Armed Robberies

"Swift, wait! You don't have to go! That wasn't what I meant!"

But she didn't come back.

"Aw Hell," Molly said to herself. She looked at the boy and the boy looked at her. He didn't look terrified anymore—instead he actually grinned at her. But it was a sheepish grin, not a cocky one. And he was blushing!

"Well now," he said, "Um. Well now. Gosh." He licked his lips. "I really will give it my best, you know, just like I told her I would."

She told herself not to glance down at his pecker again and then that was exactly the next thing she did. It was getting stiff again, now that Swift and her knife were gone. "Aw Hell," she muttered again.

Then she had an idea, tugging off her neckerchief. "I'm gonna blindfold ya. With this. A'right?" Christ, why was she asking him? She was supposed to be in charge here.

He looked disappointed but he said "Whatever makes you most comfortable, Miss."

"Fine then." So she tied it across his eyes. And then she started unbuckling her gunbelt. Her hands were shaking, and her knees too. But it was from eagerness as much as nerves.

She intended at first just to lower her pants down around her knees. But she couldn't get her legs far enough apart like that to straddle the log. She considered sitting down on his face with her feet up on his belly, maybe bracing herself with her hands behind her, over his head—but that wasn't going to be comfortable, holding her balance, and the spurs on her boots might cut him up down there, if she wasn't careful. So she went ahead and took off her boots and pulled her pants and underwear off completely. With her shirt hanging down loose to her midthighs, she still wasn't actually exposed very much. Which was good.

"Righty-oh," she said, "I'm ready now. Get ready yerself. You set?"

"All set," he replied, "Lower away!"

She couldn't help but chuckle some at that, as she swung her leg over his head and then squatted down a bit, to bring her crotch down on his mouth. She didn't have to squat very much at all, to make the contact. His tongue was already sticking out and wiggling around, to receive her.

At first it was just a weird tickling feeling. Kind of gross. Not what she expected. But that changed pretty darn quick. "Whew," she went, "Jesus." It got nice and then it got nicer. Pretty soon it almost got too nice. Became real tough for her to stay still. She would bounce on her knees and kept jerking away from his mouth. Couldn't help herself, couldn't control it. Had to dig her toes down deep and tight into the leafy, prickly ground to anchor herself. She was glad she'd removed her boots, so she could do that. It was a nice feeling, in a funny way. Fed up through her tense trembling legs into the nicer feelings his tongue was giving her girlparts. "Easy now. Go easy." She was talking to him like he was a horse. She even clicked her tongue at him, and then giggled. He giggled back, muffled beneath her. She felt his tongue slow down a little—but only for a few seconds. Then he sped it right back up like before. But she didn't tell him to quit.

Except then she decided she wanted to turn herself around. When she straddled his head, she'd done it facing toward the top of it. So the rest of his bound body was behind her back, out of view. Ahead of her was nothing but his upstretched arms tied down and the rest of the log beyond them. She wanted to be able to see his body—and see his thing. Not sure why this suddenly became so appealing to her, as well as important, but it did. And she didn't fight the impulse. So she swung herself around to face the other way, down the length of his body.

His pecker stood tall before her, twitching. She could see goo beading out from the tip and leaking down the top of the head, making it glisten. Molly decided she wanted to touch it. So she leaned forward and grabbed hold of it. Made him moan, when she squeezed it. Made her moan too, in response. Partly she was mimicking him—mocking him. How helpless and desperate his moan had sounded. But only partly. Because she was starting to feel the same way, if she was honest. Overwhelmed by the sensations. The passion. This was what passion felt like.

She wanted to hear him moan some more like that. She wanted him to make her moan some more the same way. So she pumped his manhood with her hand, and pinched one of his nipples at the same time with her other one, to see how he fancied that, while also grinding her crotch harder against his mouth and that speedy devious tongue of his, hard as she could press, and not just mashing herself downward but also sawing forward and back as well, to see what that would do—and once she tried that she couldn't stop, because God oh Holy Christ that felt incredible when she did that.

He didn't moan again, though, like she intended—instead he yelled. And she found she was yelling too. And then his pecker started spewing up in the air like a geyser. The stuff rained down mostly all over her forearm and his belly beneath it, but she also felt some splashing on her shoulders and the brim of her hat. She hoped the stuff wouldn't leave stains on it.

Molly hadn't come yet. She was almost there but not quite. It was gonna take her another minute or so. But then they were interrupted.

Gunshots. In the distance—but not a big distance. Not very far off at all. And then she heard horses neighing, and a girl scream. It was Swift. It could only be Swift.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Now of all times. Well, sure. Way of the fucking world.

She leaped off the boy, grabbing for her things. "What is it?" he said behind her, "What's happening?"

She shushed him, tugging up her pants, cramming her feet into her boots. God, it took too long! Swift needed her and she couldn't go until she got her fucking boots on and her belt buckled. But her hands were shaking too much and she also realized she needed a piss. Painfully. The urge hit her real bad, out of nowhere. Well damn. She was just gonna have to hold it.

"What about me?" he said, "Please don't just leave me here helpless like this."

That was exactly what she'd intended. But no, it was too damn harsh. She jerked the blindfold down off his eyes and loosened the knots around his hands. He would still have to undo the other ropes around his waist and his middle, by himself, once she was gone. "You get yerself out of here. Don't let us catch ya round these parts again. Don't let anybody else catch ya neither."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Don't call me Ma'am."

More shots and another high-pitched yell.

Molly straightened her hat and her black mask, drew both her pistols and ran towards the noise.

7.

"My name is Hamish Strake, and as you have probably surmised already, I'm the new sheriff in these parts."

A big hulking bear of a man. His sideburns were bushy, and fiery red. His hat was black—never a good sign, and he was brandishing a walking stick, with a handle in the shape of an eagle head. He had six other men with him. They all looked like desperadoes, not lawmen. Filthy, shaggy, leering men in raggedy clothes. Half of which were solider uniforms, or the remains of them.

They had captured Swift, and now they were displaying her to Molly, with her hands and elbows bound behind her and—far more frightening—a noose around her neck. They'd pulled the rope tight enough to keep her suspended on her tiptoes. She didn't look scared, Molly was proud to see, only furious.

They'd torn off her buckskins—hadn't stripped her completely but darn near enough, the bastards. They'd pulled the buckskins down around her knees and left them bunched there. Two of the vile men were fondling her. One lovingly caressed her breasts and petted her bush while the other pig, behind her, leaned close over her shoulder to nibble at her earlobe. Swift was doing her best to utterly ignore everything they were doing to her.

Sheriff Strake pointed his cane at Molly. "Throw down your weapons and surrender. You've no choice. If you don't give yourself up, I shall hang your friend, right now in front of you. The work of a moment."

"Don't do it, Molly!" cried Swift, "Don't you do it!"

"You men" said the sheriff, "step away from the girl a moment." After they did, he lashed her across both her bare breasts with his walking stick. She shrieked. Molly had never heard her make a sound like that—God, it was dreadful to hear. Because it was so pitiful. Molly couldn't stand it.

"Last chance. Yield, or she hangs!"

"No, Molly! You mustn't!"

"Shut up, bitch! I won't tell you again!"

Again she was struck, same as before—the cane left livid red stripes over her breasts—and again she screamed like she was dying, but still right afterward she persisted in defying them, and trying to convince Molly to flee. It was unbearable! "Don't listen to him! It's no good! You can't help me! Just go! Avenge me later!"

What the hell good would that be? "But you'll be dead!"

"That's right," said the sheriff, "That's the nub of it, yes sir."

Molly dropped her guns.

Swift screamed as if she'd been hit again—but she hadn't. The sheriff and his gang burst out into laughter. Then Swift let her head droop, and she moaned. That was a worse sound than any of her screams. It was a sound of absolute despair.

There was no need to explain, or there shouldn't have been, but somehow she couldn't help trying. After hearing that awful moan, Molly felt a desperate need to justify her decision. "I just couldn't do it, Swift. Can't just abandon you to die. How could you imagine I would think of such a thing?"

"But now he has us both! Now we're both doomed! You fool! How could you be so foolish?"

It had been foolish, on the face of it. Swift was absolutely right. But Molly clung to the fact they were both still alive. That was the main thing. And it meant there was still some hope. It was slim, against these odds—but things might turn around. Some chance might present itself. She just had to keep herself ready for it. She'd given in to the men—but she must not give in to despair. Even if things got very bad, in the next few minutes. And they would.

"I've had enough experience with villains like you" pronounced the sheriff, "to know you'll have other weapons secreted about your person. Knives and things. Perhaps even a derringer or two."

"No I don't," Molly said, "I swear."

"I'm no idiot, so I shan't take your word for it." He was right not to do so, for she was lying. She had no derringer, but she did have some knives hidden in her boots, and another smaller one in a sheath in the small of her back, out of sight under her shirt. "I'm going to need you to undress yourself now. Completely. It's the only way we can make damn sure—you must strip to your skin. Do that now, Molly. And do it quick."

"But ... can't you just search me in the ordinary way? All you have to do is pat me down."

He shook his head. "I don't like the thought of putting myself or any of my good men here at such risk yet, by getting too close to you. Not 'til we're certain you haven't any means left to strike out at us. And I prefer the thoroughness of this method."

"I won't do it. It's not right of you as a lawman to ask such a thing. I defy you."

"Well, if you won't cooperate and remove your things yourself, then I'll be compelled to have my men do it themselves instead, regardless of the risk. But they'll be rough about it, when they do the deed. And either way, you're going to end up the same, which is to say, stark naked. The choice is yours. Strip yourself bare, or be stripped bare by my men. I'll ask you one last time—which shall it be?"

"You leave me a choice that's no choice at all. I'll—I'll have to do it myself, then."

"Very good. Get to it. Start with your boots. And then don't you dare stop until you've taken off everything. Yes, before you ask—that includes your underthings, and even your socks."

"Even my socks? But what do you think I could hide in my socks?"

"I wouldn't venture to guess."

"This is nothing to do with searching me for weapons! You're only doing this to torment me, for your amusement! You might be a peace officer, but you are wicked and black-hearted!"

"I'd advise you to watch your tongue, bandit girl."

"I'll not. You are a villain, sirrah! I may be a criminal and a sinner, but at least I can confess it honestly. How can you bear to wear that badge on your shirt, and act as you do? What of your oath? Have you no honor or conscience at all? Men like you are a perversion of everything that star is supposed to stand for!"

"Fine words, Molly. You should have quit the bandit trade and run for congress—in fact the careers have far more similarities than differences. But let's not delay matters any longer with pointless conversation. You seek to shame me—but I'll not relent! Do as you were instructed!"

"I shall. But one day you'll answer for it. I hope you know that."

"Oh, I do. I assure you. Problem is, I can't bring myself to care. I've no fear of Hell, you see. It won't be any uglier than this world in which we live. I'm certain of that."

"It's only as ugly as it is because of men like you!"

"True, true. But I am as the Lord created me, if such a fellow exists. No more stalling now. Get moving! Strip!" He fired his gun into the air, for emphasis.

"I'm doing it. I'm doing it." But she didn't start with her boots, as he'd ordered. Instead she started to pull off her mask.

"No, no," he said, "Stop. Leave the mask alone. I'll let you keep that piece. You needn't remove that."

She was genuinely puzzled by this decision. "Why?"

He shrugged. "We already know who you are. But you're right, there's more to it. In fact, the mask is your real face, isn't it? Without that mask, you're just an ordinary girl. Nobody would realize you're a criminal. Nobody would be able to tell how bad you are, if they didn't know any better. But I do. I know your true nature—so keep your mask on, Sheridan Shooter. But only that."

So that was what she did. She began to weep, and to whimper. She couldn't stop herself, once it started. That shamed her far more than her nakedness.

"She's much more bashful than her partner, isn't she, boys? Listen to her carry on like that. Look at how she's blushing now! God, she's turned darn near purple!"

It was true, she was painfully shy about her body. She could not maintain the same aloof dignity of Swift. Molly thought herself too scrawny, and she didn't like the freckles on her skin. Her chest was too flat, especially compared to Swift's. And she'd never been completely naked in front of men before. Not even Horace Coal—they'd kept most of their clothes on, when they made love in the dark of the night, and under a blanket. How horrid that the first men to stand in judgment of all her charms, such as she had, should end up being vile sneering rascals like these. No better than jackals.

"I've done what you wanted. You've had your fun and humiliated me. You've taken my knives. May I put my things back on now?"

"I'm afraid not. Hold your hands out towards me now."

"Why?"

"Two reasons. One, I don't want you to keep covering your privates like you're trying to do. And two, I'm going to tie your hands. We're going to string you up on your tiptoes, right next to your partner here."

"You're going to hang us? Just like that?"

"Not at all. If that were the case, I'd be tying this rope around your neck, wouldn't I? Not your wrists, silly girl. I've something else in mind for you. Grab the other end of the line, boys. Pull her up tight now. There you go. Yes. That looks fine. Very fine indeed."

"You bastards! Oh! It hurts! Oh you bastards it hurts! It's tearing my arms! Oh, it's too high! Not so high! Please! I can't keep my balance! I can't! Oh God! Let me down! Let me down! I can't take this! Please!"

"Oh hush, don't be such a crybaby. You're supposed to be tougher than this, Sheridan Shooter. You bandits never live up to your grandiose reputations. It saddens me."

They hadn't strung her up the same way as Swift. She was dangling from her wrists, instead of from the neck. Her arms were stretched as high as they could reach over her head. So tight that though she was a fair deal shorter than Swift, their faces were level now, eye to eye, when she looked over at her. Usually her eyes were level with the tip of Swift's nose. Her feet were barely touching the ground at all, just her tiptoes scraping the dirt. Not enough to hold herself still and take any of the weight off her poor arms and wrists and shoulders. Her entire naked body kept constantly swaying and swinging around, and spinning in circles too.

"Oh God! What do you want? Why are you doing this to me? This is torture! You're torturing me! You have no right! This isn't lawful! You're supposed to be a lawman! Let me down! Please! Just a little!"

"This isn't torture, Molly. This is punishment. Now you're gonna answer for all your transgressions, Sheridan Shooter. Now you're gonna learn once and for all why girls like you should stay at home where it's safe, and behave themselves, and mind their manners."

"You've no right to do this to me! There's supposed to be a fair trial in a court of law. This is a subversion of justice! You have no authority to do this! I've had no trial!"

"This is your trial, Molly. But like they had in the old days, of knights and castles. You ever read about those times? Maybe you didn't get enough schooling. A trial by ordeal, is what they called this."

"You bastard! You scoundrel!"

"It's not safe out here in the wild. You should know that by now, living the life you lead. If you live a bad life, bad things happen to you. It's just a matter of time. Now your time has come."

"No! No!" But he was raising his arm, lifting his stick ... "Don't you dare!" Still, he held back, making her wait for it. Drawing out the anticipation. Making her shiver all over with dread. She nearly lost control of her bladder. "No! Oh no!"

"Yes," he answered, "Oh yes!" And then finally swung his arm down, and the stick.

CRACK! Striking straight across both her clenched buttocks, like a bolt of lightning.

"Haayoowwhhrr!" she screamed, "Holy God Almighty! Help me Jesus! Jesus!"

And there went her bladder, inevitably. Right at the very strike.

She had known this would be bad, obviously—but it turned out so much more terrible than she was prepared for. She knew in an instant she would not be able to endure this punishment—not as well as Swift had been doing. Her spirit would break—it was already breaking, it might already be shattered utterly, after only that first blow. Even the thought of another was too much to stand. "I can't do this! I can't take this! This can't happen to me!" She might even go mad. She was going to disgrace herself. She was going to start bawling, like a child. Not just weeping anymore but absolutely bawling. No, she realized she'd already started.

"Courage, Molly," Swift urged, beside her, "We must be strong. We must endure."

But she couldn't—no chance. The second strike proved that to her. CRACK! "GUUhaaarrhh!" It was irrefutable. "God no! I can't! It's too terrible! I don't have the power! Not for this!" CRACK! "Huhhnn! Please! Please no more!"

Again, Swift tried to stop her. "That won't do any good—you'll only urge them on. Scream as much as you need—but you mustn't plead with them." And then she got a lash herself. "Yuuhhuuhhnn!"

Molly knew she was right—but she couldn't help herself. She couldn't hold back the pleas, once they started pouring out of her. Not against this. Not naked. "I beg you! I'm begging! I'll do anything! Anything! Mercy! Have mercy on me! Please! Please be merciful! I'll do anything you want!"

"Is that so?" replied the sheriff, "Anything I want, eh?"

"Anything! I swear! I swear it!"