---Victor’s perspective---

  “Fantasy Cliffs Resort Suites, Ingvar speaking, how may I help?” answers the Norseboy on the other end of the line.

  “Oh, hi there Ingvar. Nice to speak to you again.” I greet in Norse, managing to keep the embarrassment I’m feeling at having to let this near complete stranger in on any hint of my kink activity mostly out of my voice (even though it’s literally his job to hear about it!) “This is Taylor in Suite 056… My wife and I had a scenario we were interested in running in our morphic but it’s missing something fairly crucial to round it off… I know it’s a long shot but… I don’t suppose you could provide a horse, could you?” there’s a fraction of a second’s silence before I realise (with horror) the potential miscommunication and frantically correct “For riding! I wanna stress it’s for riding and riding only!”

  He laughs politely to let me know he’s understood the implication I was trying to get ahead of and answers “Well, we can’t provide you with a flesh and blood one ourselves… If it’s important to you that it be a real horse, we could help you get in touch with someone you could rent one from… but if you just want something to ride, we can send you an equinoid droid that would do the job?… Is that acceptable?”

  “That’s actually preferable!” I say, relieved “Just… does it have a max load? Me, my wife, our clothing and gear shouldn’t come to much more than 165kg I’d guess?”

  “It should be able to handle several times that amount, Mr Taylor. It’s rated for loads of more than 700kg.”

  “Great! Sounds ideal!”

  “Excellent.” he says, pleasantly, before asking “How soon do you want it?”

  “Soon as you can get it to us. We’re leaving tomorrow morning so we don’t have much time left.” I answer, straightforwardly.

  “Oh, I see… I… can probably have it to you within the hour…? Depending on how niche you want the reigns, saddle, stirrups and such? Do you have a style preference? Medieval? Modern? Interstellar pioneer?”

  “Old West?”

  “Ah! Nice and simple! OK Mr Taylor, please expect delivery shortly. Have a pleasant rest of your stay with us, even if it’s not much longer!”

  “Thanks Ingvar…!” I smile and hang up the call.

  Look at me… Making holo calls like a grownup(!)

  ---later---

  I ride into the brightly lit chamber on the back of a slightly larger than expected horse droid, the top of my wide brimmed hat nearly 3m over the rough textured, yellow ground, serving as hardset desert sand from the Southwestern States, circa late 19th Century.

  My mount’s skin is rubbery black elastomer but it’s close enough to real that suspending disbelief isn’t too much of an issue.

  At the far end of the chamber is a line of wooden looking building fa?ades to empty buildings that are only there to populate the background of the fantasy.

  The one building I’m actually interested in has the word ‘SALOON’ painted in 40cm tall capital letters on a sign over the door.

  Jaunty piano music and rowdy indistinct voices echo out from it.

  I draw up to the hitching post outside, unhook my feet from the stirrups and hop down, my greatcoat billowing as I do.

  I hit the ground and hitch up the slightly outsized horsebot, keeping my expression blank and stony and my bodylanguage stiff and economical.

  I turn to the batwing doors and walk towards them.

  As I draw closer, I allow the slightest microfrown to pass over my face.

  The tops of the saloon doors are about level with my eyes… which I didn’t expect.

  They always look about chest height in Old West films so I assumed they’d be about midriff height on me…

  Interesting.

  I push them open, causing a screeching hinge sound effect to play.

  The music and chatter immediately cut out as every pair of eyes in the bar turn to look at me… except one.

  The mystery of the outsized doors is immediately solved by seeing that I’m the shortest ‘person’ in the room by (I’d guess) about 10cm.

  Tuun must’ve increased the scale after we got the mount delivered and not told me I’d be playing a vertically challenged character(!)

  That’s a genuinely fun surprise… I’m glad she feels safe to take that kind of risk with me and flattered she thinks enough of me not to worry my ego’d be bruised by not being the tallest Human in the room(!)

  I pick my way through the crowd of outsized saloon patrons holographically projected in front of me (gaining a new appreciation for how Mouse must feel being so short as I do) and step over to the bar beside the one I’ve come for.

  15cm heels are visible beneath the hem of a long black skirt with red accents.

  Four snubnose revolvers are holstered at her shapely hips.

  She has a matching corset on her slim torso with four bare, blue skinned arms resting their elbows on the counter.

  A long plait of silvery-white hair hangs at her back beneath a black hat, it’s brim curled up at the sides and a red band around it.

  I place my hat down on the counter and grunt “Beer.” simply, at the holographic barkeep, not putting on an Old West Stateser accent (as I can’t even come close and it’s highly plausible for me to be a British immigrant at this point in history.)

  The towering woman beside me’s ear swishes backwards and her head twitches slightly in my direction.

  A prepoured mug of beer extends from under the bar while the NPC mimes drawing it, handing it to me and combing the holographic foam off the top.

  I raise it to my lips and chug a third of it down in one go.

  I don’t let out the satisfied gasp of a thirst well quenched that’s in my soul.

  The woman at my side turns to face me, revealing a pair of very large breasts, only covered by an opaque off white chemise and nicely pushed up by the bodice beneath them, picks up the small glass of pale amber liquid in front of her and says “Nice accent… John Bull(!)” in a flawless Texan drawl.

  ---Tuun’s perspective---

  The man doesn’t answer as I take a sip of my diluted whiskey and stare down at the top of his head.

  He just stands there, stonily, nursing his drink.

  He’s only about shoulder height on me in these boots which is… different…

  Usually, I’d say taller is better when I’m subbing so I don’t normally wear highheels and always try to stage our scenes to make myself seem smaller and him bigger.

  I’m glad I decided to take the chance of trying it out this time!

  It’s nice and novel being a tall glass of water character about to be Dommed by a short king!

  “You didn’t think o’ gettin’ a halfpint since yer a halfpint yerself(?) Or maybe a tea(!)” I tease.

  “No.” he answers in a monotone worthy of Thran “I didn’t.”

  “So you’re a gent whut can handle his alcohol then?” I taunt, grinning.

  “I’d say I can handle myself.” he deadpans back, po-faced, before taking another draft of his beer.

  “That’s somethin’ every lady likes ta hear(!)… Shame you’re a redcoat runt, though… You’d be just my type otherwise…”

  Another nonanswer comes back.

  “So, handsome… Whut brings a purdy face like yers ta a place like Bisbee?”

  “Work.”

  “Oh, yeah? Whut ya work in?”

  “Law enforcement.”

  “Ah!…That case, we might not get on too well(!) Law an’ I’ve never quite seen eye-ta-eye(!)… Though… if I was ever gunna make an exception…(!)” I say, flirtatiously, reaching my upper left hand to the back of his neck and winding a lock of his ponytailed hair around my claw.

  The stoic man ignores the flirt and continues nursing his beer.

  Acting put out, I pull my hand back and down the rest of my drink before asking “So… whut’s yer name, stranger?”

  “Vance Dalton.” he answers.

  There’s a long pause.

  “Ya ain’t gunna ask a lady her name(?)” I say with a flutter of my eyelids.

  “I don’t need to.” he says, downing the rest of his outsized ‘pintglass’ and reaching into his coat to pull out a neatly folded piece of aged looking, pulpy paper.

  Placing his beermug down, he unfolds it to reveal an image of my scowling face, fangs bared in a roar, made to look like a hand drawn sketch reproduced in 19th Century printer ink.

  Below it are the words:

  ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive

  Thelma-Lou ‘Wildfire’ Landry

  Reward: $10,000’

  and a small blurb detailing many nefarious crimes.

  He draws a large revolver from his hip and levels it at my face.

  “I already know your name, Miss Landry…” he tells me, coolly.

  ---Victor’s perspective---

  All the NPCs scream and run from the bar at the fact I’ve just pulled a gun on my quarry, clearing the way for the next scripted beat.

  With my left hand, I put my hat back on my head.

  “This your first bounty, lawman(?)” growls the woman looking down the barrel of my gun.

  “No. I been a bountyhunter since I took the reward for killin’ the bushwackers who shot my parents on our way to our homesteadin’ plot. I was 15 at the time and we’d only been in the country 4 months.” I answer, not sounding all that cut up about it.

  “Yer actin’ like it’s yer first!” she snarls.

  “How’s that?” I prompt, flatly.

  “Bountyhunter whut knew whut he was doin’d’ve followed me till there weren’t no witnesses then shot me in the back of the head before I knew he was there!”

  “Oh, but I wanna take you alive, Miss Landry.” I answer.

  “*heh*! Bountyhunter whut knew whut he was doin’ wouldn’t’ve told me that! He’d’ve said he was happy ta bring me in dead if I weren’t cooperative…” drawls back the woman in her Texan accent.

  “I see… and how many times exactly have those strategies worked out for ’em? These bountyhunters who know what they’re doin’?” I prompt in my Estuarine “How many times’s your bounty been claimed either of those ways?”

  As fast as lightning, she smacks the gun out of my right hand with her two left ones.

  It clatters behind the bar, out of reach.

  I dive away as she draws her four handguns and aims them for me.

  I slide across a long table and tip it over as I come down on the other side.

  With the upturned table between me and my quarry, I crouch down and draw my other revolver, counting the *thunk*s of projectiles striking the underside of it.

  ---Tuun’s perspective---

  “A bountyhunter whut knew whut he was doin’ wouldn’t’ve pulled a gun on me frum 2ft AWAY!” I cackle as I unload another five shots over my opponent’s cover, making for thirteen expended so far and eleven remaining.

  I stop firing but keep my guns pointed at the four different points on the table that my character thinks he’s most likely to appear.

  Movement materialises on the lower left and I register it’s a distraction before having fired at it.

  Nevertheless, I unload three rubber slugs that race into the hat at 150kmph.

  At the right end of the table, my target combat rolls out but doesn’t turn to shoot me, instead diving behind and overturning another table as four more shots *whizz* through the space he was just occupying and my upper left gun *click*s empty.

  Another moment of silence follows where the only sound is some rustling from behind the table.

  Then, a mansized object suddenly flies up out of cover.

  I’m startled into thinking he’s actually given me clear line of sight for 0.6secs before I realise that the coat has no one in it!

  *Bang**Bang**click**Bang**click**Bang**click* is the sound of my remaining guns emptying inside of a second as the long coat falls to the floor.

  “Ah, shit!” I exclaim, acting as if this turn of events took me completely by surprise, my still gun laden hands flying to my ammo pouch and fumbling to open it as the man pops back up and trains his much larger sixshooter at my head.

  “Freeze.” he instructs with all the emotion of putting on a pair of socks.

  I freeze.

  “Drop the guns.”

  I drop them, growling in disgust.

  “Walk to the counter, bend over it and put your hands behind your back.” he orders.

  Instead of obeying, I ask “Now… why would I when after ya turn me in I’m gunna swing fer all the shit I done, sugar?”

  Not sounding like he could muster the will to care one way or the other if his life depended on it, he answers “It’s up to you, Miss Landry… There’ll be the ride, the holding, the trial. Probably be a few weeks before you hang… That’s lotsa chances to escape you won’t get if I shoot you here an’ now.”

  “I thought you said you was takin’ me in alive?” I challenge.

  “I said that’s what I wanted. I ain’t gonna die in preference to shootin’ you. Now, are you gonna do as I say or are you gonna die?”

  Grumbling, I walk to the counter, bend down to squash my chest into it, fold my upper arms so the wrists are crossed between my upper shoulderblades and my lowers so they’re between my lowers.

  Eyes and gun still trained on me in his off hand, the bountyhunter bends down to pick up his distraction coat and tosses it under his arm before walking to where I wait for him to come and claim me.

  He lays the coat on the counter next to me and pulls a length of rope from its pocket.

  He places the gun down, a long way out of reach on the far side of him and his coat, and swoops behind me to begin trussing up my arms.

  “Outlaw who knew what she was doin’ might’ve found cover to reload from before all her guns ran dry, Miss Landry.” he monotonously taunts as he binds all four of my wrists to eachother.

  “Oh, go ta Hell!” I snarl in answer as he produces a second length of rope and bends down to tie my booted ankles together “Ya know all that damnation on ma wanted poster’s true, don’t ya?!… ’Cept fer the thing ’bout impersonatin’ a nun… No idea where that came frum(!) Ya sure ya wanna be triflin’ with a gal dangerous as me!?”

  Instead of answering me, he puts his hands on my arsecheeks and begins rubbing them, passionlessly

  “TAKE YER HANDS OFF ME, YA FILTHY BRUTE!!!” I roar, my character outraged “WHAT’RE YA DOIN’!? HAVE YA NO SHAME?!?!?!”

  “I’m friskin’ you for concealed weapons, Miss Landry.” he answers, flipping me around and standing me up.

  His hands fly up to my breasts and he begins rubbing them too before running them down my corset.

  “Oh, yer friskin’ alright, ya low down varmint(!) Little too frisky fer decency’s sake(!)… Think ya’d take a little more care with those hands if there was any witnesses around!”

  “Well, fortunately for me, the only one around is an outlaw with a $10,000 price on her head and dozens of notches on her guns so I ain’t too worried about decency with you, Miss Landry.” he deadpans, undoing the knot in the rope that holds up my skirt and ammo pouch, yanking it free, causing both to drop to the floor around my ankles and leaving most of my thighs exposed between the tops of my knee high boots and the hems of my split draws.

  “Uh!” I yelp as the bountyhunter runs his hands briskly over my crotch (not taking advantage of the split the way he might if he were the pervert my character is accusing him of being), down my thighs and to my calfs “I’d slap ya if ya’d not trussed me up like a hog fer slaughter, Dalton!”

  “Which just makes me glad I did.” he responds, standing up with my skirt and throwing it across the bar before picking his coat back up and throwing it on with effortless elegance.

  “Hey! Ya ain’t gunna just leave a lady standin’ here with her drawers on display, are ya!?… T’aint proper!!!”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “The bounty’s payable for you, Miss Landry, not your clothes… It really makes no difference to me if you’re dressed in a way you think’s improper while I’m deliverin’ you. Just be glad I ain’t stripped you buck-naked.” drones the man, sounding bored “Though I’ll definitely find a use for parts of this skirt if you keep chatterin’.”

  He unloops my thin rope belt from the beltloops, ammo box and four small holsters and coils it on the bar next to me.

  He picks up my ammo box and bends down to collect my four snubnoses, dropping them all into his (apparently quite deep) inside coat pocket.

  “Those’re mine!” I object “4th Amendment means ya can’t just take ma property!”

  “The 4th Amendment protects you from unreasonable search and seizure by government agents… I ain’t a government agent (bountyhuntin’s freelance by nature) and my takin’ weapons from an outlaw I’ve apprehended ain’t unreasonable seizure.” he rebuts, flatly, walking behind the counter to pick up and reholster the gun I knocked from his hands earlier “Now, shut up or I’m gonna shut you up.”

  “I’d like ta see ya try, lawman!” I brat.

  Wordlessly, he rerounds the counter and approaches me.

  My heart skips a beat, my eyes widen and my breath hitches as he reaches to his belt and draws a knife with a 12cm long, razor sharp looking blade, still walking straight at me.

  Thankfully, at the last moment, he swings left and starts hacking into the skirt he ostensibly couldn’t be bothered to redress me in.

  Once he’s carved off a large enough piece and sheathed his knife, he wads it up and austerely commands “Bend down and open your mouth.”

  “In yer dreams!” I object.

  He wordlessly draws his revolver and points the barrel upward at the bottom of my chin.

  I look from the gun to him and back a few times, painting my face with an expression of disgust.

  Finally, I dip forward and open my jaws, trying hard to look defeated.

  My mouth is packed with the wadding he just carved off my dress before he picks up my rope belt from where he left it on the counter, slots it between my fangs, winds it around a second time, pulls it tight and knots it in place.

  I test out my combination stuff+rope gag with my tongue and find that, as always, his gagwork is solid and I’m not getting it out until he chooses to take it out!

  “I did warn you and you did ask for it.” he observes, coldly.

  He extends a hand into his coat again and pulls out a small canvas bag with a drawstring.

  He reaches up with it and knocks my cowgirl hat off.

  Only then do I understand what it’s for.

  I shake my head and cry out through my gag, feigning horror and disguising arousal.

  ---Victor’s perspective---

  I pull the bag over my captive’s head, curl her long plait into it at the back and cinch it closed against her throat.

  Her panic is clearly slightly genuine but, from the lack of a gagged safeword I’m hearing, I’d guess it’s good panic… What nonsubmissive, nonmasochists would call ‘excitement’(!)

  Seizing her by the lower left upper arm (and completely taking control of her centre of gravity doing so), I unemotionally say “You and I have a long ride ahead of us and I expect you to behave. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Mm-hmm!” she grunts, nodding her bagged head in a way that conveys her frustration even through the canvas.

  “Slightly more compliant without your sight and with your mouth gagged… Noted.” I say with a tone of voice like I’m observing the weather.

  I bend down to barge my right shoulder into her hips, causing her upper body to fold down against my back and her to let out a shriek of surprise and indignance.

  I wrap my hands around her bare thighs and straighten back to standing, carrying her up on my shoulder.

  Any illusions I might’ve had of her compliance are immediately shattered as she roars furiously through her gag and thrashes her body against me.

  My right hand flies from her thigh to emotionlessly smack her right arsecheek through her boxerlike panties causing an indignant squeal.

  “I said behave, Miss Landry. You ain’t in a position to be gettin’ on my nerves.” I reprimand her in my character’s monotone.

  She doesn’t calm down as I walk her out of the saloon and to where I hitched up my horse, vainly calling out for help to the deserted street through her gag.

  I heave her off my shoulder and dump her onto its hindquarters, stomach down, behind the saddle.

  I reach into the saddlebag and pull out a long coil of rope.

  “Stay still while I get you secured.” I instruct.

  She doesn’t oblige me, struggling furiously as I work to tie her shoulders to the saddle then pass the leftover line under the horse’s belly to attach it to her ankle bindings and keep her from thrashing her legs as we ride.

  My prize now secured in a trophy carry over my mount’s back end, I step back to admire my handiwork.

  Her canvas bagged head does oscillate a little between looking horrifyingly gruesome and sexy as hell to me based on whether my eyes or my imagination is the main thing I’m using to perceive it.

  Just looking with my eyes, she looks like some kind of hideous scarecrow monster with her head bagged like that!

  Using my imagination to peer through it at the helpless, gagged and angry face makes it just about the sexiest thing in the galaxy and made even sexier by the fact that I can’t see it!

  Her four balled fists and neatly bound wrists between her bodiced, harnessed shoulders need no perspective shifting to be mouthwateringly alluring though!

  Rounding the rubbery horsebot to the back, I’m able to see the way her tits are squashed against its side and the thrilling way her arse is forced to jut from how she’s tied.

  I come to the bot’s right side and see just her shapely arse and legs, clad in kneehigh stiletto boots with laces running all the way up her shins.

  “There… got you tied to my horse like the prize doe you are, Miss Landry…” I say, managing to tear my eyes away from her to step into the stirrup and swing my left leg over her back to the other side, mounting my steed “…time to ride.”

  I spur us onward and ride out of the ghost town.

  With that section of the gated sequence over, the buildings all melt into sand behind us.

  I cross the length of the room and turn us to ride back along the outside edge.

  I make a half circuit and come back to the place where the town previously was.

  The only evidence that it ever existed is a black hat and a part destroyed black skirt lying on the ground.

  Good to see the microbots are following their programming and refusing to incorporate anything that isn’t microbot into the matrix!

  If I’d come back and they’d been no where to be seen, I’d’ve stopped the session and ridden us out of here immediately, immersionbreak be damned!

  The landscape continues to shift as I zigzag and crisscross around it on my steed with my prize.

  25 minutes was the length of time Tuun and I both agreed having her tied up on the back of a horse I’m riding would stay sexy without coming to uncomfortable chafing, sweatiness, stomach pain, difficulty breathing on her part and boredom on mine(!)

  Now I’m feeling how long 25 minutes actually is though…

  Tuun stopped screaming through her gag a while ago and is now only making noise and thrashing enough so I know she’s still alive.

  I’m just considering whether (while she can’t see) I should take out my holo and check the remaining runtime when the final remorph in the sequence arrives.

  The artificial sunlight streaming from the bots in the ceiling fades, replaced with a simulated, clear night Earth sky, festooned with stars and with the stripe of the Milky Way painted across it.

  On the far end of the chamber, I see a dead tree erect itself and a firelike glow flicker into being beside it, reflecting off the surface of a watering hole.

  “Almost at my camp, Miss Landry. I’ll have you down in a moment.” I reassure her, emotionlessly.

  An indignant “Mmmph(!)” is the only reply.

  We pull up to a one person bedroll laid out on the ground, a simulated campfire emitting warmth and light like one of brightly glowing embers beside it.

  I reach behind me and yank the working end of the knot that attaches her to my horse.

  As that rope comes loose, my (still wristbound and anklebound) prize begins to slide off its back to the right.

  ---Tuun’s perspective---

  My highheeled feet touch the ground and, my limbs all being restrained, I immediately begin overbalancing.

  I’m terrified at the thought that I’m about to come down on top of my uncomfortably bound arms and badly injure myself when I feel a warm hand hook over my shoulder from above and steady me.

  My stomach swoops and I pant from the thrill of being stopped from injuring myself by the man who has me completely in his power… then I remember that the hard desert sand would probably just turn to jelly if I did fall on it(!)

  My neatly stylised braid has loosened in all that riding and I’ve got stray hair all over my face.

  My ears ache from the amount of time they’ve been pushed into the sides of my head by the confines of the bag.

  The air has also become a little close and my mouth is saw from being forced open by the wadding.

  My discomfort is erotic as Hel to me!

  Hunted like game?

  Transported like cargo?

  Displayed like a trophy?!

  Stripped of any will, agency or right to refuse, all for the benefit of the one holding me in bond… The one who does not care of the stiff aching in my limbs, the bruised ribs or any of the other myriad discomforts that come with being bound and trophy carried that you wouldn’t know about unless you’ve done it?!

  It’s all got me incredibly aroused!

  Half of me wants him to just throw me onto the bedroll, tear my clothes off and ravish me now!

  The other half, of course, wants to finish the script and let good things come at there proper time.

  I hear the light *thud* of the 115kg man dismounting the horse and dropping approximately a metre to the ground.

  “Stay put while I tie up the horse, Miss Landry.” comes his level emotionless voice from below my right shoulder.

  “Ghnk ghk hrrh hff uh khhff, ghh Uh(!)” I stifle, wryly.

  “You don’t have a choice, no.” he answers without amusement “I’ll untie your ankles when I return. I need the rope to tie you to the tree.”

  The looming presences of both the man and horse recede away, leaving me standing here, blind, bound and indecently dressed.

  I consider kneeling down to lessen the risk of falling but quickly realise I’d probably fall trying that with the stiffness of my boots.

  I don’t think I’ve ever really appreciated just how much stability comes from your feet being the length they are.

  The foreshortening caused by my heels being raised so far off the ground is making me teeter precariously for my base of support being so tiny!

  I feel a thrill of fear as I realise I don’t know how close I am to the water and falling into it could be a little dangerous.

  Around 83 seconds pass before my captor allows me to hear him returning at a leisurely pace.

  He bends down and I feel the rope’s tension fall slack around my ankles.

  A strong hand slides beneath my lower left upperarm, seizing control of my centre of mass.

  I’m guided past a source of light that illuminates the canvas from the outside and radiates heat against the bare skin of my thighs.

  The man turns me around and puts his hands on my shoulders, forcing me down into a seated position on the ground.

  The rope that was just removed from my ankles is passed between my back and wrists before I’m tilted backwards.

  I feel myself come to rest against a pillar with a wooden texture which my abductor swiftly has me lashed to.

  His presence vanishes from my side as I hear a *splash* and the *glugglugglug* of water flowing into a container from a little way away.

  Coming back to my front, it sounds like he kneels down between my legs.

  The drawstring at my throat is loosened and the bag is plucked off me.

  My liberated ears spring outwards from my head, relieved at being back in their proper position.

  What remains of my plait falls down, its weight bumping lightly against my right hands.

  My escaped hair is mussed up even further than it already was by the action of the bag’s removal.

  I look up, scowling at the gorgeous man I’m currently captive to as he stares back, no expression on his beautiful face below the brim of his hat.

  His broad shoulders and bulky arms aren’t covered by his greatcoat, only a pale shirt and medium tone waistcoat.

  His body is backlit by the light of the fire and his head has the band of the Milky Way behind it, giving him an almost holy appearance of being haloed in light.

  With tenderness contrasting his wider demeanour in the action, he extends his fingertips to my face and brushes my hair off of it to the sides.

  I don’t react, just continuing to scowl back at him.

  He reaches down and pulls the coils of rope from my mouth, letting them drop to my clavicle.

  Instead of immediately spitting out the wadding, I allow him to extend his fingers to its front and pull it free.

  He tucks the saliva soaked scrap of fabric down into my cleavage in a dispassionate (but sexy as fuck!) powermove, the clear implication being that he will regag me if I start screaming, shouting or in any way annoying him.

  He raises his left hand in front of my face, allowing me to see it’s holding a leather flask that was presumably what he was filling in the small desert pond behind him.

  Rather than asking me whether I’m thirsty, he simply uncorks it and brings the rim to my lips, raising the back at the right rate to tip a steady stream of water into my mouth.

  When he’s apparently satisfied that I’ve had enough, the rim is drawn away and the container recorked.

  He stands up and walks over to a downed log on my left.

  He sits down on it next to his neatly folded coat, looks at me and says “I’ve got a confession to make, Miss Landry.”

  “Save it fer yer priest, Dalton! I don’t wanna hear it!” I spit back.

  “You do wanna hear it ’cause it concerns you.” he counters, lazily.

  I don’t answer, just glaring at him.

  After a beat, he continues “I misrepresented myself to you earlier…”

  I narrow my eyes and demand “Misrepresented yerself how?… You ain’t a bountyhunter? I am yer first bounty?”

  “No. Those were both accurate. I am a bountyhunter or, at least, I have been for the best part of two decades… I’ve collected on dozens of outlaws' bounties in that time… I just don’t intend to collect on yours.”

  “Don’t hand me that rot!” I snarl “That ain’t nothin’ but flimflam! Ya think ya can make sport o’ playin’ me fer a fool!?… Ain’t NO one passin’ up $10,000!… That’s the kinda money ya could buy a farm, get married an’ raise a family on!”

  “Get married and raise a family… with who exactly?” poses my captor.

  I snort and answer “Any pretty young thing ya go up ta an’ say ‘Hey darlin’! I got $10,000 in the bank. Ya wanna start a family?’ to(!!!)… Wouldn’t even matter that yer 5’3’’ an’ got a dumb accent(!)”

  “Well, ain’t like I’d have a moral objection to a marriage where I’m only after her looks and she’s only after my money but, if I wanted a marriage like that, I’ve got more than enough money already. I’ve never taken a bounty quite as big as yours, Miss Landry, but $500 here, $1,000 there? It all adds up. I’m already worth nearly three times your bounty… The problem is that I’ve been killing people for a living for more than half my life at this point. It’s left me with precious little in the way of social connection, social capital, social skills and with a severely underdeveloped emotional range. Do you think some barmaid or general store clerk would be happy as the wife of a man like me? You think I would be happy in a loveless marriage to a woman who couldn’t grasp the first thing about the life I’ve led?”

  “‘oH, wOe Is Me(!) i’M lOoOnElY(!) I’m UnLuCkEy In LoOoOoVe(!)’” I mock, viciously “Cry me a river, Dalton!!!…You think I care ya killed people all yer life an’ now ya can’t find yerself a woman fer it!? I ain’t yer Goddamn matchmaker!!!”

  “You misunderstand, Miss Landry… I’ve found myself a woman.” he says, staring pointedly over at where he has me tied up.

  I make a show of frowning in confusion as if I can’t quite figure out what he means by that for 4.5secs before pretending to realise “Whut…? Nooooo… Ya can’t be serious!?”

  “I’m not sure I’m capable of being anything besides serious, Miss Landry.” he states, seriously.

  Staring at him agog a few moments, I eventually manage “So, lemme see if I’ve got ya right, Dalton… Marryin’ a girl fer her looks who’s marryin’ ya fer yer money’s beneath ya… but carryin’ off a lady ta be yer wife, rustlin’ her like a head o’ cattle, kidnappin’ her an’ givin’ her the choice o’ marryin’ ya or hangin’… that’s just fine an’ dandy in yer eyes(!?)… An’ the gal ya decided ta carry off was none other ’an the most fearsome outlaw in the territories, Thelma-Lou ‘Wildfire’ Landry, an’ not one a little easier fer ya ta handle?!”

  “All accurate except I ain’t plannin’ to turn you in if you refuse.” he states, bluntly.

  “Whut, so, if’n I snub ya, yer gunna be a gentleman an’ let me go(!?)… Pass up $10,000 fer a gal whut just rejected ya after ya kidnapped her(?!)”

  “No… I’ll just keep you tied up till you change your mind.” he explains, dispassionately.

  “Oh, great(!) I got even less choice in the matter than I thought(!!!)… It ain’t ‘Be mine or else’ it’s ‘Be mine. No other choice!’(!)… Yer just the brute I took ya fer(!)”

  “I am… Would you want a man who wasn’t a brute, Miss Landry? Would you be satisfied bein’ with a gentleman who wined an’ dined you and took you to fancy parties? A man who knew nothin’ of our world?… I don’t think you would. We might be on opposite sides of the law, Landry, but we’re cut from the same cloth. I knew the moment I saw your wanted sketch that you were a woman who wanted to be taken… that the only man who’d be worthy of you in your eyes would be the one who could beat you, claim you, tame you… and that I could be that man for you…”

  The (correct both in and out of character) observation flusters me and I stammer “Th-that’s… quite the w-wild woman ya f-figure me fer, Mr Dalton(!)” my cheeks hot.

  “I’d guess ‘Wildfire’ doesn’t just refer to the way you shoot.” he comes very close to smirking “I don’t think a woman like you’s any stranger to the Devil’s play…”

  Regaining a bit of my former bravado, I point out “Well, look who’s talkin’, Dalton!… Ya fell fer a gal frum her wanted poster, tracked her down like a bloodhound, trussed her up, stripped her ta her linens, stopped up her mouth, bagged her head, threw her over yer horse, rode her out ta the middle o’ the desert an’ told her she’s marryin’ ya an’ she don’t got no choice(!)… I’d say a scoundrel like you was the Devil himself(!)”

  A grin breaks over my kidnapper’s face for the first time as he gets up and walks towards me, observing “Well then it sounds like we were made for eachother, don’t it Miss Landry? The fierce outlaw who craves nothin’ more than a wicked man capable of bringin’ her to heel and the Devil himself who’s up for the challenge?… What d’you say?”

  He slams his hand into the tree above my head (shaking my upperbody from the way the force is transmitted through my bonds) and leans down close enough to let me feel his breath on my face.

  I ignore my fluttering heart, tightness of breath and burning in my cheeks to keep up my brattiness.

  “I got terms, Dalton! I know ya ain’t givin’ me no choice or nothin’ but, if ya don’t want me waitin’ until the first moment yer lookin’ away, stealin’ yer horse an’ ridin’ over the horizon, ya’ll need ta treat me right!”

  “Name your terms, Miss Landry.” my kidnapper says, the grin dropping from his lips as his eyes narrow in appraisal.

  “First, ya gotta stop callin’ me ‘Miss Landry’… T’ain’t a proper way fer a man ta talk ta a gal he’s lookin’ ta get hitched ta(!) It’s Thelma-Lou, Thelma, Thel or (if’n yer lookin’ ta get me in the mood) Wildfire frum now on, got it?!”

  “Noted… Wildfire…” he murmurs.

  “Second… I ain’t workin’!… Since yer apparently so set up in clover ya can afford ta turn yer nose up at a 10 grand bounty, I’m expectin’ ya ta keep me in the manner I’m accustomed ta without me ever havin’ ta hold up another bank in ma life!”

  “Acceptable.” he states nonchalantly.

  “An’ finally… whenever I gets ta bein’… unruly… I expect ta be corrected… Harshly and sternly!… With ropes if ya got ’em ta hand… I expect ya ta remind me who the man o’ the house is, Dalton… I’m signin’ up fer hard and bitter! Ya ever get soft on me… ya ever get sweet? I’m gone!!!”

  His smile returns as he says “No need to worry, Wildfire… I trust I’ll be able to keep you in line… and entertained…”

  He reaches down to my cleavage and picks out the sodden wadding before stuffing it back into my mouth.

  ---Victor’s perspective---

  I reseat the ropes between my prize’s teeth and knot them in place.

  I reach over her back and yank out the working end of the knot securing her to the tree without releasing her arms.

  She makes a muffled squeal of thrill as I slide one arm under her thighs, the other under her lower back and scoop her into a princess carry.

  My bound and gagged princess giggles delightedly as I walk us both over to the bedroll by the fire.

  I lay her down and her glowing white eyes look up at me as I yank out both knots in her shoelaces, just over her knees.

  It takes a bit of time to work them loose all the way down her shins but, once I’m confident I can, I grab both boots by the heels and pull them off her legs with her stockings, leaving them bare.

  Next, my hands go to the knot at her stomach and begin unlacing her corset.

  With it fully undone, I bend the sides to the point where I can comfortably pull it out from under her.

  Now clad only in late 19th Century underthings, my captive is clearly as ready as I am, spreading her legs to open the split in her drawers in an extremely inviting way.

  I’m not quite ready to accept that invitation yet, though.

  I reach to where the right strap of her chemise meets her right breast and unfasten the clasp, repeating for the left one.

  I grab the hem, pulling it down over her hips, careful not to dislodge the split panties which I want her to keep in place.

  She lifts her arse to let me take it down her legs and all the way off.

  Her now bare blue breasts heave with excitement.

  With my little trophy doe as stripped as I want her, I stand up and begin undressing myself.

  ---Tuun’s perspective---

  I lie here with a steadily growing wet patch in the only linen I’m still wearing as the man who’s claimed me and is about to tame me brings his fingers to his waistcoat and deftly unfastens it.

  He throws it down the pale sleeves of his shirt before his hands come to his collar and pull out the knot in his Western bow tie.

  The ribbony fabric removed and dropped to the ground, the shirt is unbuttoned and taken off.

  Next, he folds his left shinhigh cowboy boot to bring his ankle to his right thigh, reaching down to unbutton it, sliding it off, pulling off a long sock and repeating the process for the other side.

  Next comes I think my favourite part of every time this man undresses.

  His fingers come to his beltbuckle and nimbly unclasp it.

  His belt slides out under the loops from the outward pulling action he performs with his muscular arm.

  He buttons down his fly (the 1880s being about half a century too early for zips) and drops his trousers.

  Now with only his cotton unders on, he stands there a moment, letting me take in the power and beauty of his incredible body as it’s bathed in the combination simulated starlight and firelight.

  Looking down at where I lie ready for him, he smirks “Let me show you hard and bitter, Wildfire!” before dropping his last scrap of clothing and showing me something hard, something big, something not bitter but incredibly sweet for me to behold(!)

  “Ghf uht kuh ngh!” I demand, opening my legs again to reveal my glistening womanhood through the slit in my underwear.

  “Happily…” he smirks, strutting towards me behind his mesmerising manhood.

  He kneels down between my legs, lines up his pelvis with mine and leans over me, placing a hand either side of my chest to support his weight.

  With fantastically lascivious eyes, he scans over my body before returning to my face.

  “Time for me to claim my prize… Wildfire!” he says, thrusting himself inside me and causing an immediate scream of ecstasy.

  Tears of joy sting the corners of my eyes as the love of my life claims me!

  ---Victor’s perspective---

  I lie on the bedroll, cuddling my naked, unbound and well fucked (if I do say so myself) wife to my chest.

  I feel absolutely on top of the world right now except for one slight pang of disappointment.

  “Last night tonight… Leavin’ in less than 12hrs… How you feelin’ ’bout that?” I ask.

  “Pretty terrible… I kind of wish we could just live here(!)” she chuckles, ruefully.

  “Yeah… just eachother for company…room we can shape to our will with the power of gods… able to laze around an’ do nothin’ ’cept plan the most imaginative games we can possibly play around the simple act of slottin’ a hard penis into a wet vagina(?)… I’d give us another month before we both went completely insane livin’ here(!)” I smirk.

  “Then I want another 29 days(!)” she quips in return.

  “Yeah… do kinda wish it didn’t have to be over quite so soon… We’ve definitely made a good run of it, though… How many’d we do? Liiike…?”

  I start trying to add them all up but, her brain workin’ at pigeon speed, I don’t stand a chance of getting there before “27 scenarios; 3 days with one, 9 days with two, 2 days with three.” she calculates.

  “27 ain’t bad for two weeks!” I smile “Still… maybe we can come back here one day… Or find another hotel with morphics attached to the rooms once they get a bit more widespread!”

  “Yes… that sounds good!” she says happily.

  “Still… even if we won’t have a morphic on board, I’m excited ’bout settin’ foot on the bright plume with a Mrs. Taylor under my arm for the first time.”

  “Same.” she smiles.

  There’s a moment of contented peace as we do nothing but cuddle against eachother under the simulated night sky.

  Then I crack a wry smirk and pose “Now if I had to guess what you wanted for breakfast tomorrow…”

  She shoots up, eyes open wide and fixed on me “OK, so there are still four flavours of pancake we haven’t tried… I’m thinking we order all four and I’ll have a third of each and you have the rest!”

  “You think I can eat nearly three stacks of pancakes, Tuun(?) You think you can eat a stack and a third(?)” I grin.

  “We need to complete the set before we leave!” she says, a tiny bit too frantic about it.

  Bountyhunter | | | | |

  hmm! =

  huh!

  khhff, ghh Uh(!) =

  choice, do I(!)

  Ghf uht kuh ngh! =

  Give it to me!