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Custer's Little Big Horn

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Barbaria1 said:
Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Siss .... I hear that old English crab ... Lord whateverheis ... complaining again



So sensible ... the world makes so much sense when you are only a 6 inches tall squirrel.



He sees into the future when he is drunk so much better than into his immediate surroundings



Remember now....those are horses ... not mules
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Notice she dares not bait THT... Perhaps she does have a brain...
 
thehangingtree said:
Notice she dares not bait THT... Perhaps she does have a brain...
Click to expand...

Hah, you will get your turn, big guy! I've hardly begun to bait you yet. Just you wait. I think I am a glutton for punishment, fearless and foolhardy all rolled into one. :(
 
Jollyrei said:
I think I can manage. I'm not the one that spent the night drinking redeye whiskey. :p:cool:
Does Messaline have a good hangover cure for Lord Wragg? :D
Click to expand...
Messaline is one of the most potent hangover cures known to medical science! ;)
 
Barbaria1 said:
4. I laid naked for hours, face-down and spread-eagled on that filthy mattress, my poor backside burning from the terrible whipping I had received at the hand of Colonel George Armstrong Custer.

All the while in the saloon below the piano played, men laughed and shouted, fist fights broke out, and the girls squealed and giggled. Every now and then a couple would ascend the stairs and closet themselves for a quick tryst in one of the rooms along the hallway. I could hear the bed moving and the moans of pleasure right through the thin wall of my room.

Then everything went gradually quiet ... closing time. After a while, I hear footsteps and my door opens. I raise my head. It's Messaline come to get me. She sets a ring of keys down on the table and sings a little French ditty to herself as she busily sets about untying my wrists and ankles. Slowly I roll over and try to sit up. The room spins but I steady myself; then I throw my long legs over the side of the bed and she helps me to my feet.

Partially supporting me, Messaline leads me out into the hallway and down into the strangely quiet saloon below. We pass by overturned tables, broken bottles and chairs, cast off articles of female clothing, here and there a drunk sprawled on the floor.

Slowly, we make our way to the rear of the building, where we stop in her office. I am amazed at the richly appointed with paintings, the damask draperies, the desk of highly polished fine French wood, and a large chesterfield on which the form of my friend Wragg lies, reeking of alcohol and totally passed out. Messaline clearly does alright in this line of work.

I look at Wragg and then at Messaline. She nods in his direction and winks at me. "Poor sod," she says, "he lost all his money and his girl, so I took pity and gave him a nice place to sleep it off. He claims he is an English Lord or some such silly thing. Would you believe it looking at him? Nonetheless, who knows, he might be useful to us."

She cups her hand behind the flute of the green-shaded lamp adorning her desk, and gently blows the flame out. We leave, but I swear, despite the gloom, that Wragg opened one eye and leered at tight bare little butt as we passed by.

Out in the hall once again, I turn to Messaline, “I really must find a way to get to Fort Abraham Lincoln in the morning. Custer left without granting me the exclusive interview I was sent here to obtain. I must follow him and complete my assignment.”

“Hush ma chérie,” she murmurs, “you must rest, and you must forget him. Perhaps you would like to work for Messaline instead, no?”

“That’s very generous, but I am just not cut out to be a saloon girl, and I could never entertain men in one of those little rooms… it just wouldn’t be right … I am a good girl, I am. Now, seriously, Messa, I must go to Fort Abraham Lincoln as soon as possible.”

“All in good time, Barb. First we must clean you up. Then Messa will see what she can arrange. Perhaps I can hire Jolly to drive the buckboard and Siss and I will accompany you.”

“But what about the Indians? Is it safe for three women to travel to Fort Abraham Lincoln without military escort?”

“oh, oh … tshawwww ... these Indians, they are Sioux … Messa will speak French to them, perhaps give them little gift, no?”

With that, she takes me by the hand and leads me out the back of the establishment ... to what she calls the bathhouse … a wood paneled room, the centerpiece of which is an imported, claw-footed, cast-iron bath tub.

We enter. The air is steamy and the tub, filled nearly to the brim with hot sudsy water, is occupied by Siss ... her long blonde hair wrapped and piled on top of her head. She lies languidly in the bath water with only her shoulders and the swell of her full alabaster white breasts visible above the surface.

"Get in," orders Messaline, "there's just enough room in the tub for two."

"Well I ... I mean ... with Siss? You want me to get in the tub with Siss?"

"Do not be unquiet, Barb. The water will soothe, and the two of you can find ecstasy in each other's bodies, no?"

"Ummm. I never ... I mean ... with a woman, not even a man … well, I don’t know."

"Such naïveté. Mon dieu. Never been with a woman before? Tskkk tskkk. Must Messaline demonstrate?"

"No, no" I say as I straddle the side of the tub and slide one leg into the warm fragrant water; and then with a twist of my hips, I settle into the tub, gently jostling Siss and excusing myself repeatedly as I pull my other leg in.

Siss adjusts her position, making room for me, the water roiling around and sloshing over the side. To make more room, she lifts one leg and lies her calf on the rim of the tub, rivulets of water running down the soft inside of her thigh.

"Face each other now and scissor legs together. Yes, like so. Tres bien!" Messaline instructs.

The tub is cramped ... barely enough room to maneuver. We instantly come into contact beneath the surface of the sudsy water. Siss smiles and closes her eyes, resting her head back on the tub. My butt slides forward a little bit more as I wrap a leg up around and over her hip. We are touching ... down there!!! As our bodies dovetail beneath the surface of the water I feel an irrepressible tingle. I blush contentedly and lean back, eyes closed.

"Make good now," says Messaline as she departs, quietly closing the door behind her, and laughing quietly to herself.

TO BE CONTINUED

credit to Siss on this one for help with the plot
Click to expand...
Like very, very much!
 

5. Happy as school girls, Messa, Siss and I saunter out through the swinging doors of 'Messaline's Saloon and House of Ill Repute,' ready for a spirited excursion to Fort Abraham Lincoln in pursuit of Colonel George Armstrong Custer.

We are all gussied up for the journey in Messa's finest. Siss has tightened the lacing behind my back until my breasts literally threaten to pop out of my daringly low-cut bodice, and I can't get over Siss' outfit, which has a bustle the likes of which I have never seen. Our hair is wound and piled on the back of our heads and held in place with long pins and little hats.

We emerge to see the buckboard waiting for us out front. Jolly sits high in the driver's seat, the horse's reigns in his hands, polished boots planted firmly on the "buck" ... the board that separates the driver from the horse and gives the vehicle its name.

Wragg stands alongside, ready to help us board ... offering his hand first to Messa who clambers up on the seat beside Jolly. Then he takes me by the waist to lift me gaily into the box at the rear; does the same with Siss, who giggles at his exaggerated chivalry, and follows himself.

"However did you convince Jolly and Wragg to come along?" I ask Messa brightly as I settle in behind the driver's seat.

"Oh, oh ... no problem at all," she replies with a knowing wink, "since they both lost everything they had at cards with the Colonel, Messa knew that they must be itching for a re-match."

"How far to Fort Abraham Lincoln?" asks Siss, as she snuggles in beside me, adjusts the thin little shoulder straps on her saloon girl’s dress, wraps her arms tightly around her knees, and smiles coquettishly up at Jolly.

"About two days, I reckon," he replies, rubbing his hand thoughtfully across the stubble on his chin before tilting his wide hat brim back to look up at the sky.

Wragg sprawls out across the back of the box, unbuttons his waist coat, and wonders where we will spend the night.

"Why, under the stars, n'est-ce pas?" chortles Messa with a playful sparkle in her eyes and a nod toward the five bedrolls tucked under the driver's seat.

Wragg makes a face. He would obviously have preferred the comfort of a nice hotel.

With that settled, Jolly gives a whistle, cracks his long black teamster's whip over our horse's rump, and we are off. We roll down Deadwood's very dead, at that hour of the morning, Main Street to the edge of town and head north.

By mid-morning we have already been on the road for at least a couple of hours. The sun beats down from a cloudless sky to warm us. Dense clouds of dust billow behind, marking our progress across the open prairie to any observers out there to whom our little party might be of interest.

We are all in high spirits. Wragg has produced, from under his waistcoat, a large flask that he thoughtfully filled to the brim behind the saloon bar before we left, and has passed it around several times already. We have begun to sing, Messa having instructed us in the words and tune of her favorite little French ditty, "Aloutte".

By early afternoon we are all quite hungry … in addition to feeling quite tipsy … and before too long Jolly brings us to a halt beside a stream. While Siss lays out a lovely picnic spread of roast beef, cheese, bread and four bottles of Messa's finest imported French wine, Messa and I lift up our skirts to frolic and splash in the cool waters of the prairie stream. Wragg and Jolly lean back in the grass at stream's edge to smoke and gaze happily at our shapely bare legs.

After lunch, we decide to take a short siesta before resuming our journey. We roll out the bedrolls and lie on our backs in the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. I am full of food and drink and feeling very sleepy. I soon doze off ... my mind filled with sensual memories of what happened in the bathtub with Siss the night before.

But something disturbs my lovely little nap. Drowsily I turn over on my side. Eyes still closed, I listen .. but all I can hear is Wragg's snoring … the man sounds like a foghorn on Lake Michigan I think to myself. I am about to fall back asleep when I sense that something is amiss ... I have the funny feeling that someone is looking at me.

I roll onto my backside and open my eyes, immediately shielding them with my hand from the glare of the bright sun overhead. Slowly I focus and then suddenly let out a wild shriek, for leaning over me is an Indian warrior ... a big, frightening warrior with bright red streaks of war paint emblazoned against his charcoal-blackened face!

Before I can do anything else, I am yanked to my feet by my hair, my little hat spinning off into the grass. Another warrior pinions my arms tightly behind my back. Siss and Messa are similarly held. We three women are pushed together. Wragg stands a short distance away with both hands held high in the air. Jolly is nowhere to be seen.

The war party numbers about a dozen. Bare-chested with leather breeches, and painted for war, they chatter excitedly among themselves. I have no idea what they are saying or what they intend to do with us. One of them, clearly the leader, seems fascinated with Siss' long blonde hair, which he takes in his hand and holds to his nose, sniffs, looks at his companions and laughs delightedly.

Eyes-wide, Siss leans toward Messa and me and whispers, “What are they going to do to us?”

“Do not be unquiet,” warns Messa.

“Yes, don’t do anything to antagonize them,” adds Wragg, beads of perspiration breaking out on his brow.

“Our best hope is that Jolly got away and is going for help,” I suggest, although I know in my heart that it’s probably a long shot.

The leader suddenly lets go of Siss’ hair and turns to me. He looks me over up and down, and then grabs my bodice. Pulling the fabric away from my chest, he draws from a leather sheath at his hip a long gleaming and very wicked-looking hunting knife.

TO BE CONTINUED
 
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Barbaria1 said:
5. Happy as school girls, Messa, Siss and I saunter out through the swinging doors of 'Messaline's Saloon and House of Ill Repute,' ready for a spirited excursion to Fort Abraham Lincoln in pursuit of Colonel George Armstrong Custer.

We are all gussied up for the journey in Messa's finest. Siss has tightened the lacing behind my back until my breasts literally threaten to pop out of my daringly low-cut bodice, and I can't get over Siss' outfit, which has a bustle the likes of which I have never seen. Our hair is wound and piled on the back of our heads and held in place with long pins and little hats.

We emerge to see the buckboard waiting for us out front. Jolly sits high in the driver's seat, the horse's reigns in his hands, polished boots planted firmly on the "buck" ... the board that separates the driver from the horse and gives the vehicle its name.

Wragg stands alongside, ready to help us board ... offering his hand first to Messa who clambers up on the seat beside Jolly. Then he takes me by the waist to lift me gaily into the box at the rear; does the same with Siss, who giggles at his exaggerated chivalry, and follows himself.

"However did you convince Jolly and Wragg to come along?" I ask Messa brightly as I settle in behind the driver's seat.

"Oh, oh ... no problem at all," she replies with a knowing wink, "since they both lost everything they had at cards with the Colonel, Messa knew that they must be itching for a re-match."

"How far to Fort Abraham Lincoln?" asks Siss, as she snuggles in beside me, adjusts the thin little shoulder straps on her saloon girl’s dress, wraps her arms tightly around her knees, and smiles coquettishly up at Jolly.

"About two days, I reckon," he replies, rubbing his hand thoughtfully across the stubble on his chin before tilting his wide hat brim back to look up at the sky.

Wragg sprawls out across the back of the box, unbuttons his waist coat, and wonders where we will spend the night.

"Why, under the stars, n'est-ce pas?" chortles Messa with a playful sparkle in her eyes and a nod toward the five bedrolls tucked under the driver's seat.

Wragg makes a face. He would obviously have preferred the comfort of a nice hotel.

With that settled, Jolly gives a whistle, cracks his long black teamster's whip over our horse's rump, and we are off. We roll down Deadwood's very dead, at that hour of the morning, Main Street to the edge of town and head north.

By mid-morning we have already been on the road for at least a couple of hours. The sun beats down from a cloudless sky to warm us. Dense clouds of dust billow behind, marking our progress across the open prairie to any observers out there to whom our little party might be of interest.

We are all in high spirits. Wragg has produced, from under his waistcoat, a large flask that he thoughtfully filled to the brim behind the saloon bar before we left, and has passed it around several times already. We have begun to sing, Messa having instructed us in the words and tune of her favorite little French ditty, "Aloutte".

By early afternoon we are all quite hungry … in addition to feeling quite tipsy … and before too long Jolly brings us to a halt beside a stream. While Siss lays out a lovely picnic spread of roast beef, cheese, bread and four bottles of Messa's finest imported French wine, Messa and I lift up our skirts to frolic and splash in the cool waters of the prairie stream. Wragg and Jolly lean back in the grass at stream's edge to smoke and gaze happily at our shapely bare legs.

After lunch, we decide to take a short siesta before resuming our journey. We roll out the bedrolls and lie on our backs in the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. I am full of food and drink and feeling very sleepy. I soon doze off ... my mind filled with sensual memories of what happened in the bathtub with Siss the night before.

But something disturbs my lovely little nap. Drowsily I turn over on my side. Eyes still closed, I listen .. but all I can hear is Wragg's snoring … the man sounds like a foghorn on Lake Michigan I think to myself. I am about to fall back asleep when I sense that something is amiss ... I have the funny feeling that someone is looking at me.

I roll onto my backside and open my eyes, immediately shielding them with my hand from the glare of the bright sun overhead. Slowly I focus and then suddenly let out a wild shriek, for leaning over me is an Indian warrior ... a big, frightening warrior with bright red streaks of war paint emblazoned against his charcoal-blackened face!

Before I can do anything else, I am yanked to my feet by my hair, my little hat spinning off into the grass. Another warrior pinions my arms tightly behind my back. Siss and Messa are similarly held. We three women are pushed together. Wragg stands a short distance away with both hands held high in the air. Jolly is nowhere to be seen.

The war party numbers about a dozen. Bare-chested with leather breeches, and painted for war, they chatter excitedly among themselves. I have no idea what they are saying or what they intend to do with us. One of them, clearly the leader, seems fascinated with Siss' long blonde hair, which he takes in his hand and holds to his nose, sniffs, looks at his companions and laughs delightedly.

Eyes-wide, Siss leans toward Messa and me and whispers, “What are they going to do to us?”

“Do not be unquiet,” warns Messa.

“Yes, don’t do anything to antagonize them,” adds Wragg, beads of perspiration breaking out on his brow.

“Our best hope is that Jolly got away and is going for help,” I suggest, although I know in my heart that it’s probably a long shot.

The leader suddenly lets go of Siss’ hair and turns to me. He looks me over up and down, and then grabs my bodice. Pulling the fabric away from my chest, he draws from a leather sheath at his hip a long gleaming and very wicked-looking hunting knife.

TO BE CONTINUED
Click to expand...

Heap big trouble! :eek::eek::eek::eek:

Wragg's plans for the night also in ruins. :mad::mad::mad::mad:

Great post, Barb, except for just one teeny weeny little niggle... :rolleyes:

I do NOT snore!!! :mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad:
 
Jollyrei said:
I'm on this. Injuns, eh? Now where was that cavalry post? Good thing that Lord I-don't-snore kept me awake enough to see those warriors coming.:rolleyes: Now is the sun north or south? :oops::doh:
Click to expand...

OMG ... we are in more trouble than I ever imagined...the sun is in the south you idiot ....go north north north north .... Got it? Go NORTH!!!!
 
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Barbaria1 said:
5. Happy as school girls, Messa, Siss and I saunter out through the swinging doors of 'Messaline's Saloon and House of Ill Repute,' ready for a spirited excursion to Fort Abraham Lincoln in pursuit of Colonel George Armstrong Custer.

We are all gussied up for the journey in Messa's finest. Siss has tightened the lacing behind my back until my breasts literally threaten to pop out of my daringly low-cut bodice, and I can't get over Siss' outfit, which has a bustle the likes of which I have never seen. Our hair is wound and piled on the back of our heads and held in place with long pins and little hats.

We emerge to see the buckboard waiting for us out front. Jolly sits high in the driver's seat, the horse's reigns in his hands, polished boots planted firmly on the "buck" ... the board that separates the driver from the horse and gives the vehicle its name.

Wragg stands alongside, ready to help us board ... offering his hand first to Messa who clambers up on the seat beside Jolly. Then he takes me by the waist to lift me gaily into the box at the rear; does the same with Siss, who giggles at his exaggerated chivalry, and follows himself.

"However did you convince Jolly and Wragg to come along?" I ask Messa brightly as I settle in behind the driver's seat.

"Oh, oh ... no problem at all," she replies with a knowing wink, "since they both lost everything they had at cards with the Colonel, Messa knew that they must be itching for a re-match."

"How far to Fort Abraham Lincoln?" asks Siss, as she snuggles in beside me, adjusts the thin little shoulder straps on her saloon girl’s dress, wraps her arms tightly around her knees, and smiles coquettishly up at Jolly.

"About two days, I reckon," he replies, rubbing his hand thoughtfully across the stubble on his chin before tilting his wide hat brim back to look up at the sky.

Wragg sprawls out across the back of the box, unbuttons his waist coat, and wonders where we will spend the night.

"Why, under the stars, n'est-ce pas?" chortles Messa with a playful sparkle in her eyes and a nod toward the five bedrolls tucked under the driver's seat.

Wragg makes a face. He would obviously have preferred the comfort of a nice hotel.

With that settled, Jolly gives a whistle, cracks his long black teamster's whip over our horse's rump, and we are off. We roll down Deadwood's very dead, at that hour of the morning, Main Street to the edge of town and head north.

By mid-morning we have already been on the road for at least a couple of hours. The sun beats down from a cloudless sky to warm us. Dense clouds of dust billow behind, marking our progress across the open prairie to any observers out there to whom our little party might be of interest.

We are all in high spirits. Wragg has produced, from under his waistcoat, a large flask that he thoughtfully filled to the brim behind the saloon bar before we left, and has passed it around several times already. We have begun to sing, Messa having instructed us in the words and tune of her favorite little French ditty, "Aloutte".

By early afternoon we are all quite hungry … in addition to feeling quite tipsy … and before too long Jolly brings us to a halt beside a stream. While Siss lays out a lovely picnic spread of roast beef, cheese, bread and four bottles of Messa's finest imported French wine, Messa and I lift up our skirts to frolic and splash in the cool waters of the prairie stream. Wragg and Jolly lean back in the grass at stream's edge to smoke and gaze happily at our shapely bare legs.

After lunch, we decide to take a short siesta before resuming our journey. We roll out the bedrolls and lie on our backs in the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. I am full of food and drink and feeling very sleepy. I soon doze off ... my mind filled with sensual memories of what happened in the bathtub with Siss the night before.

But something disturbs my lovely little nap. Drowsily I turn over on my side. Eyes still closed, I listen .. but all I can hear is Wragg's snoring … the man sounds like a foghorn on Lake Michigan I think to myself. I am about to fall back asleep when I sense that something is amiss ... I have the funny feeling that someone is looking at me.

I roll onto my backside and open my eyes, immediately shielding them with my hand from the glare of the bright sun overhead. Slowly I focus and then suddenly let out a wild shriek, for leaning over me is an Indian warrior ... a big, frightening warrior with bright red streaks of war paint emblazoned against his charcoal-blackened face!

Before I can do anything else, I am yanked to my feet by my hair, my little hat spinning off into the grass. Another warrior pinions my arms tightly behind my back. Siss and Messa are similarly held. We three women are pushed together. Wragg stands a short distance away with both hands held high in the air. Jolly is nowhere to be seen.

The war party numbers about a dozen. Bare-chested with leather breeches, and painted for war, they chatter excitedly among themselves. I have no idea what they are saying or what they intend to do with us. One of them, clearly the leader, seems fascinated with Siss' long blonde hair, which he takes in his hand and holds to his nose, sniffs, looks at his companions and laughs delightedly.

Eyes-wide, Siss leans toward Messa and me and whispers, “What are they going to do to us?”

“Do not be unquiet,” warns Messa.

“Yes, don’t do anything to antagonize them,” adds Wragg, beads of perspiration breaking out on his brow.

“Our best hope is that Jolly got away and is going for help,” I suggest, although I know in my heart that it’s probably a long shot.

The leader suddenly lets go of Siss’ hair and turns to me. He looks me over up and down, and then grabs my bodice. Pulling the fabric away from my chest, he draws from a leather sheath at his hip a long gleaming and very wicked-looking hunting knife.

TO BE CONTINUED
Click to expand...
Interesting development! Pic shows your new outfit when you are brought to the indian camp!
 

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