Miss Ilona Paisley had never felt less adequate. Her instinct was to run, but that would be futile. She longed to cover herself but that was denied. These men were rough and tough and there was a look in their eyes as they assessed her femaleness.
She clutched at a single hope, and asked: "Are you taking me back to Miss Woods?"
"After we've given you a right royal fucking, lady."
She turned and ran. She did so in blind instinctive fear, knowing she could not stand passively for their pleasure. Her flight might be futile but it was something her femaleness demanded of her. She sped towards the nearest trees.
They caught her easily, grasping a handful of her flying hair. Dismounting, they tethered their horses and eyed their captive with fresh interest. Their air of preordained purpose was daunting.
"Better tie her, Luke. She'll be nothin' but trouble." Ilona eyed the rawhide strip askance, she wanted none of it. Frantically, she surrendered pride. "Please don't tie me. There's no need. I promise I won't run again, I know it was foolish. I'll? I'll do what you tell me."
"Lady, you gits tied, and that's that."
"Well, could I eat first, I'm so hungry?"
They fed her as they might have fed their horse, a necessary nuisance. While she ate they stood close, hawkeyed.
"Pity we ain't allowed ter knock her around a bit, Rance. That fixes 'em good.
Gals pay real attention to a man's fist."
Wiping her fingers on the grass, Ilona tried again. "Let me give you my parole, it's a promise not to even try to escape. I want to go back to the ranch, I honestly do.
But it's hateful to be tied when I'm? I'm all. . naked."
"What yer' want yer' hands for, lady? Cover yer cunt?" She did not answer, nor did she protest further while they turned her about, gathered her arms and tied her wrists behind her back. The rawhide bit hard, the knots' where her fingers could not reach. Ilona Paisley trembled in a terrible certainty.
"Awkward to lay her on her back, Rance."
"Hell no, she'll manage. Damn good fer givin' her a feel. C'mon, she's got more'n one place."
She stood, trying hard to look at the horizon, while her body and all its recesses were explored and probed by rough insensitive hands. She was forced to spread her legs to make her crotch available and to stick out her chest to aid in the mauling of her breasts. Pathetically, she asked:
"Does Miss Woods wish you to treat me like this?"
More chuckles. "She ain't here to ask, lady."
Ilona Paisley's initial shame was limited by male arousal. Her body acted as a powerful stimulus upon the men who had bound her. Luke swept her from her feet and laid on the grass in woman's most ancient sacrifice. While he ravished her she wept, but he accepted her tears as an additional tribute and licked them thirstily as he pumped at her with the avid thrusts of a man who sees few women. When Rance took his place between her thighs her healthy woman senses betrayed her, she began to gasp and to respond. When Luke returned to her sheath she climaxed violently in a manner she had never known, her whole being wracked by spasm after spasm of orgasmic agony.
"Dammit', Luke, we can't be that hot. Took three shots to make the gal come."
"She ain't used to it. Most likely a tongue and groove bitch, and she's scared. Best way ter git 'em hot is to lace into their ass with a quirt. Shit, we got the time."
It was going to be worse than she had feared. These were virile brutes, infinitely potent. Rape was a quick savage assault, this was a lustful attrition to conquer every part of her body and mouth. She was rolled over, Rance sat astride her neck and dragged up on her bound hands. "There y'are, Luke, as perky a little ass as a man ever see'd."
The pain was hateful and bitter. Luke's quirt had heavy thongs which splatted into her flesh with surprising force, venomous bites of leather which set her bare legs to flailing ineffectually but to the great delight of the men whose booty she now was.
"Lookit' them red lines!" Rance enthused. "Never seen a gal whipped 'afore. I like it."
"Best way I know to make 'em be a woman." Luke punctuated his statement with a swift and accurate slash on squirming flesh. "Makes 'em hot, makes 'em obedient?
and, boy, look at them legs!"
It was a nadir of humiliation. Ilona was helpless. Rance's weight on her neck and shoulders, his grasp of her arms, her bound wrists. .! Al she could do was moan and kick. She wanted to lay still and rob them of the erotic delight of female motions, but the pain was too much for that, whatever relief she could find she had to take. Even if her lips had not been pressed into the grass it would have been useless to ask mercy. She was not being punished, she was being conditioned. Her prescribed aphrodisiac was the quirt. It was being applied on her bottom as a sexual stimulant. Hating her captors and herself she had to acknowledge its efficacy. The arousal in her loins was all that separated her from the simile of a small but naughty girl being held down by stern parents while her perky derriere was well and truly tanned.
"Bet she's hotter'n a firecracker." Luke was proud of his work, emphasizing its quality with a ferocious swipe across bounding cheeks to bring out Ilona's first scream. "Y'see, she actually felt that one. She shore got a flaming little ass."
The weight was lifted. Ilona was turned back upon her bound arm, her burning bottom protesting its contact with rough grass and bits of twig. Within seconds she was impaled. Before Luke and Rance were done with her Miss Ilona Paisley climaxed four more times.
After she had been coarsely complimented on the superlative quality of her cunt her captors laughingly broke the news of being not many miles from the ranch.
Ilona's flight had turned to circle. Al three of them speculated as to where it might have taken her had she not brought it to a halt. They hoisted her behind a saddle and fastened her thighs to it with the latigo laces. Her quirted skin screamed disapproval, her tied wrists denied action. She sat astride to gaze at her captor's red neck and smell his sweat.
Chapter Seven
It was an almost theatrical tableau. Even though she was still dustily naked and her hands were still tied behind her back and a frightful punishment undoubtedly pending, Ilona felt sure that if she caught her mistress's eye she would giggle. It was too classic a scene to be true. But it was true. "Innocence before its Judge": "Guilt standing before Justice": "Awaiting sentence": "The condemned." The Victorian titles of a hundred paintings of douce damsels about to get their just desserts flitted though her mind. She would like to break the pose, but could think of none more practical. She wanted to exclaim: "For goodness sake, Cicely, don't sit there like Julius Caesar about to send me to the Arena," but lacked the courage. Instead, she ejaculated lamely:
"So alright, Cicely, I'm guilty."
In the ensuing silence the prisoner reviewed her return to the ranch. It had been far from triumphant. For the last mile she had been made to walk, entering the big yard and Cicely's range of vision at the end of a long rope, one end noosed round her neck, the other coiled round Rance's saddle horn. Her tired feet had been made to halt before the disdainful figure of a woman with a riding crop.
"We git the right gal, maam?"
The crop turned the runaway around to be examined. Its tip hovered upon the rawhide knots on her wrists and flickered across the scarlet evidence of the quirt.
Both were ignored by Cicely's cold acknowledgement. "Yes, she's the right one. I see you quirted her rump. Why?"
"It was part of them fucking me!" The exclamation burst from Ilona's lips in hot resentment. Sullenly, she added: "The bastards fucked me again and again."
"Really." Cicely parted with the word in contempt.
"I'm sure you enjoyed it."