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Custer's Little Big Horn

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messaline said:
Aaaaah ! how Messa could have pleasure in having that in front of her !!!
Alas, they're always men who are lucky ...:(:(:(

Anyway, Messa will be happy with her LittleFox ...:D

Click to expand...

And with a single action Colt! ... that is a skill few Ladies had in those days. :p

Land o' Goshen! :eek:
 
We have suddenly became women of color!


Welcome Messa!

;)

:bdsm-heart:

Never fight... When you can concur! :oops:
 
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3. Leaving the noisy floor of the saloon with his "winning", Colonel George Armstrong Custer climbs a stairway ... feted by the hurrahs and good wishes of the crowd below ... and tromps down a long hallway until he reaches a closed door at the far end. He kicks it open with one of his black cavalryman's boots and strides on in, still carrying me … draped naked over his shoulder … kicking wildly with my feet and pounding his back ineffectually with my little fists.

A moment later I find myself looking up at a cracked and stained ceiling, after having been thrown flat on my back atop a sagging old horse-hair mattress set upon a rusty old metal bed frame. The room is small and musty-smelling, devoid of decoration … its sole purpose obvious.

Messaline raps lightly on the door and enters carrying a whiskey bottle and two smudged glasses. She hands them to the Colonel, who sets the glasses down on a small table, fills them with dark amber-colored liquid, downs both in two swift gulps, and promptly refills them.

In between swallows he lays Jolly's thick wad of greenbacks on the table. Messaline snatches the money up and tucks it down the cleavage-enhancing, boned corset of her scanty little saloon girl costume.

Then Messaline turns and gives a low whistle … and one of her girls, a lovely and very shapely blonde with adorably clear blue eyes, enters the room carrying several loops of rope, a long black strip of cloth, and a braided leather whip.

"Be good and roll over on your tummy, hun," Messaline says to me before instructing the blonde, whom she calls Siss, to "do me" on the far side of the bed while she takes the closer side.

After shooting a quick glance over at Custer, who sits slumped in a chair guzzling from the open neck of the bottle, I slowly comply, repositioning myself on the mattress. My nostrils are assaulted by the stale odors of sweat and bodily fluids ... undoubtedly left as a byproduct of countless illicit liaisons performed on this wretched mattress ... as I rest my chin on its threadbare surface and wait to see what happens next.

Siss leans over to blindfold me with the black strip of cloth while Messaline busies herself binding my left wrist and ankle to the iron frame at the corners of the bed. I can't see the blonde girl but can smell her strawberry scent and can feel the ends of her hair brushing my bare back as she fusses over me.

Moments later, as she pulls the cords tight first on my right wrist and then my ankle, Siss finishes her appointed tasks ... and I lie spread-eagled face-down and naked on the bed, the braided whip artfully laid across my tight little ass as a finishing touch.

"What's going on?" I mumble, "Why the blindfold and restraints? I was hoping to interview him."

"You were hoping to do what?" says Siss, sounding very puzzled.

"I am a reporter, you see ... working for a large Chicago daily and, believe it or not, I actually came here to write a story about Colonel Custer."

"Well, you sure have a funny way of going about it?"

"Hush, you two!" interjects Messaline, adding "Nothing that goes on in my establishment gets reported anywhere ... unless, of course, I decide it's good for business."

I repeat my unanswered question, "Why the blindfold and restraints? I thought he brought me up here to .... well, you know ... that thing this room is used for …"

"In time, in time ... Colonel Custer likes his kinks first; helps him get up for it," explains Messaline knowledgeably.

"Well that's the thing, you see .... I never ... I mean I … ummm"

"Nooooooooo ..." says Siss incredulously.

"Oh, don't worry. I laced his drink with something," whispers Messaline, "with any luck you will escape without too much damage. Come Siss, time for us to leave her to the attentions of the good Colonel now."

A moment later, I hear the lock on the door click ... then the sounds, in quick succession, of an empty bottle rolling on the floorboards, a very loud and long burp, and finally the clump of boots staggering toward me from across the room.

I hold my breath as the braided leather whip is removed from its resting place; and I gasp and shiver as its supple tip is used to gently trace a line up my spine ... then to graze and caress the fleshy outer curves of my breasts where they bulge out from beneath me against the firmness of the mattress.

I decide then and there to take the bull by the horns. I say to him, as forthrightly as I can muster, but with a slight nervous tremor in my voice, "Umm ... hey George, I have a great idea ... why don't you untie me and go fetch me some paper and a pencil, and then let me interview you? I am a journalist, you know. And you are famous. My readers would love to know ...."

But my hopeful little speech is cut abruptly short by the slashing sting of the whip brought down hard across my quivering buttocks. I buck and scream as he whips me mercilessly. The lashes come fast and furious, and although I twist and writhe about on the mattress there is no escaping their fury. I scream and yelp as the sharp bite of the whip moves methodically and relentlessly up and down the length of my naked body ... helplessly bound crucifixion-style to the bed.

Then the whipping stops as abruptly as it began. I lie sobbing and whimpering as he mounts the bed on his knees right between my spread legs. The bed frame creaks and groans under his added weight. Two large hands, surprisingly cold, grip my ass cheeks, forcing them apart. Strong fingers dig in, thumbs press down to part my labia.

"Oh Shit", I think to myself, as I stiffen and brace for the inevitable powerful impaling thrust.

And then .... nothing happens. Silence. I can hear the rasping of his shortened breathing and I can hear singing and piano music from down in the saloon below us. Slowly my spread ass cheeks are released; he withdraws his hands ... a sigh of frustration.

I turn my head to one side. The blindfold slips away and I glance back over my shoulder and whip-ravaged back. Custer is backing off the bed and pulling up his trousers, then turning his back on me and leaving. The door slams shut behind him. I hear him descend the stairs, and then the rounds of raucous congratulatory cheers that greet him from the crowded saloon below.

I rest my head and close my eyes, still trying to fathom what just didn't happen. Then suddenly it dawns on me that I have in my sole possession the biggest journalistic scoop of the century! But alas, no editor would ever believe or print it! Yet it's true.

I have just seen it with my own eyes! The famous national hero ... The hard-fighting, fearless and manly George Armstrong Custer's "horn" turns out to be not nearly so big as one might imagine ... in fact ... it is incredibly little!

TO BE CONTINUED
 
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Barbaria1 said:
3. Leaving the noisy floor of the saloon with his "winning", Colonel George Armstrong Custer climbs a stairway ... feted by the hurrahs and good wishes of the crowd below ... and tromps down a long hallway until he reaches a closed door at the far end. He kicks it open with one of his black cavalryman's boots and strides on in, still carrying me … draped naked over his shoulder … kicking wildly with my feet and pounding his back ineffectually with my little fists.

A moment later I find myself looking up at a cracked and stained ceiling, after having been thrown flat on my back atop a sagging old horse-hair mattress set upon a rusty old metal bed frame. The room is small and musty-smelling, devoid of decoration … its sole purpose obvious.

Messaline raps lightly on the door and enters carrying a whiskey bottle and two smudged glasses. She hands them to the Colonel, who sets the glasses down on a small table, fills them with dark amber-colored liquid, downs both in two swift gulps, and promptly refills them.

In between swallows he lays Jolly's thick wad of greenbacks on the table. Messaline snatches the money up and tucks it down the cleavage-enhancing, boned corset of her scanty little saloon girl costume.

Then Messaline turns and gives a low whistle … and one of her girls, a lovely and very shapely blonde with adorably clear blue eyes, enters the room carrying several loops of rope, a long black strip of cloth, and a braided leather whip.

"Be good and roll over on your tummy, hun," Messaline says to me before instructing the blonde, whom she calls Siss, to "do me" on the far side of the bed while she takes the closer side.

After shooting a quick glance over at Custer, who sits slumped in a chair guzzling from the open neck of the bottle, I slowly comply, repositioning myself on the mattress. My nostrils are assaulted by the stale odors of sweat and bodily fluids ... undoubtedly left as a byproduct of countless illicit liaisons performed on this wretched mattress ... as I rest my chin on its threadbare surface and wait to see what happens next.

Siss leans over to blindfold me with the black strip of cloth while Messaline busies herself binding my left wrist and ankle to the iron frame at the corners of the bed. I can't see the blonde girl but can smell her strawberry scent and can feel the ends of her hair brushing my bare back as she fusses over me.

Moments later, as she pulls the cords tight first on my right wrist and then my ankle, Siss finishes her appointed tasks ... and I lie spread-eagled face-down and naked on the bed, the braided whip artfully laid across my tight little ass as a finishing touch.

"What's going on?" I mumble, "Why the blindfold and restraints? I was hoping to interview him."

"You were hoping to do what?" says Siss, sounding very puzzled.

"I am a reporter, you see ... working for a large Chicago daily and, believe it or not, I actually came here to write a story about Colonel Custer."

"Well, you sure have a funny way of going about it?"

"Hush, you two!" interjects Messaline, adding "Nothing that goes on in my establishment gets reported anywhere ... unless, of course, I decide it's good for business."

I repeat my unanswered question, "Why the blindfold and restraints? I thought he brought me up here to .... well, you know ... that thing this room is used for …"

"In time, in time ... Colonel Custer likes his kinks first; helps him get up for it," explains Messaline knowledgeably.

"Well that's the thing, you see .... I never ... I mean I … ummm"

"Nooooooooo ..." says Siss incredulously.

"Oh, don't worry. I laced his drink with something," whispers Messaline, "with any luck you will escape without too much damage. Come Siss, time for us to leave her to the attentions of the good Colonel now."

A moment later, I hear the lock on the door click ... then the sounds, in quick succession, of an empty bottle rolling on the floorboards, a very loud and long burp, and finally the clump of boots staggering toward me from across the room.

I hold my breath as the braided leather whip is removed from its resting place; and I gasp and shiver as its supple tip is used to gently trace a line up my spine ... then to graze and caress the fleshy outer curves of my breasts where they bulge out from beneath me against the firmness of the mattress.

I decide then and there to take the bull by the horns. I say to him, as forthrightly as I can muster, but with a slight nervous tremor in my voice, "Umm ... hey George, I have a great idea ... why don't you untie me and go fetch me some paper and a pencil, and then let me interview you? I am a journalist, you know. And you are famous. My readers would love to know ...."

But my hopeful little speech is cut abruptly short by the slashing sting of the whip brought down hard across my quivering buttocks. I buck and scream as he whips me mercilessly. The lashes come fast and furious, and although I twist and writhe about on the mattress there is no escaping their fury. I scream and yelp as the sharp bite of the whip moves methodically and relentlessly up and down the length of my naked body ... helplessly bound crucifixion-style to the bed.

Then the whipping stops as abruptly as it began. I lie sobbing and whimpering as he mounts the bed on his knees right between my spread legs. The bed frame creaks and groans under his added weight. Two large hands, surprisingly cold, grip my ass cheeks, forcing them apart. Strong fingers dig in, thumbs press down to part my labia.

"Oh Shit", I think to myself, as I stiffen and brace for the inevitable powerful impaling thrust.

And then .... nothing happens. Silence. I can hear the rasping of his shortened breathing and I can hear singing and piano music from down in the saloon before us. Slowly my spread ass cheeks are released; he withdraws his hands ... a sigh of frustration.

I turn my head to one side. The blindfold slips away and I glance back over my shoulder and whip-ravaged back. Custer is backing off the bed and pulling up his trousers, then turning his back on me and leaving. The door slams shut behind him. I hear him descend the stairs, and then the rounds of raucous congratulatory cheers that greet him from the crowded saloon below.

I rest my head and close my eyes, still trying to fathom what just didn't happen. Then suddenly it dawns on me that I have in my sole possession the biggest journalistic scoop of the century! But alas, no editor would ever believe or print it! Yet it's true.

I have just seen it with my own eyes! The famous national hero ... The hard-fighting, fearless and manly George Armstrong Custer's "horn" turns out to be not nearly so big as one might imagine ... in fact ... it is incredibly little!

TO BE CONTINUED
Click to expand...
Write it anyway... your editor T. H(orny). Tree will enjoy the sordid details before rejecting it!!!
 
Messa is more of a Lady that that ... She will simply take what she needs and leave you "hanging".
;)
 
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