Stud Squaw – Part 1

By Alex Ironrod

This is a tale of an imaginary traditional Old West in the 1870s-1880s, with modern BDSM elements. The Native Americans are fierce and brave and so are their opponents in the US Cavalry. The setting could be Southern Arizona. This story, and its longer novel sequel, are dedicated to the memory of the late film director John Ford, whose Westerns inspired them.

His arms were tired; he’d been pulled along at the end of a rope behind the pinto horse for several hours, wrists bound with rawhide – chafing despite his heavy yellow deerskin gauntlet gloves. And his feet hurt. He cursed himself for wearing his good cavalry boots and spurs- they made him look great in the saddle, but pinched after an hour or so of stumbling along rocky trails. And his head ached from the bullet graze, which had got him into this mess.

He looked over his left shoulder at his companion. Sergeant Bright seemed to be faring better than his lieutenant was, although he too was bound behind another Apache horse. But Bright was rugged after years in the cavalry, and, at 6’ 2” topped Tom Spaulding by a good three inches. There was a sudden commotion, as the sergeant tripped over a rock on the narrow path and was being dragged along, scraping chest and legs over the uneven ground.. The leader of the Indian band of raiders snapped out an order and Bright was able to scramble to his feet, blood seeping down his arm again.

They seemed to be the only survivors of the Apache raid and the lieutenant cursed himself for his stupidity again. It had seemed so simple, and it would have been his first patrol command, after arriving at the post a few weeks before, newly commissioned and naively enthusiastic.

“Right, Spaulding, you’ll need only three or four men for your first time out,” the major had ordered. “The damned telegraph line is down again, and I think that outlaw Apache band is getting restless again, and may have cut the line. Oh, and you’d better take Sergeant Bright – he knows this territory a helluva lot better than you do.”

Off he went on a fresh spring day, in working uniform, but his good boots, with his patrol, leather creaking, equipment jingling, all glad to get out from the fort for a few days. Tom knew enough to let the sergeant set the route.

“You’ve got your compass with you, Sir. We’re heading south-east,” explained Bright. “Shouldn’t be too difficult with the telegraph poles to guide us, although I think we rely on them too much.”

“And what about these Apaches, sergeant?”

“It’s a renegade bunch that come out of the mountains over there from time to time, but the leader, Red Feather, is a fucking good fighter. We’ll need to keep a sharp watch.”

The attack happened first thing on the second day. The troop had taken precautions, but the Indians were sudden and swift. Tom had taken the tack off his gelding the night before; now he swung easily onto Diablo bareback. He hoped his previous long experience with horses would help, but two rapid shots felled Diablo and grazed his forehead.

When he came to, it was all over, and he was roped and tied, the sergeant beside him. He watched the Apaches searching through their supplies and the dead bodies of the other two soldiers, until a commanding voice made them stop. The leader was a tall, well-muscled man who sat his stallion easily. Was he the famous Red Feather? He slid smoothly off his horse and walked over to his two captives, checking them out, feeling biceps and muscles, even groping their balls. He smiled with satisfaction, called to one of his men and rattled off a stream of commands. A second man chuckled and spoke in broken English to the two captives.

“My chief, Red Feather, is pleased with this raid and will keep you two his prisoners. He will not kill you. Red Feather likes men and will make you his stud squaws. You will be made into his new body slaves. We go now to camp.”

Spaulding was still dizzy from his wound, but he turned to the sergeant as they were led and roped to the back of the horses.

“Body slaves. Squaws. What is this?”

“Dunno, Sir, but I don’t like the sound of any of it. Ahhh…”

A sudden blow to his bleeding shoulder silenced the sergeant, and they were off, walking, stumbling, and even dragged behind the Apache ponies. The path led back up into the mountains, and the pace was a steady walk, with a couple of brief stops for a mouthful of water.

As the afternoon wore on, both lieutenant and sergeant were exhausted, sweat running down their faces and seeping into their uniforms, now dusty, dirty and torn, where each had fallen and been dragged.

Finally the path widened into a small valley, where the Apache camp had been built. To Tom’s surprise it looked like a permanent site, with women working and cooking, children playing and old men sitting smoking on the ground, as he was pulled along. Everyone came out to greet the warriors and the supplies and booty they had brought back. He scarcely had time to notice how well laid out and maintained the village appeared to be, before, at the sight of the dark-haired lieutenant and the blond sergeant, the women started shrieking and advanced on the prisoners with brooms and willow canes, beating and slashing at them. Still roped and tied, the soldiers could scarcely defend themselves, using their hands to protect their faces as they were marched through the village; blows fell left and right, stinging, bruising, cutting, accompanied by screams and shouts.

At least they reached what seemed to be the chief’s tepee, where the horse ropes were dropped and the two prisoners pushed inside. They fell to the earthen floor, exhausted, beaten and still hand-tied, to await the chief.

“Are you alright, Sergeant?” panted Spaulding.

“Well, I’ve been worse, but not often, and my fucking shoulder aches,” came the laconic reply.

“I’ll try to get you some medical attention as soon…” his voice trailed off as the chief strode into his tepee, with his interpreter scuttling in behind him, together with a couple of the other warriors.

It was their first real look at Red Feather. He was as tall as the Sergeant [and looked about the same age], very well-muscled, with a hawk-like face, marred only by a scar that slashed across his right cheek. He wore only deerskin pants and boots that clung to his body. He issued a crisp command, and the prisoners were hauled to their feet, hands untied and the warriors began peeling off their cavalry shirts and undershirts. Red Feather watched impassively as his men pulled off the boots and spurs, then the breeches and underpants. The boots were shoved back on, and the two stood naked, as their hands were loosely tied in front of them, with a loop round their necks.

“My chief will now look you over, to see if he has made a wise choice,” jabbered the interpreter, as Red Feather moved across to Tom, and, seizing his small brown nipples, gave them a swift and savage twist. The lieutenant gasped in surprise and pain, and the chief swiftly moved one hand into his mouth and the other grasped his dark hair. He seemed to be checking Tom’s teeth, like a horse at market, and then looked searchingly into his eyes. Obsidian black locked onto young green, as they gazed at one another. Then Red Feather nodded, Spaulding’s feet were knocked apart, and the calloused hands explored further, weighing his balls and massaging his cock, which reluctantly began to rise. The hand went under the crotch; a finger jabbed into Spaulding’s ass. Again he shouted, and was rewarded with a savage slap across his mouth. All the time, the chief kept up a running commentary in an undertone, and the interpreter giggled at intervals. Then Tom’s bound hands were suddenly jerked up and tied off on a cross beam of the large tepee.

The chief had moved on the Sergeant Bright. The two men looked hard at one another and a faint smile crossed the Apache’s face, until he noticed the dried blood from the soldier’s shoulder wound. He barked out an order and one of the men slipped out. A similar inspection now took place, but more slowly and thoroughly. Nipples were pinched and pulled vigorously, but Bright merely bit his lip. Red Feather smiled again, and moved down, not bothering about the mouth. He began to flick the sergeant’s large balls and instantly erecting cock, which rose rapidly to its full eight inches under the chief’s ministrations. This time, the soldier heard the chief’s comments.

“Cojones, is it? My cojones you’re interested in….,” and he lapsed into reasonably fluent Spanish, which Spaulding couldn’t understand, but the chief obviously did – and a savage smile lit up his face. He moved his hand and drove two fingers swiftly and efficiently into Bright’s ass, which produced an audible groan, while the chief worked his fingers in and out of the warm hole. He slapped Bright’s bare butt several times with the quirt he carried on his wrist, with obvious pleasure.

At that moment, an older man, carrying a bag of potions and pastes, came into the tepee. Red Feather indicated the sergeant’s shoulder wound and the lieutenant’s bullet graze. The healer worked swiftly; the graze on Spaulding’s forehead was coated with a vile-smelling paste, after Bright’s wound had been seen to.

“The chief’s not going to be pleased,” exclaimed the sergeant. “He wants to start training us to become his ‘squaws’ as soon as possible, but neither of us are in good condition.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, lieutenant, I assume you’ve never had a man’s hard cock up your ass?”

“Of course not – you mean he wants to fuck me – and you?”

“Both of us – together or separately. But my shoulder’s going to delay him, and so’s your tight inexperienced ass. So be careful not to anger him too much.”

But Spaulding was furious; as the warriors came towards him, he struggled, kicking out, although his hands were firmly tied above his head. But it didn’t take long to subdue him. His booted feet were grabbed and tied apart, with a pole between them – leaving him hobbled like any animal. Next they grabbed his hair, forcing his mouth open and pushing in a thick wad of leather. His shouts were further reduced by a rawhide strip strapped across the gag. The sergeant had been similarly silenced, and his arms bound to his side, protecting his shoulder to some extent.

Red Feather approached Bright with a pot of grease and a leather object in his hands. He showed his “toy” to both men, and Bright struggled and moaned. The warriors turned him round and forced him to bend over, as Spaulding was held and forced to watch. The chief took a handful of the grease and eased it into the waiting ass-hole, using first one finger and then a second to reach in and coat the pulsating pink chute. Then he fingered the leather plug, smearing it with the grease and began to push it slowly into the hole. Gradually it sank in until only the flared base could be seen, and the sergeant twitched and groaned under the painful and yet pleasurable invasion.

Red Feather turned to Tom – still with the pot of grease and was handed a smaller penis-shaped object by his interpreter.

“Chief now plug you, lieutenant. So be prepared to open up your ass and suffer.”

Spaulding struggled, but he was tied hand and foot. The chief spent more time easing the grease into the virgin hole, using his fingers to slowly stretch the space and to reach for the sphincter muscle. Tom twisted and turned as he felt the leather penis at his threshold. He froze as the head forced its way in, unable to believe he was being penetrated. He could feel the pain of his passageway being filled and expanded, inch-by-inch, until the base was fully home. Then, in a fury, he tried to expel the foreign object, but Red Feather merely laughed and screwed it in tighter.

The two men were forced to face each other, gagged into silence, plugged into pain – but was there also a twinge or two of pleasure. The sergeant was the roped chest and waist to an upright post, and the lieutenant was pulled opposite him, less than a foot apart. The interpreter giggled, and, moving between them, began to massage their cocks and balls. Spaulding tried to resist the pressure, but Bright’s 8 inches stood out, proud and hard in the Indian’s hand. Gradually Tom’s responded, rising from its dark nest until it was almost upright. The interpreter cackled with glee, forcing the two cocks together, and tying them on top of one another with a rawhide thong.

“The chief wishes you a good night together,” chuckled the interpreter, as the men left the tepee. The two cavalrymen looked into one another’s eyes, unable to speak. Tom was bothered and humiliated as he looked down at the two cocks bouncing and twitching together. The sergeant merely shook his head, and made snoring noises, suggesting they try to get some rest.

It seemed no time before the flap of the tepee was jerked open, and the chief and one of his men came in. The warrior checked the bindings on the dicks, rolling them between his hands, until drops of pre-cum fell to the ground and both prisoners were groaning audibly. Red Feather laughed and gave an order; the pricks were unbound, but remained butting one another. Then the rawhide and leather gags were removed, and each man was given a mouthful of water. But arms and legs remained bound, and the chief checked the seating of his plugs with several hard slaps and quirt blows on each butt. He moved over to the sergeant, flicked his balls hard and began to twist his nipples. Bright started talking to him urgently in Spanish, but Red Feather merely shrugged and moved to the lieutenant, hitting his jutting cock and balls with his quirt.

It was too much for Tom, and he spat full into the Apache’s face.

“You young fool,” shouted the sergeant, “I told you not to anger him.” He switched into rapid Spanish, until Red Feather slashed him across the mouth with his quirt. He shouted some orders, and stormed out of the tepee.

“What did you say to him?” demanded Spaulding.

“I told him you were too young and stupid, and, if he wanted a man, to take me.”

“But you can’t expect me to let that happen. I’m the lieutenant and part of my job is to protect my men. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but I’d had enough. What are they going to do now?”

“I don’t know, but it won’t be pleasant. Frankly, sir, it was fucking stupid to spit all over him.”

“Maybe so, but I wanted him to know that I’d still got some fight left in me.”

“Well, Sir, we’re in this together, and they’ll torture us together.”

“Stop calling me ‘Sir’. My name’s Tom and I’d like you to use it, since I got you further into this mess.”

“William Bright, Sir – er, Tom. My friends call me Billy.”

A group of warriors entering the tepee ended further conversation. Fresh rawhide thongs went round their chafed wrists and booted feet to replace the existing ropes and a wet rawhide strip across their mouths. Then they were pulled, blinking, into the open air and hustled into a nearby open area, dotted with a variety of cacti bushes and other shrubs, where the chief was standing, playing with his rampant cock.

They were pulled over one of the largest cactus with its flowers and thorns, back to back, their arms extended and the rawhide tied round their wrists and forearms. They were draped on opposite sides of the thorn bush, their heads together. Their legs were kicked apart and tethered to pegs in the ground. As they tried to struggle back up, Red Feather came over and forced them further onto the cactus spikes, so that their backs and asses were pinned down and caught in new pain, while their heads, forced and held next to one another, gazed up into the sun.

The chief continued to excite his cock and his balls, coming over to stand over the helpless lieutenant. Panting in heat, he reached down and pinched Tom’s nose.

Spaulding’s mouth opened round the rawhide thong, gasping as Red Feather climaxed and his hot cum sprayed into the semi-open orifice. He choked as thick cream oozed into his mouth and covered his face. The Apache smiled with satisfaction, wiping his cock clean on the lieutenant’s genitals, which he then proceeded to massage and pull, using the cum as lubricant. He was an expert at such manipulation, and, groaning and twisting on the thorns, Spaulding found himself getting more and more aroused until he spewed his man-seed high upon his thighs, shuddering on the cactus.

Without missing a beat, the chief walked over to the sergeant, who was by now fully erect, and, using the lieutenant’s jism, forced the other prisoner to bellow his needs and hump on Red Feather’s wet hands. Then he too rose up and spurted a thick white rope across his chest. The chief wiped his hands on Bright’s thick pelt of chest hair and walked away.

As the two prisoners lay there, gasping and shuddering with pain, and yet humping the leather plugs within them, the interpreter came sliding over. “Now we get our turn. We will piss on you – this will dampen your ties, so they will shrink in the hot sun and strain and stretch your muscles and this will bring out the flies to taste you.” And, undoing his breech clout, he aimed a shower of warm fluid first onto the sergeant’s face, and then across the two bodies where they lay, now dripping with yellow piss and white cum.

Their weight pressed them further onto the spiked leaves, so that every movement became torture. They could not move their heads, without being pierced by thorns, and their arms, bound to one another, were held down the sides of the cactus. As they tried to avoid twitching on their bed of needles, the cum and piss slowly dried on their fronts, attracting all manner of flies and insects. The sergeant tried blowing them off his face, but the rawhide tie across his mouth made that less effective as it dried and tightened in place. This forced his jaws further and further open, giving the insects more opportunity, as he drooled down the sides of his mouth. Tom could still taste the chief’s cum in his mouth, smell it on his face and in his hair, and watch as flies buzzed around his head and exposed cock and balls.

To be continued …

Copyright © 2021 by Alex Ironrod, alex-ironrod.com. All rights reserved. Posted here with permission of the author.

 

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