Mistress and the Cowboy (I)

(a fictional tale inspired by a lost bet to the 'Nilla. Hope she is amused. or better.)

Molly let the late warm fall, high desert sun wash over her face as her horse negotiated what passed for a trail, up through ragged aspen and pinon trees, into the hills that quickly became the Sangre de Christo range, stretching north from New Mexico to Colorado.

It had been years since she had ridden, but the skills she learned as a teen back in River City, on those snooty English saddles, were still there. And her horse, a magnificent rich brown appaloosa, well groomed and gentle, was mild mannered. It simply followed along behind her guide, who clearly knew what he was doing in a saddle. Western, of course.

“You Ok back there, Molly?”

“Absolutely, Wes….amazing day for a ride.”

Mistress took in her guide, tall in the saddle, broad shoulders draped in a black t-shirt, broad gray cowboy hat, and an admirably tight ass.

“What a view”, Molly called out, as Wes skillfully guided his mount up along the rock strewn trail, now crossing a ridge line that spilled views of two verdant valleys far below. And she wasn’t just referring to the colorful display of those golden brown aspen leaves.

As she admired that view, Molly thought back to how she ended up on this little adventure with the mysterious Wes.

She and Mick had been at the local roadhouse Monday evening. They danced a bit to the country swing music strummed by the house band. Drank some tequila. Eyed the crowd. Made small talk with some of the regulars.

Then, suddenly, there was this Cowboy, sidling up to their table, mid 40’s, rugged, tight but not obscenely tight jeans, the same gray cowboy hat, and one of those shirts with the shiny buttons only a real cowboy can pull off without looking like he’s trying out for the Village People. This guy was Hat WITH Cattle.

He held out his hand.

“Would the lovely lady like to dance?”

Now this is something that often happens to Molly, even when it is clear she is “taken”. Under local custom, any attractive woman is fair game when the band breaks into some boot scooting music. And some of the local gentlemen like to show off their two stepping ability almost as much as their herd.

Molly was not usually in the practice of accepting those sorts of invitations. But there was something about this particular Cowboy that called for a change in policy.

She leaned over to Mick, whispered into his ear, without breaking eye contact with the Cowboy.

“”You don’t mind, do you Slave.”

“Of course not, Mistress.”

The rest was a bit of a blur. His firm hands as they spun on the dance floor. The way he guided her through the clever turns and dips, and the way he held her a bit more tightly as the music switched from up tempo to a romantic waltz.

She knew this had Mick squirming at their table, sipping his Jamieson, with the tight steel cage gripping what was only her cock ….and, she suddenly realized, she was dripping.

Oh my.

As they danced there was the occasional small talk, and then Wes joined him at their table for a bit, describing his transition from big city architect to Northern New Mexico cowboy.

“Maybe you’d like to ride with me someday, I’ve got some pasture land up in the hills north of town.”

He was looking at Molly. It was clear that the invitation was directed at her. Solo.

She pondered. For about 3 seconds.

“Wow. I’d love that.”

They exchanged cell numbers.

When Mick and Molly got home to their little mountain hideaway, it seemed their cloths were hitting the floor almost as soon as they entered the threshold. And the sex was particularly incendiary. Of course, the prime subject as they muttered and moaned to one another was the tall, mysterious cowboy and what he might have planned for Mick’s oh so sexy Mistress.

And when Wes called later in the week, Mistress gladly agreed to the arrangements he proposed: an early morning pickup at their cabin.

After she gave Wes the brief tour, they were off in his dust caked Loredo, and heading to his ranch. Molly was all kitted out in her jeans, boots, and a cotton, western style blouse, long hair flowing in the breeze.

Big Sky. Big jitters about where this might be headed. And of course, Molly had license under her contract with Mick to let it go wherever she deemed appealing.

Back on the trail, Wes pulled his mount to a halt in a green meadow, and reached for the canteen strapped to his well worn saddle. He passed it to Molly, giving her first quaff of the cool water. The sun was warming her, and she was grateful for the break.

She eyed his saddle more carefully.

“Boy, you are a real cowboy…..rifle, lariet. Can you really use those?”

Wes gave her that winning, aw shucks smile.

“The rifle….haven’t had to use it much. But there are occasional mountain lions and rattle snakes in these hills … one has to be prepared.”

“And the lasso…..do you use it to round up stray cattle, Wes?”

She had that little sarcastic but also flirtatious tease in his voice.

Wes, just smiled, reached for the lasso, and shook it out. She noticed how stiff the rope seemed, particularly at the broad loop he now held in his hand. Why was she thinking that might abrade naked flesh.

“Down, Molly, down” she thought to herself.

“You’d be surprised how useful this can be on the trail…”

He backed his horse away from her’s swinging the rope a bit, getting it’s weight just right in his hand.

Then, suddenly, it spun through the air, over Wes’s head. Just like in some old time Western movie.

“My trusty lariat can be particularly useful when you run into a little cock tease on the trail, and need to bring her to heel,” he growled, a wry smile on his sun bronzed face.

Molly was frozen for a moment--- did she really hear him say what she thought he said – then, suddenly, the lasso was twisting over her head, around her torso. A quick yank by Wes, and her arms were pinned to her side.

He was smiling. She was grousing.

“Cute. Very cute.”

He pulled on the rope, spooling it hand over hand, pulling Molly and her horse ever closer to him, while tightening the rope’s tight grip around her.

Mistress’s heart was fluttering now. Was this a joke? Or had Wes come to some very correct conclusions about her kinky predelictations?

As the distance closed between them, Molly could see the amused but predatory look in Wes’s eyes. And then he reached over her head, and spun two more quick loops around her torso, pressing her arms tighter against her side, and pinching at her heaving breasts.

“Hey….”

“What…. Are you going to say….release me, you fiend….”

“Uhhhh.”

Mistress was watching him as he moved in what seemed like slow motion, closer, closer, one hand tightly gripping the lasso binding her. The other was reaching for the nape of her neck, then gathering up her long flowing brown hair into his fist.

Suddenly, her head was jerked back, and he leaned into her.

“Of course, at least for now, you can say ‘No’, Molly….”

She did not say a word.

But there was a low moan as his mouth found hers, tongue plundering her open lips for a long endless moment.

When he finally released her from that tight grip, she was flushed, liquid, squirming on her saddle.

And Wes was reaching into a saddle bag, pulling out some old, silver plated handcuffs.

“Antiques, I am told. Maybe Billy the Kid wore these once? Anyway they still work. And I think these will be much less cumbersome than this old stiff rope for the rest of this ride.”

“You wouldn’t….”

“Watch me….”

He slipped one cuff around her right wrist, jerked it behind her back, under the clinging lasso, reached for the left. Molly had no real flexibility (or will) to resist as the other cuff closed around her left wrist.

But she was still breathing hard, twisting her wrists now cuffed closely together, perched in the saddle, as Wes patiently unwound the lasso, spooled it back into a coil, and attached it back to his saddle.

He reached for her again, pulling her into one more greedy kiss. Then grabbed the reins of her horse.

“Just sit tight, Molly. My own little mountain hideaway is another 40 minutes or so up the trail. And then we can help you out of those tight riding cloths.”

Molly writhed in her saddle, disoriented, trying to maintain her balance.

“Here’s the two most important things you need to remember on the way, Molly….

Speak when spoken to, like a good little prisoner.”

“And no coming until I give you permission.”

“But….”

“No need to answer. Just relax and enjoy the view.”