BDSM Library - The Colonel\'s Wife

The Colonel\'s Wife

Provided By: BDSM Library

Synopsis: New Mexico. The 1870\'s. Martha McKellen discovers that the most dangerous Apache are the ones who aren\'t supposed to be there.
The Standard Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction with content suitable only for adults (and stable ones at that)

The Standard Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction with content suitable only for adults (and stable ones at that). If you are prohibited from reading such material by the laws or standards of your community please depart immediately. Likewise, if you can’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy get the heck outta here.






The Colonel’s Wife


Von Hentzau


      The stagecoach swayed and rocked rhythmically as it had done since it departed the railroad station in Santa Fe. For three days it had carried its single passenger south and west, ever further from civilization and ever closer to the turbulent, dangerous borderlands.  


     “What a strange country,” Martha McKellen thought, staring out the window. To either side stretched a flat, brown gravelly soil sparsely covered with whisps of grass, prickly bushes and scattered cacti.  Sere brown hills lined the horizon in the distance. So unlike the Ohio countryside she'd left weeks before.


     It had taken months of badgering letters but finally her husband, Lieutenant-Colonel Randall McKellen of the 9th Cavalry, had relented and told her she could come out and join him. Friends and relatives had tried to dissuade her. The desert regions where New Mexico, Arizona and Old Mexico met were still too dangerous, they said. But she and Randall had been married for barely three years and had been apart for more than two of them.


     "Besides," she told them, "Randall says General Crook has all but defeated the Apache. Most have gone to the reservations and the others have either been killed or fled to Mexico."


     So, after what seemed like endless traveling she was now but a day and a half from Randall’s post. Tomorrow night, she thought she would be again sleeping next to her handsome husband.


     Martha was startled from her reverie by the sound of a single shot, followed almost immediately by a cry of pain. The coach swayed wildly. Then a volley of shots rang out. Closer, the stage coach guard's shotgun blasted in reply. The heartrending neighing of horses in pain added to the confusion. Martha was thrown back and forth as the coach, uncontrolled now, left the crude road and veered off into the brush. With a mighty crash it spun sideways and rolled over onto its side, throwing Martha against the roof.


     Regaining her senses Martha checked her arms and legs. She was sore, but nothing was broken. The door of the coach was now above her. She reached up, turned the handle and gave it a shove. It rose, slowed briefly, paused as it came nearly vertical, then flopped all the way over. Martha stood up and looked out.


     The only images of the Apache she had ever seen were engraving in Harpers Weekly. If anything, the engravings had not done justice to their ferocious aspect. There were at least six of them in her sight, wiry, half naked brown skinned men with lank black hair.


     Martha grasped the sides the door and clumsily pulled herself up. Her long skirts and petticoats made it difficult. She clambered over the side of the coach and half jumped, half fell to the ground. Regaining her feet she ran desperately in the direction opposite that of where she'd seen the Apache. It did her little good. Three of them spotted her. They ran her down within a dozen yards. 


     She felt the coarse, strong hands grasping for her arms, her shoulders, her neck. Then she was pulled physically from her feet and thrown to the ground. Three of the Apache stood triumphantly over her. They rolled her onto her back and one pinned her shoulders to the ground. The other two were pulling maniacally at her petticoats. With horror she realized what she’d always heard was the worse act that could befall a white woman was about to happen to her. She was about to be raped by savage Indians.


     She kicked frantically at them. It did no good. There were three of them and they were strong. Each one alone could have easily overpowered Martha. Together she had no more chance of resisting than a mouse trapped by three cats. 


     A command was barked out in their strange, barbaric language. The three Apache immediately stopped. Even though the words were in the Apache the voice was so commanding Martha also stopped her flailing about.


     An Indian, dressed in a breechclout, tattered blue army jacket and slouch hat stood over her. He held a packet of letters in his hand, letters she recognized as hers, the bundle of letters she’d received from Randall, taken from her luggage.


     “The McKellen,” the Indian said, his voice betraying hatred. “You the McKellen’s woman?”


     Martha weakly answered in the affirmative. Something in the way the Indian spat out the name told her it probably wasn’t a good thing to admit to being Colonel McKellen’s wife, but she could also see no way that denying it would help her.


     “I am Colonel McKellen’s wife,” she said slowly, to be sure the savage understood her. She tried to put as much dignity into it as she, to hide the fear that threatened to make her voice tremble. Perhaps, just perhaps being the wife of the chief of the soldiers would buy her some small protection. Perhaps they would see her as more valuable, a bargaining chip not to be destroyed.


     “I am Anselmo,” the Apache said. “I know of your husband.” There was a pause. “He knows of me.”


     Anselmo spat on the ground at Martha’s feet. He gave commands to the young warriors, then went back to the coach. The warriors raised Martha to a sitting position, but only to allow them to tie her hands behind her back with a strip of cloth torn from her now discarded petticoat. Another strip served to bind her ankles. One Apache then stood guard behind her while the other two went back to help pillage the stagecoach.


     Martha watched the proceedings in despair and horror. The blue jacketed Apache went back to rifling through her luggage and the small amount of cargo the stage had carried. He discarded almost everything he pulled out. Giving a shout he held up several small boxes that revealed themselves to contain ammunition when he opened one. The younger warriors quickly gathered around to be handed their share. Then they went back to their other tasks, the ones that caused Martha’s sense of horror.


     All but one of the coach horses had been either killed or seriously injured when the coach went over. The survivor was cut loose from its harness. The others were dispatched quickly by knives across their throats. The Apache women barely waited for the poor animals to stop shuddering before they moved in and began carving strips of meat from their hindquarters. Martha recognized two of her best dresses being pressed into service as makeshift sacks to hold the warm, dripping meat.


     But there was an even worse sight before her eyes. One of the stagecoach men, the driver she thought, was still alive but badly hurt. He lay moaning where he fell, his wrists and ankles bound. The other man, the shotgun guard, had obviously been killed. His head was covered with blood. Two of the Apache warriors moved in. His limp body was quickly stripped of all clothing. Then Martha saw something she’d heard about but barely found credible. The Apaches drew their knives and began to systematically mutilate the corpse. The eyes were gouged, the ears and tongue cut away. Fingers and toes were crudely hacked away. The man’s belly was ripped open and his entrails pulled out. Long gashes were cut in the large muscles of his legs and arms.


     As a final, unbelievable insult to the man’s body one of the warriors sliced away his private parts. Shouting and holding up the bloody trophy for the others to see he walked over to a thorn bush and impaled the organs, leaving them as food for the crows.


     Still worse was to come. The Apache surrounded the surviving coachman. One of the women moved in, holding a knife still bloody from butchering a horse. Martha looked away, too frightened to watch. The sudden, animal screaming told her too much about what was happening. Then the scream was muffled. She dared a glance. The warriors were lifting the man and dumping him inside the coach. Martha caught a brief glimpse. There was blood on his trousers and blood around his mouth. There was something in his mouth, acting as a gag.


     One of the Apache then took an oil lantern that had been on the coach. He sprinkled the contents liberally on the dry wood. Another struck a match taken from one of the coachmen. Within seconds flames were spreading quickly. And soon after the most ghastly, nightmare sounds Martha had ever heard were coming from within the blazing stagecoach.


     Returning to Martha, they helped her to her feet and undid her ankles. The one surviving coach horse was brought. They helped Martha onto its back and tied her ankles together beneath the horse’s belly. Then they untied her wrists and made motions to indicate she should grasp the horse’s mane. She didn’t need more prompting. The thought of what would happen if she lost her seat and slipped beneath the horse’s belly insured she kept a firm grip on the coarse hair.


     One of the young warriors grasped the horse’s bridle and set of at a quick, easy jog. The other Apaches fell in with them. Martha watched in amazement at the seemingly effortless way they moved swiftly over the rocky ground, dodging between cactus and brush.


     A quarter mile from the ambush site they came to a ravine. Two of the young men guided Martha’s horse down the loose gravel slope while the others scrambled down. There were horses hidden among the prickly brush that filled the bottom of the ravine. .


     The Apaches quickly mounted. But before they began moving again Anselmo walked his horse over to Martha. He pulled out his knife and sliced a strip of cloth from her short, blue traveling jacket. This strip he hung on a branch where it couldn’t be overlooked. He cut another strip and kept it in his hand as he guided the horse up the ravine to where the faintest of trails led up and out. Here he deposited the second strip, clearly visible partway up the bank.


     “He’s marking a trail,” Martha thought to herself. “But why?”


The group continued up the trail until the broke over the rim of the ravine. They turned towards a line of brown hills on the horizon, moving quickly through the brush and scrubby trees. Periodically Anselmo would stop just long enough to tear another strip of cloth from Martha’s clothing and deposit in on a low hanging branch or cactus.


After several hours of steady travel the land was noticeably rising and the hills were close enough that Martha could make out patches of trees and the steep sided canyons that cut into the mass of steep, crumbly rock. Anselmo veered the group towards one particular canyon, again pausing to leave obvious trail marks.


At the mouth of the canyon Anselmo stopped the group. He rode back to Martha, drawing his knife again. She expected him to cut off a piece of jacket or dress. Instead he seized a hank of her hair and nearly pulled her off her horse.


For a brie moment she thought he meant to scalp her. Instead he merely cut loose the handful of her reddish-blonde hair. Then twisting it so it would stay together he knotted it around a branch. He rode back to the head of the group and they continued up into the canyon.


They spent several more hours slowly picking their way up the canyon, turning off into side canyons several times and once crossing a low saddle into the next canyon. They finally reach a wide spot in the canyon floor that was sheltered by tall, spreading cottonwoods and shorter, denser willows. Here they dismounted, tethering the horses on long ropes.


While the rest of the group unloaded the horses two of the braves untied Martha and helped her down. Then she was given one of the sacks containing strips of horse meat. Seeing the rest shouldering their loot, the women carrying larger loads than the men, Martha understood that they wanted her to carry it.


The group set off up a primitive foot path which followed the canyon still further up stream. After a few hundred yards they came out on another wide section of canyon floor, where the stream had veered towards the opposite side of the canyon wall, leaving a sort of sandy terrace with a fringe of willows along the water’s edge and scattered cottonwoods. And on the near canyon wall, at some point in the distant past the stream had deeply under cut the slope. Creating a wide but shallow cave.


The group headed towards this cave and began depositing their bundles. The remains of a fire and a soot stained mark on the roof of the cave showed that they or some other band had camped here before. One of the women took Martha’s bundle and set it with the others. For the moment it seemed they were ignoring her.


But they didn’t ignore her for long. Once they had their camp reestablished, with an efficiency that amazed Martha, the entire group started congregating around. Several of the braes moved around to cut off any chance of retreat. Then the two women advanced on her. Martha took two steps backwards, then realized there was no escape and decided to stand her ground. She was at the mercy of these savages. There was nothing else she could do but try to face them bravely.


The women’s intent was impossible to read from their dark eyes. Martha feared the worst. When they were within arm’s reach of her they began pulling at her clothing. Realizing they meant to strip her and realizing the futility of struggle Martha stood and let them pull the clothing off her. She hoped it would survive intact enough that she might be able to reclaim it and escape.


Quickly she was left standing entirely naked before the band. Instinctively she threw one arm across her bosom and tried to shield her sex with the other hand. The pitiful effort at concealment seemed to amuse her captors.


Three of the braves advanced on her. She took a few steps backwards before they seized her. She was half carried towards one of the cottonwoods, then laid on her back and her arms raised towards the tree trunk. Her wrists were quickly tied to it. More ropes were brought and tied around her ankles. Her legs were spread wide and the ropes tied to bushes.


The braves gathered around her. They were pulling aside or removing their breechclouts, exposing their members. They were all either fully erect or nearly so. One of the braves stepped between Martha’s legs, lowered himself down with almost feline grace and forced himself inside her. He thrust vigorously and deep. He came quickly. Did he actually enjoy the sensation? Martha wondered. He seemed to show no emotion at all. 


No sooner had the first pulled out the next brave took his place. One after another they assaulted her. With each it was the same. No show of emotion beyond heavy breathing and low grunting sounds. It was as if the act were less a sexual act than a ritual of victory, the physical, formal taking possession of their new property. The demonstration that she was totally theirs to do with what they willed.


Finally the last brave had satisfied himself. They just seemed to wander away, for the moment at least no longer interested in her. She hoped against hope that they were finished with her. But then the two Apache women came to stand next to her. They looked down at her with evident hatred in their eyes.


One of the women stepped across Martha, so that she was straddling Martha’s chest. She lifted her skirt up to her waist. She wore no underwear. A moment later a stream of urine was cascading over Martha’s bosom and splashing over her face. Martha was so surprised and disgusted she barely had enough presence of mind to close her mouth.


When the first woman had emptied her bladder the second took her place. Unlike the first, she straddled Martha and then squatted down over her. She raised her skirt up. Like the first she wore no underwear. Martha could see the dark slit almost hidden by coarse pubic hair. The woman reached down with one hand and inserted two fingers, spreading herself open. Martha closed her eyes and turned her head as the stream began to flow, directed at her face. She held her breath until the woman had finished.


And then she was left alone in the sun, almost overwhelmed by the heat and the reek of piss and the pain in her abused sex.


To be continued…..

Copyright 2006 by von Hentzau














Author’s Note: Apologies for being so long in picking this story up again

Author’s Note: Apologies for being so long in picking this story up again. I’ve been busy with Part II of the Dorado Cay Saga, “Punishment Day on Dorado Cay”,  under my other pen name, Aubrey Wylde.






The Colonel's Wife

Part II



They left her tied, spread eagled in the sun, while urine dried on her face and chest and semen and blood dried on her private parts, until she thought she’d go mad. Then two of the braves came and untied her. She struggled weakly to her feet. Neither brave made any effort to help her.


One of the braves gave a command, a harsh, barbaric sound. She looked at him uncomprehendingly. He spoke again and gestured towards the stream that ran a few yards away, behind a screen of willow trees. She took the meaning of the command to be that she should clean herself up.


She walked down to the stream, the two braves following, one carrying a switch he’d snapped off one of the willow trees. She found pool, knee deep, and waded out into the cool water. Aware that the braves were watching she turned her back to them while she splashed water on those places no one but her husband and doctor had seen since she became a grown woman.


She considered the possibilities of escape. She turned and looked at her guards. They were watching her with the intensity of a snake watching its prey. If she made a dash for it the stream would slow them down for seconds at most. And she was barefoot, naked, in country unknown to her. She gave up on any possibility of escape for the time being.


Reluctantly she left the comfort of the water and climbed up the bank. The braves led her to a spot under a large cottonwood where the lower branches had been removed. It was about thirty feet from the rock shelter. One of the braves returned to the shelter where he picked up a coil of leather rope. One end of the rope had been soaking in a bowl.


Coming back to Martha he quickly looped the wet end of the rope around her neck. He tied it behind her neck. At first she was worried that they intended the wet rawhide to slowly strangle her as it dried, but they left sufficient slack that that wouldn’t happen. With that end of the rope secure the other brave scaled the tree and was handed the other end of the rope. He tied it around a branch well above Martha’s reach.


She understood their reasoning. The rawhide would dry so that the knot in the neck loop would be all but impossible to untie. The odds of her climbing the tree and untying the other end without one of the Apache spotting her were almost non-existent. She was fastened as securely as a dog on a leash. Like a dog she was free to move within the narrow circle described by the length of the leash.


The afternoon wore on. From her tree Martha had a view of the encampment under the rock. The women busied themselves with camp chore while the men came and went. Late in the afternoon the women kindled a small fire under the shelter of the overhanging rock and began roasting strips of meat on sticks. The men came in a few at a time to eat, then left again. Martha assumed they were keeping guard. The smell of the roasted meat reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the stage had departed the station in the morning. She wondered if they intended to feed her.


Finally the last of the men had eaten and the women prepared strips for themselves. When they’d finished and Martha was beginning to give up hope of having something to eat one of the women prepared two more small strips and brought them to her. They were scorched and blackened on the outside and bloody on the inside and Martha couldn’t get the thought out of her head that these strips of food came from a horse that just this morning was pulling her stagecoach, but she managed to choke it down anyway.


Since the campsite was at the bottom of a canyon the daylight faded away quickly after her barbaric supper. They were soon in complete darkness except for the small fire and the dim red light on the surrounding ridge tops. Martha huddled beneath her tree, knees drawn up against her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.


Two of the Apache men came towards her, carrying short pieces of rope. Her first thought was that they intended to bind her for the night. Instead they jerked her first up onto her feet, and then forced her down onto her knees. Then one of the men grabbed her behind the neck and forced her to bend forward while the other bound her wrists to her ankles.


She felt pressure against her private parts, and then one of the savages was forcing himself inside her. He thrust vigorously and came quickly. Then the other took his place. They left her tied for what seemed like hours as men came and used her at their whim. Finally, one of the women came and untied.  Martha was grateful to be released from the awkward, humiliating position, but as she startd to rise up the woman gave her a vicious kick in the side and sent her sprawling. Martha crawled closer to the trunk, as if it could give her some protection, curled up and slipped into the sleep of exhaustion.


The next day dawned. Martha was left mostly alone beneath her tree through the morning. The Apache men seemed to have gone somewhere, but the women were still there. They were busy cutting the horse meat into thin strips and hanging it up to dry. Crude racks were set up around the camp area, and the women were often out of her sight, behind bushes or small trees. But Martha noticed quickly that one of them was always positioned where she could watch Martha. If Martha had managed to free herself from the leather rope tether an Apache woman would have been on her with but a few long strides. She’d seen enough of them to realize that there was no way she could out wrestle either one of the women, much less both of them.


In the afternoon she was given a meager meal of charred horsemeat. Later she was again bound, made to kneel down and then forced to bend over until her wrists could be tied to her ankles,  and most of the men again raped her with a casualness that was almost more humiliating than the act itself, as if they considered her of no more importance than a simple beast, to be used and abused at their convenience.


At mid-afternoon of the second day two of the Apache men came into the camp. Another had come in earlier, carrying a small deer, which the Apache women were now butchering. The man had relieved them of the duty of watching Martha so they could concentrate on this new duty. The new arrivals went and sat next to the deer hunter.


The men were talking among themselves, laughing their strange, barbaric laugh. Martha noticed they were frequently looking at her. She had the uncomfortable feeling that whatever they were talking about concerned her and that it wouldn’t be anything good.


Two of the braves got up and walked away from the camp. The third remained, watching Martha. After a short while she heard the sounds of someone chopping something. Then there was the sound of something being pounded. Whatever they were doing, it sounded ominous to her.



The two braves returned. They came towards Martha. One of them reached up to untie the leather leash and then the three of them led Martha away from the camp and up the creek. They went only a short way before they came to a large cottonwood tree. A stout branch projected outwards about fifteen feet above the ground. Beneath the branch a stake, two inches thick, had been driven into the ground. It reached up to waist level on Martha. She noticed the end had been carved not in a point but into a rounded knob. A rope dangled from the branch over the stake.


The brave who was waiting near the tree barked out a short command. One of the braves escorting her grabbed her arms and crossed her wrists. Another bound them together with a leather thong. They led her to stand next to the stake. The dangling rope was tied to her wrists, then two more ropes tied to her ankles.


As she watched them tie the ropes to her ankles she noticed movement around her feet. An ant crawled up on to one foot. She looked around and saw more ants. The stake had been driven into an ant nest.


The women came over to prevent any resistance on Martha’s part while all three braves went to the rope. With one hard pull they jerked Martha off her feet. After several more jerks on the line Martha had been raised up to the level where her crotch was just higher than the top of the stake. And then the two women, each holding one of her legs, were positioning her directly over the end of the stake. In horror Martha realized that what in the back of her mind she had feared they were planning, but had been unwilling to consider as possible, was now happening. They planned to impale her on the stake.


The braves began to lower her, slowly. The two women guided Martha’s hips, so that the rounded knob forced its way into her vagina. She sucked in her breath and braced herself for the pain she knew was coming, when the stake would reach the end of her vagina and start to tear into her. But they stopped lowering her when the stake was fully seated. The rope was tied off. The ankle ropes were used to spread her legs as wide as possible, then also tied off.


One of the women approached. She was holding a jar, most likely looted from the stage coach. She stood in front of Martha, opened the jar and dipped a finger in it. The finger came out covered in thick, red gel. Strawberry preserves, Martha thought. The woman crouched down and rubbed the sticky substance along the stake, creating a trail leading up to Martha’s crotch.


She dipped out another glob and spread it over Martha’s mound, spreading it onto her labia. She dipped out more and spread into inside her slit and on her clit. More was spread on her buttocks and around her anus. Then a trail was laid from her mound to her breasts and onto her breasts and nipples. Before the woman was finished the first ants had already found their way to Martha’s crotch.


It didn’t take long for the ants to swarm up the stake. Within minutes her crotch was covered with hundreds of ants and more were working their way up her belly towards her breasts. She was grateful that they weren’t biting her. They seemed to be content for the moment lapping up the sugary jam. But just having them scurrying over her most sensitive areas was a torture. Martha closed her eyes and prayed for endurance. She was certain the thousands of tickling feet crawling on her would drive her insane long before death freed her from the ordeal.


She flinched when she felt the first bite, and then she realized the full devilishness of this torture. The unyielding wooden stake was seated deeply inside her. If she jerked suddenly she’d do herself a horrible injury. She had to keep still or condemn herself to bleeding slowly to death.


More ants bit her. They were deep inside her slit and around her anus. They were on her breasts as well, swarming around her nipples and beginning to bite there too. Martha fought to control herself, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she lost control and began to fail uselessly, and finally rip herself open.


She heard a harsh command barked out. Even in the alien language it sounded angry. She opened her eyes to see Anselmo standing a short way away. He was glaring, not at her but at the braves. One of them answered back, almost meekly. Anselmo growled out another order and she was being raised off the stake, then lowered to the ground and untied.


When she was free Anselmo gestured towards the creek. “Go. Clean yourself,” he ordered.


Martha walked with difficulty down to the stream. All her joints ached and she felt as if some serious injury had been done to her hips. She eased herself down into the cold water. It felt good. Dozens of ants were soon floating on the surface of the stream.


She stayed in the water as long as she could, but eventually she started to become chilled and realized she had to get out. Anselmo was up on the bank, watching her. She walked slowly towards him.


She didn’t know what impelled her to do it. Anselmo said nothing, gave no sign. He was the only one of the Indian men who hadn’t yet raped her. He had stopped the others when they were torturing her with the ants. She knelt down before him, turned around and leaned forwards, offering herself to him.


Instead of taking her he gave her a hard kick on the hip that sent her sprawling. She squealed and looked back up at Anselmo in surprise.


“I have only one use for you,” he said. He glared at her and paused, his face inscrutable. Then he spoke again.


“When I was a boy, white men took me. They gave me to the mission fathers.” He spat on the ground. “They thought to tame me. Make me a good Indian, to work the land for them like a slave. I escaped. They sent vaqueros to catch me and bring me back. I escape again. They bring me back. Again I escape. They thought to tame me, like a horse.” He reached down and pulled his breechclout aside, revealing a penis that seemed smaller than those of the other braves. And where there should have been a scrotum there was a mass of scar tissue. “They thought to tame me, to geld me like a horse. But I escape again and this time they don’t catch me. My family, dead. Killed by white men. I find others of The People. We go back to the mission. I kill the fathers and the vaqueros and take their cojones. I made a vow then. I will take the cojones of every white man I find.”


To be continued……..


Copyright is claimed by the author. Permission to copy is granted solely for personal, non-commercial use.












The Colonel’s Wife

Part III



Another day passed. The Apache men came and went, sometimes bringing in small game. Shortly after noon of the next day Anselmo came in with one of the braves. He gathered the band around him, speaking quickly and forcefully. Martha didn’t know what the Apache leader had said, but from the actions of the group she could guess it had something to do with the soldiers. For the moment she was forgotten as both the young men and the women went quietly and efficiently, but with an almost palpable sense of urgency,  about their tasks.


Anselmo and one of the young warriors came to Martha, leading a horse. Wordlessly they pulled Martha to her feet and untied the leather thong from around her neck. Then they boosted her up onto the horse’s back. Again they tied her ankles together beneath the horse’s belly but left her wrists free so she could better grasp the horse’s mane. The young warrior held the horse while Anselmo went to bring down two more horses. They then mounted and, the young man leading Martha’s horse, walked slowly out of the camp and up the canyon.


They traveled for what seemed hours, though Martha knew it must have been a much shorter time. In actual distance they couldn’t have gone very far, for they moved slowly, cautiously, and by a very circuitous route. First they went up the canyon, following the stream. Then they scrambled over a low, rocky divide into another canyon. They worked down the canyon, then up another side canyon.


Finally they came out on an exposed ridge line. Here they stopped. A pine tree had managed to gain a foothold in the gravely soil and had grown to good size. Without the competition of surrounding trees it had retained many of its lower branches and several of these were quite thick and strong.


Anselmo untied Martha and helped her off the horse while the young warrior selected one branch, seven or eight feet off the ground, and threw two ropes over it. Anselmo brought Martha over to the tree. A rope was tied to each wrist, either Anselmo or the warrior keeping a strong grip on Martha’s arms at all times. Only when her wrists were firmly secured did they let her go, but that was only so that they could each take the free end of one of the ropes and begin pulling.


Martha was quickly jerked off the ground. They raised her up until her hands could almost touch the branch overhead. Then they tied off the ropes. Two more ropes were fastened to her ankles. One was tied off to the tree trunk, the other taken off to a stout bush and tied, leaving Martha’s legs spread luridly wide.


Anselmo went to the saddlebags on his horse and removed a small telescope. He then positioned himself behind a rock with just head and shoulders peering over the top. He braced the telescope on top the rock and scanned the canyon below them. The warrior busied himself selecting a whippy branch, breaking it off and trimming it of small twigs.


After long minutes Anselmo said something in Apache to the warrior. With no other warning than the whishing sound it of the branch moving through the air the warrior delivered a vicious, cutting blow across Martha’s buttocks. She screamed, partly from the pain but more from the surprise. A few seconds later the first blow was followed by a second, even harder. Again Martha screamed. Anselmo grunted something to the warrior. Though it was unintelligible to Martha it seemed to convey satisfaction with what had been accomplished so far. At any rate, a third blow did not come.


Anselmo spoke again. The warrior went to his horse and pulled an army carbine out of its scabbard. He pointed it into the air and fired. He reloaded and fired again. Anselmo grunted something. The warrior put down the carbine, picked up his switch and gave Martha several more hard whacks, causing her to cry out again.


Anselmo continued to watch the canyon for long minutes. Martha watched too, but without the aid of the telescope she couldn’t be sure what was down there. Sometimes she thought she saw movement, but it was too far and too quick to make out.


Anselmo again spoke to the warrior. The warrior moved up to stand beside Martha, facing down the canyon. He gestured and called out. Then he reached over and grabbed Martha’s right breast. He squeezed it viciously, twisting and digging in with his ragged fingernails. He reached between her legs and stroked her private parts. She looked away, utterly humiliated, for she knew it must mean that soldiers were coming up the canyon. Soldiers must be close enough they could see what the savage as doing to her, a white woman. Their colonel’s wife. She wished she could die right then so they could no longer use her as bait to draw the soldiers up the canyon. Because she now understood what Anselmo needed her for. She was bait to lure the cavalry, and her husband, into the canyons to be ambushed.


The warrior stepped away. He gestured some more, yelled words that could only be obscenities to the approaching rescuers. Then he picked up the switch again. Between savage yells he delivered one, two, three strokes across Martha’s breasts. Her screams mingled with his cries of animal delight.


He moved to stand in front of her. He grabbed her breasts and started thrusting his hips at her in a mock sex act, Looking over his shoulder and calling insults to the unseen watchers in the canyon below. He went to his horse and returned with another gun, the double barreled shotgun taken from the stagecoach guard. He stood behind her, stuck the gun between her legs and lifted it up so that it pressed against her private parts. She flinched when he fired it and the barrel bucked up against her. Then he rubbed the warm metal against her slit.


The warrior came withdrew the shotgun. He came to stand beside her, brandishing the weapon in the air and yelling at the top of his lungs. He knelt down at Martha’s side and thrust the muzzle of the shotgun against her pudenda, pumping it up and down. He yelled something to the unseen watchers in the canyon and cocked the hammer.  Martha screamed when he pulled the hammer, not realizing it was falling on an empty chamber.


Anselmo, still looking through the telescope, said something to the warrior. He collapsed the telescope and stood up. Then they were untying her legs, only to tie her ankles together. She was lowered too quickly from the branch and fell in a heap on the ground. The warrior was binding her wrists while Anselmo brought her horse. She was unceremoniously dumped over the horse’s back, like a sack of wheat, then the horse was led quickly away.


Martha allowed herself to hope that the Apache had misjudged the soldiers. Randall had explained a little of military tactics to her, how they would try to get around the enemy in what he called a flanking move. She prayed that some of the blue coated soldiers were even now flanking her tormentors. But that hope died as they drew further up and further up the canyon with no sign of rescuers closing in.


They came out on another ridge top. Martha was lowered to the ground and untied. They stood her up and tied ropes to each wrist. The ends of the ropes were tied to the tails of two of the horses. The horses were led in different direction, stretching Martha between them. Martha began to panic at the thought of what they intended. Anselmo drew a revolver from his belt, pointed it in the air and fired. The horses jerked on the ropes and Martha screamed in fear of being pulled apart.


Anselmo was peering intently down the canyon. He said something to the warrior and he untied Martha from the horses. Again she was tied hand and foot and thrown over the back of the horse, a rope passing under the horse from her wrists to her ankles. Anselmo and the warrior mounted their horses and Anselmo led the way down into the canyon, the warrior leading Martha’s horse.


They wound their way through the maze of canyons and ravine for an hour or more before stopping in a dense grove of willow and cottonwood at the bottom of the canyon. Martha was taken down from the horse and tied, seated, at the base of a thick cottonwood. Anselmo led the horses away while the warrior watched her. Where the campsite was, or even if they were anywhere near it, Martha had no way of knowing, but within another hour a warrior and the two Apache women came up along the streambed.


The new warrior and the one who had been watching Martha exchanged a few unintelligible words. Martha was untied from the tree. Her wrists were bound before her but her legs were left untied. With one warrior leading and the women in front of and behind Martha the entire group went on foot up the stream, then turned up a side canyon. After fifteen minutes they came to a sheltered hollow, quite a bit higher than the floor of the canyon. Here there was an undercut rock face, a shallow cave, and in front of it a large cottonwood with thick, projecting branches.


Martha was bound to the tree. The women began collecting small twigs and branches and piling them in the hollow under the rock. The two warriors slipped off into the gathering darkness.


Once it was sufficiently dark that the smoke wouldn’t be seen the two women kindled a small fire behind the rocky outcrop. It barely lit the small, tree sheltered hollow and certainly couldn’t be seen at any distance. They huddled on either side, slowly feeding small sticks into it, while Martha remained trussed at the base of the cottonwood. How they marked the passing of time, or if they were even working to a time schedule Martha couldn’t tell. But suddenly they both rose and came over to her.


The ropes binding Martha to the tree were undone. She was lifted up. The two women positioned her under a large overhanging branch. A rope was thrown over the branch, then her arms unbound. One end of the rope was tied around a wrist and the wrist raised up until she was almost touching the branch. The rope was looped over the branch again and Martha’s other wrist raised and bound to the rope.


Then the women bent over and seized Martha’s ankles in their strong, calloused hands. Her legs were pulled out from beneath her and pulled back until they could be tied one on either side of the tree trunk. Martha was left hanging face down, her body describing an arc from tree trunk to branch. Her legs were partially spread and her breasts dangled vulnerably. The Apache women seemed to be amused by the position they had put her in.


Martha remembered with a shiver something she’d overheard Randall telling the other men, when he thought there were no women or children around to hear.


“The odd thing is, as bad as the Apache braves are at torture, their womenfolk are even more cruel.”


To Be Continued….


Copyright is claimed by the author. Permission to copy is granted solely for personal, non-commercial use.





















1The Standard Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction with content suitable only for adults (and stable ones at that). If you are prohibited from reading such material by the laws or standards of your community please depart immediately. Likewise, if you cant tell the difference between reality and fantasy get the heck outta here.


The Colonels Wife

Part IV


The Indian women seemed in no hurry to begin whatever evil acts they planned. They merely returned to sit by the small fire, leaving Martha hanging. She was face down, wrists tied to a branch, legs tied on either side of the tree trunk.  Her back was arched painfully and her breasts and belly frighteningly exposed. Instinctively she tried to put her knees together but found the strain of holding them there too great.

After what seemed an eternity the Indian women rose from the fire. Marthas heart began to race as they came towards her. One carried a stick as long as her forearm and several inches thick.

One of them grabbed Marthas hair and pulled her head up. The other began beating on her dangling beasts, sending them flopping painfully back and forth. Martha screamed from pain, but also from anger and humiliation. Shed never dreamed that any human could do something so callous.

Mercifully the beating was brief, though it seemed to go on much longer to Martha. The women, through some unspoken agreement, decided theyd done enough for the moment and returned to the fire, utterly emotionless. It was as if theyd just performed some mundane chore that merited no particular notice.

Perhaps an hour passed, perhaps more. Marthas arms and shoulders were becoming numb. The women arose and came towards her again. She hoped they were ready to release her, but those hopes vanished when, instead of untying her, one of the women slipped a loop of rawhide rope around Marthas right breast. She inserted a small stick into the loop and began turning it, twisting the rope and making the loop smaller and smaller. The rope dug into Marthas breast, constricting it and making it mushroom outwards. As agonizing as it was, worse was to come, as the other woman took a long, slender twig and began snapping it against the drumhead taut skin.  Martha screamed again and again as they moved to her left breast and repeated the procedure. When her screams began to taper off to low animal moaning the women seemed to decide theyd done enough for the moment and returned to the fire.

Martha, from exhaustion, had nearly dozed off. A spurt of adrenalin brought her fully awake again when she heard scattered gunshots. There were a handful, three or four, then a space and another sudden flurry of shots. She strained to listen, to determine how far away they were. Her sense of orientation had been disturbed by strain and her hanging position, but she slowly determined they were well down the canyon.

She suddenly realized what the purpose of the intermittent torment was. The women were making her scream. Those screams echoed down the canyon walls to torment the soldiers trying to rescue her, to goad them into rushing blindly up the canyon. They were using her to draw her husband and his men into an ambush.

More time passed. Martha slipped into a state that wasnt quite wakefulness but wasnt really sleep. Rousing occasionally she looked towards the fire, now burned down. The two savage women were huddled near it, shadowy heaps covered by blankets. She didnt know if they were awake or asleep.

When it must have been three or four oclock in the morning the Indian women came to her again. This time each one had a sharp cactus needle. They began to jab at Marthas breasts. She resisted the urge to cry out at the sharp pain, knowing they wanted her to scream. The women seemed confused at their failure to illicit a response. They jabbed harder. One of the women grabbed Marthas left breast and poked viciously at the nipple. Martha whimpered and moaned, but fought back the pain, swallowing her screams. The woman tried again, then switched to Marthas other breast. Martha bit down hard, using every ounce of energy she had left to resist the natural urge to scream. She couldnt allow them to use her to draw her husband and his men into a trap.

The Indian women seemed confused, then angry. They jabbered at her in their barbaric tongue. They slapped her breasts, grabbed them and dug their fingers, with their ragged nails, into the tender flesh. One of them seized Marthas right nipple. She dug her nails into the brown numb viciously, then stretched and twisted it so hard Martha feared it would be ripped off.

They stood back, talking among themselves. Then one of them went to the fire. She picked up a good size stick and thrust it in the flames, waiting until the end of it was burning nicely. She pulled it out and held it up, making sure the wood was burning on its own. Marthas heart nearly stopped when the woman approached her, holding the flaming stick like a torch.

Martha hung helplessly as the woman moved the flaming end of the branch under her breasts, not close enough to burn her but still close enough she could feel the heat and understand the threat. She paused beneath each breast, bringing the flame up until it just touched each nipple, first one, just briefly, then the other, then back again. Martha twisted and jerked, trying to get away from the flame, but the woman followed her motions easily.

Martha couldnt hold out any longer. She screamed, over and over, the horrible sound echoing off the canyon walls. They toyed with her, applying the flame just long enough to make her scream, but not long enough to scorch the flesh.

The Indian women went back to the fire and huddled under their blankets, leaving Martha hanging, her nipples stinging. Maybe they were finished, Martha hoped. But after perhaps another hour they returned. One of them carried the flaming branch, or another much like the first.

She first waved the brand under Marthas breasts. But then she changed her targets. Holding the brand over Marthas shoulders she gradually lowered the brand until Martha feel the heat and the tiny hairs on her back began shriveling. She moved up and down, tracing the arc of Marthas body. She paused particularly over the mounds of her buttocks, letting the flame linger and make Marthas skin start to redden.

She took the flame away, then brought it under Marthas belly. Martha jerked sharply upwards, feeling the heat. The woman played the brand back and forth, but always moving it further down Marthas body. With horror Martha realized where the brand was headed.

The other woman grabbed Marthas knees and spread them apart. The flame moved between her legs. The acrid smell of burning hair filled the air as the woman moved it up and down, back and forth. Martha screamed until she thought her lungs would burst. Then she fainted away.

Martha awoke when the sun was already over the rim of the canyon. She was near the small stream, on a blanket that had been folded over her. She had no memory of having been taken down. Her arms, shoulders and ankles hurt, but not as much as her breasts. She carefully lifted them. They were covered with black and yellow bruises. She spread her legs and inspected her vulva, fearing the worse. All but a few tufts of hair were gone and there were several small blisters. And it stung. Much of her body stung, as if shed gotten a bad sunburn.

She looked at the stream.  There was a small pool. Theyd fastened the leash around her neck again, but there seemed to be a considerable length of rope. She got up gingerly. The Indian women were occupying themselves in the shade. They glanced at Martha but made no move towards her. Slowly, painfully she made her way down to the water and was grateful the rope was long enough. She drank deeply, then eased herself into the coolness. It felt good, taking away some but not all the pain. She lay back and immersed herself up to her neck.

When she finally came out of the water and returned to her blanket one of the women brought over a handful of dried meat. She dropped it on the blanket next to Martha, giving her no more notice than she might a dog. She had no hunger, but slowly ate it, knowing she had to keep up her strength.

At mid-afternoon Anselmo and two warriors appeared. Again Martha was bound hand and foot and thrown over the back of a horse. Rope joined her ankles to her wrists under the horses belly. She was jostled about for an eternity as the warriors led the horse through the winding canyons.

Finally they emerged on a saddle between two canyons. The other warriors were waiting for them. Two scraggly, stunted pine trees stood in the saddle. Theyd lashed a pale gray dead trunk of a sapling between the trees about eight feet off the ground. Two ropes had been thrown over this cross bar at either end.

Martha was untied, unloaded from the back of the horse and carried over to the trees. The dangling ropes were tied to her ankles and she was hoisted into the air, inverted, her legs forming a lewd V shape. Her wrists were untied, then fastened by rope to the base of either tree.

Anselmo came to stand beside Martha. He gazed down into the canyon, raised and fired his carbine in the air. He reloaded and fired a second time. He nodded to the two warriors.

They moved to either side of Martha. Each carried a short length of knotted rawhide rope. One gave her a vicious stroke across her already aching breasts. The other swung his overhand to strike squarely on Marthas vulva. She screamed, and screamed again as he repeated the strokes.

Anselmo held up his hand. They stepped back.

“McKellen!” Anselmo shouted down the canyon. “Your woman still lives! We enjoyed her last night, all of us. We will enjoy her again many times before she dies!” 

He reached down and pulled his breechcloth aside, exposing his member.  Facing the canyon he waggled his hips crudely, then turned to Martha. He crouched so his organ, sadly limp, was in her face. He mashed it against Marthas face as if forcing her to make it in her mouth. After a suitable performance he gave a shrill cry of victory and made a short dance.

His place was taken by one of the warriors. He had also pulled his breechcloth aside and unlike Anselmo he was uninjured. His organ stood erect, hard, the red glans protruding from the foreskin. Veins bulged down the length of it. Martha had never seen a male organ this close in full daylight, much less had one shove in front of her face. She gagged in disgust as it was rudely shoved in her mouth.

The Apache grasped Marthas head with both hands. He thrusted back and forth vigorously. The assault was so barbaric that it didnt register at first that there were sounds of gun fire in the distance. It was only when he spilled his seed in her mouth and quickly withdrew that Martha understood that the troops, at very long range, were firing at them. She spat out the loathsome substance in her mouth and thought, were they really trying to hit the Indians? Or merely trying to scatter them, drive them away, perhaps leaving her behind?

And what if they hit her instead? Killed her? The thought was very nearly a comfort.

A second warrior took the first ones place. Her disgust had not lessened, but at least she thought she could bear it long enough for him to finish, and then maybe theyd be sated. His efforts were cut short when a bullet struck the slope below them, sending a scattering of stones in the air. He let out a savage “yip!” and backed off, withdrawing from her mouth. Instead of reentering he jerked himself several times and sent several spurts of sticky white cum on her face. Martha vomited what little was in her stomach.

Several more shots struck the ground near the little group. The Apaches quickly lowered Martha to the ground, bound her hand and wrist, and threw her over the back of the horse. The next several hours were spent winding around the endless maze of canyons. They finally stopped at a small hollow. The Apache women were there, setting up camp. Martha was unloaded, then leashed to a tree. She glanced around. It was not the same location as the previous night. From the look of the surrounding mountains they were at a considerably higher altitude. There was no stream, but a small spring trickled out from beneath a rock face.

One of the women dropped a blanket near the base of a large tree. Martha was brought to it, the leash fastened around her neck and tied to the tree. She was left there for the rest of the afternoon. There was enough slack in the leash for her to drink at the spring, but the women seemed to feel no need to feed her.

As dark approached two of the Apache men appeared, carrying two saplings. They laid these on the ground in V shape and lashed the two together with rope where they met. A third, shorter stripped branch was lashed in place, forming the figure A.

The Apaches, men and women, grabbed Martha and half carried, half dragged her to the frame.

They lashed her wrists at the apex of the A and her legs along the spreading arms. More rope bound her at the waist. Once she was fastened the men lifted the end of the frame, dragged it to a tree and propped it up leaving Martha suspended at a 45 degree angle, facing away from the trunk. They lashed the frame securely, then picked up their weapons and disappeared into the gathering dark.  The women returned to their small fire, paying no more attention to Martha. But she knew, and feared, it was only temporary.

Three shots rang out in succession, in the distance but echoing around the canyon. The women rose and came towards Martha. Again they attacked her breasts. Theyd joined two short branches together at one end with a leather thong. They trapped abreast between the branches and squeezed them together, twisting them viciously. They went from one to the other, and then back again.

She knew what they wanted from her.  She had no more power to resist, though she knew her screams were tormenting the soldiers and drawing them into danger. Her screams again echoed off the canyon walls.

Repeating the previous nights pattern they left returned to their fire and left her for a time. Martha waited for the next torment to begin. Periodically she heard scattered gunshots in the distance.

There came an extended lull in the shooting. This seemed to be a signal to the women. They rose and came towards Martha again. They carried pieces of rope and began lashing Martha even tighter to the frame. They tied her at the shoulder, at the knee and across the belly. When they were done Martha was almost totally restrained, unable to move anything but her head.

One of the women went back to the fire and returned carrying a knife. The end of the blade had been thrust into the fire and was glowing red. Martha screamed at the sight.

“No! No! No! No! No!” she screamed, frantic at the thought of what they planned.

They paid her pleading no heed. They first touched her low on the belly, above the slit of her sex. The touch was brief but agonizingly painful. Her scream was so loud, ragged and animal like that it surprised even her. 

Reaching to the side they touched her on one buttock, then the other. Then they touched her on the breasts, repeatedly. By now the blade had cooled. They returned to the fire to heat the blade again. Martha prayed that they were finished, at least for a time, but she knew it was unlikely.

With the knife glowing red again they returned. Martha struggled helplessly against her bonds as they randomly touched her vulnerable body. They seemed to particularly target the most sensitive places, inside her thighs, her nipples. One of the women even grasped each nipple in turn to lift her breasts and better expose the under sides.

The pattern continued for what seemed like hours. They paused long enough to reheat the knife, then returned to slowly continue Marthas torture. By now exhaustion was setting in. Marthas screams were becoming weaker and weaker. She hoped against hope that they would push her past endurance and that she might die from heart failure.

The women seemed to take note of Marthas flagging energy and the decreasing strength of her screams. They again heated the knife. When it was glowing they returned. For a few moments they studied her. Then, wordlessly, one of the women reached between Marthas thighs. She grasped Marthas lower lips and spread them apart, exposing her most sensitive place.

The other woman extended the knife. She moved slowly, so that Martha could understand what was about to happen. Martha watched the glowing red tip move towards her with unbelieving eyes. This couldnt be happening. She felt the heat , mere inches away.

“NO! NO ! Not there! Not THERE!” she screamed. Unendurable pain shot through her entire body and she lapsed into unconsciousness.

She awoke again at mid-morning. She was still tied to the frame, her body aching with pain. She noticed that the two women were watching her. She feared they were planning to continue her torments in the daylight, but though aware that she had returned to consciousness they made no move towards her. Bursts of gunfire sounded periodically. Now they seemed to be all around the hidden campsite, though with the surrounding cliffs and steep hillsides it was hard to tell where they originated.

The day dragged on, growing warm, insect noises filing the air between the smattering of gunshots. Gradually the sounds of firing drew distinctly closer. As they did, the two women paid less attention to Martha, instead scanning the brushy hillsides.

Suddenly Anselmo burst into the small clearing. He carried an army carbine in his right hand. The sleeve of his jacket on the other side was torn open. Martha could see a bloody rag tied around the biceps of that arm. He spoke to the two women, a short, urgent message. Silently they picked up their few possessions and slipped into the brush. Anselmo approached Martha.

"The McKellen has come for you," he said in a low, menacing voice.  "He is in our trap. Soon..." Anselmo pulled his knife out of its sheath and made a motion across his throat.  "Tonight the coyotes will feast on his cojones. We need you no more. So now I will gut you like a deer and leave you for the coyotes. They will dine well tonight."

He placed the point of the knife between her breasts, then drew it slowly downwards pressing just hard enough for her to feel the sharpness of the blade but not breaking the skin. He drew it the length of her abdomen, stopping briefly at her mound. Then he continued, drawing the tip into the slit of her sex, past her clitoris, reversing the blade and putting the end inside her vagina. "I will start here," he said.

Martha closed her eyes and prayed that it would be quick, though she had seen enough of Anselmo to know that he would draw her agony out as long as possible.

A shot rang out, nearby. Then a second. The knife jerked against her sensitive tissues and she screamed. Then it fell away. She heard the metallic clink as it hit the rocky ground and another, softer sound, like a sack of grain falling on the ground.

Martha opened her eyes and saw half a dozen blue clad figures rushing into the small hollow. They were negro soldiers, men from her husbands cavalry regiment. They carried carbines and several paused to fire past her at the fleeing Indians. Another, wearing sergeants stripes, went to the prone figure of Anselmo and, keeping his weapon trained on the body, gave it several hard kicks, then stomped hard on its groin.

Satisfied that Anselmo was truly dead he turned his attention to Martha.

“Sweet mother of Jesus!” he muttered when he saw her state. He drew a knife and quickly cut her bonds. Two other soldiers helped her down to a sitting position. One of them took off his blue jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Numbly she watched her husband enter the camp. He was unshaven and looked haggard.

He looked at her, refusing to let his eyes meet hers.

“I must see to my men,” he said quietly, and followed his troopers in pursuit of the Apache.

The End

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