by Bryan Caine
‘Belinda Hopeworth, sir,’ she answered honestly.
‘Belinda Hopeworth – and you are looking for an uncle?’ He folded his arms across his broad chest, leaned back in his chair, and blatantly studied her delicious curves more closely. He beckoned her to approach, and had her stand in front of his knees. He took her hands in his. ‘Belinda,’ he said, ‘I think your search is over.’
Her heart leapt. ‘You mean… you mean you are my uncle?’ she exclaimed with wide-eyed incredulity.
‘No,’ he snorted, and a hint of humanity almost creased his stern face. ‘But I am an uncle. I have an adorable niece about your age. We used to get along real fine until she was seventeen and her mother sent her off to Europe for education.’ He gazed upon her breasts. ‘I kinda miss her.’
Belinda blushed at her silly outburst. ‘I am truly sorry to hear that, sir,’ she said sincerely. ‘But I don’t quite see—’
‘Perhaps we could help each other,’ he interrupted.
‘Help each other? How sir?’
He rolled the fat cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘You clearly don’t want the men to be punished. Your loyalty is highly touching and commendable.’
‘Thank you. They did save my life, after all.’
‘Quite.’ His jaw tightened as he clamped the cigar even tighter. ‘Why don’t you sit on my knee, and we’ll discuss the matter.’
If there was a chance of getting him to change his mind about the whippings she would do what she must to seize it. She turned sideways to sit on his lap.
‘No,’ he stopped her, and then pulled gently on her hands so that she had to straddle his thighs. ‘Now sit,’ he instructed. Belinda found the smooth material of his well-tailored trousers to be quite sensual as it brushed her inner thighs and caressed her sex beneath the skirt. He then casually rested his hands on her thighs, and his fingertips and thumbs inched, almost accidentally, under the hem. The touch sent a secret thrill of nervous pleasure up her spine. The arms of the chair inhibited her position slightly, so he squirmed a little lower in the chair until she was lodged over his groin. She could feel his heat radiating through the trousers. Cigar smoke curled around them both, and Belinda found the rich scent quite pleasant.
‘Now,’ the Colonel croaked. ‘Those soldiers are as fine a fighting force as you’ll find anywhere in this land. Between you and me, I can’t blame them for being led astray by your abundant charms.’ His gaze fell on her breasts again and he squeezed her thighs. Belinda didn’t know whether to accept his words as a compliment. ‘Trouble is, as I’m sure you know, I have no authority to deal with civilians – except in exceptionally serious matters. Since I cannot punish you, I have no choice but to punish them as an example to everyone else under my command.’
‘I see,’ Belinda whispered.
‘On the other hand, if you, as a matter of honour, were to accept full responsibility for their waywardness and voluntarily take their punishment yourself I would feel obliged to cancel their sentence.’
Belinda was torn. In theory she saw the proposal as an ideal solution in terms of honour and fairness, but she didn’t relish the thought of being flogged – particularly not in front of the whole fort. On the other hand six lashes was not excessive, and would at least repay those men for their chivalry. So deep in thought was she that she was barely aware of him fumbling beneath her skirt with his trouser fastenings.
‘Before you make a final decision on such a grave matter,’ he continued, with the cigar seemingly lodged permanently between his yellow teeth. ‘It is important you understand that I am an honourable gentleman and officer…’
Belinda had her doubts about that.
‘…and am therefore prepared to reduce the number of lashes by one third, if you are prepared to show your gratitude to such a magnanimous gesture.’
Four lashes. She could cope with that, and honour would be satisfied. ‘Very well,’ she nodded.
‘A wise decision.’ He placed the cigar in an ashtray on the desk and licked his lips. ‘Undo your blouse.’ His eyes bulged as they followed her fingers moving methodically down her front, undoing the buttons as they went. Soon the white blouse was tugged from the skirt and held open for him to feast upon the firm beauty of her breasts. He swallowed hard, and then startled Belinda by latching onto a nipple and devouring it as though near starvation. She could smell his greasy hair tonic as he chewed and salivated over her. More fumbling beneath the skirt and she gasped as she felt a stiff column spring against her thighs. She held his head to prevent herself from tumbling backwards onto the floor, and he obviously interpreted this as an indication of her mounting passions. He buried his face between her breasts and inhaled her wholesome scent as he wormed his hands beneath her bottom and jiggled her into the required position. Belinda accepted the inevitability of her predicament, so she closed her eyes and allowed him to do as he wished. He was snorting in her cleavage like a pig, and then she felt something like a plum peel open her sex-lips. Hands pressed down on her hips and she sank onto his vertical rod. Their position allowed the Colonel to penetrate her deeply, and she could not withhold a long, satisfied sigh. Her fingers entwined in his greasy hair and she guided an erect nipple into his hungry mouth. He cupped her bottom again and guided her up and down his gnarled length. She threw her head back and almost instantly shuddered into a wonderful orgasm.
Belinda wanted to sit quietly and wallow in the divine pleasures the Colonel had evoked, but he had different ideas. Without consideration he lifted her and lay her back onto his desk. Her legs were pulled apart and her bottom hauled forward until it was just on the edge of the cool mahogany. The blouse lay open and the skirt was nothing more than a roll of leather around her waist. Dropping his trousers but keeping his shirt on as if she wasn’t worth the bother of undressing completely, he stepped close, his penis peeping from between the shirttails, and entered her. Standing tall and staring down imperiously he began to fuck her, the only sound in the room being the quiet creak of the desk. He reached forward and squeezed her breasts, almost painfully, and just enough to let her know who was in charge. Despite Belinda’s attempts to control her lust she felt it rising inexorably once again. Why had he not yet come? Was she inadequate? Her brow furrowed as she concentrated hard and squeezed her vaginal muscles around the invading stalk, but as his thrusting hips increased their tempo it was Belinda who arched off the desk and came for a second time.
Without respite and in a confused dream she was rolled over and her feet kicked wide apart. Her trembling legs barely supported her swooning body. The man was insatiable! She was pressed forward until her perspiring breasts sank onto the pink blotting pad, and then a draw slid open. The skirt was again folded up around her waist. Her buttocks were prised apart and a cool cream was coated into the deep valley and around her private entrance. Belinda had never imagined that such a sexual act was ever indulged in, but was too breathlessly excited to complain. She gripped the edge of the desk as the plum pressed against her tiny hole, and then whimpered as the ring of muscle relaxed and the column slowly stretched and filled her. Waves of rapture washed over her as the Colonel’s shirttails and pubic hair nestled against her bottom. A hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her up until she leaned uncertainly against him. She gasped as the new position increased the sensations in her bottom. Buttons dug into her back. Fingers found her clitoris and nipples. They teased and stroked in unison, and soon Belinda’s head fell back on his shoulder and her hips ground against the statuesque officer.
‘I’m going to come again,’ she whispered as her breasts wobbled in the first throes of orgasm. ‘Please… come with me.’
The Colonel grunted and pulled her harder onto his erection. That was enough for Belinda. She bit her lip and came over and over again. Her beautiful lean body was as taut as longbow. Unaware of what she was doing she reached up and passionately curled her fingers into his hair. His face registered no express
ion as the young lady in his arms gradually calmed and slumped against his chest breathing deeply.
The Colonel draped her over the desk, pulled up his trousers, and straightened his uniform.
‘Come on then,’ he growled and kicked her foot. ‘Get yourself ready.’
‘Ready?’ Belinda mumbled, rising from the desk and feeling totally drained. ‘Ready for what?’
The Colonel lewdly gripped the erection, which still clearly bulged within his trousers. ‘Your punishment, of course. It’s time for you to give me some real pleasure.’
‘I – I don’t understand,’ stammered Belinda.
‘You will… believe me, you will…’
Without allowing her to cover her modesty the Colonel gripped her arm unnecessarily tightly, opened the door, and pushed her to the top of the steps outside. She squinted against the huge orange sun as it sank below the distant range of mountains. It seemed the fort’s full complement was mustered on the small parade ground, with the six accused fallen in at the front. Belinda blushed as she tried to cover her breasts with the unbuttoned blouse.
‘Men!’ the Colonel boomed. ‘As you are all well aware, I earlier sentenced each of these six soldiers…’ he indicated Harding, Riley, and the others, ‘…to six lashes of the whip for being two days absent without leave! However, the true culprit, this civilian female, has accepted full responsibility and has agreed to receive a reduced sentence on their behalf! They are therefore excused on this occasion! But mark my words – they, or any of the rest of you, will not be so lucky if there is a next time!’
The reprieved looked up at Belinda in astonishment. Upon the Captain’s order the Sergeant dismissed them, whereupon they joined their gathered colleagues and received many a slap on the back.
Without further ado the Colonel marched Belinda to a post in the centre of the small parade area, muttered to a tall Indian, and then handed her over to him. He then beckoned to a lovely squaw, led her back up the wooden steps to his office, and slammed the door.
Belinda was astonished by his behaviour, but had little time to think as the Indian made her remove her grimy blouse and skirt. He then tied her hands high above her head to the post, and as she gazed fearfully over the heads of the gawping troops she could just make out the silhouette of the Colonel standing behind the girl and watching from a window. The lamps in his office remained unlit.
Belinda’s attention was drawn back to the Indian, who was now pressing unnecessarily close behind her and holding a fearful looking whip. He sadistically drew the leather handle across her cheek. ‘Twenty-four, the Colonel tell me,’ he hissed.
Belinda shuddered. ‘No – I think you’ve got that wrong. I’m only supposed to have four lashes.’
‘Twenty-four.’ The Indian was not to be argued with.
‘But…’ and then the truth hit her like a stampeding herd of longhorns. She was to take the total punishment of the men! Thirty-six lashes less one third! Nausea churned in her stomach and she struggled not to gag. She opened her mouth to scream at the deception, but a leather strip was shoved brutally between her teeth and strangled the outburst in her throat. Through wide tear-blurred eyes she could just make out the Colonel grinning over the passive squaw’s shoulder whilst chewing his cigar and reaching around to squeeze her breasts. Belinda cursed her own pathetic naivety.
The Indian pressed his hand into her back, pushing her hard against the post. There was a long low whistle and Belinda’s back erupted as the sound of the whip cracked across the small parade ground. When she opened her eyes she saw the wretched Colonel grinning smugly and gathering up the hem of the squaw’s tunic. There was a pause, during which Belinda wondered how she could take another twenty-three of those horrendous blows. She would surely die. Tears welled up afresh as she realised she would die and nobody would care. They would probably just dump her in the wilderness where wild animals would dispose of her carcass. Her family would never know of her fate. The dam broke and she sobbed uncontrollably.
The whip hissed again and the tip curled around her buttocks and hips. She writhed against the post and her legs sagged. Her head lolled back and she hung limply, the twine cutting into her wrists.
The remaining strikes barely registered in her delirious mind, although her trussed body jerked like a puppet with each cruel sting of the whip.
When she slowly realised the punishment was over she peered through the gloom and bravely held the stare of the Colonel. He was pinching the squaw’s now naked nipples, and her arm seemed to be moving rhythmically. As Belinda watched through a whirlpool of emotions the tip of his cigar flared orange as he drew deeply and then something glutinous and pale splattered up onto the window behind which they stood. Belinda felt sick as she realised how much her beating had stimulated the monster, and averted her eyes as yet more evidence of his excitement hit the glass. He wasn’t fit to be in the army, let alone an officer in the army. Belinda spiralled into unconsciousness…
Captain Harding and Sergeant Riley carried the brave young lady to a small shack and laid her gently on some soft sacks of grain. Their respect for her was immense, and so they arranged for some elderly and wise squaw’s to look after her. She slept for two whole days while the caring women constantly bathed her burning body with cool water and dribbled it between her parched lips. Special lotions helped sterilise and heal her wounds, and when her fever finally broke she found that the Colonel refused to see her and had forbidden his men to have any contact with her.
Chapter Twelve
Death Valley, in spite of its name and the terrifying tales Sheriff Hanglin had told, turned out to be perhaps the most straightforward part of Belinda’s journey. This was partly due to the fact that it was not the hottest time of year, autumn having taken over from summer, but the principal saving factor was that, as Captain Harding had said, she was cutting across the very bottom of the notorious desert oven. The true tales of horror had arisen from those pioneers who had headed due west, towards the area that would become San Francisco. They had to cross the full width of the parched wasteland, and many died on the way. Their circumstances were aggravated by the agonisingly slow progress they made with their laden wagons, the extra days spent in the roasting heat eating into their limited supplies of water.
Even Belinda’s far shorter southwesterly crossing had claimed many lives. She was able to find her way by simply following the skeletons of horses and cattle that littered the desert trail, with frequent simple graves by the wayside to remind her that she too was vulnerable.
She certainly suffered a great degree of misery and exhaustion, but at least she met no other person, a fact she was beginning to count as a blessing.
She now had a good horse and adequate water, along with some foul-tasting food called pemmican. These had been gifts from the troopers and the Indian who had whipped her, it having transpired that he was the father of the girl the fiendish Colonel had used as additional spice whilst watching Belinda’s punishment. She had been alarmed when the Captain, Sergeant, troopers and Indian had surreptitiously visited the shed where she had lain recovering for three days. Alarmed because one of the troopers had grinned and said ‘We just had a whip round for you’, but her obvious fear was quickly quelled by the Captain explaining that the term meant they had held a collection amongst themselves to pay for a saddle and harness and a set of suitable clothing from the fort’s trading post. The fine horse itself was a gift from the Indian, and he had personally escorted her away from the fort to set her in the right direction.
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything for the horse?’ she had repeatedly asked him, but he had been adamant that it was a gift. She had no money but still felt duty-bound to at least enquire as a means of expressing her appreciation. In fact, her covert glances at the tantalising protrusion in the front of his buckskins had her wishing he would extract some form of payment from her.
He finally left her and
headed back to the fort. Her desire to cross the desert and get to Los Angeles drove her to ride for as many hours of the day and night as she could. This not only meant she covered the distance more quickly and helped her water supply go further, but it also reduced the time she had to spend sleeping on the ground; she had seen enough rattlesnakes as she rode along to find it a terrifying prospect every time she descended from the horse. She even deferred her toiletries as long as possible due to her dread of squatting defenceless and bare-bottomed over that hellish sand.
After a few days of this unpleasant terrain the sand started to mingle with clay and weeds and, at last, she was relieved and overjoyed to see a couple of spindly trees on a small hill about a mile to her left. With a hand shielding her eyes from the relentless sun and squinting through the rising heat haze she was overjoyed to discern what looked like a white church on that same hill. She spurred the horse forward with a dig of her heels and diverted from the main trail to seek help or comfort from that sanctuary.
The building was in the Spanish style, with a cross mounted on top of the bell tower. There was a well, similarly white, in front of large studded double doors. Elated at the prospect of some fresh water, Belinda dismounted and wound the handle until a full bucket appeared. Just the sound of the clear liquid slopping over the bucket’s sides cooled her blood. She drank deeply, and then emptied the remainder into a trough for the horse.
Feeling invigorated she studied the silent building as it shimmered in the afternoon heat, and saw an inscription across the arched door. Convent of the Sisters of Little Mercy, it read in English. She was pleased to know it was a proper religious establishment, rather than something weird like the Danish sect, and she smiled at the name. Presumably it had been incorrectly translated from the Spanish and should have read Convent of the Little Sisters of Mercy. She was just wondering if it was in fact occupied when a small door set into the main portal opened and out stepped a smiling nun.