by Peter Loaf
Homestead Act: Free Land For The Asking! The Boston newspaper said in huge print. My husband read it to me when he got home from the mill. I asked him if he thought it could be true. He said that they couldn’t print it if it weren’t true. I shut up, like a good wife does and did not say what I was thinking.
The next morning he went down and bought two train tickets to Cheyenne. When we got to Wyoming the railroad agent gave us a map and sold us everything we would need to set up a homestead, including an iron plow, two draft horses and a freight wagon, all on credit.
We loaded everything into the wagon and went looking for a piece of homestead land where we could start over.
After ten days of searching we found a piece right beside the river that was prefect. It was good flat bottom-land with a woodlot and everything. I looked at it with amazement. There stood everything I’d ever dreamed of. Land! Land that, in the old country, would have belonged to the landlord. Here they were giving it away to anyone willing to make something of it.
We marked the corners of our allotted forty acres (FORTY ACRES!) and started cutting trees for our cabin.
Three days later we were visited by Mr. Hargrove Holmes, our closest neighbor. He told my husband that he was a cattle rancher who had a place about five miles up-stream from our claimed acreage.
He came in a buckboard, dressed in a Stetson hat, a St. Louie cut suit, high heeled cowboy boots and wearing a huge nickel-plate Colt Peacemaker revolver slung low in a shiny black leather holster. I didn’t like him from the second I laid eyes on him. But what could I do? My husband was holding his hat while he was shaking Holmes' hand, like the black Irish serf he was.
I put down my axe and walked over to where I could hear what they were saying. I heard Mr. Holms say that this land was not covered by the Homestead Act and that we would just have to pack up and get off it.
My husband’s face turned white and I imagined I could hear his heart hammering within his chest.
I thought about going into the tent and getting the Land Agent’s Map and our registered claim so I could show this man that we belonged here as much as he did, but before I could start I heard my husband apologizing to this arrogant stranger and promising to be packed up and gone by the next day, asking if Holmes knew of any land that was open for homesteading.
I wanted to shout at my coward husband but I just went inside to cry.
Two minutes later I heard the gun go off. I ran back out to find my husband laying flat on his back, a fountain of blood spouting from a .45 caliber hole in his forehead. When I looked up at Holmes he was pointing the Peacemaker at me, the hole in the front looking to be the gates of Hell. I knew my time was up, I looked him in the eye and spit. I was going to die anyway, why should I grovel.
He chuckled and said, “Strip, sod buster!”
I turned my back on him and went back to where I’d been trimming logs, hoping he would let me live long enough to get my hands on that axe. Just as I got a grip, the handle exploded three inches below my hand as a bullet slammed through it. “I said STRIP!” he growled, the gun once again pointing at the spot between my eyes.
Again I turned my back on him, intending, if he let me live, to go into our tent where my husband’s rifle was. He charged after me and pistol-whipped me to the ground.
When I awoke I was gagged and front hogtied on the floor of his buckboard. When I struggled against my bondage I discovered I’d been stripped of everything, even my boots. My head was hurting as never before, throbbing with every bump in the trail.
When we got to his ranch house he cut the link between my hands and feet, stood me up under a cottonwood tree and tied my hands up over my head. Hanging from my wrists, I tried to kick at him but he easily caught and tied one leg up against the tree, then, before tying my second leg to the other side of the tree trunk, he pulled a black silk stocking onto it and then a high-heeled boot that was something a dance hall harlot might wear. Once the second leg was tied he did the same thing with the first leg. At no time was I given the slightest chance to fight him.
He chuckled again, saying, “Don’t go anywhere, sod buster, I’ll come out and start your training after sundown.” Then he patted my ass, gripped my hanging breasts, goosed me and touched my clit in a way that promised so much more.
He walked away, leaving me naked and alone, hanging face down and helpless, unable to escape, exposed for all the world to see.
But not touch, apparently. After a couple of hours a small Chinese woman came out and took off my gag just long enough to give me several dippers of water. I tried to beg her for help but she just shushed me and retied the gag.
The ten cowhands came from their work just before sunset. They spotted me from the ridge and came riding down like the Mongol Horde. I could not flee, though every fiber of my being demanded I should.
They slid their horses to a stop and dismounted, looking at my naked helplessness as starving men will look at a porterhouse.
I made a pleading noise behind my gag wadding but I should have saved my strength. They formed a circle and stared at me, their pitiless eyes taking a careful inventory of my displayed charms, their hands deep in their pockets.
The Chinese cook rang the triangle and shouted that dinner was on the table.
The ten cowboys trotted away, leading their horses. I hung around, wishing Holmes had shot me as well.
It was three endless hours after sunset when the moon rose. Inside the bunkhouse I heard laughter and joking but no one came outside. Then the door to the ranch house opened, framing Holmes in the lamplight. Instead of his fancy suit he was now dressed in a pair of black leather chaps, his boots and his Stetson. His big cock was swinging free like a stallion’s. He walked out slowly, his spurs jingling with his every step. He was carrying a riding crop in one hand and a carpet bag in the other.
By that time, of course, I was swollen open and dripping my come-fuck-me froth. The effects of fear and exposure had worked on my body’s instinctual defenses. I knew I was going to suffer rape, I was simply trying to survive.
He came and laid the crop and bag across the small of my back. His hands cradled my hanging breasts and toyed with my nipples, making them ache with their swollen promise. Then his hands moved down my straining back, to where he could grip my bottom cheeks and roughly spread them to expose my anus to the dappled moonlight. Taking a thick piece of candle out of his bag he stuffed it into my ass, hurting me and humiliating me at the same time. When he lit the wick I discovered a new degradation as I was forced by the heat of the flame to spread my thighs even further, exposing my now well-lit sex to his hurtful hands. I twisted to look back over my shoulder to see that there was only an inch of candle between my sphincter and the flame. Then, hurried by my struggles, the first drip of hot wax reached my labia, hurting me in a whole new way. I jerked and struggled in my hanging helplessness, causing even more wax to splash down on my sensitive labia. Then, he picked up the crop and began to lash my suspended body, marking me from thighs to shoulders, breasts belly and sex. The candle flame danced and jiggled, always coming closer to my anus, the flame singeing my pubic hair, the dripping wax growing hotter with every passing instant. Then with a harder than usual blow to my inner thigh the candle was blown out, leaving my sex coated in cooling hot wax.
Then, having learned where everything was, he began to whip me in earnest, raising welts all over my helpless body, all the while railing against, “God Damned Sod Busters, stealing what is MINE!”
When the cropping stopped, two hours later, my body was aflame and so horny I was, muffled by the gag, begging to be fucked.
He fingered my swollen and wax coated clit, making me jerk in response. He toyed with me, his long cock rubbing his male scent under my nose. He placed a pair of chopsticks on my left nipple and bound them there, then did the same to the other one. He hung lead weights to the nipple clamps that felt as if he intended to rip them right off. He slid a hardwood dildo into my pussy, then used a third pair of chopsticks to seal my labia together, trapping the huge thing within me.
He knelt beside me and used yet another chopstick to snap at my swollen, rock hard clitoris knocking off the wax so that the blows hit harder each time he snapped it.
And that’s when I started coming.
The next morning the cowhands came and looked at the wreckage that was me. Then, riding off over the ridge, they left me to hang.
An hour later Holmes came out and with only a glance in my direction, climbed up on his buckboard and rode away toward town, saying he had some business with the railroad agent. The Chinese cook came out then and cut me down. Helping me into the house, the kind old woman had me lay down on a cot and expertly massaged some of the pain from my cramping muscles. My welts were smeared with a cooling salve that seemed to draw the pain out of my body. I was given something to drink and then some rice soup to eat.
When the buckboard returned I was ready for him, up in the barn’s hayloft, armed with his own Sharps .50 buffalo gun. I shot the bastard right between the eyes, just as he was driving in through the gate. The cook and I then cleaned out the safe, drove into town, and boarded a train for San Francisco.