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From: Past His Prime <phprime@yahoo.com>
Subject: Indian Charlie's Love Slave
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This is my first attempt at submitting a story. Indian Charlie was
written in the Sixties with all the hang-ups publications had then.
It's soft porn and is offered as a breather from the heavier material
published.
Please enjoy.
PH Prime


INDIAN CHARLIE'S LOVE SLAVE: 
By Past His Prime 
The crispness of the fall morning sharpened the pangs of hunger in the
belly of the man; he lay prone on the ridge, his eyes fixed on the
small Indian village below, his mind on the warm food cooking on the
fire.
He was tired; the mark of the elements were on him. His clothes hung
in tattered rags, his face was haggard and drawn, lined and weather
beaten by the wind and rain. A ragged beard and shaggy hair framed the
face but it was the piercing blue eyes that commanded attention. They
were staring hard at the village below.
He needed their food; inside he knew that, He hadn't eaten for two
days and his last meal,  a hurriedly-roasted rabbit had given him
diarrhoea. It had weakened him. Closely he watched    the Indians,
carefully noting their routine. They could he Cree or Blackfoot and he
would be safe to walk into their camp.
Or they could be Sioux. He did not trust the Sioux.
The hunger gnawed at his insides, but he had no desire to find out if 
it were friendly. Ending up a slave to some fat squaw was a worse fate
than starvation, he reckoned. So he kept his vigilance, hoping that
the braves would leave in a hunting party and leave the camp unguarded.
He would risk a fight with a squaw over a chunk of meat. He chewed
grass to keep his mind away from his churning stomach, all the time
his eyes fixed on the village.
Then they came. They moved silently through the forest, with only the
jingling and creaking of the gear, and an occasional whinny from a
horse. There were eight or nine of them, all armed, moving in quiet
determination.
He watched them pass, watched them move down the hill towards the camp
— slowly and deliberately. He inwardly gave thanks that he had waited.
If he had gone down into the village, his fate would be that of the
Indians, 
He recognized the men; they had done this before. Entire villages had
been swept away in their raids. Most were revenge for loved ones
killed by other Indians on other raids. But anyone with a red skin was
their target. 
He crouched down and waited for the attack.
Suddenly, a command was given and the men charged the village, their
guns blazing. The Indians were surprised. Some of the braves ran for
their horses, trying to match bow and musket against superior
repeaters. It was a slaughter and the man watched in fascination.
Anything that moved in the village was shot at. 
 He watched an old woman, a child in her arms,  run from the village
towards the plains. A horseman was after her, his rifle aimed.
Suddenly the woman stumbled, the baby falling from her arms. The
horseman urged his mount over the prone woman, its slashing hooves
crushing the baby    before he wheeled and headed for the village.
An old Indian, one leg a bloody pulp, struggled to get erect, his
hands fiercely gripping a war club. But a vicious swing of a rifle
butt  brought him crashing to the ground again. The horseman emptied
his rifle into the lifeless body.
A younger brave, somehow mounted, charged the horsemen and managed to
knock one of them off with his spear before he fell dead from the
horse,    his chest perforated with shots. 
There were screams of anguish and pain but the horsemen showed no
mercy. Again and again, they rode through the village, shooting and
clubbing until all lay still.
Some teepees were still standing, some were down. Blood and bodies
were strewn everywhere. 
 As quickly and as silently as they had come the raiders left. The man
intently watched the village, but there was no sign of life.
Finally , after what seemed like hours to him but were probably only
minutes, he ventured into the village.
The place reeked of death. But his stomach was in command and he
immediately went to the cooking pots. The food was lean. So the Indians 
were feeling the same pinch as he was. A northerner by preference, he
had been forced south by the lack of game. The Indians — Cree he
reckoned —from the trappings, had been doing the same thing.
He ate sparingly, not wanting another bout of diarrhoea. The food
tasted good. He took what he couldn't eat and carried it with him,
back up the hill. He hid it, then lay down and slept.
He wanted to regain strength. He stayed at the site for several days,
eating the remains of the Indians’ food, and occasionally going down
to the village to pillage what he could. 
 His stomach was feeling stronger but the growing stench tested it
each day. The bodies lay in the grotesque tangle of death, the faces
etched with expressions of pain, of surprise or of anger. But he did
his best to ignore them while he collected buffalo robes, war clubs
and other booty he thought he could trade or sell. 
He was spending his last night near the village when his sleep was
interrupted by a low wail. The sound was almost supernatural and it
sent a shiver through his body, A cold sweat broke out on his
forehead, his hands became clammy and he fought an impulse to run. An
involuntary shudder rushed through his body, as he lay still and
listened. The wail rose and dropped, rose and dropped in steady rhythm. 
His courage began to flow back into his veins as he reasoned with
himself that the sound had to be coming from human or animal sources.
He crept to the edge of the ridge, and looked down the hill. The full,
autumn moon bathed the land in white light. He saw it. A dark shadow
crouching where the baby had fallen, victim of the horses' hooves. 
 It was one of the tribe returning to find the village razed, he
reckoned. Silently, he watched as the figure picked up the remains of
the child and rocked it in her arms. 
It was a woman. He was sure of it. He hadn't had a woman for several
winters now, and another was soon on the way. The lust rose in his
loins, 
until passion controlled his body.
He crept down towards the woman; moving as silently and as carefully
as he could.
He reckoned that it must have been her child the old woman had been
carrying when the raiders attacked.
The woman seemed to be unaware of all that was around her. He was able
to creep within a stone's throw of her and the white moonlight bathed
her loveliness.
She was beautiful — a young squaw, lissome of form. She cradled the
dead child in her arms, rocking it as she wailed her grief to the
world. The lust in the man reached a peak. His eyes drank in her
beauty, and his body trembled for the touch of hers. 
Sex was a luxury to a trapper. A thing that came sparingly his way,
maybe once or twice a year, when he made the trips to the post for
goods and was able to barter for a woman. He would take her quickly.
But this one . . .
He licked his lips in anticipation. She was what every man would dream
of possessing. She had long, black hair, hanging straight to her
shoulders. Her cheekbones were high, with a thin, aquiline nose, which
added to the face's beauty. But it was her body which pleased him
most, It was long and lean with high, full breasts and rounded thighs.
He wanted to touch the curve of her breast.
He had heard of other mountain men having squaws, but he had never
thought of one, until now. He had to have this one.
He made a motion which attracted her attention and, for the first
time, she was aware of him. 
As swiftly and as gracefully as a deer in flight, she rose and fled.
The child was still in her arms.
She seemed to move effortlessly and with a fluid motion which
heightened the sexual desire in the man until it reached a fevered
pitch. 
He bounded. after her. He ran heavily and awkwardly, his ability being
endurance, not speed. He hoped to catch her only by tiring her. He
could not outrace her. Of this her was certain.
His legs pounded out his desire on the ground and he was thankful for
the food and rest which gave him his full strength back.
She moved swiftly through the valley, instead of heading back up the
hill. He kept: after her. He felt he was gaining ground. She seemed to
be 
tiring. She would throw glances back over her shoulder and he was
close enough to see the fear in her eyes.
Presently, he began to narrow the distance until, finally, he lunged.
His hands closed on her ankles, throwing her off balance. She fell
forward, the dead body of the child slipping from her arms and
tumbling into the bushes. 
The woman tried to get up and away again but he held her legs tightly.
His lust was at a fevered pitch.
He reached up and tore her dress from her. She had nothing else on.
Her young breasts, caught in the moonlight, were burnished gold. He
pulled her to him but she slipped from his grasp and began running.
Again he was after her. His heart thumped madly and his legs pumped
steadily. She tripped on a root and sprawled to the ground. Quickly he
fell on her and pinned her. She struggled against him, the soft,
yielding skin against him sending sensations up and down his spine. It
was as though he was breaking a horse, he thought, as he felt the
motion against him as he took her. 
 His passion spent itself quickly and he lay on the ground. He was
tired. The woman stirred and tried to get away.
He held her. She looked at him with dark, unfeeling eyes. There was no
warmth in them, only a mysterious depth. He wondered what she was
thinking. 
He didn’t think of her as human; for one could not forget what the
savages had done to other humans. Yet he felt remorse.
He couldn't understand it.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said in Cree. She looked at him unblinkingly.
She didn't understand, he decided. 
His eyes slipped over her naked body. She made no attempt to cover it
and showed no modesty. It was, he thought, moulded beautifully. The
breasts were full and dark-tipped, while the black pubic hair drew his
eyes to the centre of her thighs. She was made for loving.
The phrase echoed over and over in his mind: She was made for loving.
And he had her. Now. He began dreaming of keeping her through the
long, cold winter ahead. He could use her. Even as a beast of burden
to move his plunder back to his cabin.
He tethered her hand to his then lay back for some sleep. But, the
woman refused to let him rest.
She slipped her bonds, and was off running again.
He wondered where she found all her energy as he plodded after her.
She didn't go far. Perhaps 100 rods, and then collapsed. She was
breathing heavily when he caught up to her.
She sounded just like an animal which had been run into the ground. He
recalled similar sounds from many a hunting trip with his dogs, when
he had pursued a frightened rabbit on horseback until it fell from
fatigue.
The remorse in him became guilt. He should let her go, he thought. Let
her go back to her people. It was the humane thing to do. 
But she was a savage, a part of his mind argued. 
He noticed that the woman had gone to the child's body. She once again
held it to her breast. 
The sight sent a chill through hit. It was motherhood, no matter how
one looked at it. Motherhood.
It deserved some respect. 
He let her stay with the child until morning. She sat with the infant
in her arms, crying in that strange, eerie voice. He tried to sleep
and soon dawn was upon them. 
When he awoke, he decided he had better establish communications with
her.
“Listen,” he said in Cree, “I'm called Indian Charlie. I'm trapper.
Your friend.”
He pointed to her.
Her eyes stared back at him, as if they were unseeing. They were
limpid pools of loveliness. He had never seen a squaw so beautiful.
“Listen," he repeated, this time in a Sioux dialect. “I am friend.
Your friend.”
“Friend?” she asked and spat at his face. “No friend mine.” 
He breathed a sigh of relief. At least now she could understand him.
“I’m friend. I hide in bushes when riders come and go through
village.” He motioned shooting with his hands. “They go through
village, killing          all. I stay hidden.”
“You kill my baby,” she said.
“No! No! I not. Other men.”
“You lie!”
It was no use. He couldn't convince her that he had no part in the
raid. He looked at the child she was holding close to her. It had
started to rot and he wondered how she could stand the stench.
“The baby, we bury him,” he said.
“No!” she said, turning so that he couldn’t take the child from her. 
“Come, we must bury the child,” he repeated, taking her arm. She did
not resist him but followed him quietly.
He led her up the hillside to the ridge overlooking the camp.
“Here,” he said. “We bury it here where spirit free to climb to happy
hunting grounds.”
“No!” she cried but she did not resist him when he took the child from
her. He built a burial pyre on a lonely cottonwood and lay the child
out on a platform he attached to its branches. He took one of the war
clubs he had collected from the village and, after a simple prayer,
put it in the child’s hands. Then he added more trinkets that he had
found in the village.
“Wampum and war club so it can join the spirits," he told her.
She looked back at him, but said nothing.
“Come, we go back to the camp.”
Her nakedness bothered him but it didn't seem to have any effect on
her. She allowed him to march her down the hill to the village and he
thought they must have made a funny sight: A gristled old trapper and
a young, beautiful naked squaw, Walking together in the sunshine.
He found her a dress.
“Put this on,” he tried sounding gruff.
She didn't move. 
He put the dress over her head and it fell over her body. It hung like
a limp rag and one breast was exposed, but at least she looked decent. 
 He found some cured meat and offered it to her. She took it and they
both ate hungrily.
“I’m named Indian Charlie,” he said, “What they call you?”
She looked at him. "Dark eyes." Her voice was low and melodious.
“Dark Eyes? That’s a pretty name. You are a pretty woman.”
She didn't acknowledge the remark.
“Your man here?” 
“My man dead. Now my son. They kill my man. You kill my son, " she
spit again. 
“Hey,” he said, “That’s downright unladylike. You mustn't do.”        
      
There was a silence.
“Who killed your man?” he asked after a while.
“The Crees. Good you kill the Crees. But not good you kill my son.”
“I not kill the Crees,” he said. “Many men come. They kill all. They
kill your son.”
She was going to be stubborn. Women could be more stubborn than mules.
He knew that.
They finished their meal and it was time for him to decide what he was
going to do. He couldn’t leave the girl. Not that she couldn’t fend
for herself. It just didn't seem proper to him.
He was trying to make up his mind, when it happened. 
The pounding hoofbeats warned him and he swung around in time to
glimpse the brave hurtling at him on horseback.
He threw himself out of the path of the horse, scrambling to get back
on his feet. The brave leaped from the horse and his war club caught
Charlie in the shoulder, throwing him back on the ground.
Again, Charlie got to his feet, ignoring the white curtain of pain
that flashed before his eyes. He turned and noticed the Indian
scrambling to his 
feet. 
He charged the brave, catching him in the hips and throwing him off
balance. He reached for the war club and struggled with the Indian.
They were fighting for their lives. Each knew that only one would walk
away.
Charlie wondered where the squaw was. Would she help the brave?
He managed to wrench the club free from the Indian’s hands, and threw
it away.
“That was stupid,” he thought to himself. “I could have used it to
stop him.”
He threw all his strength into the struggle with the savage. Both were
breathing heavily and he noticed the Indian’s breath was foul, almost
nauseating. He managed a lucky punch to the stomach and then  his eyes
suddenly went blank. Again, a sharp pain flashed through his head.    
                                                     Through the
throbbing pain, he realized that the Indian was striking him with
something.
He had to hold the hands. He had to!
The thought rose and fell in the waves of pain ... 
When he came to, his head throbbed and there was a sharp pain in his
wrists. As his eyes focused, he realized he was bound to a tree limb,
his weight dragging on his arms and aching wrists.
It was almost unendurable.
He became aware of the brave, and the woman. The savage had her
stripped and strung up also. She was hanging less than a foot or two
from him, and her dark eyes pleaded with him.
“Huh! White man awake," the brave said. "Now you talk. Tell me who did
this; where they are now. Then you die.”
Indian Charlie looked at the brave.
“I’ll say nothing," he said in English. The brave poked his exposed
ribs with an arrow tip and he winced in pain.
“You talk. But first, woman talk, " he moved menacingly toward her,
“You talk and tell all, you Sioux cur.”
He slapped her breasts with the wicked arrow, but the woman remained 
quiet.
“I told Chief how dumb it was to bring squaw of Sioux. She only mean
bad medicine. I was right but Chief no longer care. He gone to happy
hunting ground.
“Speak, woman!” He screamed the words at her.
“I know nothing,” she said.
The brave took out a knife and held it inches from her face but she
didn’t talk. He took the knife and drew it between her breasts so a
thin red ribbon followed its path. 
The woman flinched but she didn’t speak. Indian Charlie struggled with
his 
bonds, but it was to no avail. At least, he was able to get his weight
supported by his feet again and it reduced the pain in his wrists. 
 He worked at the rawhide, trying to loosen it so that he could get
his hands free.
The brave taunted the woman with the knife.
“First, I cut off breast. Then I cut face so squaw become ugly. No one
will want squaw then, not even white cur.”
He spat at Indian Charlie.
“White man’s squaw better talk. Talk quick.”
The brave was becoming excited sexually. The helplessness of the
woman, and the beauty of her body was playing on his senses. Suddenly
with a sweep of his blade, he cut her lease and she fell in a heap on
the ground. The brave was on her in a second, his breathing heavy as
he grunted in pleasure. 
Indian Charlie grew a hate strong enough to kill the brave. If only he
could get his hands free. 
He was forced to watch as the beautiful squaw's body was fondled and
caressed by the savage as he spread her on the ground and prepared to
mount her.
Indian Charlie remembered his sweet moments of bliss with the woman
only hours before and the anger mounted in his throat.
He pulled with all his might at the rawhide and he felt it give — just
a little. He pulled again. It gave a bit more this time.
Again and again, he strained his muscles against the cord until he had
worked it loose enough to slip his hands through. They were sore but
he didn't stop to think about them as he leapt at the brave, pulling
him 
from the squaw and heaving him against the tree which had bound him.
Charlie saw the surprise in the brave’s face, but he didn’t give any
quarter. He drove his fist hard into the belly of the Indian. With his
other hand he grabbed the ceremonial necklace the brave was wearing
around his neck, and twisted it tight. He felt the Indian’s hands
pummelling his side and chest but it was as if it were happening miles
away. He only knew he was going to kill this brave. Kill him with his
bare hands. Harder and harder, he twisted the necklace and the
Indian's blows became weaker and weaker, The brave’s eyes were
bulging, and his mouth was wide, gasping for air. 
Indian Charlie jerked the necklace and it broke.
Suddenly. The brave sucking in fresh air, pulled free and ran back a
few steps. There was murder in his eyes. It was now a battle to the
finish.     Neither would let up.
The Indian flashed his knife. Indian Charlie had forgotten about that.
He backed away, slowly and warily.
The Indian lunged forward.
Charlie fell on his back and thrust his legs into the Indian’s
stomach, throwing him over his prone body.
He scrambled to get to his feet. The Indian already was coming for
him. He backed away again.
The blade glinted in the sunlight and he could see its sharpness. He
remembered how smoothly it had cut through the woman’s skin and he 
had no doubt how this fight would end.
Charlie would be able to stop the brave three, four, maybe five times,
but eventually he would make a mistake and he could already feel the
cold, hard steel sliding into his belly.
He shivered.
But he refused to give up. Warily, he backed away from the Indian.
Again the brave rushed at him. He tried the same tactic but this time
his feet 
kicked air. The brave wasn’t lunging for him. He scrambled to get up
and then he saw him, waiting, the blade poised to go in. Well, this is
it, he said to himself and he sprang to his feet to rush the savage.
There was a sickening crunch, and the brave sagged to his knees. The
knife, inches from Indian Charlie’s stomach, fell from lifeless fingers,
Indian Charlie looked up. The squaw stood, a bloodied war club in her
hand. 
“He die,” she said simply. 
“Yes,” he said. His body was weary and weak but he forced himself to
walk away and up the hill to shelter since it wouIdn’t be safe to stay
near the village.
The squaw followed him.
He lay on the ground, and tried to get some sleep. Every muscle ached
from the ordeal and  his wrists were swollen and raw.
He looked up. She was standing over him. He reached for her and she
came to him. He didn't have to ask or force, she gave herself
willingly. 
They lay on the grass, too weak to make love, but consoled in the
warmth of each other. It was at that point that Indian Charlie
realized that 
she was a woman, not a savage, and he would treat her like a woman.
She deserved that much for saving his life.
He fell asleep in her arms. When he awoke, his muscles were tight and
sore. He tried moving them and woke the woman up.
Her eyes, before unfathomable and empty, had a warmth in them now. He
hadn’t been aware of that before. 
 “Sore,” he said, and pointed to his muscles.
“I fix,” she said, and she began massaging. It was a gentle rolling
motion and his muscles began responding to life.
“It feels good,” he said, and suddenly he was aware that they were
both naked. So naked and so close.
He reached for her and they combined in an embrace of love. His body
felt as if it had been put on fire, as her fingers raced over his
back, leaving a trail of excited skin. His passion rose as, suddenly
and swiftly, he mounted her and felt the emotions filled his very
being and then it passed. 
He lay back exhausted. It was an experience he never before had
encountered, nor was it Iikely he would encounter it again.           
              Presently, he got up and motioned her to follow him.
They went down to the village and looked for clothes. After they were
dressed, he told her, “We must leave here now for a safer place. You
and I will go to the post and there you will find your people. You
will be happy with your people.”
She said nothing.
“But first, we must catch the horse the brave had.” 
He had seen the animal grazing not far from the village. They began
walking toward it but the spirited animal would not let them close.
“I’ll have to trap it,” he said. 
She nodded.
“I’ll circle the horse and keep its attention on me, then you creep
from behind. Be careful, it could be dangerous.”
He thought he saw her smile.
He began circling away from the horse, slowly but noisily and he
watched as it followed him with its head.
“Ha!” he called at it, “Here, Over here!”
The horse kept its eyes fixed on him.
The woman moved as swiftly and as softly as a doe. He couldn't help
admiring her graceful movements as she bounded closer to the horse.
“Haw! Here! Here!” He screamed it, so that the horse wouldn’t hear her
approach.
She made her lung and had the horse by the mane. It reared in fright
and Charlie broke into a run. He grabbed the horse and held it,
talking to it. He was afraid she would be hurt, 
He was relieved to see she was okay.
“I got horse,” she said.
“Yes. Good. You did fine,” he said.
They took the horse up to his cache on the hillside.
“We cannot ride him,” he told her. “We’ll load him up with goods.”
He pointed to the furs.
He felt foolish telling her they couldn't ride. She wouldn’t ride
anyway. 
In her tribe, she was expected to walk behind. The woman always
walked, it was the custom.
He loaded the horse and they began the walk to the post. It was
largely uneventful except for the nights of lovemaking they spent
under the stars. 
He was becoming accustomed to have her close by and sharing things
with him.
They arrived at the post.
Whisky Jack and One-eyed Harry were there, old friends of Indian
Charlie. They razzed him when he entered. 
“Lookee who’s here," Whisky Jack cackled. “It’s the squaw man. And
lookee his woman!”
One-eyed Harry guffawed. “Bet she plenty snook-ums on the trail,” he
said in a put-on Indian dialect.
Indian Charlie said nothing. He hit One-eyed Harry as hard as he
could. Harry fell to the ground and Whisky Jack backed away.
“We didn't mean anything, no harm, Indian Charlie,” Jack said.
“She’s a woman and don't make fun of her,” Charlie said. He was as
surprised as his friends. He hadn’t realized she had meant that much
to him. 
They went into the post where he bartered his booty for supplies and
whisky. Then he joined his friends and offered them a drink.
It began a celebration, the three old friends and the squaw together.
It lasted three, four days. Each night, Indian Charlie looked forward
to going to bed with his woman and making love. Then on the fourth
day, the whisky was gone.
“Time for me to leave,” he told his friends and that night he told
Dark Eyes that it would be their last night together.
Dark Eyes cried.
“It has to be, woman. You belong with your people and I belong on my
traplines.”
He didn’t look forward to the bleak winter nights on the trapline. But
it was his life, the only thing he knew how to do.
When Dark Eyes saw that he was serious, she smiled at him.
“Then I dance the goodbye dance for you.”
Charlie had heard of the dance in a legend. It seemed a maiden on her
wedding night, had danced the dance for her husband who was leaving
that night for battle against the Sacrees. He never returned and her
wanton dance, it is said, is performed every night on his grave.
He watched as she moved back. She made her own music, singing as she
began shuffling. Then she began moving her body in slow gentle
circles, around and around, Each gentle curve was emphasized and
Charlie could feel hot beads of sweat forming on his collar.
Around and around the little room she moved, increasing the pace of
the dance, each nerve in her body seeming to dance on its own.
Then she took the hem of her skirt and began slowly to draw it
upwards. Her golden thighs came into view. Charlie longed for their
touch.         Higher and higher the skirt went, until the soft valley
of pubic hair came into view, followed by her firm tummy and the
bottom of her full breasts.
Charlie was breathing hoarsely.
Finally, the dress was free and, suddenly, she was in his arms. He
kissed her hungrily as his hands roamed over the softness of her body.
He took her and, once again, he experienced ecstasy. It was as
passionate as a couple could make it, as they tried to crowd a
lifetime of love into a brief night.
But then dawn came.
He said his goodbye to her and told her how she could get back to the
Sioux. He gave her the Indian pony and some money. He bought a horse
and a mule, packed his supplies and began riding out of the post.
He felt lonely as if he had lost something  precious but he steeled
himself. She would be better off with her own kind.
He urged the horse to a gallop and set out north, to once again
establish his trapline and his lonely life.
He heard the sounds of hoofbeats behind him. It sounded like the horse
wasn't shod. An Indian. 
 Fear swept through him. He didn't want another fight to the finish.
He was prepared to spur his horse when he noticed it was Dark Eyes.
“Go back,” he shouted to her. But she kept on coming. 
“Go back to your people”
“I have no people. You are my people,” she said.
He realized then that he couldn't go on without her.
“Yes, I am your people,” he replied.
And Indian Charlie set out for his trapline accompanied by his lover. 



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