“Privacy?” Lyla cooed, strolling towards her, putting a finger under Melanie’s chin. “For a slave? Isn’t that rich? If I had my way, you’d be washed down with the horses in the barn.”
Melanie pulled back her head. “Still the little she-bitch, I see. No surprise, I guess.”
Lyla’s next move was swift and brutal. For a small woman, she had a strong arm. Melanie’s cheek recoiled at the cold slap, her palm over the warm spot in shock. Her attacker took advantage of the opportunity to pull the blanket from Melanie, undoing the makeshift knot she’d made above her breasts.
“No wonder you smell like a mare in heat,” Lyla observed, scanning her sex stained body. “Turn around, let me see your ass.”
Unable to summon the will to resist, Melanie obeyed. Lyla whistled when she saw the markings, the deep purple bruises from the cane and the criss-crossed welts from the sheriff’s belt. “You’ve been a bad little slave haven’t you?”
Melanie hung her head. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” she quivered, in a voice that only served to telegraph her weakness.
Like a true bully, Lyla moved in for the kill. Grabbing the taller girl by the hair, she bowed her back, forcing Melanie’s breasts to stick out prominently. “Squeeze your nipples,” Lyla ordered. “Do it hard.”
A whimper escaped Melanie’s throat. “You’re hurting me,” she complained, even as she did exactly as the girl told her.
“You’re hurting me,” Lyla mimicked. “I’ll show you hurt, just you wait and see. Back at the jail cell, I was real nice. That’s because I had to be. Right now, you’re off limits to me – in training, the sheriff says. But soon, real soon, you’ll be in full circulation, and then I’m going to have my fun with you. The same with that bitch Gretchen. You and her, my two fat cows.”
“Please, Lyla, can you tell me if Gretchen is all right?”
Lyla snorted. “She’s sleeping it off. You’ll see her soon enough. The lucky slut has gotten lots of attention from the men. And that’s another thing, bitch. I don’t want you sucking up to the men. I’m everyone’s favorite,” she purred, taking Melanie’s nether hair in hand, “and it’s going to stay that way. Cross me, and I’ll get you sent off to the ranch—or worse.”
“Ow! Just wait till the marshal comes back!” Melanie winced
She regretted the outburst at once. The last thing she wanted to do was show her true feelings to Lyla or give her any more ammunition than she already had.
“Still hot for him, huh, baby?” Lyla chortled, reaching in to confirm the fact with her hand. “Yep, I guess so.” She rubbed Melanie’s clit a while then withdrew. “Now clean me off, slave.”
Melanie accepted Lyla’s wet, sticky hand. To her shame, Melanie had moaned expectantly at the girl’s contemptuous touch. So too, did she lick and suck her fingers now with equal abandon.
“Look at you,” Lyla sneered. “No self respecting lawman would rescue you. Old Marshal Cole will get one look at you and he’ll have one thing on his mind, same as every other man from now on, sweet heart. Except in his case, he shoots blanks, so it won’t matter.”
Lyla slapped her again for good measure. “Better get in your bath, now honey, so you can clean that cow body of yours real good for your masters.”
The brunette let her be then, closing the door behind her. Forcing thoughts of the unpleasant little woman from her mind, Melanie luxuriated in the bubbles, soaking her sore muscles. All by herself at long last, Melanie did her best now to sort through the events of the last few hours. So much had happened. The Judge was dead, Gretchen was gone and she herself had seen an irrevocable change in her status. Gone was the pretense of being a teacher. What was she, then? Harkin had called her a slave. Lyla had confirmed it. According to the sheriff, in fact, she would be a prize in the nightly poker game. No doubt the winner would want sexual favors from her. Apparently she was to be given no option in this, nor was there any mention of pay, which at least if she were a whore, she’d be entitled to.
There were an awful lot of unanswered questions. Where was Zechariah, the new patriarch of the Van Der Mere clan? The sheriff had said he’d control the boy. Who would help her, then? The marshal seemed like more of a long shot with each passing hour. What about the colonel, then? He represented the federal government, by way of his position as cavalry commander in the area, though there seemed little reason to trust him. First, there was that story of Zechariah’s about his running the “ranch” for human females, and there was also his treatment of Red Wolf to consider. The man had abused the Powatan brave terribly and furthermore – given that the Indians hadn’t followed through on Red Wolf’s threat to attack – it also seemed likely that he was in cahoots with one or more of the chiefs.
All of this meant that, for the moment at least, she was in Harkin’s control. His prisoner – no, his slave. A secret thrill passed through Melanie’s body at the thought of it. She should be horrified, of course, but part of her yearned to know more and to feel more. What would it be like to live as a slave? Would she be beaten regularly, or only in the event of displeasing her master? What kind of clothes would the sheriff allow her? Would she sleep in a bed anymore, or only on the cold hard floor? For the moment she wore no bonds, neither rope nor steel. Would that remain the case? And what about punishment? She would try to be pleasing, of course, in order to avoid the belt and the cane, but would that be enough? How much would Harkin demand, not to mention the others who were obviously going to possess her as well, the poker game players, for starters.
Melanie strained to remember the faces at the table. There’d been the doctor, the colonel, the sheriff and the deputy. Who else had there been? Would she be given to one man for the night or would there be multiple opportunities to win her?
Melanie’s thoughts turned hot and forbidden. Sliding her hand under the water, she parted her own thighs. It had happened, she thought, it had really happened. A western sheriff had captured her and was blackmailing her and now she was to be sexual booty, an honest to goodness slave. She thought that practice was now illegal throughout the United States and the civilized world. A war had been fought, in her lifetime, to free the slaves.
And now she, a white woman, born free and in privilege, was being made to serve. Already had, in fact, by Harkin, by Deputy Homer, not to mention the repulsive Otto. Her skin crawled as she thought of the drunkard pawing her, filling her and using her. Melanie laid her head back on the tub, pretending the hand was not her own but another’s, or better still, the cock of a man, she yielded herself up to the stimulation. The orgasm came quickly, and was followed by a second, larger still. It was almost as if she were becoming accustomed to, or even expectant of the abuse being heaped upon her. Dragging her nails up to her hungry breasts, she teased the delicate nipples, already so swollen.
Imagining it was all against her will, she worked towards her third climax. So close, so sweet, the biggest yet...
The sound of a man clearing his throat interrupted Melanie’s train of thought. Freezing her hand midstroke, she looked up to see him in the doorway, lanky, a sheepish half-grin on his face. “Sorry to break in like this,” said Doctor Lassiter, “but Sheriff Harkin was pretty explicit that I examine you right away.”
Melanie covered her breasts with her hands. She could almost hear Lyla laughing at her. Modesty – in a slave? “E–examine me,” she stammered. “W–what do you mean?”
Lassiter’s cheeks turned pink. “It’s not what you think,” he said, looking down at his feet and nervously adjusting his spectacles. “Just a quick medical exam, that’s all.”
“Oh,” she laughed, stunned that a man would behave with such gentility towards her at this stage of the game. “Yes, yes, of course. If I could have a towel?”
Lassiter handed her the bath towel at arm’s length, strategically averting his eyes. Feeling almost lady-like for the first time in days, Melanie stepped from the lukewarm tub water. “If you would kindly wait for me outside?” she said quickly, not wan
ting him to see the murkiness of the water, the discoloration due to not only her filth but also her private sexual activity.
“Certainly,” he drawled, his voice sounding more southern than she’d remembered. “Take your time.”
Melanie dried herself carefully, making a point of dabbing between her thighs. She had to repeat the gesture several times, there being an inexplicable continuation of her state of arousal. It would make a bad impression, she thought, if she were to present herself to the doctor with obvious signs of female heat on her person.
Lassiter was drinking from a silver flagon when she emerged. Guiltily, he shoved it back in the pocket of his vest. “For medicinal purposes,” he explained hastily.
“Of course,” Melanie demurred, already calculating in her mind how to make an ally of this man – only the second one she’d met in the west with even the semblance of a conscience. “You need say no more on the subject. Your secret is safe with me.”
She tried to keep her tone neutral, with just a hint of conspiratorial collaboration. If the man were indeed a southerner, this might prove helpful, at least where the US cavalry colonel was concerned.
“Hardly a secret,” he mused. “I’ll need you to remove the towel,” he added, his tone sounding more apologetic with each passing moment. “In order to make my examination.”
Melanie bared herself at once, wanting to be as cooperative as possible. “It’s all right, doctor. You’re just doing your job,” she soothed, subtly thrusting out her breasts in his direction. “I know you’ll treat me with the utmost respect.”
The doctor was breathing a bit heavily. “You’ll need to put your hands at arms length. So I can...examine you.”
Again Melanie obeyed without question. She intended to win the doctor over, even if that meant bending over backwards – figuratively, not literally – to cooperate with him. She watched as he put down his leather bag on the table and opened it. For some reason, the sight of the silver instruments, gleaming metal, set her heart racing. By the time he reached her, she was nearly ready to faint.
“We don’t see many girls like you out here,” Lassiter commented, stooping to place the cold end of a stethoscope on her bare chest.
Melanie sucked in her gut and shivered.
Seeing her discomfort, the doctor retracted the device. “Sorry about that.”
“No, it’s all right,” she insisted. “Please, continue.”
He shrugged, leaning in close to continue the procedure. The doctor was not a handsome man, though there was a certain nobility about his thin features, a mark of quiet suffering and deep grace. His was the sort of face a woman fell in love with over time, though in the short run he was apt to lose out to the prettier faces, or the larger muscles.
“You have a strong heart, Melanie. May I call you Melanie?”
“Yes, yes,” she agreed eagerly, arching her back in a way she hoped would spark his interest. “You may.”
The doctor put his hands on either side of Melanie’s ribs. “Cough, please.”
Melanie obeyed, the motions shaking her breasts. Her nipples, she noted were taut. Hopefully the doctor would chalk it up to her being cold after her bath.
“Turn about,” he said, his voice still rich with professional chime. “If you please.”
He sighed when he saw her back and buttocks. A silence followed, and Melanie’s hopes began to surge. He had seen her marks now, the sure evidence of how she’d been treated. Surely now he would become her advocate, perhaps even her knight in shining armor?
“You’ve been beaten,” he said.
“Yes,” Melanie sniffled, the reaction far from contrived. “I’ve been abused horribly.”
“The next part of the exam will be a bit less comfortable,” he continued. “I apologize in advance.”
“I understand,” Melanie said. Was it her imagination or was there a subtle shift in his tone, from one of genteel sympathy to something colder and more clinical?
“You can put your arms down and face me again.”
Melanie turned on her heels and looked at him brightly, expectantly.
The doctor’s face was expressionless. “Open your mouth, wide.”
To her surprise, he handled her roughly, more like a horse than an eligible young woman.
“Don’t move,” he instructed as he applied the calipers, capturing her left nipple between the pincers.
Melanie winced as he tightened then retightened the device. Squinting over the edge of his glasses, he made note of a number, then jotted it down on a small piece of paper. “I had thought you were different,” he said quite unexpectedly.
“Different? How?”
“I thought you were a lady, but I see on your skin that you mark like a whore, just like all the rest,” the doctor replied, exchanging the calipers for a short, thin handled rod with a kind of metal hook at the end.
“But I didn’t ask for it,” Melanie exclaimed desperately. “Don’t you see that I was forced?”
The doctor leveled the device between Melanie’s legs. “Spread.”
Melanie parted her thighs. “I am a lady,” she persisted. “I’ve been wronged, in every way.”
The hook slid over her clitoris, sending waves of sensation, most inconvenient and ill timed, through Melanie’s body. “Oh, doctor, what are you doing to me?”
“It’s most ingenious, really. The device was invented by a German scientist. With it one can measure the sexual responsiveness of a female.”
“I–it feels so strange.”
The doctor grasped hold of Melanie’s right nipple, twisting it harshly. She wanted to cry out in pain and it did hurt, but the thing inside her was complicating everything. Lassiter began counting now, and by the time he reached six, she was in the throes of an orgasm.
“Six seconds,” said the doctor, withdrawing the device before she’d finished. “I believe that’s a new record. For the next part of the test, you will bend over and grasp your ankles.”
Melanie wanted to collapse, but she didn’t dare disobey, not as long as there was a shred of hope in converting him to her way of thinking. If he could just see in her the good girl that she was, he would help her, she knew he would.
The doctor was behind her, his palm pushing on the small of her back. He was holding something, pressing it between her buttock cheeks. At first she thought it was to be inserted in her vagina, but she saw quickly he had something else in mind.
“This will go easier if you relax,” the doctor advised.
The thing was long and tapered. Melanie thought she would die as Lassiter began to force it up and into her anal opening. On and on it went, like she was being ripped asunder. Sweat beaded on her forehead, she struggled just to stay upright. At the same time, there was a kind of fullness, a kind of sexy feeling of being taken, of being had in a whole new way. Eventually she began to moan.
“That was only a number four,” he told her, as if the number meant something. “You’re tight down there. Are you a virgin?”
The blood was rushing to Melanie’s head. She’d had sex, yes. Didn’t he know that? “I–I have lain with several men, yes, but not by my choosing,” she added quickly.
“No, no,” he snapped impatiently. “I mean are you an anal virgin?”
Melanie gasped. Was the doctor implying that a man would use a woman’s behind as if it were her sexual opening? The sheriff had put his fingers in her, but surely no man would use his…his shaft?
Lassiter drew a sharp breath. “Stand up, girl. I’ll take your silence for a yes.” He looked at her with pity in his eyes. “Men are going to be using you that way now, Melanie,” he explained, wiping his hands on a cloth that stank of rubbing alcohol, “so you’d better get used to it. You’re going to have to be at least a six.”
She looked at him blankly.
He held up a shaft, made of ivory, carved to the exact shape of a human penis. “This is a size number six. It represents a slightly larger length and width than an average man.”
Melanie’s buttocks clamped reflexively. “What are you saying?”
“You know what I’m saying,” he laughed humorlessly. “So stop playing coy with me.” Tossing the shaft back into his bag, he continued, “I’m the only one who’ll help you with these things, Melanie, so you really can’t afford to annoy me.”
“I’m sorry, doctor, truly I am.” Melanie grabbed his arm imploringly. “I mean no disrespect, sir. You must believe I am truly ignorant.”
The doctor regarded her for a moment then released another sigh. “Honestly,” he said to no one in particular. “I don’t know how I’m expected to go on in this world. With each passing day, things grow more patently absurd.”
“Let me help you,” said Melanie, surprising herself with her forwardness. “Let me give you comfort.”
The doctor smiled sadly, stroking Melanie’s cheek. He seemed so much older now, so much more tired. “Alas, my dear, I wish I could, but your charms are to be preserved for the moment, so it seems.” He laughed thinly, a veneer over heavy sorrow. “Cheer up, though. I might get lucky tonight and win your hand.”
With that, he lifted her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. “Farewell, my sweet,” he pronounced, shifting once more back to his genteel tone. Without a word then, he collected his tools and left her, naked and confused.
Chapter Ten
A smirking Lyla returned Melanie to her room. All of her clothes had been removed, but there was a dress on the bed, which Lyla told her was for her to wear to the poker game that night.
“Enjoy yourself,” Lyla winked. “You get the rest of the day to think about who’ll be fucking you tonight. Personally, I’m hoping the colonel wins…I think you’d look smashing with a bit in your mouth and a saddle, naked on all fours.”
Her heart pounding, Melanie went to examine the dress as soon as Lyla had left, locking the door behind her. It was made of silk, bright red, with a short hemmed skirt. The top part, which was brocaded in gold, resembled a corset with a built in brasserie. Wearing it there would leave little doubt as to the delights of her bosom, or the rest of her, for that matter.
Mastering Melanie Page 15
