Alice Rhodes came upon the secluded town of Brownsville, Nebraska during the first, freakishly early blizzard of 1877. Lakota raiders had killed the seventeen men of her wagon train, and taken captive fifteen of the sixteen women, Alice herself being the sixteenth and having managed to flee into the chilly night. From the darkness of the high grass on the Nebraska plain she had watched them burn the wagons and tomahawk the men, then lead the women away behind their horses.
The wagon train leader had still hoped, though even Alice had been able to tell, with creeping despair, that the hope must be foolish, to press on to Oregon. He had pushed them from sunup to sundown every day, though the days had gotten shorter and shorter, making everyone who could walk do so in order to lighten the wagons enough to make even the poor progress they made.
Alice could walk, as Mrs. Gantner, who had been ‘kind’ enough to receive into her family the lovely eighteen-year-old orphan from Boston, had never ceased to remind her. If one could term the Gantners’ chilly welcome for the girl thrust on them by their pastor a reception. How could Alice help it if Mr. Gantner cast his leering eye upon her as she got into her nightdress?
She had shuddered, though, as she finally wandered away into the darkness whose slight clamminess she could feel, from her childhood in Boston, presaged snow. Alice had seen the Indian’s axe cave in Mr. Gantner’s skull, and she had picked out Mrs. Gantner being led behind the horse of a Sioux warrior. The Gantners might not have meant much charity in their intentions, taking in a penniless girl whose parents had died only four years after losing nearly everything in the Panic of 1873, but no one deserved what the couple had gotten at the hands of the Indians whose land the government had just seized. Alice’s backside might still sting from the woman’s wooden spoon, ironically warm as the rest of her froze, but she found it in her to pity Mrs. Gantner nonetheless.
They had meant her for their maid-of-all-work, once they reached Oregon, and even as Alice concluded that she would freeze to death before morning, she couldn’t help also concluding that dying here in Nebraska would probably prove preferable to the life she would have led with the Gantners. In the end, however, she had only acquired a little frostbite on two of her ill-shod toes before to her astonishment she crested a little hill and saw a town—a cluster of lighted buildings, really, with a glowing light that might be a prairie cabin only a few hundred yards away—lying sheltered in a hollow below her.
In another few minutes she had reached the little dwelling in the midst of a field of stubble that Alice vaguely recognized as harvested wheat. A light shone behind the shutters of the window next to the door. Hardly believing she could truly have reached safety, she crept to the door and gave a tentative knock.
By that time the storm had truly taken hold, though, and the wind howled around Alice; she must be bold, she knew, both because the numbness in her feet seemed to grow by the moment and because the occupants of the cabin would never hear her unless she went against everything her mother had taught her in the drawing room of their lovely Boston brownstone, so very different from this tiny wooden structure.
“A lady does not pound upon anything, Alice,” she thought she could hear her mother saying.
Alice’s true nature had a good deal more rebellion in it than her mother, who insisted on calling the parlor a drawing room, as if they lived in England, had ever had a use for. Miss Thacher had driven a good deal of that defiance from the surface of Alice’s demeanor, at least, in her little school on Commonwealth Avenue, or polished it into something that bore more of a resemblance to what elegant young ladies called wit.
Even wit, though, had proven of no value whatsoever in dealing with Mrs. Gantner, who had introduced Alice to a sort of discipline unknown to Miss Thacher. The Boston schoolmistress had made girls stand with their noses in the corner from time to time, holding their skirts up to show their drawers, as a sort of threat that the birch might follow, but had never gone further than that. A birch rod hung on the wall in the schoolroom, and Alice’s eyes had gone there often for reasons she didn’t understand at all, but it had never come down from its place of honor.
When, soon after her eighteenth birthday, Alice had broken her slate in a fit of pique over Sally Gerton’s winning the spelling bee, and she had had her turn in the corner, the feeling of having the rest of her class see her pretty white drawers tied with the pink ribbon had taught her a much more complex lesson than she had imagined it might. Those emotions, however, had prepared her very ill for her first trip across Mrs. Gantner’s knee, only the second day after coming into their ‘care.’
She had thought the woman had forgotten about her talking back, in the morning. Mrs. Gantner had told Alice to go fetch water from the river that ran near the staging camp in Missouri, where the train had let her off to meet her new ‘family.’ Alice, still tired and thinking like a young lady of Boston, who gave commands to servants rather than receiving them herself, had thought she had managed to moderate her tone in telling the woman, “I will do it when I have finished dressing.”
But Mrs. Gantner had said coldly, “You will do it this instant, girl, and you will address me as ma’am.”
Alice’s face had gone cold, and then very hot, and she had stood looking at Mrs. Gantner, her whole body trembling, before finally getting her temper under control. Still, not yet understanding the position in which the woman intended to put her, she had pointedly retained an icy quality in her tone as she said, “Yes, ma’am,” and went to get the buckets.
That had seemed the end of it, and Alice had begun to think she might get along with the Gantners if such an interaction proved typical, in which she might express in her voice the haughty displeasure of a girl who knew her worth despite all her misfortune. Then, after supper, Mrs. Gantner had said, “Alice, go get into your nightdress and then come back here to me. You’ll have a hiding for your sass this morning.”
“You can’t!” Alice had shouted.
Mr. Gantner, who had said not two words to her since her arrival, had spoken in his deep, angry voice from the other side of the little tent, “If’n you don’t want to feel my belt, girl, you’ll do as Mrs. Gantner says. Go on and get into your nightdress. You’ve had this comin’ a while now.”
“A while?” Alice had gasped. “I just got here last night!”
“Yes, and you haven’t shown Mr. Gantner or me anything like the proper respect and gratitude all day,” Mrs. Gantner had said, the anger in her own voice rising to meet her husband’s. “When you feel Mr. Gantner’s belt, as a sassy thing like you will sooner or later, you’ll be grateful you did as you were told tonight.”
In the face of this threat, Alice’s knees had seemed to turn to jelly. Talking back to Miss Thacher, and to Mother, was something she had always gotten away with in moderation. The idea of this hiding had terrified her, and the added knowledge that she could get a much worse one from Mr. Gantner, and according to his awful wife certainly would get that eventually, had frozen her in place.
“Go on,” had said Mr. Gantner, his voice softening a little as if he could see that Alice had turned some sort of corner in her compliance. “Quicker you come back and get over Ma’s knee, quicker it’s all over with. Girl like you needs to learn her place, an’ until you do you’ll go to bed with a warm bottom every night if you have to.”
So, weeping, Alice had gone to the corner of the tent appointed for her and had gotten changed with her back turned, hoping Mrs. Gantner’s glare would keep her husband’s eyes from roving over her shape as she undressed under the formless nightdress that then would nevertheless show a good deal more of her form than was appropriate for mixed company.
Any hope of having her modesty spared, however, had been dashed as soon as she had made her way back to the stool where Mrs. Gantner had sat in a wrathful state by the embers of the cooking fire. The woman, it seemed, had believed in the same notions about discipline through shame as Miss Thacher, but with a much more vulgar twist to them.
“Raise your nightdress to your waist, girl,” she had said, drawing Alice to her side so that Alice’s back faced Mr. Gantner. “Then lay yourself down over my lap.”
Alice had cast a fearful, questioning glance at Mr. Gantner. Mrs. Gantner had said mockingly, “Oh, is your pretty behind too rare a sight for Pa’s eyes? Should I show him your little pussy, too?”
Alice’s lips had parted, and her breathing had sped up terribly. It had felt like being in the corner at Miss Thacher’s, but so very much more and so very much worse.
“Get your impudent backside over my knee this moment,” Mrs. Gantner had said, picking up the big wooden spoon with which she had stirred the stew, which Alice had had to wash off only a few minutes before.
Confused, thinking that maybe the woman had rescinded the command to raise her nightdress, Alice had begun to bend herself over, but Mrs. Gantner had said, furious now, “Raise your nightdress, Alice. Hidings happen on the bare in my household, and if you can’t follow instructions you’re going to have a lot of them.”
Alice had given a little sob, but what choice had she had? She had thought for a moment that maybe she could run to the pastor, but hadn’t he made it clear in his letter that Alice must expect to submit to life as a servant? He would have brought her back to the Gantners’ tent, and Mr. Gantner would have taken off his stout belt and whipped Alice with it, she had felt sure.
With tears on her cheeks already, Alice had reached down to gather up her nightdress, blushing as the cool air in the tent moved against the private places girls must keep clean but touch no more than necessary for the purpose of ablution. Impatient, and perhaps not truly wishing her husband to see too much of the provoking sight of an eighteen-year-old bottom, Mrs. Gantner had swiftly pulled Alice down across her gingham-covered lap and begun to spank her terribly hard with the spoon, much harder than Alice had ever expected.
“Don’t kick, girl,” the woman had instructed her, as Alice had struggled over her lap. “Every kick gets another swat, for showing what you’ve got between those little thighs. You’ll learn to be good now. There you go. There you go. Nice and red all over.”
Alice had shrieked, and she had known that all the families in the tents around them would understand exactly what had befallen the new girl. Her face had gone as hot as her bottom at that thought, and a strange and unexpected tone in Mrs. Gantner’s voice seemed to make that blush much hotter.
“It’s a nice bottom, girl, but it needs a lesson now. There. On your thighs, too. We’ll tan this whole backside. I’m sure the lucky man who makes you a woman will use his firm hand down here, too. You’ll be a spanked bride just as I was.”
Alice had lain limp, then, over Mrs. Gantner’s lap, wondering as the final blows landed from her terrible spoon why the woman had decided to talk about a lucky man that way. She had wondered, and had not found an answer, but the question had stayed in her mind all night, just as it had done in the few minutes between her latest spanking in the covered wagon and the attack of the Indian raiders.
Whenever Mrs. Gantner had spanked Alice, she had spoken of those matters of which Miss Thacher had made clear young ladies must never speak. This last time, before the end of it all and the flight into the grass, had been the worst, because Mr. Gantner hadn’t been present, and his wife could say, it seemed, whatever she pleased.
“Spread those legs a bit, girl, since Pa isn’t here. That pussy looks ready for a man’s hardness. There. There. Don’t cry out like that, big girl like you. It doesn’t feel as nice as the cock inside you, but you’ll get to enjoy being over your man’s knee, too. There. Nice and red, now. How does that pretty pussy feel?”
Mrs. Gantner had touched her there, then, very gently, and Alice had given a startled cry, wondering what in the world would happen now, not sure she wouldn’t rather have Mrs. Gantner’s soft touch than her hard spoon, despite the shame.
Then the strange whoops had come, and the shouting, and the running.
And now, here, in her nightdress and the ill-fitting boots she had thankfully been wearing, for warmth, even over Mrs. Gantner’s lap for her spanking, Alice stood at the door of the little cabin, snow swirling around her.
She raised her fist and pounded.
Joe Smithers was having a very nice fuck inside Mary Jones’ bottom when he heard someone at the cabin door. He and Mary hadn’t really noticed the howling wind that presaged the blizzard Elder George had predicted at the saloon that afternoon, because Joe had decided right after supper that Mary, on loan from Elder George himself, should get out of her clothes and suck his cock. Mary, being the good and obliging girl she was, with a full understanding of Joe’s natural rights as the man to whom her master had assigned her for fucking, had obeyed.
She had blushed, of course, with the good, natural modesty that Elder Hilton said Dr. Brown found laudable in every young woman when a natural man commanded her sexual service. But Joe had found Mary very wet in her bare little cunt when he had worked her on her dildo to reward her for her mouth’s pleasure and her dutiful swallowing of her first helping of his seed for that night.
After that, instructed once again to kneel before him, Mary had spent a nice long time rousing Joe’s cock again, so that he could have some fun in her cunt before plunging into the tightness of her little bottom, still in training at the elders’ school but available to Elder George and to the elder’s friends when he wished to share it, just like the rest of nineteen-year-old Mary. Joe had been riding her anally, over the bolster on his big straw-mattressed bed, when the pounding at the door of the cabin made him aware both of an interloper and of the blizzard’s raging.
Mary cried out, “Joe, please! Please!” Elder George had told him to expect that Mary would enjoy anal despite her discomfort in having as big a cock as Joe’s thrusting back there, because like all the girls selected by Dr. Brown himself to settle in Brownsville she knew the importance of her submission to a natural man’s desires.
“Mind you don’t take her protestations to the contrary too seriously, Joseph,” the elder had said. “She’ll beg you to take her cunny instead, and then she’ll beg you to reach your climax quickly inside that tight little anus, but you must show your resolve and tame her firmly and kindly. Take your time in her bottom, and enjoy yourself, as the good doctor advises.”
Joe had found that advice truly helpful, both for his pleasure and for the growing affection he felt toward Mary Jones, and he hoped she felt toward him, now that Elder George had assigned her to him several times. She glowed with pride at any rate, held gently in his arms after he had filled her bottom with sperm, and asked him if he had enjoyed his fuck in her most secret place, if he thought her little ring was getting more pleasurable as the elders widened it for him at school, if he meant to take her again there soon.
The same kind of natural shame and modesty, however, that came upon Mary when told to undress and suck a man’s cock, adhered in double strength to the act Dr. Brown called true mastery in the treatise that every male Brownsville settler had read over and over again. Joe hardly needed an elder to tell him that girls grew up thinking their anuses a part of them that had a very different function from the service of a natural man’s pleasures, or that every properly raised girl must blush when told to spread her hind-cheeks and show that part to lustful masculine eyes.
The act of true mastery, Dr. Brown wrote, viz. the possession of female anus by male penis through vigorous coitus, lies at the heart of the process by which a natural man secures his masculine rights over a properly submissive girl. The man determined to have the right of the phallus over such a girl must not hesitate, but enforce this act upon her as often as his natural desires tend toward it, correcting her as necessary—though as ever in a loving way—to ensure that she become, and remain, compliant in this vital matter.
Every young woman raised in our present benighted state of culture will feel both a good, natural modesty about the use of her anus for masculine pleasure and a false, cultural—and thus unnatural—modesty about it. The former, properly encouraged, will lead her eventually to receive the phallus gratefully, once her master makes clear how greatly he treasures her surrender of her most private, most tender orifice to his manhood’s impalement. The latter will provoke her to refusal, which the natural man knows without being told must be met with firm-handed discipline. Frequent use of the strap (see Section 7, Suggested Disciplinary Implements) may be required to overcome this negative modesty.
Joe had no shame himself in admitting that Dr. Brown’s On the necessity of men’s exercising their natural rights in erotic matters had practically taught him to read. Before being chosen by Elder Hilton on one of the elders’ periodic ‘in-gathering’ journeys to the East in search of likely men and women to settle in Brownsville, he had to be sure known how to read his primer and to count enough to follow the orders of the senior longshoremen, whose numbers he would one day have joined if he hadn’t met the strikingly handsome though roughly dressed middle-aged Englishman on the quay after a long shift unloading bolts of heavy woolen fabric from an English merchantman.
The elders said that after their training from Dr. Brown, at his college in Westmoreland or at the clubhouse of the Society for the Correction of Natural Daughters, whose members he served as consulting physician, they could usually tell a natural man from his very gait. Joe felt sure he had had nothing to recommend him apart from his burly frame and the purposeful stride it allowed him even after a long night’s labor to keep the freight of New York City’s bustling port moving.
“Young man,” the elder had said, “do you know where a man might find a drink of whiskey and some pleasant company?”
Joe had frowned. The man’s bearing seemed to cut against the very present implication in the words pleasant company. Joe knew very well where to find whiskey and women of easy virtue in close proximity to one another, and he had planned to avail himself of both this very night, having recently received his wages. But did this man intend to entrap him into an unpleasant evening of listening to an account of the error of his ways in such enjoyments?
Joe had recently taken up with a very pleasant companion among Miss Molly’s whores—Judy, a girl who liked to give a young man his way and even liked a bit of punishment now and again, which Joe had in his unschooled way always thought a good man owed a young woman whom he had taken under his wing. He had no need or desire to be told either that his young lady, as he thought of Judy, or his pint of gin would doom him to an eternity of something much less enjoyable, as he now strongly suspected this stranger planned to inform him.
Seeing Joe’s confusion, Elder Hilton had smiled and extended his hand in greeting. “My name is Elder Hilton, my friend, and I can see from your face that you have some doubt as to the sincerity of my intentions in inviting you to share the sort of sensual evening in which natural men love best to partake, in a setting like this one.”
Joe had had a little trouble following the man’s elegant phrasing, but the encompassing gesture Elder Hilton had made now had reassured him. The Englishman had extended his right hand with a flourish toward the docks and the other longshoremen coming off work, the sailors lingering with girls much less refined that Miss Molly’s, the tall ships full of the merchandise that in its back-and-forth across the ocean made America a force with which to be reckoned. Though Elder Hilton clearly stood very far distant from Joe Smithers in the matter of upbringing, that simple hand gesture had seemed to Joe to indicate that his new friend enjoyed precisely the same things in the way of pleasant company as Joe did and, moreover, had the ability to enjoy them much more fully than Joe did thanks to his higher position in the social order.
“Alright,” Joe had said neutrally, still not completely certain how to handle Elder Hilton’s overture. Perhaps the man did want a whiskey and a whore, rather than to deliver a sermon, but that didn’t mean Joe should have any interest in helping him find those things, even if Joe intended to seek them out himself that very night.
Elder Hilton’s smile had broadened. “And your name, my friend?” he had asked.
Joe had frowned, but he hadn’t seen any harm in telling. “Joe Smithers.”
“Mr. Smithers,” Elder Hilton had said in a very smooth voice that Joe hadn’t been able to help finding fascinating. “Joe, if I may.”
He had paused, and Joe had felt a furrow develop in his brow.
Elder Hilton spoke again. “May I?”
Startled, Joe had felt his eyes widen. It had felt rather like being in a comical scene on a stage at a saloon, where you guffawed at the snooty Englishman’s pratfalls. But Elder Hilton despite the evidence he had given of his interest in earthly delights had also seemed to be in deadly earnest in the matter of enlisting Joe’s assistance in finding them.
“Uh, yes?” Joe had finally said.
“Thank you, Joe.” The elder’s smile had wavered a bit in the face of Joe’s confusion, but now it had returned in full force. “Thank you very much indeed.” He had sounded then as if by granting permission to use his first name, Joe had also confirmed some much deeper truth about his nature. Rather despite himself, Joe had felt his fascination growing. On any other night, he would already have his Judy on his knee, his hand making free under her skirts, but this Elder Hilton had seemed to promise to tell him some secret that would make his visits to Miss Molly’s mean something much more important.
The elder had looked around as if to make sure he would not be overheard, and then he had leaned in a little closer to Joe. His voice dropped into a confidential tone, and his blue eyes narrowed as they gazed directly into Joe’s brown ones.
“Joe, what would you say if I told you that science has proven that natural men like you and me should not hesitate to fuck exactly as we please? I do not speak of the sort of debauchery in which we will partake tonight, if you are willing to assist me in finding the sort of establishment I seek. I speak of our natural right to master young women placed under our care, and under our sexual authority.”
Joe’s eyes had opened very wide at that. Again he had known he could not fully understand Elder Hilton’s meaning, but he had certainly gathered enough of it that his cock had awakened to the notion of learning more. Suddenly Joe had wanted, very urgently, to know the man’s secret: How could he speak of these shameful things so elegantly? What did he intend to tell Joe, to teach Joe, about these matters that held for him so much importance?
When he had fucked Judy, and even more when he had spanked her from time to time, to teach her her place—something Miss Molly had encouraged in her clients, so long as they showed they could exercise the privilege in moderation—Joe had often felt that he would like Judy to belong to him in a more essential way. He had contemplated asking Miss Molly how much it would cost for Judy to be made his exclusive property, and, though it seemed by turns monstrous and inescapably alluring, how much it would cost to fuck Judy’s bottom, and make her his in that very special way.
“I see in your eyes that you understand some of what I mean, Joe,” Elder Hilton had said. “Why don’t we make our way to your favorite establishment for these things, and discuss it further? There is a place out West, on the frontier, in which I wish to interest you in settling, and a pamphlet I wish to invite you to read.”
It had seemed a very surprising direction for their conversation to take, at the time. Now, though, two years later, his cock deep in Mary Jones’ bottom as the unknown person outside rattled the cabin door with their desperate knocking, it all seemed to have worked out for the best.