Lesbian Cowboys (10 page)

“I didn't say you could come,” Julia told me. “You have to ask permission.”

“Please!” I yelled. “Ma'am!”

“You need so much training in self-control. Okay, bad girl, go for it.”

With great relief, I felt my clit and cunt erupt, sending sparks into my ass and assorted shudders and shivers from my head to my feet.

I was still catching my breath when Julia took my wrists out of the cuffs and lowered them to my belly, where my hands helped settle my churning insides. She crouched over me possessively.

“That's just a taste,” she bragged. “We need to break for lunch.”

I remembered the soup simmering on the stove and realized I was famished. I remembered that human beings are mammals, with the same needs as the rest. From what I had seen today, play and companionship were no less essential for all beings than food, warmth, and sleep.

“Feel better?” She leaned over me with concern, and gave me a long, wet kiss.

“Yes. Julia, you're something else.”

“Are you mine?”

Yes!
I wanted to tell her.
Oh, Mistress, put me in a stall in your barn and I won't complain. Take over responsibility for my life, and I'll be yours forever.

Except that I couldn't be. Somewhere in me was a wildness that could be called out by harassment or by unbearable pleasure. It was like a horse that could only be broken with consent, and then only within limits.

“Yours for now,” I told Julia.

“That's good enough, honey,” she answered. She lay beside me, and rolled me into her arms. “For now. We'll see.”

 

 

 

 

 

G
ert and I stood at the fence, each chewing on a straw, each with a cowboy boot on the rail. We gazed out from under the brims of our cowboy hats and watched Abby, in her fancy new English-style duds, bring old Pie-biter out of the barn for a ride.

“She's really done it,” said Gertrude. “She's gone to the other side.”

“Yep,” I said.

“Why would she do a damn fool thing like that?”

“Too good for the likes of us, I guess. Heard some rich Easterners'll pay good money to learn how to ride, and that's the way they like it done.”

“But you're still her girl, ain't you?”

“Yes'm. Leastways, she ain't told me differently...yet.”

“This ranch has always been Western.”

“I know.”

“I mean, it's not like there's any
rules
against English style, but it don't quite fit in, do it?”

“Nope,” I said.

“I don't like that foreign English style. Nothin' personal, but it just rubs me the wrong way. I like to wear jeans and cowboy boots and a cowboy hat when I ride. And I like to see other women who ride wear the same thing, more or less. Sturdy girls, you know, big or small, mounted on a rugged, heavy, Western saddle.”

“It just seems right.”

“Damn straight it does. Now the English style, with that little black helmet and the jodhpurs, well, that's fine for
some
people...”

“Uh-huh.”

“But
look
at her. All in bright white, 'cept for boots and helmet. White jods, fancy white blouse with girly frills on the front, white kid gauntlets—you're s'posed to be able to get
dirty
when you're a cowboy, Chris. What's she thinkin'? She's gone lipstick on us. I know she's your girl and all, but I've got to say it: Abby done gone lipstick on us. Double-Q ranch has been Western as long as anyone can remember. Sure, once in a while a dude of one sort or the other comes along in their poncey outfits, but we just smile at them and watch with our boots on the fence railings, suckin' on a piece of straw, and sooner or later they come to see this just ain't the place for them, is it? Nothin' personal, of course.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“But Abby! Why, she's a regular. Been here at least five years...”

“Six.”

“...and always in the good old Western style. Now she's kowtowin' to know-nothin' city folk. Next thing you know it'll be ‘steeplechase' and ‘dressage,' and makin' horses do fancy tricks even a monkey'd turn his nose up at. They bring shame
to the animal. Hell, she might as well lace on a corset and some frilly undies and sing with the powder puff girls at the music hall. What's got into her?”

“It's more a matter of what she's got into.”

“Huh?”

“Those pants, I'd say.”

Gert looked at me for a moment, uncomprehending. Then she smiled a little. “Yeah. Well, that's somethin' else alright.”

Abby sure filled out those jodhpurs, I had to admit. They weren't the baggy kind, by the way, but the kind that's tight all the way up. She was one of those short-waisted women with super long legs, powerful thighs, and a big ass shaped like an upside-down Valentine heart. You've probably noticed the type. Her upper body, on the other hand, was slight, small breasted, and seemed almost to belong to a different woman. A smaller woman, like myself. Yessir, she was like a small rider on a big horse, a horse with a big, juicy ass. An ass so full and firm you just had to pinch it—if you dared.

As for me, I'm just kind of small and ornery—although some girls have said I'm kind of cute. Abby was the real looker of the two of us.

“Must have taken her some time,” Gert said thoughtfully, shifting the straw from one side of her mouth to the other, “to get her thighs in there.”

“Yep.” I smiled. I wouldn't have minded helping her into those pants if she'd mentioned it, actually.

Or out.

“Sexy as hell, if you don't mind my sayin' so,” Gert added, “but is all that getup fit for ridin'?”

It was funny because Abby was a darned good cowboy and ordinarily looked the part too. She was a blonde with an impressive cable of braided hair; a tanned, freckled face; bold, staring
blue eyes; and a big mouth—big in what you might say were the literal and figurative senses—with large, powerful teeth. Those big, beautiful teeth were framed by generous lips, now under deep red lipstick, something I'd never known her to wear before.

“Anyhow,” said Gertrude, “she's your girl, you talk to her. I'm out of here. I'm off to the music hall. If'n I wants me a girly-girl, that's where they oughta be. Not on a ranch.”

Alone now, I walked over to where Abby was taking some tack out of the barn and getting ready to saddle up old Pie-biter.

“You used to like the Western style,” I said.

“Not this again, Chrissy.”

“I can't help but feel,” I said, stirring the dirt about slowly with the toe of my boot, “that this marks a change in our relationship.”

“Meaning?” she said, not looking at me but placing the saddle on Pie-biter.

“I mean, a cowboy is always in charge of her horse. And you and I know, well, you've always been in charge in the hay and I'm not complaining.”

“Good. Better not be. And don't you worry,” she said, looking back at me significantly from cinching the saddle at Piebiter's heart girth, “I'm still in charge of my horse; if you know what I mean.”

“But with you in those fancified city duds, well, I kind of look at you in a different way. Not a worse way, mind you, just different.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean, shorty?” She stood up straight and looked at me.

“It puts me in mind to be doing the riding now.”

She set her white-gauntleted hands on her big, pants-busting hips. “Oh, does it?” she said.

I tugged an apple out of my pocket, rubbed it on my sleeve, and examined it closely.

“Something like that,” I said. “You know, those fancy pants of yours are pretty hot. You probably need some help getting out of them.” I took a bite out of the apple.

“Uh-huh. And you'd like to be that help, wouldn't you, cowboy?”

It sounded like a challenge. She turned back toward Pie-biter and bent over, inspecting a hoof. That sassy little thing, showing off her big ass like that. Abby that is, not the horse.

“It's like this, Abby. You see, I'm right proud that I'm your girl. And I have no complaints about how you ride. Yes'm, I like it that way. But it's like this. I just can't have it said hereabouts that the woman that rides in my saddle is some ponceyassed toff in fancy-pants foreign duds no real cowboy would be caught dead in. Don't get me wrong. I love them pants o' yours. They get me all hot and bothered, actually, but if you're going to be wearing
them
and that girly princess getup, it's gonna be
me
with the reins in her hand. Do you hear? It's just what the interlectuals might say is the semiotics of the situation.”

“What?” she cried, losing all patience, standing up, facing me again with her gauntleted hands on her hips as before. “So you want to change things, do you? You're gonna top
me
, are you, shorty?”

I picked up a bit of rope on the ground and began playing with it, innocently. “Me and you have always done it like horse and rider, Abby. We both know which of us is which. But when I see you in that girlie getup, I gotta say, it gets me all hot in such a way as I need to be in charge when I do you. That's the way it is, Abby. You gonna dress like that and I'm gonna take you. And I'd be much obliged if you didn't call me ‘shorty' in quite that tone of voice, young lady.”

“
Young lady
? What you gonna do, cowboy? Tie me up with that rope?”

“Yep. Then I'm gonna strip them fine pants off your hide and fuck you cross-eyed, woman. And there ain't a thing you can do about it.”

I knew she would either take a swing at me then, or laugh. Well, she laughed. Stood there with her hands on her gorgeous hips and her head thrown back, and her glorious big mouth open with all that red lipstick and the big shiny teeth, and she laughed. And that's when I, who've put a bit and bridle on many a reluctant horse, upped and jammed that apple right in her big laughing mouth.

She wasn't expecting that. It shut her up directly. Her eyes rolled like a filly in a panic, and her white-gauntleted hands went right up to the apple and tried to pull it out. But it was stuck in there pretty good. She forgot all about me then, trying to pry a finger in there to get the apple out, bent over a little with her big ass sticking out, and I went around behind her.

I gave her breech-straining backside the smack of her life.

The sound of it echoed over the fields, and, just as I knew she would, she screamed in a rage and put both her hands back there to rub her sore butt.

That was the worst mistake she could have made. Before you could say “Tuscaloosa” I'd bound her wrists behind her with that rope. You should have heard her then, shouting and raging as best she could with that apple stuck in her mouth. She turned and charged at me and would have bowled me over like a bull rolling a gopher except I grabbed both her tits through her fine white shirt with all the frills in front and squeezed for all I was worth.

That stopped her dead in her tracks. She cried out, her head falling back, her knees buckling, her eyes crossing. I let go her tits
and grabbed her shoulders to spin her around. Then I smacked her ass again.

She bolted, began to run and buck like a horse with a burr under her blanket. But I chased her around the barnyard, smacking first one cheek and then the other, making her scream out her rage and anguish each time in a funny, muffled way. She wasn't used to that, nossir. She was always the one to do the smacking and the chasing, but not this time. She turned on me and tried to kick, but I was smaller and faster, and she didn't have the balance, what with her arms bound like that. Each time I got behind her and smacked that ass of hers again and sent her running.

“I aim to show you, fancy-pants,” I said, chasing her around the barnyard, “that on this ranch you're either a cowboy or a horse. Your thoughtless change of riding accoutrements, if I may say so, means you sure don't dress like no cowboy, so you must be a horse. And since you're such a pretty gosh-darned horse, I'm gonna ride you. You hear? You changed the dynamic, honey, and I'm gonna show you how it works.”

Tired, confused, her ass sore as hell by then, her strength began to flag. I took her by the tits again and backed her up against the barn wall. I grabbed her around the neck with one hand—not too hard, mind you—and looked her in the eye as I slowly unbuttoned her pants with the other hand. It wasn't easy. Those pants were damned tight. She stared back with those blue eyes wide open, chest heaving, big red lips helplessly stretched to the limit around that fat apple.

I smiled, still working. “Damn, Abby! I never knew looking stupid would be so sexy on you.”

She let out another muffled cry of fierce indignation as I switched hands on her throat and began to haul her fancy britches down. She was too sore and too tired out to resist much
now. Yessir, this horse was about to be broken. She struggled, but I stuck a hand inside her...what the hell?

“Lacy pink panties? I'm surprised at you, girl! You thought you were still gonna ride
me
in lacy pink panties? Now what, exactly, did you take me for? Now that was not necessary. It goes way beyond putting on a show for the city slickers. I know you wouldn't have let them Easterners' hands in your pants, but it looks like you were right pleased for their
minds
to get in there, weren't you? You done let them sissify your imagination, girl. Oh, my, you're gonna git it now. You know what happens to fool girls in lacy pink panties, don't you?”