“Not too pretty, is it?” Logan remarked.
“No,” she said with a breathy sigh.
“Maybe you want to call a truce?” he suggested, as he continued to bind her feet together, so that she wouldn’t be able to stand unassisted.
“That’s fine with me.”
“Good,” he said. He finished the job tying her hands behind her back and attaching them to the leg of the couch with no more than a foot of slack.
“I’m cold, Logan,” she whimpered unhappily.
He looked around the room and reached for the bedspread. Tugging it loose, he tossed toward her, where it landed covering half of her ass and most of her shoulder when she lay on her side.
“Here.” He threw a spare pillow to the floor and kicked it with his boot until it was at her head. “Get some rest. And don’t make a peep until I’m up and awake. I’m a gentleman the first time I’m roused from sleep. But I’m a real ass the second time.”
Turning out the light, he lay back down, in the same position he was in when she tried to make her ill-conceived break for freedom. The room was no longer dark with night, but a grainy, desolate gray. It was nearly five am and that steak of light Jill imagined in the Eastern horizon at four o’clock was clearly visible now through the drapes. Of course, the time of day didn’t matter when you were hostage to a bounty hunter. He had the right to sleep as long as he liked, until long past morning, into the afternoon if he wanted.
She could have screamed for help. The silly thought crossed her mind as she wracked her brain for a way out of this horrible situation. But she immediately dismissed the idea. Even if someone came, the bounty hunter could easily twist the scene to his favor. Besides, he had the arrest warrant in his jacket, a trump card she couldn’t match.
Maybe she could sleep. Maybe, if her brain would stop spinning, her mind could rest. She lay her head on the pillow and tried to forget that her hands and feet were tied, that the floor was hard, and the thin bedspread did little to keep the cold away.
Chapter Ten – Esclava, The Slave
The truck jostled over back roads, bumping her up and down on the hard bench seat. Her thin skirt was no cushion at all. When Logan tied her in the back of the truck the next day around noon, he gave her a moderate reprieve from the previous day’s awkward position. This time, she could sit straight forward with her feet on the floor and instead of having her hands bound behind her, they were spread to her sides like wings, with the cuffs at her wrists fixed to eyebolts sunk into the sides of the truck.
“Round two,” he said, as he finished her off.
“What’s that mean?”
“A ‘round two’ punishment will take care of you for the rest of the day. By the time we finally stop, you’ll be damned happy to get your butt off the seat. Maybe even happier to do as you’re told.”
“I thought we called a truce?”
“So we did. But I still don’t trust you.”
And he shouldn’t, Jill thought to herself.
The minute Jill sat down, she understood what Logan by ‘round two.” Her ass would pay for her morning’s crime with every bump in road, every turn of the wheel.
Twenty miles and she was already hoping for a reprieve. “You wouldn’t want to let me lie on the seat, would you?”
“Hell, no! But maybe if you get the message today, tomorrow I might be kinder.” While she scowled, he snickered darkly. Apparently, he intended to hit every pothole on every side road on the way to Maine. And this was only Arizona!
“Is there something wrong with the Interstate?” she later asked, if nothing more than to make conversation.
“Not that I know of.”
“Then there’s a reason why we’re taking back roads?”
“Yeah, I want to.”
She decided that he wasn’t much of a talker, except when he had point to make—then his words seem to fly like jets into battle.
An endless landscape, occasionally punctuated by a dumpy desert town, defined the long monotonous day. Jill figured that they were taking the southern route out of Arizona into New Mexico. She spotted a road sign, pointing to the Mexican border, ten miles to the south down a dusty dirt road. At least for now, they traveled on clear pavement and not dirt roads. Even so, the desert wind kicked up the sand inside its erratic gusts, blowing it into the truck’s open windows and layering her sweaty skin with nasty grit.
As the day passed, Logan Dunn looked more rugged, less elegant with each mile, as if he were transforming into the archetypal Mexican rancher with a scowling attitude and a surly eye for sensuous female flesh.
Jill hated the mind games that plagued her as the long day became more miserable—how they created images of her wooing the furtive bounty hunter with such success that all she could think of was going to bed with her mouth covering his penis and bringing him to an erection he’d finish off in her ass. She shook off the picture a hundred times if she did once, only to have it come blazing back again with another, more intimate, more contemptible scene of the two entwined like adoring lovers.
She eventually forgot the painful ache in her ass. Perhaps it was just numb from the pounding it took on the hard bench. But then, a swell of erotic need replaced the pain until she thought her body would spontaneously combust. The hum and vibration of the road was hardly different from riding the highways with her crotch tucked into Johnny Gold’s cute ass. The bondage only made the ache worse. She felt as if she were riding the edge of a blade between sanity and the insanity of her sexual obsessions. It was only a matter of time or a single misstep before she’d inevitably slip into a groveling, beastly animal at the bounty hunter’s feet.
She screamed silently to herself, hoping to scream away the unwelcome images. Then she prayed fervently, a mantra or a chant, as if desperately counting rosary beads, hoping by some miracle that her unwanted desire for Logan Dunn would go away.
When the truck finally stopped, she wondered if they’d actually crossed the border into Mexico. Certainly, the look of the landscape suggested that they were in that other world, like ones she’d seen in TV westerns. Logan parked the truck in the center of what looked like a small Mexican village—at one end a tiny church, to the right several small houses, and sitting nobly to their left, a great long ranch house. The hacienda of a wealthy rancher, perhaps. As the truck ground to a halt, the activity in the street stopped and several men and women waited for Logan to pull himself from the vehicle.
“Ah, mi amigo!” a hefty man came forward and greeted Logan with a big bear hug, while the rest of his clan smiled warmly, as if they knew their visitor well. A young woman with long dark hair and bright black eyes moved toward him smiling, kissing the bounty hunter on the cheek before she strolled off and disappeared into one of the small houses. A second, more matronly woman, with her hair combed back into a bun, rattled off something in Spanish. Logan waved, answering her in fluently in her language. Whatever it was must have been clever or playful, because everyone laughed.
The big man stayed, while the rest of the tiny community went back to work, or in the case of one tired old man, resumed a lazy siesta on the hacienda porch
“You got a place to stay… mañana?” Logan asked his friend.
“Ah, si! You stay here, always mi amigo!”
“Gracias. And the girl?” Logan pointed to the truck, where Jill was still bound to the insides by her wrists.
The Mexican looked her way, enamored by the sight of the road-weary Jill.
“Fugitive?”
“Si.”
“Prostituta?”
“No.”
“Una mujer mala, si?” His eyes smoldered.
“Esclava. Slave. I’m taking her back to her master.”
The Mexican’s eyes flamed with interest even Jill could see from several yards away. “Me maestro esta noche? Si?”
“Si. Maybe tonight.” Logan shook his head smiling amusedly.
Another Mexican sauntered toward the two. “Logan Dunn. It has been so
me time since we’ve seen you. You’ve been away too long,” he greeted him speaking flawless English and with a handshake that became a warmhearted hug.
“Ah! Ramon! That’s why I came to see you,” Logan answered as the two broke apart.
“Another of your runaways?” Then man nodded toward the truck.
“Yes. She needs to get clean, but she also needs to be carefully watched.”
“You think she’ll get anywhere in this desert?” he joked. For miles, all the eye could see were the dull warm desert colors against the backdrop of dreary grayish-brown mountains in the distance. “I’ll have Dona Maria take care of her. Maybe a clean dress? Looks like she could use a bath.”
“Si, and so could I.”
Despite the isolated location of the tiny village, Logan kept his runaway chained at the wrists and feet. Even before he pulled her from the truck, he clamped the shackles around her ankles and bound her hands together, locking them into heavy metal bands with a chain between.
“Is this really necessary?” she asked him in a quiet whisper, while furtively eyeing the men who gathered nearby and watched the scene with salacious anticipation.
There was a soft, seductive quality in her voice that Logan recognized and ignored. The long ride and lack of sleep had tempered her rage and blunted her tempestuous tongue. If he guessed right, she would be more accepting of her fate, perhaps remembering the cravings that made her a natural submissive.
“Of course, it’s not necessary. But it’s what you deserve, runaway,” he coldly replied.
“I’m still paying for last night?”
“For rudely waking me, for making me have to punish you, for plotting your rebellion, for being who you are and denying it.” His eyes drilled her as he made his blunt accusations. “And I’m not done. You might really hate me by the time the night is out.” His callous sneer made her shudder as if she were cold, despite the desert sun pounding down from above.
“Esclavo, punta,” the matron Donna Maria spit enough to leave dots of saliva on Jill’s gritty skin. The bosomy woman slowly, silently appraised the bound woman, raising her lip, sneering as she circled her
Once making her silent judgment, she turned and poured steaming water from a kettle into a metal washtub. Nearby stood a bright white porcelain bathtub, looking terribly inviting to Jill. But of course, that wasn’t for her. The nasty sweat of a slave would only taint the pristine surface.
Picking up a pair of sewing shears, Dona Maria walked around her bedraggled subject one more time, noting with scorn the strange pride that she saw in Jill’s expression. With a measured dose of spite, she slapped the slave’s face hard enough to make her cheek brighten with the angry imprint of her hand.
“Humph!” Her eyes smoldered the way the big man’s had when he first lay eyes on Logan Dunn’s runaway.
Unable to remove Jill’s clothes any other way, she began cutting the fabric with brusque, effective slashes, hacking and tearing the dirty material until there was nothing left. The scraps were tossed into a corner with the other rags, most likely intended for the burn pile. Despite the heat, a wave of cold fear swept Jill’s body; goosebumps surfaced on her fair skin.
She feared the woman with the sheers. Her daunting stare made her look possessed by wicked magic, as if she could see clear to her soul through a witch’s keen eye.
She sighed with relief when the woman put the scissors down, though her relief was a short-lived respite in a scene that would only become more ugly as it continued. Forcefully reaching into Jill’s bare crotch, the woman grabbed hold of her pubic mound. She gathered the hair between her fingers and making a fist, tugged with all her might.
Jill let out a pained caw, the sound of a wounded bird.
“¡Silencio escalva!” She hung on to Jill’s crotch and pulled with even greater strength, until the woman saw tears form in the slave’s eyes. Then she smiled, let go, and pushed the runaway toward the bath. Jill Knelt, sitting back on her shackled ankles.
The water was warm—what there was of it, a scant three inches it the bottom of the tub. Jill longed to swim up to her neck in soothing waters, but being who she was; this would have to suffice. She was grateful that she was being bathed at all. She imagined that in this world the bath had its purpose. Otherwise, she might have been tied in a corner, left as she was, filthy and starting to stink.
After rolling up the sleeves of her dress, Dona Maria whisked a rag from the adobe wall and began vigorously scrubbing Jill’s body like she might scrub clothes against a mountain rock. The soap and cloth began to burn her skin, but at least her efforts wiped away the desert dirt. The woman took great pleasure in washing the weighty tits, and smiled with glee as she pinched Jill’s nipples, twisting the knots between her fingers. She waited again until she saw tears in the runaway’s eyes. Her smile broadened. She twisted more cruelly, sensing the pain snaking through the youthful body. “Si, si, mucho dolor, punta!”
“Oh, please!” Jill softly beseeched her.
The woman only laughed and continued the torture.
Jill’s entire being tensed with pain that reached as far as her belly and cunt. Both spasmed urgently.
When the woman finally let go, Jill slumped slightly forward, and was pushed the rest of the way, until she was unceremoniously on all fours, her bound hands outside the tub, her knees and shackled feet still in.
“Ah, si. Magnífico!” she exclaimed, having sighted the deep purple bruises and the remnants of the red welts on Jill’s ass. She began slapping the slave’s rump, as if Logan’s punishment wasn’t enough to suit her. Cupping her hefty weathered hand, an indication that she’d spanked other asses in her time, she stung the slave with her hard-hitting smacks until Jill’s ass was red as the mauvy roses on the Dona’s dress. Satisfied that she’d added to Jill’s suffering, the woman picked up her rough rag one more time to soap the butt cheeks, the cleft and the pussy that hung low between them. The strong soap burned Jill’s tender slit, especially when the Dona pulled back the hood of her clit and deliberately roughed up the sensitive bud. Despite Jill’s attempts to ignore the odd erotic effect, the play became more than just another cruel torture. Her sexual feelings began to rise. Of course! It had been days since she’d come. Her hungry body would be dangerously receptive to any manipulation, even one that hurt as much as this one did. Thankfully, her distressed moans were taken as a sign of pain, not pleasure, and the Dona, pleased again that she’d made the slave hurt, finally finished the girl’s bath.
Pulling the dripping gringa from the washtub, the woman rinsed away the excess soap, pouring hot water from the kettle over the abraded skin. She was just about to dry her off, when Logan and Ramon entered the washroom and caused the industrious matron to stop.
“You say she can only be used up the butt?” Ramon asked Logan.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Then we empty her out before we use her.”
“However you like. She’ll behave.”
“You do the honors?” Ramon questioned his friend.
“No, she’s yours.”
He smiled, pleased. “Bueno!” He rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation. Ramon moved in, pushing Dona Maria away, while shouting something in Spanish.
The matron returned moments later with a wooden stool and placed it in the open space. Then she backed away and watched, assuming a decidedly more submissive attitude than she adopted while she bathed the slave girl.
Taking a long-necked leather pouch from the wall, Ramon doused the sack in the soapy bathwater, watching the bag expand as it swelled with liquid. When he pulled it from the tub, he held it upright, speaking again to the matron, who picked up the kettle from the warming stove and found a funnel in a box beside the hearth. Inserting the funnel into the open neck of the leather pouch, she then carefully poured the hot water into the wide opening.
“Spice it,” Ramon told her in English. The woman appeared to shudder, and her eyes cast
a cautious glance at Jill, as if she were afraid for her.
Jill was afraid for herself, realizing with gruesome clarity how the scene would unfold. Trembling, she watched the Dona shake the contents of a metal can—a dark powder—into the funnel. She gave the can another shake when she looked at Ramon and he nodded for her to continue. Afterwards, the woman flushed the funnel with water, making sure that the dusty spice mixed with the soapy contents of the bulging bag.
“Ass over the stool, girl,” Ramon ordered the shivering Jill. His eyebrows lowered over his ebony eyes, which like ruthless knife blades cut deep into her gut, spreading fear.
Jill quickly looked toward the bounty hunter who stood in the corner by the door, watching. Her face pleaded for mercy. But he remained unmoved, his expression hardened, unwavering, gut-chilling. She wondered what was behind that stony look, what was in his thoughts, what—if he had emotions at all—moved him. He gave nothing away. Perhaps he was right. She would hate him more by the time the day was over.
Impatient, Ramon pushed the hesitant Jill toward the stool, where she sprawled awkwardly over the seat. Her feet barely touched the ground with her ass raised so high. With the chains clattering against the floor, her shackled hands reflexively grabbed the legs of the stool. She held on tightly and closed her eyes, wincing. Her body became taut as a steel guitar string feeling Ramon’s hot fingers dive into her parted anal cleft. He fished around, acquainting himself with her tender vulva. Then he moved from her wet pussy and smeared her anus with natural juices, probing the rigid barrier with several fingers.
“Logan says you’ll break for me, slave. Is that so?” He spoke with a formal ring to his voice, as if he’d been educated in the United States, not as if he grew up speaking English.
Jill assumed the question was only rhetorical, suggesting that she relax her anxious muscles. Understanding how her evening would continue, realizing the requirement for surrender, knowing that she they would force her if she resisted, she gave in to the threatening sensations of lust. She let her body lead her down familiar paths where pleasure waited, smiling. Her body wilted as the tension finally subsided, and it took just seconds for her anal muscles to relax their tight hold. Seconds later, Ramon slipped the long neck of the heavy bladder into her back channel, and a sudden gush of water flooded her bowels, raging like a river out of its banks. She started to whimpered, frightened by the sudden urgency created in her nether regions.
Bounty Hunter Page 14
