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Custer's Little Big Horn

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Another great story Barb! Well done!!!!!
:beer::clapping::bdsm-heart:
I can't believe Sir Wragg and Jolly are the only ones left standing. They must be living right.
So sad to see three nameless tombstones on the prairie:(
 
messaline said:
Perhaps they are not the tombs of our three girls ...
Perhaps they're not into these tombs ...
Perhaps they didn't die ...
Perhaps they're yet alive ...

...somewhere in CruxForums, where all is possible ... :rolleyes:

Messa thinks so ...;)

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I agree absolutely, Messa
flower1flower1flower1
 
messaline said:
Perhaps they are not the tombs of our three girls ...
Perhaps they're not into these tombs ...
Perhaps they didn't die ...
Perhaps they're yet alive ...

...somewhere in CruxForums, where all is possible ... :rolleyes:

Messa thinks so ...;)

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:very_hot:
Phew - that's a hot picture!

I imagine it as pre crux. The girl in the middle lies back, gives herself to her friends, to her last pleasure. Soon she will lie back on hard wood. Soon her body will not be arched under the lips of her lovers, but under the unforgiving sun.
But for now she is lifted on a wave of love . . . . .
 
messaline said:
Perhaps they are not the tombs of our three girls ...
Perhaps they're not into these tombs ...
Perhaps they didn't die ...
Perhaps they're yet alive ...

...somewhere in CruxForums, where all is possible ... :rolleyes:

Messa thinks so ...;)

View attachment 366681
Click to expand...

Messa always knows best ... ;):D
 
phlebas said:
:very_hot:
Phew - that's a hot picture!

I imagine it as pre crux. The girl in the middle lies back, gives herself to her friends, to her last pleasure. Soon she will lie back on hard wood. Soon her body will not be arched under the lips of her lovers, but under the unforgiving sun.
But for now she is lifted on a wave of love . . . . .
Click to expand...

What a romantic you are, phlebas ... :rolleyes:
 
Barbaria1 said:
10. As one squaw stands poised to drive a sharpened wooden post deep into my cunt with a heavy stone while another positions the post between my spread legs, I peek out … hanging upside down … between their legs at a distant telltale cloud of dust on the horizon. But I am not alone; the dust cloud has caught the attention of others.

Some of the Sioux have made the same discovery and are sounding the alarm. Custer and the 7th Cavalry are coming. The Warriors scramble for weapons and ponies. The squaws drop both stone and post on the ground, and I narrowly escape being impaled.

Sitting Bull is here, there and everywhere, shouting orders. The warriors divide into two groups, each of which rides off to outflank and ambush the approaching cavalry column from left and right. Meanwhile the women move quickly to release Siss, Messaline and me from the posts between which we had been spread-eagled and so cruelly tortured.

Too weak to resist, the three of us are dragged through the camp and out onto a low grassy knoll where the approaching column will be sure to spot us. There we are thrown down onto three waiting crosses made of lodge-pole pine

As I am laid out, flat on my back, on one of the crosses … arms outstretched and held in place by the women along its rough-hewn crossbeam … the Indian who calls himself "Hanging Tree" casts his shadow over my prostate form. In one hand he holds a hammer, in the other a fistful of iron spikes.

"My God, you are going to crucify us ... you are going to raise us up as ‘bait’ to entice Custer and his men into a trap!" I exclaim.

"Very perceptive," he replies as he kneels alongside me, reaching out with one hand to press the point of an iron spike against one of my slender outstretched wrists. The ringing sound of hammers striking iron, accompanied by Siss' frenzied curses and screams, comes from one of the crosses to my right.

"No, wait!" I shout, raising and turning my head so that I can look him directly in the eye, "crucifixion is a biblical thing. How would these savages possibly know anything about it?"

He smiles, and says as he raises his hammer, "I told you. I lived among the whites when I was young, remember? And they sent me to the missionary school, where I sat for hours every day entranced by the crucifix on the classroom wall"

"So you ...." but before I could complete my thought he brings the hammer down, driving the shaft of the spike with a single blow straight through my wrist and deep into the soft wood of the crossbeam. I wail and scream. He steps over my still-arched body to nail my other wrist.

The sounds of hammers on nails, and the pitiful screams of Siss and Messaline blend together in my ears, as he positions the second nail, and drives it home with another powerful blow. A spray of blood spatters across my face and heaving chest.

“Please, I beg of you,” I sputter as he comes around and swiftly forces the sole of one of my feet down on the upright beam and then presses the other foot down on top of it. I try to kick but am too weak. Seconds later a third spike is driven through both of my feet, breaking bones and cartilage and causing unbearable pain. I buck and twist, and scream my lungs out, all to no avail … I fall back, helplessly pinned by the spikes to my cross.

Glancing to my right, I see my two friends rising up on their crosses, faces contorted with pain, naked bodies sliding down as their crosses are righted and shoved into waiting holes. Then my own cross begins to move with a shudder. I am being raised as well and a feeling of absolute terror passes through my consciousness.

When my cross hits the bottom of the hole in which it will rest, I am thrown violently forward, arching out and falling to one side, blood streaming from the holes in my wrists and darkening the light-colored wood beneath my feet. A moment later I lose control of my bladder, and warm pee runs down my legs.

View attachment 366350 It’s done, we have been crucified. Hanging Tree, the squaws and the old men who assisted in our nailing and raising, fade away, back to the encampment to feign normal life ... leaving the three of us high on our crosses, to twist and writhe obscenely in full sight of the approaching cavalry column, which has now crested the nearest hill.

I push and pull myself up shakily, intending to shout a warning, but all that comes out is a croak. Through teary eyes, I can see Custer in the lead of the column, wearing a light buckskin jacket over his blue uniform, holding one hand in the air to signal a halt.

Just then Wragg jumps out of his hiding place in a nearby copse of brush, running forward, waving his arms at Custer and his men, yelling at the top of his lungs “it’s a trap!” An arrow zings by me and finds it mark in Wragg’s back, sending the Englishman sprawling to the ground.

Mounted warriors rush in from all sides. Custer orders his vastly outnumbered troopers to dismount and form a defensive position on the top of the hill. For several minutes the fight rages furiously. Then it’s over. Custer and his men are down, and dismounted savages are whooping and shouting as they strip the cavalrymen of their clothing and set about the grisly task of collecting scalps.

Jubilant, the victorious Sioux dance about our crosses through the afternoon and into the evening hours. The area around us is filled with celebrants. High on our crosses, we struggle against gravity and the nails that pin us to the wood, exhausting ourselves in the hot sun until we hang limp, sweat-sheened and panting, heads lolling back and forth, waiting … half-conscious … for death to take us.

In my last lucid moment, I look down to see Hanging Tree looking up at me and my friends. I think I detect a sign of sympathy in his eyes, but then again maybe I am just hallucinating. I lift my head to look away, and just in time … out of the corner of my eye … I see Wragg crawling away into the night.

I hope he survives to chronicle what happened here today. Perhaps he will even submit it to the editor of the big Chicago daily that sent me out here. Then I rest my chin on my chest and close my eyes, knowing that the secret of Custer’s little big horn, dies with me, never to besmirch his legend.
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Thanks for yet another fantastic story! A very exciting end! My only concern is that you are working to hard, spoiling us perverts with your quality stories!

If anyone is interested in alternative endings of history, I recommend the enclosed video game. :)

custers.jpg
 
Barbaria1 said:
What a romantic you are, phlebas ... :rolleyes:
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That's me :D
We Australians are very romantic, so I'm told.

xso said:
Thanks for yet another fantastic story! A very exciting end! My only concern is that you are working to hard, spoiling us perverts with your quality stories!

If anyone is interested in alternative endings of history, I recommend the enclosed video game. :)

View attachment 367271
Click to expand...

Anyone got the hardware t run that game, it looks like a quality piece of entertainment. :rolleyes:
 
Barbaria1 said:
Custer's little big Horn

Summer 1876, Dakota Territory

1. Great choking clouds of yellow-brown dust billow from under the spinning wheels of our rocking and lurching stagecoach. The thundering hooves of four galloping horses and the exhortations of the driver make conversation inside the nearly empty coach difficult.

Across from me sits a lone gentleman ... dapper looking, ruddy-faced, with a big drooping mustache and a long cigar. He has been regarding me curiously for some time now, and finally leans forward to shout, "I say darling, where are you headed?"

"Fort Abraham Lincoln," I reply after a moment’s hesitation, "and you, kind Sir?"

"The same, ma'am ... Rupert Wragg's the name."

"Barbara Moore," so pleased to make your acquaintance," I say, extending a white-gloved hand and smiling sweetly at him from under the long brim of my summer sun bonnet.

"Tell me now, what's a pretty young thing like you doing all on your own out here in the Wild West?" he continues, shifting over to sit next to me and tapping a dusting of gray cigar ashes on the dark floor of the coach.

"Well I am a very independent type, Mr. Wragg. If you really must know, I am a writer on assignment for a big Chicago daily. I am on my way to meet and write a feature story about the great Indian fighter, Colonel George Armstrong Custer. It's all very exciting, you see. This is my very first assignment and I hope to make a success of it. Now tell me, what do you do for a living, kind sir?"

"Ahem ....well my dear, back home I am lord of the manor. Quite upper crust, as you might imagine. It's called Cruxton Abbey. We Wraggs have held it for generations. But here in the colonies ... I mean the States ... I seek adventure. I am a man of chance, you might say. I am a master gambler, you see. In fact I am on my way now to the town of Deadwood, where I plan to make a killing. I was just run out of ... no, pardon, I mean to say I just departed the town of Omaha after a most successful tour of the saloons and gambling dens there."

"Oh, I see."

"By Jove, Miss Moore. We seem to be gaining speed here; and I swear I just heard a gunshot. What was that thing that just flew by the carriage window?"

"Well, it appears to have been the driver. I think we must be under attack. Tell me, don't those look like bandits out there riding alongside the stagecoach?"

"Yes, and they have guns. They must be highwaymen and this must be a hold-up. The driver has been shot, and they are bringing the team to a halt!"

"Oh, how thrilling. Perhaps my editor would like a first-person account of this too!" I exclaim, rummaging in my bag for a notebook and pencil.

The stagecoach slows and quickly grinds to a halt. Someone has jumped onboard and reined in the team of horses, shouting "whoa" repeatedly.

"I think the gentlemen would like us to step out, Miss Moore," observes my companion, "Follow me if you please. Here let me assist."

"Why thank you Lord Wragg." I coo, offering him my hand.

We step down to confront our masked attackers, two of whom look down at us from their heavily lathered and rather skittish mounts, six-shooters drawn and leveled menacingly. Our driver lies in a heap alongside the road a good distance back. Two more outlaws are un-harnessing the team of horses from the stagecoach and shooing them away, shouting "hee-haw" and slapping the horses' rumps with their hats.

"Your money and your jewels," growls one of the masked bandits, waving his revolver first at Wragg and then at me.

Wragg points at his satchel, and then retrieves it gingerly from the coach. One of the bandits grabs it away from him; reaches inside, triumphantly extracts a wad of greenbacks, and whistles.

"And now you miss!" snaps the bandit leader.

"I really don't have any money, "I stammer," perhaps a dollar or two."

"Then your fine city clothes, bitch! All of them! Strip now!"

When I protest, he cocks the hammer back on his six-shooter, leans forward over the neck of his horse, and presses the muzzle to my forehead. His horse whinnies nervously.

Slowly I comply, removing my clothing piece by piece ... first my bonnet, then my shawl, then the bodice of my dress ... dropping them on the ground, where they are immediately scooped up by one of the bandits.

My slow stripping continues until I stand stark naked under the blazing sun, nervously covering myself as best I can with arm and hand. Thank goodness my long brown hair, which I had let loose when I removed my bonnet, partially covers my bare breasts and tumescent nipples.

"Raise your hands and turn around slowly now," orders the one with the gun.

"Bastards!" I hiss as I pirouette, exposing myself fully to their leering view.

"Nice bush and tight little ass!" chortles the man holding my clothes admiringly.

"I say now gentlemen. I know what you are contemplating and I really must protest," pipes up Wragg. "Miss Moore is a lady, not a saloon floozy, I must remind you."

"Shaddup or I'll put an extra hole in your head, barks the horseman irritably."

The sky darkens. A late afternoon thunderstorm is gathering. Ominous rumbles of thunder can be heard approaching.

"Looks threatening, let's get out of here," says one of the bandits nervously. The leader nods.

"Wait," I say, "you can't just leave us out here like this! May I at least have my clothes back please?"

"Yes, You have our money and you got a good gander at our dear Miss Moore in the altogether. Let's be civilized about this shall we now," adds Wragg soothingly.

"Thought I told you to shaddup, Tinhorn," barks the lead bandit, before proceeding to make poor Wragg dance a little jig with a fusillade of shots into the ground around the terrified Englishman's feet.

Laughing uproariously, the four bandits wheel their mounts about and gallop off in a cloud of dust.

I look at our useless horseless carriage, at the dead driver, glance up at the darkening sky, and survey the treeless expanse of nothing going off to the horizon in all directions.

I turn to Wragg, sigh, and say with as much sincerity as I can muster given our situation, "Sorry about your money. How much did they take?"

"All of it," he replies, eyes roaming a little too intently over my nakedness, "sorry, about your clothes."

"Stop staring at my tits!"

He takes off his coat and with a gentlemanly flourish, drapes it over my shoulders and says good-naturedly, "now never you mind Miss Moore. It will be fine; we will get it all back, including some new finery for you to wear, as soon as we get to Deadwood, and I can fleece a few of the locals. Come on then, let's start walking, shall we?"

Together we trudge off, following the wagon ruts, as a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky, followed by an earth-shattering clap of thunder and the first heavy drops of rain impact the dry earth at our feet.

TO BE CONTINUED
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Probably you would say "General" , since this was Custers highest rank although formally he is now "colonel", to be polite.
 
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