Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Cowboy and the Indian Girl (or Kenna Takchawee) (M/g spank reluc
romantic)

   Written by cc

   Dedicated to Kenna, who was very kind to poor old cc

   [THWACK!] "AAAH!" the cry was forced from the lips of the little Indian
girl as the strap smacked against her bare thighs, leaving a bright red
mark that faded slowly, joining the other signs of this 'discipline'
session.  She had tried to remain stoic, tightlipped, barely allowing a
grimace to her face or a whimper to her lips.  But she was only a little
girl of nine or ten summers after all, and eventually her tormentor managed
to achieve the satisfaction of wrenching a cry from her as he strapped her
again and again.

   She stood naked before him, a slender child with long straight black
hair parted in the middle, held in place by a head-band.  Her breasts were
mere buds topped by nipples, now erect in her anxiety, her chest heaving in
her distress.  Her bottom was round and smooth, but all ready bore the
marks of the strap, red lines criss-crossing the cheeks, and even diving in
between them towards her anus.  The fronts of her slim thighs were now
receiving the punishing attention, stroke after stroke as she quivered and
yelped.  Framed between them was her unfledged girlcleft, with puffy lips
and prominent clitoris.

   The man wielding the strap shifted his aim, now bringing the end of it
to bear full upon her mons and vulva, [SMACK!] "AAAIIEEE!" she fairly
wailed, dancing in place as he disciplined her so strictly and on so
intimate a place.

   After a few more strokes he tossed the strap aside and laid his hands
upon her, mumbling something about 'checking to see if she was properly
punished', clearly just an excuse to fondle her, his hands running over her
little breasts and buttocks, then spending some time fingering her cleft
and clitoris.

   Once again the little Indian girl tried to maintain her composure, but
she was unable to prevent the moisture from gathering between her legs, or
her hips from rocking gently back and forth as he stimulated her so
lasciviously.

   Finally he released her, with a last contemptuous [SMACK!] to her
bottom, as she scurried to gather her little buckskin dress and pull it on,
covering her nakedness.

   "Get back to work, Injun girl," the man called out, and she trudged off
to continue the many chores assigned to her at the outpost store.

   Her name was Kenna Takchawee.  Kenna was a Scottish name, and probably
was given to her by or because of a white man who had been perhaps her
grandfather; she didn't know.  Takchawee meant 'doe', and her mother had
called her that when she was born.

   She was one of the last of a dwindling tribe, a proud but peaceful
people all ready driven from their ancestral lands by the more warlike
tribes long before the White Man had come to the West.  Her father she had
never known.  Her mother had died when she was young, leaving her in the
care of a distant cousin.  That woman had had other mouths to feed, and in
turn sold her a few months ago to the man who ran the outpost store, who
bought her to have another pair of hands to do the many odd jobs that he
was too lazy to do, reckoning that he wouldn't have to pay or even feed her
much.  He had also found a most satisfying (for him, at least) pastime in
making up reasons to discipline her, then punishing her naked body,
enjoying the spectacle, and the feel of her slender charms in his hands.

   On this day he had had an audience.  A trader paused in his perusal of
the goods on display to watch the little naked Indian girl moan and writhe
in time to the strap.  After the 'show', he casually approached the
storekeeper.

   "Watcha want for that little Injun gal?" he asked, seemingly
disinterestedly.

   "I dunno, never thought about it.  Couldn't take less than a hunnert
Yankee Greenbacks; why, she's like a daughter to me!" the other replied.

   They haggled for a while, and finally settled on seventy dollars, the
storekeeper's greed outweighing his lust and laziness.

   The trader hustled the little Indian girl out the door and onto his
mule, and headed south.  He knew of a Mexican grandee who would pay well
for a slender, pretty, young girl, even if she was an Indian; the Mexicans
weren't as particular about such things as most white men.

   Kenna was slumped, dispirited, in front of her new owner.  At least he
had not molested her beyond letting his hand trail along her bare thigh as
the mule loped along.  Her life had been hard and drab and cruel, and she
feared that it was about to get worse.  The only comfort she had ever known
was the dim memory of her mother, and the kindness of a preacher and his
wife at the mission outside the fort her cousin had moved her family to for
a while; under those gentle souls' guidance she had learned to read, and
had even converted.  She would have gladly stayed with them, but her cousin
forced her to come away, probably all ready planning to sell her at the
first opportunity.

   The pride of her tribe still coursed through her, and she forced her
mind to relax, to enjoy the beauty of the desert and the fresh air, the
strength of the mule between her legs.

   Suddenly she heard a loud buzz, like a large bee, and felt a shock from
the trader's body.  He slowly slid from the mule, dragging her with him. 
She heard the whoops, and scrambled into a nearby thicket just in time to
hide herself from the Comanche who rode up on their pintos.

   There were four of them.  The trader was dead.  She could tell because
he didn't even jerk when they scalped him.  One of them was rifling through
his pack, tossing things around.  One of the others, who seemed to be the
leader, motioned to the other two to look around.  Of course: if they had
seen enough to shoot the trader, they had seen her.  Now where was she? 
She huddled deeper into the thicket, but had little hope of escaping their
search.

   Indeed, after a brief bit of hiding and scurrying through the
undergrowth, one of them snagged her heel and hauled her out into the open.
The leader glanced at her.  "She is not Comanche, she is of the ******," he
said.  "Tie her, and we will all use her so as to dishonor her tribe.  Then
we will sell her to the comancheros."

   She fought, but she had no strength to match them.  Soon she was naked,
spread-eagled on the ground, tied hand and feet to pegs in the ground, her
little mind almost shut down, numb with shock and fear.  One of the
Comanche all ready had his manhood out, erect, leering at her.

   Then she heard the clop-clop of a shod horse.  The Comanche spun around,
clearly surprised, and chagrined at having been taken unawares.  Sitting on
his horse, against the westering sun, was a tall man.  Kenna could not see
him very well, but she could perceive that his face was hard, and drawn,
and had a scar across the cheek.  A fleeting thought crossed her mind, "He
is like them, only he is white."

   The Comanche turned to face the man.  The one with his breeches open
hastily stuffed his shrinking member back in.  They feigned joviality,
speaking broken English mixed with Spanish:

   "Hey, senor, that a fine horse, you sell him, hey?  We give you good
money, hey?  You give us some whiskey, we let you have this fine girl,
hey?" the leader called out.

   One of his followers muttered, "When we done with her, hey?" The others
laughed.

   The man said nothing.  He just leaned to the side and spat.  The
Comanche leader's eyes hardened.  Suddenly, without an apparent signal, all
four rushed at the man with knives.  One had a spear.

   Kenna, to the extent she was conscious of the proceedings through the
numbing haze that had mercifully fallen over her brain, assumed he would be
dead in a moment.  But, like greased lightning, the Navy Colts he wore one
at each side were in his hands, booming out two shots apiece.  The Comanche
all fell back, dead on the spot.

   The little Indian girl trembled as the man approached her.  One cruel
man, or four, what did it matter?  But if he was cruel, why did he swiftly
cut the bonds on her wrists and ankles?  And why did he pull a cloak out of
his pack and tenderly drape it around her, covering her slender nakedness?
And why did he lift her gently and put her before him on his horse, and
give her a drink from his canteen, and smooth the hair back from her
forehead, and speak softly to her?

   Overwhelmed by the events, she was nearly asleep as they rode away from
the dead Comanche.  She roused just enough to ask him, "Shouldn't we bury
them?"

   In reply he shot another squirt of spit on one of the bodies, and said,
"Buzzards got to eat, same as worms," and rode on.  She was asleep in a few
seconds.

   The next day she woke to find herself warmly wrapped in a bedroll.  The
man was sitting nearby, cooking over a fire.  He noticed she was awake. 
"Hungry?" he asked.  She nodded vigorously and scrambled to her feet,
gratefully accepting a wooden board as a plate, piled with bacon, and a
slab of bread with a piece of cheese.  She scarfed it down, slowing only a
bit as the man warned her, "Take it easy.  Looks like you ain't had a
decent meal in a while.  You'll get sick if'n you don't slow down."

   After she had eaten, and scurried behind a rock at his direction to
relieve herself, she sat near him, looking up at him and wondering.  He
glanced back down at her.

   "What's your name, young'un?" he asked.

   "Kenna.  Kenna Takchawee," she replied, "What's yours?"

   "My name is J**** W****," he told her, "You got any kin 'round here?"
She shook her head.  "Anyplace you want me to take you, or anyone you want
to be with?" She hung her head, and shook it again.  No one wanted her, at
least no one decent wanted her.  This man, for all he had been nice so far,
would probably just leave her to fend for herself.  Why shouldn't he?

   "Well, then, I reckon you'll just have to stay with me for a spell, if'n
that's all right with you, little Kenna.  You mind doing some riding for a
week or so?  I've sort of got a real need to get clear of these parts, get
to Texas."

   She looked with surprise and gratitude at him, and said, "Thank you, Mr
W****, I would be grateful to ride with you." For all her stoicism, tears
stood in her eyes at his kindness.  He pretended not to notice.

   "Well, then, let's pack up and git on the trail."

   Under his direction she helped to break camp, and they were on their
way. As the days went by she managed to wheedle some of his history from
him.  He had been a farmer in Missouri, with a young wife and a baby on the
way.  The raiders had come from Kansas, during the troubles just before the
War Between the States.  He had been out in the fields, and had run back to
the house just in time to see his wife fall back into the burning building,
shot, his old flintlock falling from her hands.  Then one of the raiders
had sabered him and left him for dead.  That was how he had gotten the
scar.

   He had taught himself to shoot, and joined one of the Missouri bands as
the War had broken out.  At the end, most of his regiment had been shot or
captured, and only he had escaped, the 'bluebellies' still on the watch for
him, for he was the famous outlaw J**** W****, Mr Greased Lightning.

   Now all he wanted to do was to get away, go to Texas, where he knew of a
place he might be able to settle, where the 'bluebellies' were not likely
to look for him, take up life as a rancher, a cowboy.

   She told him all of her own sad, short story, leaving nothing out, even
the treatment she had received at the storekeeper's hands, and her own
reaction to it.  As she spoke, he couldn't help his mind casting back...

   She had been very young when they married, barely fourteen.  He was
older, well known to her parents; they had basically arranged the marriage.
One might almost say they had sold her to him, as he was obliged to provide
two good mules and a small amount of cash money as her bride-price. 
However she was not unwilling: he was a handsome man, a farmer with a good
stretch of land, a hard worker.

   She was still a child in many ways, mischievous, and occasionally
thoughtless.  It was common practice for a husband to administer a spanking
or a whipping to an errant wife.  He had seen his own father many times
strip his mother naked and take a strap to her bottom if she had
misbehaved. In fact, his father had disciplined his mother on a regularly
scheduled basis, calling it 'maintenance discipline'; every Friday evening,
whether she had misbehaved or not, she would be stripped and whipped, to
remind her to behave.  He saw no reason not to do the same for his own
young teen-aged wife, and she gave him ample reason to do it!

   Multiple times during most weeks she would 'sass' him, or shirk her
duties in some way, and he would bend her under his arm, toss up her skirt,
and deliver a brisk, business-like spanking on her bare bottom as she
moaned and danced.  Often he would lay her face-down on the bed with her
bottom bared, and use the strap, or a wooden spoon from the kitchen,
reddening her buttocks.

   On Friday evenings he would give her her maintenance discipline.  For
these sessions he would order her to strip completely.  Even though they
were married, it still embarrassed her at fourteen to be naked in front of
him.  He would command her to stand in the middle of the room, hands
clasped behind her neck, her chest heaving in anticipation and anxiety, her
nipples erect atop her small teen breasts, her only barely-fledged cleft
framed by her slender thighs.

   He would take the strap to her, smacking the backs of her thighs as she
yelped, then the fronts.  Then he would lay stripe after stripe across her
bottom as she cried out and danced in place.  Then, to her deep
embarrassment, he would swing the strap-end across her nipples, bringing a
fetching flush to her breasts and fresh cries to her lips.  Finally he
would bring the strap up sharply between her legs again and again as she
nearly screamed from the intensity of her discipline.

   He was careful when he punished her; his father had never left any mark
more significant than a mild redness that faded slowly, and he had no
intention of treating his slender wife any differently.

   He had only been a child, of course, when his father had disciplined his
mother, and he had not been aware or privy to such things.  Still,
subconsciously he had probably realized that the discipline she received
ignited passion that was enjoyed by both his parents.  He found this to be
true for his young wife as well.  After even a simple spanking, and doubly
so on the evenings of her maintenance discipline, he found her nearly
wildly eager to be touched, and probed, and taken masterfully as she came
noisily.  In fact, he soon realized that she would deliberately misbehave
so as to earn a whipping, wiggling her bottom lasciviously as he strapped
her.

   So they had enjoyed their brief time together.  Until that day...

   He shook his head to clear his mind.  Some things did not bear
remembering.  Many had died in the War.  Almost everyone had lost something
or someone.  He looked down at the little Indian girl in his arms.  Maybe
he had found someone now.

   They came to a small town.  He needed supplies, so he scouted briefly
from a hill nearby; there seemed to be no 'bluebellies' around, so he and
the girl rode in.  There was an inn and saloon of sorts, as there was in
most Western towns large enough.  There a man could buy his wife a meal, or
a cowboy could get drunk, or gamble away his earnings.

   He took Kenna inside.  Some tables were empty, some were occupied: a
couple of cowboys here, a table of gamblers there, a quiet,
respectable-looking man with his wife at a table near the swinging door to
the kitchen, from which wafted a pleasant smell of roasting beef.

   He approached the bar.  "Some grub for me and the girl," he said, and
turned to sit her down at a nearby table.

   "Hey!" the barman shouted, "Get her out of here!  We don't serve no
Injuns here!  We aim to keep this place clean!"

   W**** slowly turned, putting Kenna behind him.  He twitched aside his
coat, the handles of his Navy Colts showing plainly at his hips.  A hush
fell throughout the room and the color drained out of the barman's face.

   Kenna tugged at his coat and whispered, "Please, Mr W****, let's just
leave.  Please!" W**** thought for just a moment.  Despite his cold fury he
knew that it would be wrong to let things get out of hand; he had a
responsibility now.  He could not blithely court death anymore.  He turned
on his heel and headed for the door with Kenna in tow.

   Before they had gone more than a few steps, however, the quiet man and
his wife were standing in their path.  "Why don't you and the girl come
home with me and my wife, mister?  My name is Jones, and this is Mandy, my
wife.  She's a fine cook, finest around, I only brought her here 'cause our
little girl's visitin' with a friend of hers.  We'll go pick her up and
y'all come out to our place, it's not far, mebbe half hour by buckboard. 
I'd be honored if you'd come and bring the little girl.  Not everyone
around here's sech a fool as ol' Henry there." A low chorus of assent and
nods could be seen and heard around the room.

   "Thank ye kindly," W**** said, "I reckon we'll take you up on that
offer." So he swung Kenna up in front of him, and they followed Mr Jones'
buckboard as he went down the street.  He hollered at a storefront, and a
little girl about Kenna's age scurried out and climbed up.  Soon they were
at Mr Jones' ranch.

   The Jones' were very pleasant company.  Hearty home cooking and a house
at peace were like balm to W****'s and Kenna's souls.

   A house at peace, that is, until, a few hours after dinner, while Mr
Jones and Mr W**** were enjoying a pipe of 'baccy on the porch, and Mrs
Jones was puttering in the kitchen, a loud crash was heard from the back of
the house, followed by hastily stifled squeals from the girls.

   Kenna and 'Becca, the Jones' girl, had quickly become friends.  'Becca
was a mischievous little girl, however, and soon roped Kenna into a scheme
involving a bucket of whitewash and the family cat.  Soon Mr Jones had
'Becca by the arm while he loudly berated her for her misbehavior.  "Get
them clothes off, girl, and bend over that railing, and I mean now!"

   "Oh, but Papa!  Not in front of Mr W**** and Kenna!" 'Becca whined.

   Mr Jones spun her around and gave her a smack on her bottom, saying,
"You should have thought of that before, girl, now git at it!" Glumly
'Becca complied, too experienced with parental discipline to bother to
protest further.  Her mother nodded with a grim smile, satisfied that
justice was to be done, and returned to the kitchen.

   Mr Jones had ignored Kenna, who had crept to Mr W****'s side.  Her eyes
widened as she realized what was to transpire.  Then she looked up at him.
"I?I should be whipped, too," she said simply, looking straight into his
eyes.

   W**** looked back for a moment, then said, "I reckon so." Without
another word Kenna walked over to her new friend and began to take her
clothes off as well.  A quick hand squeeze from one to the other, a
nervous, grateful smile, and soon both little girls were naked, bent over
the porch railing, their little bottoms fully exposed, their anuses bared
and unfledged clefts easily seen from behind.

   W**** and Mr Jones pulled their belts off.  W**** glanced over at his
host.  "I think about ten should be enough, that all right with you?" Jones
inquired.

   "I reckon so," W**** answered.

   [SMACK-SMACK-SMACK!] went two belts on two girls' bare bottoms, and
"AAAH!AAAH!  AAAH!" two little girls cried out as they were disciplined,
jerking and dancing, their anuses clenching with each stroke.  After ten
their buttocks were fetchingly reddened, and they were allowed to
straighten up.

   "Becca, you stand over with your nose to that wall for a bit with your
hand behind your head, and no rubbing!" Mr Jones commanded.  The nude,
red-bottomed girl complied.  Meanwhile W**** had enfolded Kenna in a hug,
comforting her, proud of her for standing with her friend, gently rubbing
her glowing bottom as the little girl buried her face in his shirt,
staining it with the few tears that had leaked out during her whipping.

   After a minute she slipped out of his embrace and joined her friend,
nose to the wall, hands clasped behind her head, two little red bottoms on
display.  Jones and W**** sat back down on the glider and resumed their
pipes.  After a bit Jones pulled his out and just said, "Cute little
things, ain't they?"

   "I reckon so," W**** replied.  Indeed he found both girls, and
especially his little Indian girl, quite fetching, and the experience of
having disciplined her highly...stimulating.

   "All right, girls, you can get dressed and go play.  But mind you behave
yourselves or you'll get double next time!" Jones admonished them.  'Becca
scurried to pull on her dress, turning away from W**** and her father. 
Kenna moved more slowly, seeming to almost purposefully display her
nakedness to the men.  But her eyes were fixed on W****...

   Soon W**** and Kenna were on their way again.  Sincere entreaties from
the Jones' for them to stay for an extended time, perhaps find a place to
settle down in the area, were gratefully acknowledged, but politely
declined.  W**** knew that only in Texas was he likely to be able to make a
clean break with the past.  'Becca bid Kenna a tearful goodbye, and made
her a gift of one of her readers.  Kenna treasured it and promised she
would write as soon as she could.

   As they rode off into the West, Jones said to his wife, "Do you
think...?" His wife nodded, replying, "They'll be married by the time they
get to Texas, I expect." `Becca just stared in astonishment, then said,
"But-but...Kenna's only ten, and Mr W**** is...old!" "He ain't all that
old, girl," her father replied, "And if I knew a man like W**** I'd be
inclined to marry you off to him tomorrow!" His wife nodded her agreement,
looking sharply at `Becca, who quickly became very quiet.

   The trail was hard, and long, and it took much effort to make the trip.
The camp had to be made and broken; at times W**** had to hunt for food. 
They were constantly on the watch for hostile Indians or bandits.

   W**** found Kenna to be a very satisfying traveling companion.  She
spoke little, and intelligently when she did speak.  She was a hard worker,
and would try to help in any way she could.  However, she was still only a
little girl, after all; she could not avoid mischief or carelessness
completely.  But instant and complete obedience was necessary; danger was
everywhere.

   He admonished her the first time she transgressed.  The next time he
just said, "That's it, girl, you need a good spanking!" He sat down on a
nearby stump, pulled her across his knee, tossed up the hem of her dress,
and rained spank after spank on her bare bottom.  Her little legs kicked
and she couldn't keep little yips and yelps from escaping her lips as he
reddened her buttocks.

   As he spanked her, W**** couldn't help becoming aroused.  He also
noticed that Kenna was moving in a most unusual manner for a child being
spanked.  She seemed to be deliberately pressing her pelvis against his
swelling member as he disciplined her.

   After ten or twenty spanks he let her up, saying, "Now behave yourself,
y'hear me?" She just nodded vigorously, rubbing her bottom and peeping up
at him through her eyelashes.  He looked down at her for a moment.  She was
altogether adorable to him.  He picked her up and held her close, sliding
his hand under her dress to gently rub her tender buttocks as she sighed
and snuggled into his shoulder.  Even as he caressed her he felt her pelvis
rocking slightly, pressing her little sex repeatedly against his side.

   Her behavior improved somewhat over the next few days.  In addition,
W**** was a little surprised, but very pleased, to find the Indian girl
more physically affectionate, often leaning against him as they sat around
the fire, kissing his cheek, pressing her head back against his chest as
she rode in front of him.

   But there came a day when food was scarce.  W**** was forced to leave
her for some hours while he hunted for rabbit and deer.  Although he made
camp in a thicket, he ordered her to remain in an even deeper pocket of
brush, well hidden, until he returned.

   Hours went by, and eventually even for the little Indian girl, used to
privation and hardship, boredom overpowered caution.  She left her hiding
place and snuck back to the campsite.  Digging through her small pack, she
found the reader 'Becca had given her and lay down on the soft fur W****
had bought for her to sleep on to read it.  Before long, however, the book
had slipped from her hands as she drifted off.

   She awoke suddenly, or thought she awoke, to a sensation of menace.  It
was nearly completely dark.  She thought she saw the outline of a man
standing very near her.  Suddenly another figure collided with it. 
Something like a rope landed across the blanket she had pulled over her. 
The figures vanished from sight, and the sense of menace dissipated.  With
a brief thought that it was only a dream, she fell back asleep.

   She awoke fully, with a start.  It was morning.  She sat up, and saw
what looked like a streak of blood across her blanket.  A few feet away her
alert Indian eyes told her that something like a body had been dragged
away. Across the campsite W**** sat on a log, staring at her with a grim
expression.

   "It was a Comanche," he said.  "I reckon he'd spotted the signs of our
camp and waited for dark.  If'n I hadn't got back when I did?Don't you know
how horrible it would've been for you if he had taken you?  How bad it
would've been for me to know you were taken?!"

   In a nearly subconscious flash of understanding she realized that not
only did he care for her deeply, but also, if he had lost her, it would
have been even worse for him because he had lost his young wife in the War.

   She sprang up, ran to him, and flung herself against him, sobbing,
"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry!" He put his arms around her slender form,
gathering her into a warm embrace, rocking her, nuzzling her silky hair.

   After a while she calmed down.  She pulled away from him a bit, looked
him steadily in the eyes, and said, "I should be whipped, shouldn't I?"

   He looked back at her without expression.  Inwardly love, admiration,
tenderness, and desire roiled together.  "I reckon so," he finally replied.

   She stepped away from him and pulled her buckskin dress off, leaving her
nude in front of him except for her headband and her deerskin moccasins. 
She was beautiful, a slender, copper-skinned preteen Indian princess, with
the face of an angel in despair as she awaited her discipline, breasts that
were mere buds topped by nipples, slim hips, and an unfledged girlcleft
with puffy lips and prominent clitoris, framed by her gleaming thighs.

   W**** took up a leather strap and swung it across her bottom,
[SMAK-WHAK!].  Kenna had not wanted to give the storekeeper the
satisfaction of hearing her when he had whipped her, but she loved and
trusted W****; she didn't mind if he heard her cry.  "AAAA-AAAA!" she
yelped, and "Oh, sir, please!" as he continued to discipline her with
stroke after stroke, reddening her round little bottom as she danced in
place.  He also strapped the backs of her thighs, leaving faint red streaks
that faded slowly as she yelped.  He moved around and began strapping the
fronts of her thighs.  Her cries became a bit more?impassioned as her
discipline verged on the sexual.

   W**** could not resist.  Memories of how he had disciplined his young
wife and how she had responded, mixed with Kenna's reaction to her recent
spanking, broke down any hesitation.  He swung the strap across her little
breastbuds and nipples as she gasped and cried out wildly.  Once he had
reddened them fetchingly he strapped her full upon her mons, cleftlips, and
clitoris, again and again, reddening her little underdeveloped sex.  She
nearly screamed, rocking her pelvis back and forth as he disciplined her so
sternly and intimately.

   Finally he tossed the strap aside and swept her up in his arms, kissing
her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.  She kissed him back through
her tears, clinging tightly to him, her slender legs wrapped around his
torso, her pelvis pressed firmly against his waist.  He sat down on a log
and rocked her back and forth as she shuddered and sobbed, her face buried
in his shirt, staining it with her tears.  He began to caress her, soothing
her, rubbing her reddened bottom, the faint red streaks on her thighs, then
sliding up to gently massage her nipples and breastbuds as she tipped her
chest out, inviting his hand to continue.  Soon she was moaning softly.  He
let his hand drift down, down?then he was there, gently and then more
insistently rubbing her puffy cleftlips and clitoris, pressing the nub
against her pubic bone, squeezing, pinching, twisting, punctuating the
molestation of her preteen sex with sharp spanks that made her jerk and cry
out.  Her hips were rocking farther and farther, her back arched, and
finally she was coming in his hand, a precious preteen's orgasm, crying
out, "AAAAH!  AAAAAH!  AAAAAAH!" She collapsed into his arms, sobbing out
the last of her climax, then drifted off to sleep.

   When she awoke he was still holding her, rocking her.  She stretched,
and looked up at him.  He looked down and said, "I reckon we'll have to
stay together, young'un.  You know I love you; will you be my wife?"

   Kenna just nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide and solemn.  But W****
wanted to be sure.

   "Do you really know what that means, girl?" he asked.

   Kenna looked down, then peeped up at him through her long lashes.  "It
means you'll put your...your...thing inside me," she whispered.

   "That's right.  It'll probably hurt at first; can't help that, you bein'
so small.  Are you still willin'?" he asked.

   Kenna nodded, gulping a little bit.  "I-I'll just think of it like it
was a whippin', or somethin'," she said softly.  W**** gathered her to him
and held her close, rocking her.  He had been so unused to feeling...joy
for so long that he could hardly believe he was feeling it now.

   At the next town he inquired after a preacher.  Fortunately the circuit
rider was in the area, and soon they were standing in front of him, saying
their vows.  Little comment was made of the fact that Kenna was only ten;
'age of consent' considerations were nearly unheard of at that time of the
old West, and if a girl was old enough to say "I do" and know what she was
saying, she was considered old enough to be married.  The only protection
girl-children had against exploitation was their families, as it has been
throughout most of human history.  Kenna had no family, and W**** clearly
loved her and she loved him, so the preacher had no hesitation in
pronouncing them man and wife.

   They headed into Texas, and found the place W**** was looking for: a
beautiful homestead that had never been lived in.  The man who had built it
had been in W****'s outfit in the War.  He had saved W****'s life, and
W**** had saved his, but in the end the man had suffered a fatal wound,
dying in W****'s arms, with his last breath giving him the deed to the
house and land with his blessing.  W**** hadn't known for sure the place
even existed until he saw it.

   They settled into domestic life together.  Kenna loved having a home of
her own, her own bed, land that she could look forward to raising a family
on.  Most of all she loved W****, feeling so grateful that he had saved her
from a life of pain and degradation, that he loved her so dearly.

   W**** deliberately did not immediately take Kenna completely, to
consummate their marriage.  He thought it best to build up to it.  But he
made it clear to Kenna that the routine of their domestic life included
domestic discipline.  Kenna was conflicted, of course: part of her was
embarrassed to be stripped naked in front of him, and the strap or switch
stung as he snapped it against her naked bottom, or thighs, or other
places. But part of her longed to feel that sting, and the moistness that
sprang between her legs, and the sensation of his hands as they meandered
over her nakedness afterwards.

   He gave her a good, bare-bottomed whipping every Friday night, as her
'maintenance discipline'.  She was always naked for these.  At other times
he would discipline her for any minor infraction, carelessness, backtalk,
etc.  For these he would usually bend her under his arm, toss up the hem of
her dress, and give her a brisk, business-like spanking as she moaned and
danced.

   At other times he would simply seize her and discipline her at will, so
that she would understand that she was to be submissive to him at all
times. These sessions would take many forms, often evolving into extended
sexual discipline.  For instance, he might order her to sit on the edge of
the bed.  Then he would take the shoulders of her dress down, exposing her
little breastbuds and nipples as she shivered.  He would seize them,
kneading and working them, pinching and twisting her nipples as she gasped
and moaned.  Then he would swing the strap across them, [SNAP-SNAP!]. 
"AAAH- AAAH!" she would cry out as he reddened her top.  The he would strip
her completely, running his hands lasciviously up and down her slender
naked preteen body.  Often he would skip spanking or whipping her bottom,
and go straight to a front-spanking, seizing and massaging her buttocks
while he smacked her sternly on her mons, cleftlips, and clitoris,
[WHAP-WHAP-WHAP!].  "OOO-OOO-OOOH!?  she would cry out wildly, frantic at
being so sternly disciplined on such a private place.  Soon her little hips
would be rocking as her sex was reddened, and he interspersed pressing her
clitoris excruciatingly against her pubis between spanks.  Finally she
would come in his hands, writhing and bucking, yipping and yelping as
pleasure mixed with embarrassing discipline.

   Within their first two weeks together, however, his frustration had
built to the point that he had to have relief somehow.  After punishing her
to orgasm one evening he told her he wanted her to learn how to service him
with her mouth.  He had her kneel in front of him on a soft rug and told
her to open his trousers.  She shyly undid his fly and his rod sprang out,
pointing skyward.  She looked down, trembling.  He tipped her chin up with
his fingers, saying, "Put it in your mouth and suck on it, girl.  Something
will come out when I'm done and I want you to swallow it.  Don't worry,
it's not pee," he said, to her evident relief.  She timidly took his
manhood between her lips, her eyes closed in embarrassment.

   The feel of the soft lips and warm, moist mouth of the little preteen
Indian child-wife on his member was one of the most pleasurable sensations
W**** had ever felt.  He held her head and gently worked in and out as she
sucked, and in no time he was groaning and emptying himself in her mouth.
She spluttered a bit, but tried to swallow the unexpected rush of hot
liquid.  Some spilled out of her mouth and dribbled down onto her chest. 
After he slipped out of her mouth with a contented sigh, he took up a soft
cloth and tenderly wiped her, then kissed her long and sweetly.

   On a day not long after that, he lay on the bed with her after a sweet
discipline session.  She was shivering in his arms, sighing and sobbing out
the last of her precious preteen orgasm.  As her trembling subsided, he was
startled to feel her little hand slipping unbidden down to his trousers,
releasing his rod.  She climbed up and straddled him, putting his member
between her legs, looking at him steadily, stolidly, waiting.  W**** could
hardly speak.  "Go ahead, girl, if'n you're willing," he managed to croak
out.

   Kenna guided his manhood between the lips of her unfledged cleft and
pushed down as hard as she could.  As she gave her maidenhead up to him she
screamed once, shortly, arching her back, spasming, then collapsed on his
chest, sobbing.  He hugged her and rocked her, kissing the top of her head,
stroking her hair, her shoulders, her back, whispering to her how much he
loved her.  All the time he was acutely conscious of the sensation of his
rampant rod buried deep within her little preteen girlhood, so tight, so
warm, so soft.  After a while her distress died down to the occasional sob
and sniff.  He held her hips and began to move her up and down on his
chest, thrusting into her again and again, penetrating her as far as her
small size would allow his manhood to go as she moaned and writhed in his
arms.

   Having spent himself so often in her mouth, he was able to continue to
ravish her for some minutes, reveling in the exquisite feeling of taking
her and taking her, finally letting himself go, emptying himself at her
cervix with a groan.

   And the cowboy and his little Indian girl lived happily ever after.

   The End

   By cc

   Kudos and hurrah to the readers who can identify the name of the man and
the movie from which I took the character, and the name of the actor who
played him; extra credit for pointing out any of the bits of dialogue and
action which I cribbed.



   As always, all comments desperately longed for!

   ccccc12345@lavabit.com