The officer at the poker game. Of course.
“You have to stay like this now, while I go and get something to punish you with,” Zech was saying.
Melanie’s juices surged in fresh release. She was naked, tied like an animal in a position of humiliation, her cheek, her intimacies pressed upon a dirty wooden floor. And soon she would be punished. “Zechariah, you’ve forgotten something,” she offered meekly, gazing up at his heavy work boots. “My mouth. You should gag my mouth so I don’t scream.”
What a whore she was for telling him that. What a she beast. What had come over her? She might easily have won her freedom by shouting for help while he was gone.
Zechariah frowned. Looking about the small room, he came up with a rag from on top of the wood stove. It was foul smelling and fit with great difficulty in Melanie’s mouth. She wanted to wretch.
“I’m still mad at you, Teacher,” he let her know, giving her exposed buttock a brisk slap.
Melanie closed her eyes against the sting, the heat. In a few moments he was gone, the door slamming heavily behind him. Once again, she was in bondage, nude and in peril, at the mercy of a cruel overseer, anticipating an uncertain future. This time, she had herself to blame as much as anyone else. She’d egged Zech on, pushed him to make love to her, all but ensuring his wrath against her.
What was happening to her? Had she slipped so far in just a few days? A week ago, back in New York, she would have nothing but contempt for any of these people. A lower form of life is what they were. Uncivilized. Pitiable. Scarcely better than the red savages with whom they were battling. A minister and his wife, abusing their charges, a sheriff apparently running a brothel, a man boy left free to tie and torment a helpless female, and watching over everything, an elderly, perverted Judge blessing the entire disgraceful mess.
Perhaps it was all a dream. At any moment she would awaken in her soft canopy bed in her uncle’s Fifth Avenue mansion with its fluffy pillows and white lace trim and thick down comforter. She would call out for Hoskins, the butler, or Antonia, her favorite among the maids. They would laugh together at her foolish nightmare. Uncle Martin would give her a huge hug, then say, with a twinkle in his eye, “What an imagination you have, child. Dropped from the stars is what you are, my dear. An angel, in mortals’ guise.”
When she’d been small, he would say such things then lift and twirl her to the heavens, exuding giggles of delight from her for what felt like hours at a time. How she loved her uncle. Sad, sweet man that he was. The only survivor of his entire family, widowed, childless himself, and bereft of his only brother, her father, who’d been killed along with her mother after their ship went down in a storm on the Atlantic. He’d always said Melanie was just what he needed, the answer to his prayers, but she’d never gotten over the feeling she was a burden. Surely without her he would have remarried and had children of his own. Normal children, not girls like her with fantasies, who laid in their beds at night dreaming of pirates.
When she was sixteen, Melanie had even gone through a phase of lingering at the livery stable, ostensibly to watch the horses, though it was the men that fascinated her. Well-muscled, rough and sweaty men, horse handlers, blacksmiths, riders, grooms, men who knew how to use a whip, and how to command obedience of the many willful fillies in their charge.
Her uncle hadn’t minded, indulgent as he was, but some of the society women began to talk, as they always do, and finally Uncle Martin was compelled to ask her to stop going. Several of the younger men had already caught her eye, and one had stolen a kiss. Were she not banned from the stables altogether, he would likely have stolen much more.
“You need to train her up like the other young ladies, Martin,” chided old Mrs. Wintergarden their neighbor, one day when she thought Melanie was out of earshot. “How will she ever find a desirable husband? Where is her breeding, for heaven’s sake?”
Melanie had felt a secret thrill in those words, several of which, ironically, had connotations quite different than what the dowager had intended. Training. Desirable. Breeding. So greatly was young Melanie affected, that she’d run straight to bed, diving beneath the sheets, her pillow clutched between her legs as she fought unknown, forbidden sensations. Not daring to touch herself, or even to look and see what was occurring, she merely closed her eyes and dreamed.
The long, waking dreams that became her secret life.
Whether it was minutes or hours, she did not know, but at last the door opened and Zechariah was back. A hot, helpless feeling washed over Melanie as she felt the reverberations of his boots on the floor. She was at his mercy. Whatever would be done, she could not control.
“Did you find something to beat me with, Zech?” she whispered, the words a confession of their own as soon as he pulled the filthy, humiliating gag from her mouth. “Are you going to punish me now?”
“No, Teacher, I didn’t.”
She felt his hands at the bonds on her wrists and ankles. He was undoing them. “Zech, what’s going on?”
“You have to come back to town. It’s the Indians.”
Melanie felt the grip of fear. “Are we being attacked?”
“No. They are here to talk. And you have to help.”
“Me?”
Zechariah rolled her to her back and helped her to her feet. “Yes, Teacher. You have to write down all the words that they say.”
The negotiations. Of course. Sudden hope surged through Melanie’s veins. “Is Marshal Cole here, Zech? Did he ask for me?”
He shook his head, handing Melanie her clothes. “No, Teacher, it was my grandfather. He told me you are going to sit at the table with him and the sheriff and write the words that everyone says. It wasn’t going to be till tomorrow, but now it’s today and he told me to come and get you. To write down all the words.”
“A transcription,” Melanie nodded, attempting to collect her thoughts and quell the sex fires in her belly. “An official record of the negotiations.”
At last, she would be doing something important, something decent. No more of this wickedness; she’d be a wholesome woman now.
“Teacher?” Zechariah asked, his earlier lust and anger entirely replaced by a childlike curiosity. “May I ask a question?”
“Certainly, Zechariah.” She pulled on her stockings, feeling almost gay. “Anything.”
“What is a cock tease?”
Melanie froze. “What makes you ask that?”
“Something Sheriff Harkin said,” he shrugged. “After my grandfather told me to get you to write down the words, the sheriff told him he was very smart to do that because the Indian leader, Red Wolf is very fond of yellow haired white women and you were just the right kind of cock tease to distract the hell out of him. My grandfather said that was the whole idea and then he winked. But I don’t know what a ‘cock tease’ is.”
Melanie’s voice sounded hollow and far away as she replied. So the nightmare isn’t over she thought; it’s barely begun. The Judge and the sheriff still planned to use her—as an object. “A cock tease is a woman who arouses a man and doesn’t satisfy him, Zechariah. She makes his cock hard, and then doesn’t relieve him of his seed.”
“How does a woman make a man’s cock hard, Teacher?”
Melanie bit her hot, dry lower lip, trying to think of a discrete answer. “She can move her body in certain ways,” she offered at last. “She can play with her hair, she can use her eyes, or her hair, suggesting in lots of subtle ways that she could be penetrated and taken sexually.”
Zechariah opened his pants. “I’m hard again, Teacher. You did it to me, but I won’t let you tease me.”
Melanie took the meaning of his action, combined with the stern tone of his voice. Wordlessly, half dressed, she went to him, sinking to her knees.
Zech groaned heavily, shifting his pelvis for maximum penetration of her proffered lips. “Are you going to make Red Wolf hard?” Zech wondered out loud. “Will he want you to eat his cock, too? Not even the whores at the saloon
touch Indians, Teacher. When a white woman is captured by savages, Colonel Beauregard says they are spoiled meat, not even good enough for the ranch.”
Melanie felt the pull at her groin; she was going to come at the same time as the boy, without even being touched, but just from hearing his words.
“Remember, Teacher,” Zech grunted as he got close. “You have to swallow.”
Her answer came in the form of a low, deep gurgle, though, of course, the question had been entirely rhetorical. It was on her second gulp that she had her own release, long overdue, sharp and thrilling, though not enough to do more than take the edge off her surging heat.
What would it take, she wondered, licking the boy’s prick clean, to grant her full satisfaction at this point? The prospects terrified her, but also left her with the deepest sense of yearning she’d ever felt in her life.
“Time to talk to the Indians,” Zech pulled at her hair, bringing her to her feet.
“Yes,” said his teacher submissively to her young charge. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Six
The meeting with the Powatans was to be held out of doors. There were two tables set up in the middle of the street for this very purpose, three chairs each, facing each other at a distance of some ten feet. The far table, the Indian one, was still empty. The Judge was sitting at the closer one, examining a document over the rims of his spectacles.
“Your honor,” Melanie announced herself humbly to the man over whose lap she laid herself twice daily for bare assed discipline.
“Mmm,” grunted Van Der Mere, still engrossed in his papers.
The sheriff, who was leaning against the side of the table chatting with his deputy, took the opportunity to look Melanie up and down. “Good morning, Miss Jones. Had a busy morning, did we?”
The man was smiling slyly, giving indication that he knew full well what kind of “teaching” had been going on.
“Yes,” she said curtly. “Working on our alphabet.”
“I see.” Melanie’s cheeks blazed crimson as he pretended now to notice a speck of something on her lips.
“Something from breakfast, maybe?” he persisted, adding to her humiliation. “Did they serve oatmeal for breakfast at the saloon today, deputy?”
Deputy Homer sniggered obnoxiously. “Looks a little sticky for oatmeal, and a little too white, too.”
There wasn’t anything on her lips, and Melanie knew this for a fact on account of her having obsessively wiped them off a full five minutes prior to coming back from the schoolhouse. The man was trying to shame her. That was all. She hated him for that; at least Zech had the decency to conceal his activities and in his own way he was an honest fellow, innocent and lustful, but not really deviant. Sheriff Harkin, on the other hand, she would not want to be alone with under any circumstances.
“Harkin, I do wish you would stop chattering,” complained Judge Van Der Mere, still not bothering to look up from his work. “Is it not enough of a nuisance to me to have to meet with a bunch of loincloth wearing savages in the middle of the public thoroughfare? Must I also be subjected to your moronic babbling?”
Harkin scowled. “Sorry, Judge,” he said thinly. “Zechariah, take your little teacher here and get her cleaned up, will you? She looks like something the cat dragged in. Not to mention the smell.”
The deputy snorted in agreement. “I’ve seen cleaner looking red men, if you ask me.”
Melanie opened her mouth to object, prepared to cite how she’d washed in a basin of water just moments ago, but thought better of it.
“All right,” replied Zechariah, seemingly oblivious to the river of innuendoes. “I will do that.”
Melanie eyed the ground. She did look like a savage, and she smelled of female need to boot, despite her cleaning efforts. For all the play and bondage and tussling, she’d had just the one small orgasm, and now she wanted more. The very presence of Zechariah beside her as she walked was enough to make her palpitate. Her nerves were shot, and she would soon be facing wild Indians, not to mention the ongoing aggravation of the sheriff and his horrid deputy.
Lyla wisely avoided the hot eyed, fuming Melanie as she entered the saloon. Saying not a word, the harried teacher went straight to her room. Blackmail or no blackmail, Melanie was not about to play any of the girl’s games right now. Gretchen was nowhere to be seen, which was also just as well. Choosing a long blue dress, one of only two of her own she’d brought from her vast wardrobe back home, she did her best to look lady-like and school teacherish. She’d never met a red man before, let alone a tribal delegation.
Zechariah, who waited in the hall for her the whole time, escorted her back to the negotiating tables once she’d finished her more detailed ablutions. She’d done well, in her opinion, to disguise her physical needs and to calm the flaring libido that was making her every move difficult. Being responsible for the transcription of the meeting would help in that regard.
They were halfway up the street when the horsemen arrived. It was a troop of cavalry, dashing army soldiers in their blue jackets, black boots and wide brim hats trimmed in gold. At the head of them she recognized Colonel Beauregard, the one from the saloon, whom Zech had identified as being a teacher of rope skills with regard to females. The man’s showy, pretentious mustache appeared to be doubly waxed today and his long yellow hair was thickly styled. He wore a white hat with matching gloves and a sword at his waist.
In Melanie’s opinion, the colonel seemed a complete dandy, though there was something in the eyes that suggested he was not a man to be trifled with. Nor could she forget that he ran a ranch where the part of the horses was played by young women such as herself. Female flesh, fodder for the lash and the searing branding iron.
The horses thundered past, leaving a cloud of dust for Melanie to choke on. Still coughing, she arrived at the tables. Beauregard was shouting out orders, dispatching his soldiers in strategic positions. All had rifles and swords and seemed, in her view, not very intent on peace. She wished the marshal were here to insure fair dealings. She wanted him here for other reasons as well.
“Miss Jones,” the Colonel effused, having dismounted and approached to kiss Melanie’s hand. “We are honored by your presence.”
She reviled at the touch of him. “Thank you,” she replied stiffly.
Melanie was bid to sit beside the man, occupying the middle seat between he and the black suited Judge. There was a sheaf of papers and several quills lined up neatly beside a well of fresh smelling India ink, presumably for her use as secretary.
“Sir, the savages are arriving,” called a sergeant.
Melanie looked down the street with the others. The sight of the longhaired brave on the Appaloosa took her breath away. There were three more behind him, in moccasins, buckskins and headdresses, but it was the brave alone she noticed. He was a stunning specimen of manhood, with a firm jaw and a thin, aquiline nose. His bare chest was broad and rippled with lean muscles. His eyes were blue as the sky and his hair was black as silk. A single headband graced his noble forehead and there around his neck, nothing more than a simple necklace composed of the teeth of some large animal. He clutched a rifle in his hand, decorated with white and black feathers.
Her impression was that the older men behind him, with their long headdresses outranked him, and yet they seemed to be deferring to his leadership. There was on his face not a trace of fear, nor of any of the other vile emotions that the red men were supposed to be prey to. In all, he seemed a man of honor. A fearsome warrior, not a scalp-loving savage.
“Chief Running Coyote,” the colonel bowed, rising stiffly to his feet to address one of the older men. “We are pleased at your presence. I see that Red Wolf is once again with you. I hope it is clear that the United States government will not negotiate with wanted criminals.”
The Indians were a few feet now from the tables. The soldiers had their guns at the ready. The tension was thick in the air. Words, in the Powatan tongue, were exchanged between the ignored war
rior and his chiefs. Red Wolf did not raise his voice, though there was a power in his words. The older men appeared to be deferring.
“Red Wolf speaks for the tribe,” said Running Coyote at last, a frown on his face. “If the Great White Colonel allows.”
Red Wolf spoke sharply to the old man, who lowered his head in sullen silence.
“Red Wolf speaks for Red Wolf,” said the brave. “Red Wolf speaks also for the Powatan. His speech needs no permission from any white man.”
The colonel inclined his head to the brave’s rifle. “In that case, Red Wolf should also know that the United States government will not negotiate with armed men.”
“Your soldiers are armed,” he pointed out.
“They are here for our mutual protection, Red Wolf.”
Red Wolf pursed his lips. Melanie did not think he trusted the colonel, but he gave no further objections, tossing his rifle to a nearby cavalry officer. The other Indians did the same. Only once Red Wolf had dismounted did Melanie appreciate his true magnificence. The man was nearly six foot tall, narrow-waisted, as strong as an ox and, built more beautifully than a Greek god.
“Gentlemen,” the colonel continued once the visitors were disarmed. “May I present Judge Van Der Mere and Miss Melanie Jones, school teacher for the town of Big Rock. She will record our minutes today.”
The Judge half stood, bowed mechanically and sank back into his seat without saying a word. Melanie rose gracefully, attempting a curtsy between her chair and the table. The three chiefs bowed and moved to take their seats. Red Wolf stood where he was.
“The Powatan do not make treaties with females,” he said to the colonel, indicating the suddenly embarrassed Melanie.
The colonel smiled condescendingly. “I fear you missed my meaning. With your permission, Red Wolf, let me reiterate that the female does not speak for the United States government. She is our servant, recording the words we speak and nothing more.”
Red Wolf eyed Melanie coldly then spat on the dusty ground. “The Powatan do not allow women into the affairs of the tribe. The white tribe is weak to allow women into the affairs of their own.”
Mastering Melanie Page 10
