Checkers loped downwind without too much concern for the rain. I kicked him off of the rim and back into the canyon. We raced toward the house.
By approaching through the orchard, I was able to ride without attracting attention.
The next part of my hastily improvised plan was harder to carry out. I had to find out who was going to do what because of the storm. My dark clothes and black hair would blend in with the surroundings on this dismal day.
I tied the horse and sneaked to the windowless back wall of the cabin. I waited a moment, listening, then slid around the corner on the downwind side of the building.
A kitchen window had been left open. The three of them were bustling around inside, donning slickers and boots.
Sure enough, as I had hoped he would be, my dad was bellowing instructions to Honey and Gwyn.
“Honey, you come with me. There are about half a dozen of those heifers that could be calving any time, and I don’t want them scattered to hell-and-gone through those open gaps. We’ll bring ’em in and throw them in the west corral.
“Gwyn, I want you to rustle the rest of the horses. They’ll have drifted south with the storm, so you should find them on the back side of the pasture.”
You understand, of course, that the concern was not for the immediate safety of the stock. It’s simply that when the creek gets up, and the draws run water, all the water gaps go out. They’re built to do so, so the water and driftwood won’t tear down the fences for a quarter of a mile in each direction. After the storm, the waters recede as quickly as they rose, and livestock then can roam at will through the ruptured gaps.
The breachy ones always do; consequently, after every big rain, the ranchers and their hands have to prowl the whole country recovering the strays.
I’d heard enough. I sloshed back to my horse. Thank God, the downpour was erasing my tracks almost as fast as I made them.
I leaped on old Checkers and pounded away up the creek. I couldn’t cross directly below the house without being seen, so I rode west for a half mile or so and pushed across. The creek wasn’t rising yet.
I loped on south until I reached the breaks on the side of the creek. More cautiously, I headed back eastward to the well-marked trails that converge at the crossing below the house.
No matter where Gwyn found the remuda, she’d bring them in on one of the trails that ran close by the vantage point I finally chose.
I had ridden out a small draw to make sure the horses weren’t bunched up in it, then rode to the mouth and pulled up under some elms.
Gwyn wouldn’t see me until too late to escape me, even if she tried to.
The horses came into sight, running around the slope of the cap, homeward bound.
Gwyn was a hundred yards behind them. I kicked Checkers from the cover of the trees and tried to cut between Gwyn and the horses.
She saw me before I’d covered a third of the distance between us.
I can’t account for what happened then.
She may not have recognized me. Maybe Star, her horse. spooked when he saw Checkers bearing down on him. Whether Gwyn jumped him out or he bolted on his own, Star leaped forward and broke into a dead run. He quickly overtook the remuda and ran up among them.
Horses once started toward home, unlike cattle, don’t have to be driven or herded. They know where they’re going and waste very little time getting there. The run to the corral is frolicking time for a healthy bunch of horses.
So they held their ground as a running group, when Star, with Gwyn astride him, broke into their ranks. A couple of them feigned alarm by pitching a jump or two, or by shying away from the intruder, but they held their course toward the creek crossing. Star had slowed to stay with the pack, and only then did Gwyn look back.
Checkers was catching up to the loose horses. I could see her clearly, so I knew she recognized me then, if she hadn’t before.
The bunch of us plunged down the bank and into the already swollen stream, I had to act now. In another two minutes we’d be milling in the corral. I didn’t want to jump her that close to the house and road.
Of course, she had no idea what was going on, so she made no move to avoid me as I kicked Checkers alongside her as our horses belly-waded through the murky, rising water.
I reached over, grabbed her arm and checked my horse. I held tight, and as Star plunged ahead, I was able to drag her from the saddle into the creek.
Checkers jumped around her and carried me up the north bank. I slipped off and ran back into the water toward Gwyn. She was facing me, eyes blazing. The increasingly swift waters swirled about her legs.
As I slashed up to her, she lashed out with the leather quirt, one she had borrowed with the rest of my things. A leather loop secured it to her wrist.
I’d have to take it away from her, or I’d be cut to ribbons. The first blow had laid open my cheek.
We closed and went down.
With our footing gone, we began to wash downstream. We were fighting each other and the water. We tumbled into the bank where the creek bends, and from there into a quieter area in the backwash.
She clutched my throat with both hands. We were coughing as we gasped for air.
She had somehow regained her feet and stood astride me, trying to force me under. I clung desperately to her arms while I tried to gain purchase with my feet. I couldn’t make it.
I was looking up into her face as she pushed me down. Her teeth were bared in a grimacing snarl. She looked crazed. As I went under, I panicked. This girl was trying to kill me. She was killing me.
In my terror, it seemed a brand new idea. Not once in my days of planning had it crossed my mind that I might lose my life to this she-devil, but she was drowning me. Fear possessed me. There was room for nothing else–not for hate, for love, even for the urge to kill. Only sickening fear. Clawing at her wrists, I felt the dangling quirt. With the strength of panic I yanked on it. The leverage tore one of her hands from my throat. I rolled frantically away and down from the embedded talons. I tore free. I drifted again as I fought to get my face out of the water. I struggled to all fours in shallower water and clambered for the bank. Scrambling and clawing up the slippery, muddy incline, I looked back.
Gwyn, waist deep in water now, had snatched an overhanging limb of willow branches and was pulling herself hand over hand toward the partial shelter at the base of the bending willows.
I clutched an exposed tree root in the slime and sprawled there, face down, heaving for breath. I looked again for my nemesis. She was working her way toward me in spite of slippery footing.
As I watched, she stepped out of the sodden, heavy riding skirt and dropped it. It slithered into the water and joined the other debris, tumbling with the current in growing globs of drift. Clad only in a riding blouse and short white petit-slip and panties, she came on, faster now. Whether it was meant as a challenge or simply an attempt to rid herself of the heavy clothing, I didn’t wait to find out. Again I turned to flee. When I hatched my plan I knew I didn’t want another catfight. Although I was fully recovered from the bruises, I didn’t want to be confined in an enclosed area with this woman.
From that first experience, I didn’t like the prospects of my facing her again wearing a skirt, blouse and hose which offered no protection while her nails, heels and other feminine paraphernalia inflicted untold damage to my face, breasts and legs. I wanted her under my terms and without Chris watching us. Ten minutes ago, I was certain I had what I wanted. Dressed in my Levi’s and riding shirt and in these wide open spaces, I thought I had my change of venue. Now, however, after just a few minutes against her, I didn’t want Gwyn under any circumstances, I just wanted out. If she’d only stop, I’d run away and never bother her again. She was every nightmare I’d ever had. I was scared to death of her.
My floundering was terrifying slow motion. I hadn’t moved three feet toward higher ground before she grasped my ankle. The sound of my scream was drowned out–even from my own ears–by the roaring flood.
I kicked her loose and got my feet under me. I lurched on over the lip of the band and onto the grassy bottom land while she continued to struggle with the muddy footing. I stumbled, regained my balance, and tried to run.
I too felt encumbered. My Levi’s seemed to weigh a ton. I stripped them off to my black panties. I knew the consequences of this act; it was not an answer to her challenge, but just that I no longer needed their protection, I needed to flee. I broke into a run toward the corral. Within seconds I was tackled from behind.
I turned to fight, and the fear passed. It left me as suddenly as it had gripped me. Blinding hate flooded in to replace it. Animal ferocity as old as the cap rocks above us overwhelmed both of us.
It was as if I were trying to purge myself of the worst part of me. In some grim way I was at grips with myself. All of the hate that had poisoned me for so long was focused at this one point in time, had festered into this one, gigantic boil of pain that had to be lanced for blessed relief, or else succumbed to for the release of oblivion.
She flogged me. As I tried to stay in close and wrestle her to the ground. Gwyn swung the quirt against my bare legs with all of her strength. I struggled to pin the flailing arm, but I couldn’t get enough leverage. I broke free and stepped back. It was a mistake.
She raised her target and beat me across the breasts and shoulders–forearm and backstroke, forelash and backlash- cutting and raising welts with every vicious stroke. She whipped me to my knees.
At last I was able to snatch the terrible leather with one hand. Quickly I caught the wrist thong with my other.
When the quirt came loose in my hands, I flung it from me as if it were a rattler. Diving forward, I encircled her legs and brought her down.
We fought. The rain increased in intensity. The creek had jumped its bands and a sheet of water under ran us as we wrestled. Gwyn clamped her sturdy thighs around my head and rolled to her elbow. My face was buried beneath the lace hem of her petit-slip cushioned by the musky nest of her panties and blonde pubic hair.
A fleeting image crossed my mind. It lasted less than a second, but it seemed to take a lifetime to play out. I was once again on the floor of our living room, groggily taking in the disheveled room, the dark bruises on my legs and torso, and the coppery smell of blood. Our wedding night. As my head cleared, the image of Chris at the height of ecstasy burying his cock deeply into Gwyn’s blonde cunt slowly came into focus. And without relief or rest, both beginning again to thrust their loins deliberately, undulating slowly, she coaxing him to say who was the better woman, who’s cunt was better. And Chris lovingly obliging her with gasps of “Yours. It’s you, there’s only you.” Despite the many intervening months, I still could not release myself from the events and images of that night.
Once again, reality set in. I had to act now! Without hesitation I bit into the soft flesh of her cunt through her panties. The legs parted and I squirmed to cover her, to hold her down. The strong legs closed again, this time around my waist. We lay face to face.
This was the time, my time! The time I had been waiting for was here. And perhaps it would be my only chance to say what I had imagined saying to her face so often. “I’m going to jam your own words down your throat,” I panted.
“You’re in no position to make threats. You’ve bugged me for the last time, you tramp. You’re not needed around here anymore.” She inhaled deeply, raspingly.
As an afterthought, she asked: “What words?”
“Did you forget them already?” I enunciated carefully and clearly: “I’m going to fuck your husband. I’m going to whip you and take your man–for good! Do you remember those words now?”
She screamed in rage. She brought the pressure of pure hate to bear in her strong, lover’s thighs. As I gasped, then pushed and strained against them, they felt like smooth, warm marble beneath my hands. This time, she wore no hose, and there were no clasps from the metal garters to scratch and draw blood. Suddenly I jerked my hands free. Instead of pushing against my antagonist, I dropped prone upon her, buried my fingers in her hair and squirmed upward.
I had gained enough short-lived slack to cradle my face in her throat. With surprising forethought, I carefully positioned my head in such a way as to leave my nostrils in no danger of obstruction, as I worked my mouth around her jugular. I bit into her throat as I would have bitten into a chunk of thick, juicy t-bone steak. I felt the death fear grip her. Her legs first constricted in a vain reflex, then whipped away in frenzy, as the compact body coiled and uncoiled, flopped and rolled.
She landed on top of me. It meant nothing. I could feel the warm blood trickling out of the corners of my mouth and down my neck, mingling with the cooler rain. She twisted aside, our bodies still entwined and our necks and heads still joined at teeth and throat. She pummeled my stomach. She clawed my breasts. She ripped at my crotch.
Despite our closeness, she reached between us pulling and tearing at the last vestiges of our shirts. Her right hand dropped outside my left hip clawing at the leg – and waistbands of my panties until they both gave way and my panties lay limply around my right thigh. I would not reciprocate the way I did last time.
But I didn’t have to. I thought she was again going for my crotch as she wedged her hand between our pelvic bones. Instead, she pulled at the last inch or two of the lace hem of her slip until it no longer lay between our cunts. I knew what was coming and I tried frantically to stop her but she was too determined. She tore at the front panel of her panties until I heard the sharp rip of nylon and felt the prickly hairs of her crotch on mine and the sharp pain as her cunt distended and distorted the lips of mine.
“If you want Chris, then fight”, she panted, “Fight for him woman to woman.”
Except for the lock my jaw continued to hold on her neck, our bodies were perfectly mirrored – as if our breasts, legs, and cunts were fighting their own separate battles. Although we were still fighting for the same thing, at that moment we both knew this fight would be very different from our first. Instinctively, we knew that we were bound inexorably in combat until one of us was dead. This would not rage on for tens of minutes as before. This would be much shorter and, Dear God, hopefully sweeter.
My jaws were numb, but locked. Still breathing through clenched teeth, I didn’t even have to concentrate to hold on. I could taste her blood as it continued to trickle down my cheek to my neck and on down to the water droplets flowing below us. If I wanted to survive I couldn’t let go. Gwyn’s body was fighting a war of attrition with mine. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. She sensed my terror as we fought breast to breast and cunt to cunt with our legs grapevined and straining in a vise-like death grip. Despite the small edges I held in height and weight, she was winning her war. I raked her back with my nails, but the nubs of her nipples were boring into mine, inverting them painfully into my breast and against the wall of my chest.
As our legs strained against each other, I could feel my right leg bowing outward under the pressure she exerted leaving more of my crotch open to her grinding and pumping assault. My pelvis was no longer thrusting upward with the power I had originally – more and more often her downward ramming thrusts were not met by my thrusts upward. Finally, she released both hands from my hair and wedged them behind my buttocks pulling me closer into her so she could gain more leverage with her thrusts into my cunt. I could feel my tears mixing with her blood running down my cheek.
I screamed and grunted with her every thrust through my still clenched teeth. The rain must have lessened in intensity for I could now hear the sharp report of flesh meeting flesh as she continued to pump her cunt into mine. I could feel my hairs becoming gnarled with hers and being pulled as she ground her hips and cunt lips into mine. And I felt the hot searing pain of hairs being plucked each time she lifted her cunt from mine only to ram and pump into it repeatedly. My only relief was in knowing that Chris was not here to witness this again.
I was now sobbing and screaming with each thrust she made. I began to feel consciousness leaving me sensing only the dull ache in my cunt and the jarring thuds against my pelvic bone. Memories of the final moments of our first fight now engulfed me – I remembered that relief came only when I heard the brittle snap of my pelvic bone breaking and my final blood curdling cry as I lost consciousness.
Now, I didn’t think I could withstand much more of her assault. I knew the end was coming quickly yet I fought the loss of consciousness forcing myself to think about what was happening to me. In spite of the pain and damage she was inflicting, I clung to her. Like that of a leech, my head would have remained embedded in her neck if my body were pulled apart.
She had lost so much blood. What was holding her together? I shook my head and worked my victim as a mastiff would have done. I gripped her throat with my hands as well. Finally, as her smooth form gradually stilled, I heard whimpering and whining, and realized that I was hearing my own primitive growls. Still I wouldn’t let go.
Except for my own labored breathing, I could detect no movement. I wouldn’t release her. Holding with my teeth, I explored with my hands. I searched for pressure points, felt for pulse, heartbeat. Nothing.
Giddily, I palmed the still warm flesh. I stroked her thighs, pinched her nipples, cupped her mound between her legs, inserted a finger. The last twinge from Gwyn Bailey was a muscular contraction around my probing finger.
It took conscious effort for me to relax the vise of my locked jaws. I pushed her body from me, and with my face upward and bared to the abating downpour, I cried great, wracking sobs.
Relief gradually turned to well being, then quickly to wild elation. The sensation was almost sexual. There were unmistakable overtones of desire.
As I squirmed in the wet grass, my hand encountered the stubby quirt, closed on it, raised it to the valley between my breasts. I clasped the rounded mass with trembling fingers. I moved it downward and with the fumbling movements of one out of practice, I made the sought for contact and stabbed the hard, slick, tapered whip into myself, butt end first, paying no heed to the blood and other damage she extracted from my cunt.
As I closed my legs around my imagined lover, my thoughts drifted back to our wedding night. Chris, his desire so obviously showing, watching as the intruder, Gwyn, and I fought for him. But instead of the nightmare that I could now only dimly remember, it was I, not Gwyn, who was on top. As we fought woman to woman, it was my cunt, not Gwyn’s, that was grinding and pumping mercilessly into her hated adversary’s crotch. Chris’ desire, his hardness, was meant for me, not for that blonde slut.
She, not I, would have uttered those horrible words: “You’re the better woman, you’re cunt’s better than mine!” And now it would be I who would not stop pumping and grinding despite the pleas, the cries, and the sobs. She, not I, would now awaken shakily from unconsciousness in her own house, only to see her man fucking me and hear him declare how much better my cunt felt than hers.
And that’s the way I would remember it now. And that is the way I would forevermore describe Gwyn’s and my second encounter: fighting as only a women can to a deadly conclusion. I wouldn’t have to lie, because that’s the way I was experiencing it now, and Gwyn would no longer be around to dispute it. As for Chris, he would never contradict me. He loved me too much for that.
Again and again I stabbed the hard butt end of the quirt into myself. Sitting in reverie there by the stream, I was shocked to recognize my own voice repeating his name: “Chris! Chris darling, you’re mine! You’re mine!”
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