The Cold Spring Indian

A woman lost and alone in the wild plains of the American West needs a man to hold onto...any man.

 

(F, exh, FM, interr) caution

By: Punchinello for Pulp Erotica

 

Utah, 1890

She had wandered for days, lost and alone, certain that she would never see a friendly face again. Her family was gone—dead in Missouri or moved back to Charleston—and the few Christian souls she had traveled west with had left her for dead there on the wild plains. For a long time, she hadn’t moved from the spot where she had fallen, not for any physical reason, but because she could not allow herself to believe that her party would not soon be coming for her.

But it was true. They left her lying at the bottom of the high embankment, amid the rocks and trees and the brush that had broken her fall. They had left her, without so much as a decent Christian burial. She had cried for hours.

But there was a spring nearby, and enough berries and such to keep her strength up. She had kept close to the spring’s stream so as not to get lost, but “lost” had only come to mean being without a source of water. Not far off, the stream fed into a little pool of clear, cold water, surrounded by trees and brush, but open to the sky. There were berries and wild grapes and apple trees; there was ample space and material to build a shelter; and there was all the water she would ever need to drink, to bathe in, and to wash her single, dirty, calico dress.

It was there that she encountered the Indian.

Megan was not tall, but slender and well-proportioned. Her breasts were round and high, with small, red nipples that pointed upwards and out. Her hair was a lustrous chestnut brown, her skin a delicate pink. She had a certain grace when she was free of her dress, gained from dancing lessons and early tomboyish ways. She tip-toed naked along the rocks to water’s edge.

Megan bathed her weary body in the cool water bit by bit. It was chilly water, and a cool wind blew, but eventually she gave up and splashed in. The chill water enveloped her, invaded her naked body. It pulled the heat out of her, the sweat, the weariness. The shock of it thrilled her straight thru to her bones.

“Oh Lord!” she cried out as she broke the surface, throwing her long hair back. “Whoo!” She shook her hair and brushed it out of her eyes. She stayed a little longer, just to be sure she’d scraped the dirt off.

Megan slipped from the water fresh and clean, onto a flat rock near her drying dress. She lay back and relaxed. She ran her finger up the slight scar on the inside of her thigh, a memento of that tomboy childhood.

She shone in the sunlight, wet and cool all over; she closed her eyes. The wind had died down; the sun warmed her. Megan caressed her total naked beauty. She pressed her fingers against the soft warmth down below and gave herself the secret pleasure that a young woman sometimes gives herself.

She spread the lips of her vagina and stroked it lazily. “Mmmmm,” she cooed. The cool moisture from the pool mixed with the womanly moisture oozing from between her legs and lubricating her fingers. Megan found her secret button and rubbed it, teased it. “Mmmm. Ahh, ahh! AHH! Oh!”

She frigged harder, faster, plunging her fingers deep, reveling in her nakedness in the wilderness. “Ohhh!” she groaned, teasing her hard nipples now too, squeezing her big tit, rocking back on and forth on the warm flat rock, her chestnut brown hair splaying out around her. “Ohhhh! Ohhh! OHHH!” Megan cried, giving herself over to total earthly pleasure of the flesh and torturing her pink slit with quick, urgent stabs.

“Ahhhh! Ohhh!” she whimpered at last.

When she was washed and bathed again, clean and dry and dressed, Megan went to find some more apples. She wondered if she might find the proper materials to weave a basket, so that she wouldn’t have to carry apples in her dress. When she returned with her apples and a number of thin strips of bark, she found, beside the water and down on one knee, the Indian. His head was down, searching the ground for some track or other sign of her.

She had no idea how long he had been watching, how much of her he had seen bathing, washing her dress, laying it out to dry in the sun. But he must have gotten an eyeful.

His hair was shiny black and totally without the kind of natural curl hers had; it was pulled back and bound by a beaded band that held two eagle feathers. His savage skin was smooth and ruddy red all over, from his naked chest to his calm, expressionless face. He wore a beaded band around his thick upper arm and buckskin moccasins and breeches. His pack was nearby.

Her first reaction was fear and embarrassment; he had invaded her secret grotto, with his knowledge of the land and of nature, with his serene look and his powerful body. She was caught, stranded without aid or comfort, defenseless against his obvious strength and savage will. When he looked up at her timid approach, Megan nearly fainted.

When the sun set, the Indian built a fire. It was the first fire she had seen since her exile had begun; she was good at weaving and sewing, and she could throw horse shoes and whittle, but fire-making was not in her bag of tricks. He had brought a hare with him, something he had caught earlier, and now he skinned it and set about roasting it.

She thought she might help him cook it, hoping it might aid her in gaining his compassion, but she sat by rather girlishly instead, merely watching. He made no attempt to truly communicate, altho he gave her meat and asked—by way of simple gesture—for some of her fruits. She traded him willingly, and took the meat with a natural hunger she did not know she possessed.

When night fell, blackening the sky with a heavy hand, she longed for the blanket he unrolled from his pack. He seemed to read her soft, blue-gray eyes and left it for her.

She curled up in the soft, heavy blanket facing the quieting fire, staring thru the flickering flames at his lean body, purplish in the wan moonlight. He slept half-naked on the ground.

 

She thought he might leave the next day, perhaps dragging her with him, but the savage remained. She could see that he was curious about her, her predicament, her sense of self in spite of it all. Every time Megan looked off into the distance, he would look too, thinking, perhaps, that she was waiting for someone to return or to come for her. She would look away quickly each time, eager not to have him think wrongly, eager not to mislead him. Instead, she would stare at the ground, at his moccasins, at his rough, red hands.

He bathed that day, or swam, rather. Sitting on the flat rock, having discarded his moccasins, he had suddenly stood and pushed down his buckskin breeches. Megan looked, attracted by the movement, but then averted her eyes in shocked panic. He tossed aside even the leather loin cloth that gave him some semblance of modesty and, naked as sin, dived into the swirling pool. Megan went looking for fruits, keeping her eyes well away from his quiet splashing and her thoughts away from his strong limbs and rippled belly.

When night came, he built another fire. He had caught another hare during the day, and so they made another trade: meat for fruit, a cordial, ritualistic, trade. It allowed her an excuse to look at him, tho, so she clung to it. His physical presence had quickly become important to her; he was the only human being she could possibly turn to, primitive native tho he was.

When he offered her the blanket again, Megan accepted with greater reluctance, knowing that it meant he would be without it. She lay down next to the dying fire, reveling in its warmth and simple pleasure. Then, without words or gestures or any look of explanation, the Indian put away his feathered headband and lay down next to her, within the space of the blanket, and took some of its soft warmth for himself.

She was mortified, nearly paralyzed with fear. She was unable to object for the knowledge that he was only being practical; it was his blanket.

When his body, warm and smooth, touched hers in a most casual and meaningless way, she stiffened; pulse after pulse of strong emotion coursed thru her body, at once pulling her in two different directions. In the end, she remained frozen in indecision, unable to relax with the casual grace he possessed and unable to rise and move to sleep on the ground on the other side of the fire. She could only hope against hope that he would leave before nightfall next.

 

Morning came, and he remained; the sun rose high, and he returned with game; the sun began its inevitable descent, and he sat upon the flat rock by the water and skinned the third hare.

She watched him from where she sat near the burned-out fire, finishing the basket she had set about weaving. She thought of where she might go—and whether or not he would track her down.

At last, she gave up. There was no more likely a place than this in a hundred miles. She was helpless in the wilderness, and the Indian was her only comfort. She sat down beside the dying fire and folded her legs in front of her. Her soft calico dress covered her strong, suntanned legs, but her small bare feet showed at one side. She brushed her hair back and stroked her long, smooth neck.

She watched him closely as they ate. She had gathered no fruit to offer him, but he gave no indication that he expected it. Her half-finished basket lay aside.

At last, she loosened the buttons on the front of her dress and lay down on the blanket, her heart pounding. The Indian lay down next to her, silent as ever, closer than before. Megan lay still, unwantedly nestling against his great chest, breathing softly on his shoulder.

Perhaps tonight, she pondered. Perhaps tonight he would take her, force himself upon her, make her his Indian wife. Ruin her for wife men forever. Then perhaps the savage would leave.

He moved quietly. His strong arms enveloped her, holding her close. He breathed in the scent of her hair. Megan’s heard beat furiously, the blood pounding in her temples.

The Indian breathed in her ear—one word, perhaps a warning, in his primitive tongue. Then he rose on his elbow, moving slowly, stretching one arm beyond Megan’s vision, then drawing it back with equal deliberateness.

The firelight caught it with a cruel gleam. His knife.

Megan’s pounding heart doubled it efforts, filling her body with a terror and panic she had never known. Would he cut off her dress? Rape her? Scalp her? She swallowed a scream and tried to push away from the savage without alarming him.

Then she heard the rattle.

There could be no mistake. It was the warning rattle of a diamond-back rattlesnake, close. The Indian brave’s strong hand pressed on Megan, pinning her down. He rose a little more, easing himself beyond her head, silent and purposeful. She could see him holding the knife out away from his body, twisting it to catch the dying firelight, catching the serpent’s attention.

Then he struck.

Like lightning, the Indian snatched the snake just below the head, still holding the knife at arm’s length, and rose to his feet. Megan screamed and scrambled away, losing the blanket, her bosoms nearly spilling out of her open dress.

The Indian slammed the snake down on the ground, once, twice, then pinned it there hard, crushing it against the unforgiving earth. With a quick, sure hand, he sliced off its head, spilling snake blood on the ground from the gaping wound, bloodying his hands.

Megan rushed to him, threw her arms around him. She pressed her soft lips to his bare chest and branded him with hot kisses. He held her to him, pulled her up, staining her dress with rattlesnake blood, and kissed her warmly on the mouth.

Their breaths mixed and tongues mingled, her dress falling off her shoulders, exposing more of the creamy swell of her breasts. They caressed one another urgently, groping for a better hold, pressing closer. His naked back was smooth and broad, firm with muscle.

Megan’s dress slid down her body, revealing the pink tips of her nipples, stiff and eager in the moonlight mixed with firelight. The Indian pushed it down, leaving her bare but for her bloomers. But these he pushed down too, exposing the white skin, smooth and soft, warm to his touch, flushed with excitement, eager for masculine caresses. She was unashamed. Her bushy brown womanhood was his to take. She gave herself completely to him.

Lying naked on the blanket, spreading white thighs, her chestnut hair splayed out around her head, breasts full and supple. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her breasts, teasing her nipples with his teeth. The sensation sent a bolt of energy thru her body, wracking her with wild desire. She groped his body, pushed at his buckskin breeches, panted hotly into his chest as he tossed aside his loin cloth. His flesh gleamed in the fading light, red and dark.

Now he hovered over her, his long, naked body poised over hers, his stiff prick jutting from his hips like a weapon. Megan bit her lip and urged him down onto her, spreading her legs more, cupping his naked backside. He held his prick in his hand, guiding it into her, pressing it against the pink curtain of her cunt. She gasped at the first, tender pressure against her most private spot, and groaned as he pushed into her, slowly, smoothly, making her eyes roll back and her body quiver.

She pushed his hips away, backing him out of her slightly, then pulled him back, deeper, deeper, panting and gasping. The sensation filled her completely, took her over, make her swoon, raising beads of perspiration on her lip. The red man pressed into her again, his breath hot in her ear, a groan of his own escaping his lips.

His hips moved slowly, back and forth, each stroke a stab at her soul. His cock filled her up, made her complete, made her his. She gasped and moaned, wishing she knew the words to urge him on, enflame him further. She wanted him to be rough, to take her like the savage he was.

She pulled him into her, whimpering, panting, rocked her hips with his, shameless in her lust, eager for complete release. Her moans rose, quickened with each thrust of his powerful legs and buttocks. Her tits rolled with every driving push, the nipples small and stiff, wet with his saliva.

“Yes, oh yes, darling,” she breathed. “Good, so good inside me. Fill me up, darling. Fill me up forever.” The Indian pressed harder, more hotly, quickening his thrusts, panting hard.

“Make me your wife now. Make me your Indian wife. Give me a crisis. Oh! Take me to crisis. Oh! Oh!”

Harder still he thrust, slapping his big balls against her buttocks, sweating and groaning. His slick cock rubbed the pink button at her center, sending shocks thru her whole body.

“Oh! OH! OH!” she cried. “YES! YES! Plant your seed! Plant it inside me!” Megan’s cries descended into hot moans and lusty growls as the feeling of ecstasy washed over her, wracking her body with pleasure, thrilling her senses and making her lose all control and scream in perfect sexual bliss. The Indian stiffened, ramming his cock deep inside her, holding her in his strong arms, and shot his hot load of seed inside his white bride.

Megan gasped and sighed, feeling his release inside her, feeling him tense and relax, tense and relax again, spurting his lust in milky surges inside her womb. He breathed heavily, still supporting himself on his arms, and kissed her breasts, suckled at her nipples, filling her with warm pleasure. She caressed his red skin, his arms, his shoulders, down his sides to his powerful thighs, and gazed into his dark eyes, kissing his mouth, tasting his lips and tongue.

The Indian rolled away, his wet, red cock now a more flexible tool. Megan sat up and pulled him closer again, fondled his sticky manhood, nuzzled his neck. “Thank you, darling,” she murmured. “I’ve never felt such bliss, such utter pleasure.”

He kissed her forehead and stood. He went the fire and stoked it, prodding the embers and coaxing a flame to rise, then added a small branch. Then the Indian turned to the corpse of the snake and took up his knife.

Megan never knew fried rattlesnake could taste so good.

Before the night was over, the Indian would taste more than diamondback. He would have his head between the white woman’s thighs, making her squeal and moan again, giving her over to screams of passion she had never imagined possible, naked and shameless under the midnight sky in the open wilderness.

 

In the morning, Megan went to look for fruit. Her calico dress was stained with the blood of the rattler. She would wash it come noon, when the day was warmest and she could bathe naked in the sunshine and take her Indian lover to her again.

Megan knew she would never leave him now, would follow him wherever he chose to go. She learn his language, bare little red babies, weave cloth for him. She had no one else to turn to, and no dream of a better lover to satisfy her. And she was ruined now to white men.

When she topped a little rise, Megan saw horses. Not a wild stallion with his herd of eager mares, but riders on horseback. And they saw her. They turned toward her little rise immediately and kicked spurs into flanks to quicken the pace.

Was she to be saved? But saved from what? And where to go? A desperate dread seemed to slide down Megan’s throat and sink into her gut. With the print of a red man on her flesh, no decent white man would have her, but here some came, riding hell for leather.

“Jesus, ma’am, are you all alone?” the first man asked, a broad-faced Swede from the north, by his looks. “Pardon the language.”

“I’m alone,” Megan lied. “I lost my footing on that ridge yonder and fell down it. The others went on without me. They didn’t know the water was here.” Megan smoothed her hair, buttoned her dress.

“Good lord!” said another, climbing down from his horse.

“You been here long, ma’am?” asked the third, a young fellow, younger than Megan.

“I don’t know. A few days,” the woman replied, now self-conscious about her tousled hair, her stained dress, the smell of sex upon her unwashed skin.

A look of concern came over the blue-eyed Swede. “You hurt, ma’am? Is that blood?”

Megan covered the stain reflexively, flushed with shame. “What’s wrong?” the young man asked.

“How did you live? What did you eat?” the Swede asked.

Just then the Indian returned, coming down the ridge, a dead prairie dog in hand.

“A goddamned red Indian!” the second man gasped, a hard look in his dark eyes. He tensed in the saddle. He hadn’t come down from his horse.

“Jesus!” said the Swede. He looked from Megan to the Indian and back again. He touched the blood stain on her dress. “That goddamned savage.”

The Indian stopped when he saw them, fifty yards away.

“It makes sense now,” the young man said.

The Swede drew his Colt and leveled it at Megan’s rescuer, lover, husband. “No! Oh God no!” she cried.

Fire belched from the barrel of the pistol. Smoke billowed all around. The Indian fell hard, the slug punching thru his chest. He rolled a little further down the slope. The Swede squeezed off another.

“Check him,” the Swede said to the hard-eyed man. The horseman set his spurs and clicked his tongue.

The Swede unconsciously looked Megan up and down, as if he might find the Indian’s handprints on her. “Well,” he said to the ruined woman slowly, “you ain’t dead.”

Tears flooded her eyes.

“You can still live, ma’am,” said the young man encouragingly. “Some man’ll still marry ya.” Then, quietly, he added, “We don’t have to tell nobody.”

“We won’t tell a soul,” the Swede agreed. “Go now. You’re safe. Clean yourself up.”

Megan walked numbly toward the cold spring. A final gunshot rang out from the slope. The young woman covered her face, hot tears rolling down her red cheeks.