clutching them in a tight fist. Strangely, the part against his palm felt damp.
The men stirred restlessly, shuffling their feet and elbowing each other for a better view. Beth Ann stood impassively before the men, idly smoothing down her short-cropped hair with one hand, and waiting. Acres of lush female flesh taunted the men, who licked their lips and began to plot. They each wanted her for their own, and wondered how they could make it happen.
Kenny brought the men back to attention, urging Leroy, who hung near his elbow, to fetch the whips. The man grimaced at Beth Ann with an eagerness she should have found dreadful. Instead she grinned back at him and winked, and he left, shaken and puzzled.
No one spoke for a moment, and then Kenny motioned to Beth Ann to follow him. Keeping himself between her and the men, he guided her toward the chuckwagon, parked before the blazing fire. Spice, the cook, hopped out of the back of the wagon carrying a stretch of rope.
Kenny turned his gray eyes on Beth Ann. "Do we need the rope?"
The girl was astonished. "Hell no! I can take whatever you've got." She paused. "Just how much are you planning to whip me, anyway?"
"A great deal," said Kenny. His voice was cold, with perhaps a twinge of sadness, though he spoke with little emotion. "Every man you see here is going to whip your ass. And after they are done, it's my turn."
The naked girl didn't flinch at his blunt words as he expected. She grinned. "Sounds fair," she grunted, rubbing her palms together as though preparing for a game.
Kenny had one more trick left. He didn't take his eyes off the girl as Leroy approached, carrying the whips. Kenny took the wide razor strop and held it up so the girl could see and fear it.
"Ah, the old razor strop," sighed the girl. "I'm well aquainted with that one. For a while there, my father gave me a weekly dose whether I needed it or not. Every Saturday night it was a trip to the barn." Beth Ann spoke fondly, with her head leaning back and her eyes half-closed, as though recalling her first kiss.
The foreman ground his teeth and spat on the ground. He threw the strop to one of the men and snatched the horse crop from Leroy's arms. Several of the men eyed it warily. It was in the shape of a rod, over a yard long, leather wound stiffly around the flexible core. It tapered to a narrow tip, thinner than a man's smallest finger.
"This crop," growled Kenny, swishing it menacingly, "is the standard instrument of punishement at the Slanted H. The minimum is ten lashes across the bare buttocks, but it's often more. It is given by the foreman or owner for minor offenses -- excess drinking, tardiness, fighting, or poor work. We're talking a severe whipping here, no mild rebuke. I often draw blood."
Kenny licked his lips greedily. "At any time you may choose to leave the Slanted H instead of accepting your punishment, but do not think you will work on any ranch owned by Stanley Herdass again." He laughed. "Cowards are banished from the Slanted H forever."
The girl stood calmly before the man. She nodded. "That is an excellent policy." She hesitated, and Kenny's heart leaped with excitement. Was she finally showing fear? he thought greedily.
But the girl was only shy. "May I see it?" she asked. She pointed at the crop, and in confusion, Kenny shrugged, handing it to her. She ran her fingers up and down the leather shaft, bending it and swinging it through the air. "A mighty fine instrument," she said finally. The men watching couldn't think of a thing to say.
Kenny rudely grabbed the crop from her. "Since you are so intrigued, I shall demonstrate it for you. Grasp the wagon wheel," he said, pointing with the whip.
Blushly slightly, Beth Ann walked to the wheel and stood before it. Arching her eyebrows slightly at the foreman, she spread her legs just beyond shoulder width and gripped the top of the wheel, waiting to see if he approved. He nodded gruffly, cursing the girl's calmness. She stood naked in twilight, the flicking flames sending a dancing glow across her bare haunches. Her wide buttocks were pale and supple, and already Kenny ached to see them striped by his whip. Then let's see how she acts, he thought bitterly.
"I'm going to give you ten," he spat. "Just as a demonstration of what a typical punishment is like. Then we'll start your whippings." He paused, waiting for a retort, but the girl didn't speak. "You can leave any time, you know," he added.
"I know," replied Beth Ann. "But I don't want to leave. I'm going to be a cowgirl." She shivered. "Come on. It's getting chilly."
I'll fix that, thought Kenny, and he marched up behind the girl. He had been prepared to only scare her, but her arrogance enflamed him. Now he knew he was going to roast her ass and whip her harder than he'd ever whipped any of his men.
The first blow echoed across the valley like the retort of a pistol, and several of the men watching sucked in their breath sharply. The girl wiggled her head but did not move her body. A dark crease appeared horizontally across the tops of her buttocks. It made the rest of the girl's naked flesh seem even more pale and vulnerable.
The second stripe quickly followed, and then a third. Still the girl hadn't moved or made a sound. Kenny could feel the men growing restless behind him. In a rage he brought down the crop wildly in a series of harsh blows that stunned the men watching. The whip lashed viciously across the exposed cheeks and thighs of the patient girl, criss-crossing and leaving four dark, swelling weals. Beth Ann gasped, suddenly, during the pause, and Kenny beamed.
"Oh, God," groaned the girl, wiggling her bottom a little. "That's an excellent whip, uh, Mr. Foreman, er, Kenny, sir. It smarts something sharp!"
The girl's voice didn't even quaver as she spoke, and as the blood drained from his face, Kenny swore he could detect amusement in the girl's speech.
The last three strokes were the hardest of all, cruelly placed at the same spot, across the base of the girl's bottom, literally lifting the cheeks. The thick flesh quickly puffed and blistered under the beating, and when the last blow landed, the skin split and scarlet blood oozed from the wound.
The men watching winced and waited for the girl to collapse in hysterics or scream, but she did neither. She inhaled deeply, then shook her head rapidly, as though clearing it. She stepped back from the wheel and gingerly touched her buttocks with her hands. The sticky blood got on her fingers and she sniffed at it curiously.
"Not bad, for just ten strokes," she murmured to no one in particular . . .
* * * * *
Part 2
(*****, M12/F, Severe, humor, severe whipping)
A group of lonely cowhands are astonished by the new female worker their boss hires, but she takes her initiation well. (Approximately 5,856 words. Originally published 1997-11.)
"Not bad, for just ten strokes," she murmured to no one in particular. She fondled her rump again. "These will be gone in a week, though. That whip of yours is too light to really bruise beneath the skin. I suppose it was designed that way on purpose -- for repeated use."
Speechless, Kenny nodded. His belly ached as though he'd been slugged there. He passed the whip to Leroy without a sound and went to the fire where the kettle hung. Not bothering with a rag, he gripped the hot metal handle with his thick, calloused fingers and poured himself a mug of hot coffee. He hung the kettle back and sat himself on the ground, nodding at Danny, the boy who'd given up his pants.
"You're the youngest," he said, his face stiff and shapeless like a rocky cliffside. "Let's get going."
Danny, his face red, took the razor strop from another man and stepped forward. He felt awkward in his briefs, though the tail of his skirt covered him slightly, and he approached the woman with real trepidation. From the cool way she watched him anyone coming onto the scene without any background would have thought he was bringing the whip for her to punish him.
"Ma'am," the boy said, his voice rough. He half-glanced down between his legs, wondering if his stiffness showed. The girl smiled kindly at him for a moment, and then turned back to the wheel, spreading her legs and gripping the top.
"Danny's been here two years," called out Kenny. "That's two strokes."
Danny nodded grimly, gripping the lash as tightly as he could in his sweat-soaked palm. He stood behind and beside the girl, eyeing his target carefully. He could smell the woman, sweat glistening on her back, and see the dreadful weals cutting across the soft cheeks of her ass. Up close the skin was impossibly smooth and feminine, crying out for him reach out a hand to caress the blistered flesh.
He swallowed, his throat like sand. Two years earlier it had been him in her place, naked and tied to the wagon wheel, his bare ass prickly with stings as the breeze blew across it, taunting him with the agony of waiting for the punishment to continue. He remembered how he had felt, how frightened he'd been, how elated at surviving. He'd been whipped many times since then, but nothing matched that first time. He'd thought he could take it easily -- he'd taken his father's strap enough as a k** -- but this was nothing like those c***dish spankings. This was a man's whipping: long, brutal, and public.
But this wasn't a man before him now. This was a woman. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his nineteen years. Her body was supple and graceful, and she spoke with fire and ice, arrogant words he'd never heard from a woman, and yet here she was, naked and accepting the whip.
"Come on, Danny boy, we haven't all day!" shouted Kenny.
Danny nodded and drew back the strop. He must make this good. If his strokes weren't full force, he'd be receiving the crop from the foreman. With all the strength in his right arm he brought the thick leather strop across the bare cheeks before him. The slap sounded pale and mild compared to the dull thwock of the crop, and the girl didn't move, but a pink rectangle blossomed across her skin.
Danny brought the strop down again, this time even harder. His aim went off a bit, and he caught the back of her right thigh. The girl wiggled her right leg suddenly, and Danny realized he'd caught her by surprise.
He walked back to the men with a slight swagger. The woman had felt his strokes, all right. He might be just a k**, but he was fast becoming a man.
The next was Mulligan, a hefty Irishman who'd been with the ranch for four years. People could disagree with how Stanley Herdass ran the Slanted H, but few could argue with the results. Stanley had the most loyal workforce in the state, and in a business where a cowhand's six-month stay was considered impressive, Stanley's men worked for years. Unfortunately this did not bode well for poor Beth Ann, for Mulligan was considered a newcomer at the Slanted H. His four strokes were harder and broader than Danny's, catching the fullness of her backside, and leaving her striped from side to side.
Elliot was next. Originally from Texas, he was a tall thin man who wore spectacles, and woe be the man who thought him weak. Under his slim frame were wiry muscles and skillful roping that astonished even veteran cowboys. This was Elliot's sixth year with the Slanted H.
The man didn't hesitate or draw out the punishment. He struck quickly, without preamble, laying down the strokes so rapidly and efficiently the girl was still gasping from the first when he delivered the sixth.
"Woah!" cried Beth Ann, wiggling her backside. Her buttocks were blotched with a vivid red. "That man knows how to strop!" she called out as Elliot nodded to the crowd of cheering men.
"I had to raise my brothers and sisters after Pa passed on," Elliot said gruffly. The men laughed and teased him as he made his way back into the crowd.
"I can do better than that," growled a dull voice, and the men grew quiet.
It was Ringo, the man who'd given up his shirt. He wasn't happy about it, wrapping the strop around his hand with greedy relish. He stood in the cool night, his tough skin stretching across his muscular back and arms. The men stepped aside as he passed. It was his tenth year on the ranch.
Ringo's style was the opposite of Elliot's. He drew out the punishment, delivering a cracking blow to the poor girl's quivering haunches and waiting ten, twenty, perhaps forty seconds before continuing. The effect on the girl was remarkable. In the interlude between strokes she huffed and puffed, moaned, writhed, and waggled her tail bawdily. On the fourth stroke her moans reached a feverish intensity and when the fifth landed she cried out loudly and her body slumped on the wheel. The woman gave a huge sigh of gratitude and contentment.
"Thanks, Ringo," she whispered, her voice faint.
"Plenty more where that came from," growled the big man.
"I know."
Ringo's tiny brain was attempting to understand the girl's confusing reaction -- it didn't ring right in his head that a girl would thank him for whipping her bare ass. Therefore he figured she must be mocking him. He gripped the strop tighter and put all of his furious black heart into it, using every trick his thirty-eight years of whipping and being whipped had taught him.
When Ringo threw down the strop in triumph, a maze of purple blisters across her hindquarters, the girl turned and looked over her shoulder.
"Oh, are you done?" Her voice bore a distinct tone of disappointment!
The men laughed and Ringo smacked his fist into his palm in undisguised rage. He stomped off into the night.
The next few men were Thom Shayle, Benny Dobson, and Bear Smith, the half-breed Indian who had earned the men's respect and admiration through sheer determination and hard work. Each of them had been with Stanley for twelve years.
There was a brief breather after that blistering series, as the men needed to pause for drinks and to relieve themselves. Whipping was thirsty work.
Kenny eyed Betsy nervously. Her rump was approaching the color and texture of ground beef. He had Danny fetch her a dipper of fresh water, which she drank gratefully, giving him a shy smile that sent thrills through his young body. The goosebumps on his legs were not from the cold.
Kenny was studying Betsy's buttocks as she drank, and when she finished he gave Danny more instructions. The boy quickly fetched a bucket of water. Dipping a cloth in the water, he lovingly washed the girl's bottom and thighs, trying not to stare at the bulging slit between her legs. It peeped at him through curls of pale, golden hair. Danny noticed it glistened with moisture though he'd been careful to keep his cloth away from that area.
Washed and cleaned during the break, Betsy was revitalized for the remainder of the whipping. She was more conscious of the strokes, and the puffy welts that early seemed so ready to burst had softened with the absorption of water.
The first to whip after the break was old man Bayton. He'd been a cow-hand for over forty years, since he was but a lad. The last f******n had been on one of Stanley's ranches. He was old but hard and stubborn as iron. He didn't like the idea of a woman as a cow-hand. Went against the laws of nature. This little hussy sure needed a lesson, he thought. So he gave her f******n of 'em.
Next was Spice, the cook. Small and wirey, he never felt he got the respect of the men for his difficult labor. This was his chance to excel at something physical. His fifteen strokes were brutally hard and fast and cruel.
After Spice went Leroy, a shrimp of a man, dried up like a wrinkled prune, but hard as petrified wood. His sixteen strokes were all across the backs of her thighs where the skin was fresh and tender. Betsy seemed to appreciate that, moaning and crying out with little gasps of what, to the untrained ears of the men, sounded like pleasure, but obviously wasn't.
The crowd that had been cheering Leroy went silent with respect as the next man took the strop, and everyone was rewarded with a look of consternation on the girl's face as she looked over her shoulder. Big Joe was thundering forward, a mean look on his face. Betsy didn't know this was Big Joe's natural expression and the only one he knew. She thought he was angry and the sight of those bulging arms as thick as the thighs of most men, made her quiver.
"I've been here eighteen years, girl," he said slowly, enjoying Betsy's wince. "You are going to feel this."
The whipping was extreme. Twice Kenny thought about stopping it, but no welcoming whipping had ever been stopped before. He forced himself to remember she was a man, a caw-hand like any other. This was an impossible challenge, with her naked, writhing, and whimpering with those gorgeous high-pitched cries of hers, but Kenny steeled himself. After all, he was next.
"Damn that _hurt_!" roared Betsy, stomping her feet in an effort to jog off the pain. A heaving and puffing Big Joe let the feverish strop tumble from his thick fingers.
Betsy wheeled on Big Joe before anyone could warn him. Her arms shot up around his bull-neck and pulled his head down and to the shock of everyone, especially poor Big Joe, kissed him smack on the lips.
"Whooo-eeee!" roared a gleeful Bayton. "I ain't see a gal kiss like that since I was a knee-high to a grasshopper!"
"Thanks, Big Joe," winked the city girl, twirling back to her place at the wheel. She placed her palms at the top and thrust out her lambasted backside. "Who's next?" she cried defiantly.
"I am," said Kenny, his voice as dry of humor as the desert. The men fell silent as he approached, fingering the bloody razor strop.
Betsy watched Kenny over her shoulder, her dark eyes glowing. She panted heavily, her sumptuous chest swelling and collapsing with frenetic speed. Her skin gleamed with sweat, and as Kenny drew near, he noticed peculiar feminine odors he hadn't smelled often enough in his life. The smell made his mouth go dry. He wished he'd taken time for a drink.
The girl was looking away now, the graceful half-moons of her buttocks arched toward him. The flesh was dark and mottled with bruises and welts. For a moment Kenny felt pity, but then he remembered the girl's arrogant smirk as she declared herself "one of the boys" and he resolved to thrash her the best he knew how.
He started with the backs of her legs and worked his way up, one slow stroke at a time. The girl moaned, gasping and hissing in pain. She arched her back, wiggled her rear, and crooned.
Kenny worked on her buttocks, ignoring Betsy's shuddering and shrieks. As he lifted the strop for another blow the poor girl howled, her body spasming wildly, and she thrust her hips in such a vulgar manner that the foreman had to look away. When he looked back she was sighing and panting, as though she'd run a long race. She glanced back at him, her face shining with tears, and grinned.
The last dozen strokes fell, then, in a mindless ecstasy of pain. Kenny whipped mightily, the girl sang and danced prettily, and the men watched in lurid fascination.
When it was over the girl did not move for a long time, but stood, body arched, legs apart, arms wide as she gripped the wheel tightly. Her head was down and she breathed deeply, deliberately, as though breathing was of profound significance.
"Well done," said Kenny finally, guilt stabbing his chest each time he saw the scarlet gooey mess that was Betsy's bottom. He offered his hand. "Many's a man that wouldn't take such a whipping so gracefully," he added with genuine feeling.
Betsy met his eyes, her own red with weeping. She was smiling contendedly. She shook his hand solemnly. The assembled men began to cheer wildly, and Betsy flashed them a wide grin.
"I think I will like it here," she said to Kenny. "Reminds me of home."
"Then welcome to the family," Kenny laughed, putting a friendly arm around her shoulder. "Now what say we get us some chow."
Thus it was with Stanley's men that summer afternoon when the stranger rode into their midst. The men figured they had to be imagining things -- either that or they'd been eating loco weed.
The stranger was a woman. And not just any woman, but a jaw-dropping, palm-sweating, I-need-some-desert-time-alone kind of woman. The first thing the men noticed was that she smelled like a lady. She rode into the camp proudly, sporting an eager grin on her smooth-jawed face, and reeking of cleanliness and fancy city parfumes.
The men saw she was dressed in fancy cowboy dudes: sleek, tight-fitting, cordoroy pants, with scarcely a speck of dust on them, brand-new leather chaps, boots that must have a cost a hundred dollars _each_, an oversize red-and-white checkered fannel shirt, a red bandana tied in a neat knot around her throat, and topping off the outfit, a ten-gallon felt cowboy hat tied to her head by a slender string that looped under her chin. The men didn't know whether to drool or laugh.
"She's a goddamned city slicker!" grunted one man finally, and he was echoed by a round of guffaws.
"I'll slick her city," growled another, to even bigger laughs.
The woman didn't flinch, though a deaf person would have heard the comments. Instead she grinned at men and tried to wave her hat at them, but got the string tangled under her chin.
"Howdy, boys!" she finally managed, waving the hat broadly. "My name's Beth Ann Morgan, but everyone calls me Betsy. I'm from New Jersey. This is my first time in Montana. Wonderful place. I'm sure proud to be here. Stanley Herdass sent me. I'm your new cowhand!"
The stunned silence that coldly greeted this introduction would have quieted most locals, or even the town drunk, but not Beth Ann Morgan. She rattled on, oblivious to the manevolent eyes heading her way.
"Now I know I've got a lot to learn about cowherding, so don't think I'm not willing to learn. I've been dreaming about being a cowgirl for as long as I could dream, and Daddy finally told me to get out of his factory and go out West and get it over with, so here I am, and I'm gonna be the best durned cowgirl in the entire state of Montana!"
The boys just looked at each other in shock. Finally one man began to laugh. He was a big man -- Big Joe was his name -- and he was widely respected by the other men. He laughed and jostled Kenny, the foreman. "Don't ya see? It's a joke! Stanley's playing us as fools, boss!"
Instantly the other men caught on. Cries of "Of course!" and "That Stanley!" and "Pretty funny." echoed around the campsite. The girl sat on her horse and watched the men chatter for a moment, and then she shrugged and tried to leap off her horse.
Her leap was less than graceful, but in the end it did accomplish her objective of separating herself from her horse. She landed face down in a muddy patch, soiling her outfit. This caused the men to laugh so hard they fell to the ground themselves, giggling and huffing like schoolgirls.
"Well I'll be damned if I've seen anything like that!" hooted Big Joe. "Where'd Stanley find this bird?"
"Don't know," added Spice, the Chinese cook, waving a large metal spoon at the girl, "but from the view in my quarter she's a mighty fine woman."
The men laughed at this, eyebrows and other parts of anatomy going up as they watched the girl wiggling on her hands and knees in the mud. She sat up gingerly. Her brand spanking new shirt was caked with a thick layer of dripping black mud, and while she was moaning the dreadful fate of her clean clothes, the men were oggling the pronounced mounds of flesh on her chest that the mud emphasized in nearly obscene fashion. Whistles of appreciation echoed around the campsite.
"God bless Stanely Herdass!" sighed a man.
"I take back every mean thing I ever said about that bastard," breathed another.
The men sat transfixed, watching the girl as she attempted to wipe the mud off her chest.
"Oh, my new clothes are ruined!" moaned the girl in dismay. "I just bought them two days ago in Rodeo City."
The men started to laugh again, but when they saw the girl's drooping eyes filling with tears and her delicate, quivering lips begin to pout, their laughter quickly died. Kenny, the foreman, stepped forward.
"Uh, it's okay, ma'am. We can rustle up some clothes for ya from the men here. No need to cry." Awkwardly, he patted the girl on the back. She looked up to him with grateful, shining eyes.
"Oh, thank you! I'm terribly sorry to be such a burden." With Kenny's help, the girl shakily got to her feet.
"I'm Kenny," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm the foreman."
"Oh, good! Stanley mentioned you. Now he and I came to a strict understanding, you know. He and I don't want you treating me any different from the men. I'm just another cowhand. I want no special treatment."
Kenny looked awkward. "Are you serious, lady? You're really wanting to be a cowboy?"
"Yes, sir. I've read every book on the subject, fiction and non-fiction, since I was eight years old."
"This is not some joke by Stanley?"
The girl flushed and shook her head viciously. "Now look, Stanley told me there might be some resistance to having a girl out here, but he said you had some kind of welcoming thing you do to new men that sort of intitiates them and makes everyone feel like brothers. Well, that's what I want. I don't want to be treated any different than any man."
If jaws had dropped when Beth Ann rode into the camp, now they positively broke off and fell to the ground. The men stared at each other, at Beth Ann, and shook their heads in amazement.
"We must be dreaming," mumbled a tall man. "Yow!" he yelped as someone pinched him rather cruelly. He grinned as he looked at the three oh-so-innocent men behind him. "Well, I'm awake now and she's still here, so I guess not!"
Kenny scratched his head and looked at the girl. "Lady, I'd don't think you know what you got yourself into here. This here is Stanley Herdass' land, and he runs the tightest, toughest outfit in all the West. Why there are twelve-year veterans that pale at the mention of working on his ranches. It's not a place for c***dren and not a place for women."
Beth Ann folded her arms in front of her chest defiantly, drawing moans of displeasure from the assembled men. She glared at Kenny. "Now look here, mister Big Shot Foreman. Stanley Herdass himself gave me this job and I'm not going to let you or any other men here fuck it up for me!" She spat on the ground. "Treat me just like any of your men and we'll get along just fine."
In twenty-six years of herding cows Kenny had never been talked to like that by a man that still lived, let alone hearing it from a woman. Rage seethed through his body and he fought for control. He didn't want his men seeing that the woman bothered him. So he gave a casual shrug. "Hey, if that's what you want. But I bet ten dollars you're going off crying to your Daddy by morning."
The girl clapped her hands in excitment. She snatched up the startled foreman's hand and pumped it vigorously. "You've got a bet. Thanks, Kenny. I appreciate this. You won't regret it." She paused, glanced at her chest. "Now about those fresh clothes..."
A slow grin came over Kenny's chiseled face. He snapped his fingers. "Ringo. Give me your shirt."
"Hey, come on, boss, it's cold out here."
"Now, Ringo."
The man shrugged and quickly shucked off his fithly sweat-stained shirt and handed it to the boss. Kenny took it without comment. "Danny. Where's Danny boy?"
"Here, boss." A lithe young boy came up to the front of the men.
"You're about her size. Give her your pants."
The boy's mouth opened for a second, and then he snapped it shut. "Yesir," he mumbled, seating himself on a wooden crate he tugged off his boots and removed his thick jeans. He stood in the evening light, legs pale and skinny, a shirt and thin pair of once-white briefs his only garments.
Kenny tossed the clothing at the feet of Beth Ann. "All right," he said. "Get changed."
For a second the girl glanced around, as though expecting a private hotel suite to pop up in the middle of the wilderness, and then she saw Kenny's hard gaze, mocking and triumphant. Beth Ann relaxed her face and smiled at Kenny. Hesitating only a couple seconds longer, she began to strip.
First off were her boots, which she kicked off easily, as they were rather large for her petite feet. The chaps came off next, discarded in the mud. Next was her mud-stained shirt. She carefully unbuttoned the series of studs down the front and opened it, revealing a massive womanly figure encased by a slim white cotton brassiere. The men were gulping and fidgeting as they watched.
Beth Ann tossed the muddy shirt aside, standing indifidently before the men. She glanced up at Kenny. "This brassiere's got some mud on it too," she said boldly, her blue eyes locked with his iron gray ones. Neither budged. Moving quickly, Beth Ann reached her hands to her shoulders and unfastened the tiny buckles that held the cloth in place.
The campsite was as quiet as a empty grave as Beth Ann tossed the brassier aside. She stood half-naked before the men, the soft pale flesh of her bosoms graceful and delicately indecent. Each breast was tipped with a thick red areola and capped with a stiff nipple that every man watching could have sworn was poking directly at him personally.
"Lordy have mercy!" yelped Bayton Bridges, oldest of the gang of men, pawing nervously at his large gray beard.
Even Kenny appeared shaken, glancing awkwardly back at his men as though uncertain of his support. He quickly regained control, however, and nodded at Beth Ann to continue. She stared at him for a moment, hands on her hips, naked breasts taunting him, and then she continued.
She turned her back to the men, unbuckling her belt and gradually letting her cordoroy pants slide down. They gathered indecently around her ankles, looking dull and lifeless. Beth Ann didn't move for a moment, fully aware of the dozens of eyes studying her long sleek legs and juicy thighs. Around her hips were a pair of scant pink panties, trimmed with lace, and purchased for what a typical cowhand earned with a month of grueling labor.
Slowly Beth Ann stepped out of her pants and turned and faced the men. She made no move to hide her body, but kept her hands on her hips, defiant and bold.
For a long while no one spoke. Then a small man with a grizzled face like a piece of dried fruit siddled up to Kenny and, cupping his hand to the other's ear, whispered. Kenny's dark and cold face began to smile as he listened, nodding.
"Excellent suggestion, Leroy," he said, drawing away from the man. He smiled at the girl. "Leroy thinks that since you are already nearly undressed we might as well proceed with the 'welcomimg' ceremony you mentioned earlier."
The girl's eyes narrowed as she studied the man. She spoke cautiously. "What is the welcoming procedure?"
Kenny, shrugged casually, turned slightly away, as though bored by matters. "We whip you," he said. Though he appeared to be looking away, his eyes were locked on the girl, spying for a reaction, any reaction, no matter how subtle. But the girl did not seem alarmed or surprised.
"So a whipping is part of the initiation?" she asked. Her voice was as strong and bold as ever.
Swallowing hard, Kenny nodded. A bead of sweat appeared on his brow. "Yes. Stanley wants only tough men on his ranch. Whipping is common discipline here at the Slanted H. New men must demonstrate a willingness to accept such discipline. We must work together closely; our lives depended on each other. We must be able to trust one another. We cannot work together if we don't respect you."
The girl nodded. "By accepting pain I demonstrate my courage and my commitment. I understand. I expected something similar. But why should I respect you?"
For a few seconds, Kenny's jaw pulsed in fury but he bit down on his tobacco tightly. He smiled thinly. "After I whip you, I guarantee you'll respect me," he muttered.
Beth Ann shrugged. "All right. Let's get this over with. How it is done? I want it just like you do for new men. Don't treat me any differently because I'm a woman. I won't have none of your damn male sympathy!"
The foreman glanced back at his men who were staring at him like they'd just been stuck with pitchforks. The girl had just erased any hope of them going easy on her. He shrugged. "Go ahead and get completely undressed." His voice faltered as the girl's pink underpants struck his chest. He caught them reflexively, clutching them in a tight fist. Strangely, the part against his palm felt damp.
The men stirred restlessly, shuffling their feet and elbowing each other for a better view. Beth Ann stood impassively before the men, idly smoothing down her short-cropped hair with one hand, and waiting. Acres of lush female flesh taunted the men, who licked their lips and began to plot. They each wanted her for their own, and wondered how they could make it happen.
Kenny brought the men back to attention, urging Leroy, who hung near his elbow, to fetch the whips. The man grimaced at Beth Ann with an eagerness she should have found dreadful. Instead she grinned back at him and winked, and he left, shaken and puzzled.
No one spoke for a moment, and then Kenny motioned to Beth Ann to follow him. Keeping himself between her and the men, he guided her toward the chuckwagon, parked before the blazing fire. Spice, the cook, hopped out of the back of the wagon carrying a stretch of rope.
Kenny turned his gray eyes on Beth Ann. "Do we need the rope?"
The girl was astonished. "Hell no! I can take whatever you've got." She paused. "Just how much are you planning to whip me, anyway?"
"A great deal," said Kenny. His voice was cold, with perhaps a twinge of sadness, though he spoke with little emotion. "Every man you see here is going to whip your ass. And after they are done, it's my turn."
The naked girl didn't flinch at his blunt words as he expected. She grinned. "Sounds fair," she grunted, rubbing her palms together as though preparing for a game.
Kenny had one more trick left. He didn't take his eyes off the girl as Leroy approached, carrying the whips. Kenny took the wide razor strop and held it up so the girl could see and fear it.
"Ah, the old razor strop," sighed the girl. "I'm well aquainted with that one. For a while there, my father gave me a weekly dose whether I needed it or not. Every Saturday night it was a trip to the barn." Beth Ann spoke fondly, with her head leaning back and her eyes half-closed, as though recalling her first kiss.
The foreman ground his teeth and spat on the ground. He threw the strop to one of the men and snatched the horse crop from Leroy's arms. Several of the men eyed it warily. It was in the shape of a rod, over a yard long, leather wound stiffly around the flexible core. It tapered to a narrow tip, thinner than a man's smallest finger.
"This crop," growled Kenny, swishing it menacingly, "is the standard instrument of punishement at the Slanted H. The minimum is ten lashes across the bare buttocks, but it's often more. It is given by the foreman or owner for minor offenses -- excess drinking, tardiness, fighting, or poor work. We're talking a severe whipping here, no mild rebuke. I often draw blood."
Kenny licked his lips greedily. "At any time you may choose to leave the Slanted H instead of accepting your punishment, but do not think you will work on any ranch owned by Stanley Herdass again." He laughed. "Cowards are banished from the Slanted H forever."
The girl stood calmly before the man. She nodded. "That is an excellent policy." She hesitated, and Kenny's heart leaped with excitement. Was she finally showing fear? he thought greedily.
But the girl was only shy. "May I see it?" she asked. She pointed at the crop, and in confusion, Kenny shrugged, handing it to her. She ran her fingers up and down the leather shaft, bending it and swinging it through the air. "A mighty fine instrument," she said finally. The men watching couldn't think of a thing to say.
Kenny rudely grabbed the crop from her. "Since you are so intrigued, I shall demonstrate it for you. Grasp the wagon wheel," he said, pointing with the whip.
Blushly slightly, Beth Ann walked to the wheel and stood before it. Arching her eyebrows slightly at the foreman, she spread her legs just beyond shoulder width and gripped the top of the wheel, waiting to see if he approved. He nodded gruffly, cursing the girl's calmness. She stood naked in twilight, the flicking flames sending a dancing glow across her bare haunches. Her wide buttocks were pale and supple, and already Kenny ached to see them striped by his whip. Then let's see how she acts, he thought bitterly.
"I'm going to give you ten," he spat. "Just as a demonstration of what a typical punishment is like. Then we'll start your whippings." He paused, waiting for a retort, but the girl didn't speak. "You can leave any time, you know," he added.
"I know," replied Beth Ann. "But I don't want to leave. I'm going to be a cowgirl." She shivered. "Come on. It's getting chilly."
I'll fix that, thought Kenny, and he marched up behind the girl. He had been prepared to only scare her, but her arrogance enflamed him. Now he knew he was going to roast her ass and whip her harder than he'd ever whipped any of his men.
The first blow echoed across the valley like the retort of a pistol, and several of the men watching sucked in their breath sharply. The girl wiggled her head but did not move her body. A dark crease appeared horizontally across the tops of her buttocks. It made the rest of the girl's naked flesh seem even more pale and vulnerable.
The second stripe quickly followed, and then a third. Still the girl hadn't moved or made a sound. Kenny could feel the men growing restless behind him. In a rage he brought down the crop wildly in a series of harsh blows that stunned the men watching. The whip lashed viciously across the exposed cheeks and thighs of the patient girl, criss-crossing and leaving four dark, swelling weals. Beth Ann gasped, suddenly, during the pause, and Kenny beamed.
"Oh, God," groaned the girl, wiggling her bottom a little. "That's an excellent whip, uh, Mr. Foreman, er, Kenny, sir. It smarts something sharp!"
The girl's voice didn't even quaver as she spoke, and as the blood drained from his face, Kenny swore he could detect amusement in the girl's speech.
The last three strokes were the hardest of all, cruelly placed at the same spot, across the base of the girl's bottom, literally lifting the cheeks. The thick flesh quickly puffed and blistered under the beating, and when the last blow landed, the skin split and scarlet blood oozed from the wound.
The men watching winced and waited for the girl to collapse in hysterics or scream, but she did neither. She inhaled deeply, then shook her head rapidly, as though clearing it. She stepped back from the wheel and gingerly touched her buttocks with her hands. The sticky blood got on her fingers and she sniffed at it curiously.
"Not bad, for just ten strokes," she murmured to no one in particular . . .
* * * * *
Part 2
(*****, M12/F, Severe, humor, severe whipping)
A group of lonely cowhands are astonished by the new female worker their boss hires, but she takes her initiation well. (Approximately 5,856 words. Originally published 1997-11.)
"Not bad, for just ten strokes," she murmured to no one in particular. She fondled her rump again. "These will be gone in a week, though. That whip of yours is too light to really bruise beneath the skin. I suppose it was designed that way on purpose -- for repeated use."
Speechless, Kenny nodded. His belly ached as though he'd been slugged there. He passed the whip to Leroy without a sound and went to the fire where the kettle hung. Not bothering with a rag, he gripped the hot metal handle with his thick, calloused fingers and poured himself a mug of hot coffee. He hung the kettle back and sat himself on the ground, nodding at Danny, the boy who'd given up his pants.
"You're the youngest," he said, his face stiff and shapeless like a rocky cliffside. "Let's get going."
Danny, his face red, took the razor strop from another man and stepped forward. He felt awkward in his briefs, though the tail of his skirt covered him slightly, and he approached the woman with real trepidation. From the cool way she watched him anyone coming onto the scene without any background would have thought he was bringing the whip for her to punish him.
"Ma'am," the boy said, his voice rough. He half-glanced down between his legs, wondering if his stiffness showed. The girl smiled kindly at him for a moment, and then turned back to the wheel, spreading her legs and gripping the top.
"Danny's been here two years," called out Kenny. "That's two strokes."
Danny nodded grimly, gripping the lash as tightly as he could in his sweat-soaked palm. He stood behind and beside the girl, eyeing his target carefully. He could smell the woman, sweat glistening on her back, and see the dreadful weals cutting across the soft cheeks of her ass. Up close the skin was impossibly smooth and feminine, crying out for him reach out a hand to caress the blistered flesh.
He swallowed, his throat like sand. Two years earlier it had been him in her place, naked and tied to the wagon wheel, his bare ass prickly with stings as the breeze blew across it, taunting him with the agony of waiting for the punishment to continue. He remembered how he had felt, how frightened he'd been, how elated at surviving. He'd been whipped many times since then, but nothing matched that first time. He'd thought he could take it easily -- he'd taken his father's strap enough as a k** -- but this was nothing like those c***dish spankings. This was a man's whipping: long, brutal, and public.
But this wasn't a man before him now. This was a woman. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his nineteen years. Her body was supple and graceful, and she spoke with fire and ice, arrogant words he'd never heard from a woman, and yet here she was, naked and accepting the whip.
"Come on, Danny boy, we haven't all day!" shouted Kenny.
Danny nodded and drew back the strop. He must make this good. If his strokes weren't full force, he'd be receiving the crop from the foreman. With all the strength in his right arm he brought the thick leather strop across the bare cheeks before him. The slap sounded pale and mild compared to the dull thwock of the crop, and the girl didn't move, but a pink rectangle blossomed across her skin.
Danny brought the strop down again, this time even harder. His aim went off a bit, and he caught the back of her right thigh. The girl wiggled her right leg suddenly, and Danny realized he'd caught her by surprise.
He walked back to the men with a slight swagger. The woman had felt his strokes, all right. He might be just a k**, but he was fast becoming a man.
The next was Mulligan, a hefty Irishman who'd been with the ranch for four years. People could disagree with how Stanley Herdass ran the Slanted H, but few could argue with the results. Stanley had the most loyal workforce in the state, and in a business where a cowhand's six-month stay was considered impressive, Stanley's men worked for years. Unfortunately this did not bode well for poor Beth Ann, for Mulligan was considered a newcomer at the Slanted H. His four strokes were harder and broader than Danny's, catching the fullness of her backside, and leaving her striped from side to side.
Elliot was next. Originally from Texas, he was a tall thin man who wore spectacles, and woe be the man who thought him weak. Under his slim frame were wiry muscles and skillful roping that astonished even veteran cowboys. This was Elliot's sixth year with the Slanted H.
The man didn't hesitate or draw out the punishment. He struck quickly, without preamble, laying down the strokes so rapidly and efficiently the girl was still gasping from the first when he delivered the sixth.
"Woah!" cried Beth Ann, wiggling her backside. Her buttocks were blotched with a vivid red. "That man knows how to strop!" she called out as Elliot nodded to the crowd of cheering men.
"I had to raise my brothers and sisters after Pa passed on," Elliot said gruffly. The men laughed and teased him as he made his way back into the crowd.
"I can do better than that," growled a dull voice, and the men grew quiet.
It was Ringo, the man who'd given up his shirt. He wasn't happy about it, wrapping the strop around his hand with greedy relish. He stood in the cool night, his tough skin stretching across his muscular back and arms. The men stepped aside as he passed. It was his tenth year on the ranch.
Ringo's style was the opposite of Elliot's. He drew out the punishment, delivering a cracking blow to the poor girl's quivering haunches and waiting ten, twenty, perhaps forty seconds before continuing. The effect on the girl was remarkable. In the interlude between strokes she huffed and puffed, moaned, writhed, and waggled her tail bawdily. On the fourth stroke her moans reached a feverish intensity and when the fifth landed she cried out loudly and her body slumped on the wheel. The woman gave a huge sigh of gratitude and contentment.
"Thanks, Ringo," she whispered, her voice faint.
"Plenty more where that came from," growled the big man.
"I know."
Ringo's tiny brain was attempting to understand the girl's confusing reaction -- it didn't ring right in his head that a girl would thank him for whipping her bare ass. Therefore he figured she must be mocking him. He gripped the strop tighter and put all of his furious black heart into it, using every trick his thirty-eight years of whipping and being whipped had taught him.
When Ringo threw down the strop in triumph, a maze of purple blisters across her hindquarters, the girl turned and looked over her shoulder.
"Oh, are you done?" Her voice bore a distinct tone of disappointment!
The men laughed and Ringo smacked his fist into his palm in undisguised rage. He stomped off into the night.
The next few men were Thom Shayle, Benny Dobson, and Bear Smith, the half-breed Indian who had earned the men's respect and admiration through sheer determination and hard work. Each of them had been with Stanley for twelve years.
There was a brief breather after that blistering series, as the men needed to pause for drinks and to relieve themselves. Whipping was thirsty work.
Kenny eyed Betsy nervously. Her rump was approaching the color and texture of ground beef. He had Danny fetch her a dipper of fresh water, which she drank gratefully, giving him a shy smile that sent thrills through his young body. The goosebumps on his legs were not from the cold.
Kenny was studying Betsy's buttocks as she drank, and when she finished he gave Danny more instructions. The boy quickly fetched a bucket of water. Dipping a cloth in the water, he lovingly washed the girl's bottom and thighs, trying not to stare at the bulging slit between her legs. It peeped at him through curls of pale, golden hair. Danny noticed it glistened with moisture though he'd been careful to keep his cloth away from that area.
Washed and cleaned during the break, Betsy was revitalized for the remainder of the whipping. She was more conscious of the strokes, and the puffy welts that early seemed so ready to burst had softened with the absorption of water.
The first to whip after the break was old man Bayton. He'd been a cow-hand for over forty years, since he was but a lad. The last f******n had been on one of Stanley's ranches. He was old but hard and stubborn as iron. He didn't like the idea of a woman as a cow-hand. Went against the laws of nature. This little hussy sure needed a lesson, he thought. So he gave her f******n of 'em.
Next was Spice, the cook. Small and wirey, he never felt he got the respect of the men for his difficult labor. This was his chance to excel at something physical. His fifteen strokes were brutally hard and fast and cruel.
After Spice went Leroy, a shrimp of a man, dried up like a wrinkled prune, but hard as petrified wood. His sixteen strokes were all across the backs of her thighs where the skin was fresh and tender. Betsy seemed to appreciate that, moaning and crying out with little gasps of what, to the untrained ears of the men, sounded like pleasure, but obviously wasn't.
The crowd that had been cheering Leroy went silent with respect as the next man took the strop, and everyone was rewarded with a look of consternation on the girl's face as she looked over her shoulder. Big Joe was thundering forward, a mean look on his face. Betsy didn't know this was Big Joe's natural expression and the only one he knew. She thought he was angry and the sight of those bulging arms as thick as the thighs of most men, made her quiver.
"I've been here eighteen years, girl," he said slowly, enjoying Betsy's wince. "You are going to feel this."
The whipping was extreme. Twice Kenny thought about stopping it, but no welcoming whipping had ever been stopped before. He forced himself to remember she was a man, a caw-hand like any other. This was an impossible challenge, with her naked, writhing, and whimpering with those gorgeous high-pitched cries of hers, but Kenny steeled himself. After all, he was next.
"Damn that _hurt_!" roared Betsy, stomping her feet in an effort to jog off the pain. A heaving and puffing Big Joe let the feverish strop tumble from his thick fingers.
Betsy wheeled on Big Joe before anyone could warn him. Her arms shot up around his bull-neck and pulled his head down and to the shock of everyone, especially poor Big Joe, kissed him smack on the lips.
"Whooo-eeee!" roared a gleeful Bayton. "I ain't see a gal kiss like that since I was a knee-high to a grasshopper!"
"Thanks, Big Joe," winked the city girl, twirling back to her place at the wheel. She placed her palms at the top and thrust out her lambasted backside. "Who's next?" she cried defiantly.
"I am," said Kenny, his voice as dry of humor as the desert. The men fell silent as he approached, fingering the bloody razor strop.
Betsy watched Kenny over her shoulder, her dark eyes glowing. She panted heavily, her sumptuous chest swelling and collapsing with frenetic speed. Her skin gleamed with sweat, and as Kenny drew near, he noticed peculiar feminine odors he hadn't smelled often enough in his life. The smell made his mouth go dry. He wished he'd taken time for a drink.
The girl was looking away now, the graceful half-moons of her buttocks arched toward him. The flesh was dark and mottled with bruises and welts. For a moment Kenny felt pity, but then he remembered the girl's arrogant smirk as she declared herself "one of the boys" and he resolved to thrash her the best he knew how.
He started with the backs of her legs and worked his way up, one slow stroke at a time. The girl moaned, gasping and hissing in pain. She arched her back, wiggled her rear, and crooned.
Kenny worked on her buttocks, ignoring Betsy's shuddering and shrieks. As he lifted the strop for another blow the poor girl howled, her body spasming wildly, and she thrust her hips in such a vulgar manner that the foreman had to look away. When he looked back she was sighing and panting, as though she'd run a long race. She glanced back at him, her face shining with tears, and grinned.
The last dozen strokes fell, then, in a mindless ecstasy of pain. Kenny whipped mightily, the girl sang and danced prettily, and the men watched in lurid fascination.
When it was over the girl did not move for a long time, but stood, body arched, legs apart, arms wide as she gripped the wheel tightly. Her head was down and she breathed deeply, deliberately, as though breathing was of profound significance.
"Well done," said Kenny finally, guilt stabbing his chest each time he saw the scarlet gooey mess that was Betsy's bottom. He offered his hand. "Many's a man that wouldn't take such a whipping so gracefully," he added with genuine feeling.
Betsy met his eyes, her own red with weeping. She was smiling contendedly. She shook his hand solemnly. The assembled men began to cheer wildly, and Betsy flashed them a wide grin.
"I think I will like it here," she said to Kenny. "Reminds me of home."
"Then welcome to the family," Kenny laughed, putting a friendly arm around her shoulder. "Now what say we get us some chow."
Clover
- 14.07.2021
- 9
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