EMPTY THREAT
Roxanne, still fighting her arousal, uncomfortable with her arms tied high overhead and now more than a bit flustered at Tom's added "under my control" comment, blurts out,
"I'd like the feeling of kicking your fucking ass, dickhead."
Oops.
Roxy immediately regrets her words, realizing her current position makes her threat laughable. She instantly feels the sweat forming on her forehead build, a contrast to her still-damp tousled hair, her forelocks increasingly mussed against her temples.
Tom pauses, and then very calmly responds, "Be right back."
Tom then walks behind a hanging oil-skin canvas divider over to a supply cabinet, safely out of Roxanne's view. Among the many items the cabinet contains include a first aid kit, lots of extra storage sacks, bandannas, and many coils of white cotton rope---ostensibly if the ranch hands should ever need any of them in a hurry. Roxanne can't see Tom taking them out as he places his chosen items in a canvas sack, walks back behind her slowly, and drops the sack on the low table. He keeps a couple of the several coils of cotton rope, and then stands about a foot behind her.
Tom switches back to his faux cowboy drawl and delivers a, "Well, seein' how badly yeh wanna KICK, I reckon it's my job as a part of the duly deputized posse to prevent any sorta violence toward any law-abiding citizen, and 'specially toward a fine lawman like me."
Tom takes the coil of rope and unties its ends. He quickly moves over to Roxy's left side and runs the rope tightly around her lower thighs, just above the knees, running it a tight several times around, making scrunching noises against the denim as Tom pulls each wrap-around taut.
Roxanne stays still for this process, not wanting to anger Tom any more with any additional ill-timed outbursts. Tom continues,
"Plus, keepin' yeh here and out of them ABQ bars with yer gigglin' girlie friends will keep yeh outta trouble. I myself ain't had a night out with the boys in a coon's age. This way, you see, you can't tell stories about how much fun you and your little filly friends done had'."
Tom finishes tying the ropes, now six widths' wide and plenty tight, He then pulls the ends of the rope through the wraparound ropes before tying the knot in back. Roxanne, now realizing her increasing predicament, starts fidgeting her booted feet.
"Oh, don't bother stomping them pricey new boots of yours, sister. Ain't gonna git yeh nowhere. Speakin' of, I shur liked the way them BLACK kickers of yours looked durin' our ride, Roxanne. Do these here 'spensive new tan ones show fancy stitchin' too?" Tom pulls up one of Roxy's jeans' legs and sees they do. He exclaims:
"Why, very nice! 'Twould be a shame to hide them then, eh, especially for a classy cowgirl like you!"
Tom fully lifts Roxy's left jean leg over her left boot, and then carefully re-tucks that leg into that boot. He moves in front of her and looks down at her left boot, noticing the slight crumple of the jeans right where they tuck into the boot-top.
"Excellent. It looks so much better when we can see the whole boot." Roxanne again bites her lower lip, nervously. "Let's even 'em up," Tom adds, as he walks behind her and over to her right side.
Roxy is thinking about kicking Tom, but realizes it would enrage him and no way that she could deliver a knockout kick, not with her legs tied so tightly above the knee, and especially with Tom crouching on the side of her legs, a purposeful position on his part, precisely to avoid receiving any potential damaging blows.
Tom lifts up her right jeans leg up over her boots then tucks her jeans leg into it. "Fine stitching, Roxanne. Are they Luccheses?" he mentions as he notices this right jean leg crumple up just above the boot-top.
"Um, yes, Tom, they are," Roxanne replies, with increasingly less defiance and more fear, "But I really think I should go now."
Tom stands up quickly, stands directly facing Roxy and suddenly grabs her under the chin with his right hand. Forcibly directing her pretty face toward his weathered early middle-aged one, he looks straight into her wide hazel eyes and announces,
"I'M the one who decides who goes, and when! Especially with chatty cowgirls. Good thing you're no slacker ranch hand named Bart, or you might have found your pretty little feet OUTside of these fancy boots and tied up to a fence, all covered with honey and oats."
Roxy's heart races at Tom's mentioning of this legendary tale. She shifts her eyes nervously, not knowing how to respond.
"Oh, you've heard the story? What, Pete and some of the other hands tell you about it?
"Uh…" Roxy stammers.
Switching back to his affected drawl, Tom delivers, "So they did, eh? Whatever they told yeh, it ain't the half of it. I don't take kindly to layabout ranch hands, 'specially when they make me miss my ridin' time. And turns out I was right about him: ever since then, Bart's turned himself into a layabout dick-down drunk at some piece-a-shit bar in Pena Blanca"
Roxy's breath grows increasingly agitated, with the "HBO" story apparently not just a story. She instantly wonders whether the story about Maggie could also ring true.
Tom picks up his riding crop from the table where he'd put it, and walks back over to Roxy. He clenches the crop tightly, holding it behind his back so the she can't see what he's holding. With her black satin shirt now untucked, Tom approaches her and first rubs the crop against Roxy's well-toned left side. He very gently runs it upward, lifting her shirt up with it in the process. He moves it up and down Roxanne's left side a few times slides, and then walks behind her and moves over to her right side. He proceeds to use the crop to tickle her under the arms; Roxanne, very ticklish, tries to stifle her laughter, but soon screams out from the tickling. Tom continues his tickle-torture, as it turns him on nearly as much as the stitching on Roxanne's new tucked-in tan Luccheses and matching tooled belt. Switching back to his normal speaking voice, he dryly states,
"My dear Roxanne, I think you're laughing too loud. Perhaps we should do something about that," Tom declares as he swoops in and tries to kiss her again. By this time, Roxy has gotten really nervous and disoriented from the tickling, and shuts her mouth tight when he kisses her.
SILENT TREATMENT
Angered, Tom yells "Well if you're not using your mouth, you won't mind THIS!" He walks back to the canvas sack, picks it up, reaches inside it and casually asks,
"I'm guessing I already know the answer to this next question: you've been gagged before, right?
Roxanne, flustered from the tickling and now more than a little scared, feels her eyes widen massively from fear, as even in her many years of sexual encounters, she's never toyed around with bondage. She opens her mouth to muster a
"You wouldn't da-MMMPH! MMMMPH!!"
when Tom suddenly makes good use of a couple of bandannas he had just taken out of the supply cabinet. He reaches around her, and stuffs her mouth with a large yellow one, filling it before she gets the chance to shake it loose. He holds it tightly with his right index finger and quickly ties a long thick patterned red one over the mouth-pack and between her lips, knotting it tightly in back, over the tousled locks of her still slightly-damp hair. She feels the gag's tight knot push her hair against the back of her neck. The ends of this extra-long bandanna flop down, and touch her mussed hair on her shoulders.
Tom announces, back in his drawl,
"This is what we do to back-talkin' fillies making threats they cain't cash--we shut them the hell up, so they can't plan any more hussy-nights out with a buncha gal-pals!"
Roxanne thrashes her head back and forth in a valiant but vain attempt to dislodge the gags, annoying Tom.
"I said 'Shut it!' You ain't gonna spit them gags out. What, ya think I don't know my knots?"
Now thoroughly gagged and petrified at Tom's next move, Roxanne feels her nipples elongate and push against her black bra. She hadn't felt a man's touch all summer, and Tom's rough but sensual treatment was turning her on, against her better judgment; what she was feeling she could not deny. As if sensing her nipples' excitement, Tom takes the riding crop and rubs it slowly against her firm boobs, placing it under the top opening of her shirt but still over the bra, first her right breast, then her left.
"Mmmph!! Mmmph! Mmph. Mmm…" Roxanne replies, as her protests turn to purrs. Still fighting her feelings, Roxy closes her eyes and turns away from whichever direction Tom is coming from. She breathes short excited breaths through her nose and bites into her gag, but the mouth-packed bandanna and cleave-gag's thickness don't give in much at all. She doesn't want to give Tom the satisfaction of knowing how much he was turning her on.
She doesn't have to; he knows.
Tom then notices a single bale of hay, lying flat with its end up against a pole, with a Mexican-style blanket already on it and gets an idea: he hits the winch-hook control button, lifts Roxanne slightly upwards so that only her cowgirl boots' heels and toes touch the floor, and moves her over toward the bale, backwards. Roxanne nervously attempts to move her boots back and forth; with her jeans tied just above the knees, she can still move them backwards and forwards a bit.
Undaunted by her boots' movement, Tom pulls Roxy by the crotch rope with his left hand; she feels her sex engorge again from the pressure. Tied with arms over head, ropes pulling her legs together at the knees, and thickly gagged, Roxy panics a bit more during the short move, still scooting her booted legs in a vain attempt to loosen her above-the-knee leg-bonds.
Tom, a master of all the ranch's devices, expertly moves Roxanne to his desired position: right up against the end of the bale (the bale's far-end from the pole). With Roxy now standing at the end of the bale, still with arms tied tightly overhead, Tom grabs a long length of rope, and runs it around Roxy's left boot and pulls it taut; his calloused hands and strong fingers knot it tightly around the boot-shaft, so much so that Roxy feels the pressure around the bottom of her calf and shin.
"Mmmph!" Roxy protests, angry that Tom is crushing the leather of her new expensive boots.
"I know what yer thinkin', Foxy Roxy," Tom tells her, "Yer all pissed that I'm breakin' in your fancy new college-girl kickers."
Roxy rolls her eyes, admitting he knows what he is talking about.
"I'm doing you a favor. You want 'em to look worn-in, and not like some mall-bought pair. I know the store you bought 'em from in ABQ. They'd agree with me too. "
Roxy knows he's right, but doesn't want to betray her acknowledgment.
Tom then pulls on this rope, calmly walks around the back of the bale and the pole, and then appears on Roxy's right side, where he runs the rope several times around Roxy's right boot-shaft, and pulls it tight, making scrunching sounds against the leather as the tightening ropes begin pressing the inside of her boots onto her calves. Tom pulls on the rope and pulls her legs apart at the ankles.
Taking out his riding crop again, he gives Roxanne the once-over. "Quite a predicament you've gotten yourself in, cowgirl!" Tom announces, as he begins lightly snapping the crop against Roxy's rock-hard ass. (A couple of times Roxy had enjoyed rough grudge-fuck sex with her boyfriends, but had never found herself in a precarious position quite like this one.) She likes the way the crop snaps against her jeans, as her deep eye closures give away to Tom her feelings of arousal.
"You know, you've worked hard all summer, a lot harder than Maggie last summer."
Roxy gulps behind her gags, petrified of hearing the truth behind this rumor as well.
"Yeah, well, Maggie, you see, thought she could get by on her good looks all by their lonesome. Yer purtier than her, and yeh work a whole lot harder." Tom pauses, and then continues.
"Yeh see, she didn't comb the manes of her horses good enough. Horses need good groomin' and they only get it from brush-strokes. Figured I'd return the favor by teaching Maggie a lesson of how to apply strokes right, 'cept mine were tickle-strokes. She done learned her lesson good."
"You, on the other hand, yer diffrint. I don't reckon you like tickles as much as crop-smackin'. Not with the way I saw the way you breathed and how yer eyes closed with the crop hit yeh. I reckon that if you don't mind this here crop snapping against your cheeks, you surely won't mind this," as Tom taunts as he strategically threads the crop between the tops of her bound legs, grabbing it with his left hand in front, his right hand in back. He lifts it gently, then harder, till Roxy feels the crop-shaft hard up against the crotch-rope, pushing against her sex. She bites into her gags with unexpected pleasure.
Tom, seeing this latest sign, moves the crop between her thighs with the expertise of a concert conductor's baton; up, down, side to side, circle after endless circle.
Tom addresses Roxy, "Trespasser, you're mine, you realize that, don't you. You're helpless, open, vulnerable. I've got you tied against a bale of hay, and gagged so you can't gimme any back-talk. You're going to get what you deserve."
Roxanne, reticent but curious at how incredibly hot this bondage is making her feel, reluctantly welcomes Tom's continued touch.
Tom continues, "You know, cowgirl, sometimes a woman enjoys being overpowered and taken," as he presses on with his riding crop assault. "I feel it my honor and privilege to make sure of your 100% satisfaction, even if you're a sidewindin' snake of a cheatin'-woman"
"Mmma?" Roxanne queries, through her gags. She protests and shakes her head, guessing Tom must have overhead her conversation with Eve. Roxy tries to say it was her boyfriend who cheated, not she. "Mmmph mwa mwy mmmm-mmph!"
No matter: like a coffee pot on a hot campfire, the pressure from the riding crop soon steamrolls over Roxy's summer celibacy. It builds up and goes straight to kettle-whistling. She grunts and pants hard into her gags as a powerful orgasm explodes all over her body, wave after wave after wave. Had Tom not tied her arms and legs, she would be grabbing bedsheets and biting pillows as the climax makes her body thrash uncontrollably. His hands never let go of the riding crop, making the orgasm run on and on, even getting stronger than the initial surge. Roxy's eyes roll back into her head as he screams into her gags, coming harder than she ever has before.
"Mmm, mmm, mmm, MMMMMMPH!!!" her "Yes, yes, yes, YESSSS!" comes out. The clouds from her O and her breathing, both still heavy, almost prevent her from hearing Tom say,
"Good one, cowgirl. Why don't you have a seat and relax?"
Delirious from the massive O, Roxy semi-coherently realizes, "Holy shit, I can't believe how fantastic that was. I've never come like that so quick…so strong."
Tom unties the ropes from around Roxy's left ankle; Roxy feels the pressure lessen on her left boot-shaft. He uses the hook-control to lower the hook just enough to move Roxy's arms toward the pole itself, stretching her lithe body across the blanket-topped bale; suddenly shaken out of her post-orgasmic stupor, Roxy turns her head around quickly and frantically, wondering what Tom has in store for her. She tries to move her bound wrists to her mouth, but with her arms so extended, she can't even come close to reaching it to remove her gag, though she does try hard.
Tom notices her vain effort and adds, "You think I'm some kind of rookie?" as he mocks her futile attempt at removing her gag. Noticing her panic, Tom adds smoothly, "Don't worry, cowgirl, you'll be fine. We don't mess with trespassers TOO much."
Her fears not allayed, and emotionally conflicted, Roxy whimpers into her thick bandanna gags.
"Don't cry, college girl, don't cry," Tom adds, co-opting a Tom Hanks line from the movie You've Got Mail.
Tom sees a couple more bales of hay stacked next to another nearby pole, and quickly ponders a new plan. Meanwhile, Tom sees Roxy's legs bent over the end of the bale, as if she were lying on a bed too small for her. With the right boot-shaft still tied tight, Tom uses the rope that had been running around the bale and pole, goes to the far end of the bale and begins tying Roxy's booted ankles together, side-by-side. Roxy, recovering from her orgasm, tries to kick her legs but Tom pushes them hard against the end of the bale, puts his knees down on top her booted feet, making her boots immobile; he makes a tight cinch around her ankles, making the new leather squeak more than a bit.
"Just 'cuz you tried to kick, yer gonna need another rope or two, little missy."
He then runs a rope just under the boot tops, tying this one tighter and making the leather squeak here too; Roxy tests her bonds but finds no play in the ropes. Tom walks to her side, takes the crotch-rope that he'd run front-to-back and runs it now back-to-front, bringing it under the waist rope that rides just above her belt, tugging on it tightly to test it. Roxanne feels it rub against her sex; she clenches her legs together instinctively, only deepening the sensation.
Tom then ties another rope from her ankle ropes to a pole about ten feet straight ahead of her boots, walks over to that pole and attaches the rope to it, gloating directly at Roxanne, but silent. He stretches the rope tight; Roxy's legs stretch, so that she's now lying totally flat on her back, with only her arms raised up and tied to the hook positioned next to the pole behind her, at a forty-five degree angle. She couldn't possibly get more helpless; they both know it.
Tom picks up his riding crop again, but pauses. Changing his mind, he announces in his fake drawl, "Ya know, Roxanne, we really can't start this party without some more liquids pouring."
LIVIN' ON THE EDGE
Tom walks behind Roxanne, over to the tequila bottle he had placed on the low table, grabbing it in his right hand, and picks up the salt shaker and whole lime with his left. Pausing for a moment, Tom brings the canvas sack purposely into her peripheral vision. Roxy turns her head to see what he's doing, and sees Tom reach into it, and sees him pull out a long hunting knife in its sheath.
Roxy's heart races. "Oh my God!" she thinks. "What the hell is he going to do to me? Shit, by 'liquids' does he mean blood?! Please God, no!"
Tom quietly unsheathes the knife; shiny and about eight inches long, it looks plenty sharp. Roxanne feels increased beads of sweat roll down the side of her face in the barn's hot late summer evening air; he eyes well with fear. She screams into her gag,
"Mmmmph! Mmmmno!!" ("Tom, nooooo!")
Tom looks over at his captive. He points the knife at her and starts moving closer to her. Roxanne shuts her eyes and shakes her head rapidly in morbid fear of Tom's next move.
"Oh, this? Don't worry, cowgirl. Ain't fer yew, at least not direct-like. Got a whole boatload-a better ways of messin' with a trespasser's belly," Tom mock-drawls as he picks up the whole lime and quickly cuts it into four large pieces on top of a plate on the table.
Roxanne breathes a huge sigh of relief, and pants heavily through her nostrils.
"We ARE gonna have some fun, though," Tom states, while grabbing the tequila bottle, salt shaker, and lime. The positioning of Roxy's black satin shirt, untucked and twisted to the right from her ordeal, provides a generous view of her toned midsection. Her body, stretched at the arms and legs, still lies flat on top the blanket-covered bale.
Tom walks over to her, and slowly turns off the bottle's twist-top. He pours the tequila into the bottle cap, looks at Roxy, and puts the cap up to his lips before stopping.
"What, waste a perfectly good natural shot glass? What the hell AM I thinkin'?" Tom rhetorically ponders in Roxy's direction. He moves to Roxy's left side, gets on his knees, and gently pours the tequila into Roxanne's belly button, and she instinctively tenses her stomach muscles.
"Got a fine tummy, cowgirl. 'D be a lowdown dirty shame to let it go to waste," Tom announces, just before his left hand pushes on the top of Roxy's waist-rope and into her belt buckle, pushing it down a bit. He grabs a hold of the crotch-rope with his left hand and slowly begins to pull it ever tighter. He places his still-slightly shaky right hand on the left side of her ribcage, just under her black bra, and then thrusts his mustachioed mouth on top of Roxy's belly button, sucking up the tequila, and licking the insides of her navel playfully.
HAPPY HALF HOUR
Roxanne's frontside-boobs, belly, and below-has always acted as one big erogenous zone for her. She closes her eyes and bites into her gags again as she feels the excitement well up inside her. Tom then straddles her with his knees on either side of hers, at the end of the bale, leans forward, and slowly, methodically, undoes the remaining snap-buttons from Roxy's shirt, opening her shirt completely. Each side of her shirt now lies loosely flat on top of the blanket: two halves of some disheveled black satin butterfly wings.
"What's tequila without the salt and lime?" Tom queries rhetorically as he unsnaps Roxanne's front-clasp black bra, revealing her ample firm bosom. He reaches under each Roxanne C-cups, pausing at her newly pencil-eraser-length nipples. Finding Roxy's nipples as hard and erect as he himself has become, he slowly lifts each sweaty bra-cup, folding them outward, where, heavier from Roxy's sweat, fall quickly onto each side of her body. Roxanne instantly feels the warm barn air contacting her moist nipples, feeling like a hair dryer running on low.
Tom grabs the salt shaker with his left hand and one of the think lime wedges with his right and from about six inches above her body, simultaneously pours one onto each of Roxy's boobs: salt on her right breast, lime on her left. She feels the weight of the salt mix with the sweat on her right nipple. On her left one, the citrus from the lime tingles, and instantly perks up her aureole.
Tom quickly licks up the salt, pausing to give extra attention to her ever-lengthening right nipple. He moves onto her left nipple, cupping his cowboy's calloused right hand under her left breast, and licks all the lime juice he can find. Roxanne eyes close as she purrs into her gags with frustrated enjoyment.
Tom then grabs the lime wedge and squeezes the remaining juice onto her left breast, soaking it thoroughly. "Gotta even 'em up."
Still tingling from Tom's moustache and tongue licking the salt off of it, the citrus feels refreshing on it.
"Mmmmmm…." Roxy unintentionally hums into her gag.
Noticing her pleasure, Tom shakes salt onto her left breast, and grabbing the loose end of the crotch rope, tugs on it while he gets up to get the tequila bottle from the table. He looks down to gauge Roxanne's reaction; she notices his gaze and nervously averts hers. She chomps her ever-wetter gag, the sogginess of which is starting to match her ever-wetter panties.
Tom takes the tequila bottle and pours a high shot, maybe eighteen inches over her belly. Roxanne reacts by breathing in quickly, deepening her diaphragm and allowing more tequila to collect around her belly button. The liquid splashes into her belly button puddle and up above her ribcage to just below her boobs.
"Oops," Tom mockingly apologizes. "Whole lotta lickin' gonna be goin' on."
Tom moves to stand astride her extended legs, bends himself over at the waist, and slurps this new tequila shot out her belly button. He moves his mouth up her torso, licking whatever remaining tequila he finds. He reaches forward, placing his workman's somewhat trembling hands under her boobs again; with his left hand under right breast, he proceeds to lick off all the salt off her nipple, much to Roxy pleasure. As he moves to her left breast for the lime juice chaser, he keeps his left hand atop her right nipple, his calloused skin rubbing it gently between his thumb and middle finger, as if turning the dial of a safe. The roughness of his skin feels like fine sandpaper on Roxy's nipples, hurting ever so slightly but making her tender aureoles ever more sensitive, the way a safe-cracker sandpapers his fingertips before feeling for the tumbler's clicks.
With boob-play always a favorite foreplay-move to Roxy, she can scarcely contains herself when Tom moves over to her left breast and licks off all the lime juice with suctioning kisses. He lingers a long time over her left nipple, still "opening the safe" on her right. He sees the end of the crotch rope lying near Roxy's left side, still on the blanket. He grabs it and slowly pulls tight with his right hand, moving it side to side across her jeans, on top of her sex. Tom makes sure he's pulled it taut as he keeps moving it back and forth, hard against the jeans pressing against Roxy's womanhood until a muffled cry comes from behind the gags:
"Mmmm…mmm…mm…m…arrgh-mmmmmph!!"
Roxanne climaxes suddenly, in a way she never has before; her whole body tenses, tingles and releases, leaving her seeing stars and trembling. Tom smirks with satisfaction at the pleasure he's giving his captive and nearly unloads into his jodhpurs, but takes a step back, brings his left leg around and up over her tied-up cowgirl-booted legs. He takes a few steps and kneels on her left side. Knowing how badly she's been needing a man's touch, he releases the crotch rope and makes her an offer:
"Seemed like you didn't mind that one neither. Care for another?"
Tom's meticulous foreplay, combined with the completely unexpected tug on the crotch rope, has just launched Roxy into a quick, deep O, especially for her second one of the evening. It felt great, of course, just different from the other one; Roxy realized she had never come two times in such rapid succession.
Tom, despite his loner image, sure knows how to please a woman, in ways Roxy never once would have thought possible. (Of course, the subtle but lingering sexual tension between them all summer also plays into it.) This idea of helplessness, of her outstretched, bound and gagged body, falling such easy prey to multiple orgasmic entreaties? "Wow," she ponders, "Who the fuck knew?"
Roxanne, now a puddle of post-orgasmic jelly, shakes her head once but instantly changes her mind. She closes her eyes deeply and nods multiple times as she bites into her gag.
"Mmmph, plmmmph." ("Yes, please.")
"Thought so. Good answer."
Tom takes his left hand and starts running it down her ribs, down her belly, past the waist-rope and onto her belt buckle. Roxanne's breathing increases, knowing where he's going.
Tom unbuckles her belt with his left hand; with his right, he starts to "open the safe" on her right nipple. He kisses her slowly on her left breast as he unbuttons her fly and slowly unzips her jeans' zipper. While at the base of her zipper, he loosens the still-tight crotch rope and moves it aside, moving back up to her now-unzipped jeans and gently under her black laced panties. He moves downward, finding her vagina very hot and extremely wet.
Realizing how little crotch-room of Roxy's he's found, he moves to loosen her lower-thigh ropes and boot-top ropes. Untying the knots, he unravels the ropes just enough for Roxy to be able to open her legs, still tied tight at the boot-ankles and stretched taut. She complies instantly, without thinking.
Tom then continues the caressing of her sex with this left hand; the fondling and kissing of her nipples with his right hand and mouth. Skillfully, his left middle finger rubs her engorged sex, alternating small clockwise circles with back-and-forth stroking while his index and ring fingers hold open her labia; his trembling fingers act as a mini-vibrator. This multi-pronged assault quickly brings Roxy to the breaking-point; she grinds her body, pressing her sex hard up to his finger and reveling in the nipplefest that Tom is throwing. After just a few minutes, she can resist no longer and screams into her mouth-packed gags with unrestrained pleasure, pulling her tied wrists' rope as it builds to the latest and largest O of her life:
"Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmmph!!!"
Tom continues his pleasuring of her, slowly winding down. Roxanne's breaths shift from fast and shallow to slow and deep.
"Well then thar, Roxanne," Tom continues in a mock James Dean voice, "Looks like you did OK, Little Miss Third Time's a Charm. 'Parently, just like you, my work here is done too."
Roxanne closes her eyes and re-opens them, wondering what Tom will do next, still riding the last waves of post-orgasmic pleasure. Tom walks over to the winch-hook control and lowers the hook to the bale-level.
"Got to head out for that ride now, Roxanne. You're usually such a hard worker, I just know you'll free yourself. If not, I'll check back with you after my ride. If you're still here, you ain't the worker I though you was. 'Sides, if you do end up free, you'll have redeemed yourself for slackin' this morning." Roxy shuts her eyes in annoyance and bites into her gags in frustration at this hearing false accusation again.
"I do want to thank you for all your hard work this summer. You certainly made quite an impression at the ranch, and I don't just mean the indentation your cute little patootie is leaving on top of that hay bale. I could tell you spent your summer man-free, so I thought you could use a little surprise-present before you left for good. I shor hope yeh don' mind."
Tom continues, "Speaking of spending the summer 'free,' perhaps you noticed how I haven't had the pleasure of encountering any lady-friends for quite some time now. I wanted to thank you for this encounter, as the memory of it will keep me going for quite a while. Much obliged."
Roxy shifts her eyes, puzzled at what Tom means exactly. She looks at him inspecting his hands and sees no shakes whatsoever.
Tom walks away, saddles up his horse as Roxy struggles with removing her wrist ropes, to no avail. She watches as he silently puts on his equestrian helmet, leads her horse through the barn door, mounts it, and rides off. With the hook now at the bale-level, Roxy notices it's lost some of its tautness than when Tom was keeping her arms at forty-five degrees. She grabs the rope that runs to the hook and flicks in a few times; her double-jointed, toned, and flexible arms begin moving the rope-knot off the hook. On the fourth try, the rope comes off the hook; Roxanne instantly brings her wrists up to her face, pulls down her outer bandanna gag, and pushes out her mouth-pack with her tongue.
"Bleccch," she announces and she picks up the soggy bandanna with her fingers, dropping it onto the bale-blanket on her right side. She then uses her teeth to bite the knot of leather reins that Tom had skillfully placed on the underside of her wrists, making it harder for her to reach. By bringing her wrists toward either side of her face, she finally succeeds in untying the knot, which by this time she had wet considerably with her saliva. She pulls her wrists apart and the reins fall off, onto the barn floor. She sits up; pushing her sweaty locks from the temples, and runs her fingers through her matted hair in back. She re-clasps her bra and re-snaps her shirt buttons. She leans forward, pulls up her wet panties into position, zips her fly and re-buckles her belt, keeping her shirt untucked for now.
Moving toward her ankle ropes, Roxanne scoots her bottom forward toward the end of the bale and sits, making slack the rope that still ties her booted ankle ties to the pole. She unties the knot of that rope, and then unties the ankle ropes, letting them all fall to the ground floor. She stands, a bit uneasily at first from the effects of her experience, and then steadies her walk as she walks out of the barn, across the compacted gravel-and-grass ground and heads to her car, feeling the soles of her new boots get some wear on their soles. She opens the car door, finds her purse on the passenger seat and her keys in the ignition.
As she drives down the dusty Circle-7 Ranch road, she sees Tom in the distance on his horse, with the sun behind him. She thinks she sees him see her when his now-unshaking right hand tips his the small brow of his equestrian helmet, the way that cowboys used to tip their hats to passerby women in movie Westerns. She musters a smile at the way he made her feel, under his control: so helpless, so captive, yet so…alive.
She starts her drive to ABQ. Once closer to Pena Blanca, she checks the bars on her cell phone. When she hears the beep of confirmed coverage, she dials Angie and explains her tardiness:
"Will tell you all about it when I get there. You won't believe it. Just wait."
Just before she reaches the highway, a long freight train crosses Roxy's path. She shifts the car to park, turns off the engine, and opens the glove compartment to double-check for a map. The envelope with her evaluation form falls out. Roxanne opens it. It reads very positively, peppered with the phrases: "HARD worker." "Knows how to get out of STICKY situations." "Learned the ROPES." "SWEET young woman." "Willing to LEARN from new experiences." She looks down at her boot-ankles, noticing how they still show indentations around them from Tom's expert breaking-in ropework, and guessing that they always will.
She suddenly gets what Tom meant about this encounter "keeping him going for quite a while," as they both received what they needed: Roxy, some massive Os; Tom, some major memories and apparently, some kind of relief for the trembling in his hands. For a second, she wonders how Tom will USE them-both the memories and his new tremble-free hands-and even whether over the past year he used the memories of Maggie's tie-up last summer.
Roxanne chuckles, and musters a knowing half-smile. "Was I a stable hand over the summer, or did I provide a couple of them to Tom? Both?" As the train clears she turns the car back on, shifts to drive, and heads to the highway to meet her friends in Albuquerque, ready to tell her them all about her adventure.
FIN