Naed and Wet in the Wooden Hot Tub

He rode into our valley in the late autumn of 1882. I was a mere lad then, barely tall enough to see over the old hay wagon. In the clear Colorado air, I could see his progress a mile away. At first glance, there seemed nothing remarkable about him, just another stray rider taking the dirt road toward the group of frame buildings that was our little town. Then I saw a pair of cowboys, riding past him, turn and look back after him with a curious intentness.

Back then, I was too young to have heard of the Turner Thesis. My life revolved around fishing, riding horses, and plinking tin cans with my 22. I did not know that from the harsh conditions of the frontier stemmed cognitive traits of deep importance. Yes, America was a civilized country now, but the coarseness and strength, the pragmatism and restless energy, the individualism and good cheer, all these remained from the conquest of the frontier.

Little did I know, that atypically warm October afternoon, that the lone rider would change my life forever, and permanently alter my views of life, of human nature, and the burning vision of the American West. All of these thoughts, of course, were far from my young mind as the rider approached. I noticed that his soft buckskin jacket was of good quality. His black boots were covered with dust, but the quality was apparent.

Inadvertently, I raised the 22 as I walked out from behind the bush to greet the rider. In an instant, his horse -- big and black as night -- wheeled toward me. I did not see the motion but the rider's hand was suddenly filled with a 45 caliber revolver. The sense of panic was immediate as I looked down the bore of that deadly weapon, which seemed enormous as it pointed directly at me. And then the flinty eyes softened, crinkles formed around the edges, and he smiled. His teeth gleamed white against the deep tan of his face. Like magic, the pistol vanished from his hand. And then the tension dissipated and he was saying that a boy who kept his eyes open would make his mark one day.

In those few words, a warmth flowed from him, a warmth at odds with the sense of menace he otherwise conveyed. As that autumn went on, I would learn much about man's search for humanity, the effort to tap latent possibilities, and the struggle to establish mastery over the chaotic forces of instinct. At that point, however, I was merely trying to find my place in life as the adopted child of the unmarried schoolmarm in our high desert town. With autumn closing in, I was hoping not to have to make a move to another town.

Sam Rikker, the big man in our valley, wanted to buy the farm owned by Marion Davis, my adoptive mother. Rikker was pressuring her relentlessly. Marion had flaming locks of auburn hair and her body was fit and shapely. She resembled the young Dolores Del Rio, but Marion was in far better physical condition than any actress. Hauling water from the well several times a day had given her arms definition, and climbing the tall steps to the wooden planks of the porch had toned her spectacular legs. They were legs worthy of a dancer, which she had been. Alas, as an underpaid teacher, Marion lacked the money to keep her mortgage payments on the farm current. It was no secret that Rikker wanted her farm, which was at the delta of the Venus River. Nor was it any secret that Rikker owned the small bank in town which was pressuring Marion. Was the farm all that Rikker wanted? Oh no. It was no secret that he wanted her more than her farm.

On his enormous ranch, Rikker was surrounded by his sons and his hired hands. But he was alone. Alone except for the Western Secret lingerie catalogues which kept filling up his mailbox, the mailbox way down at the end of the long lane, the one with the longhorns on it. Many nights, alone in his study, as he heard a tapping on his window, Rikker studied the lingerie catalogue. Beaded Native-American thongs crafted by the grandfather of the man we now know as Wayne Newton. Leather chaps with white thongs. The catalogue had it all.

One day, thanks to the incompetence of the Pony Express, Rikker had gotten somebody else's Western Secret catalogue. He looked at the label and saw that it was hers. Her secret was out. It wasn't enough that Marion Davis was tantalizing. Oh no, now Rikker knew she also wore silken lingerie. In his mind, as he pondered late at night, staring into the fireplace, he wondered if the rumors about the dazzling schoolmarm could be true. Supposedly, she had once danced at saloons under the name "Shy Ann Autumn." Night would find her at Rosa's Cantina, where music would play and "Shy Ann" would whirl.

Rikker had practically memorized the Western Secret lingerie catalogue. And he had long suspected that underneath Marion's cooly formal exterior, a volcano of passion smoldered. He could imagine the garments concealed by her high-necked, long-sleeved cotton dresses -- in particular, he pictured her in the sexy satin and opulent color of the Victorian red chemise with plunging neckline and high slits on page 35.

Could he picture it? Oh yes, he could. Her lithe, tan limbs writhing in the dim light. Her sensual body surrendering to the primitive rhythms of the music from the ole upright piano. And, in his fevered imagination, he also pictured her wearing Western Secret treasures like the clinging satin slip from page 31, in cherry/pink or nude/angelskin, with non-adjustable garters and thigh-high satin-top stockings. No, he thought bitterly, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. What right had she to tease him with the knowledge of her playfully seductive lingerie? None, none at all, and he would make her pay with her ranch if it was the last thing he did.

Alone in the vast great room of his huge log house, with its ceiling 30 feet high, staring into his enormous river rock fireplace as the fire crackled, Rikker pictured Marion in a fringed leather thong. In his mind's eye, he could see the little fringes teasing her smooth, tan flesh. Yes, Rikker had seen the advertisements at the back of the Western Secret catalogue, including the 12" mini-whip. In his fevered mind, he could imagine the prim and proper schoolmarm on his gigantic bed, her lush curves naked and exposed save for the fringed leather thong. In his fantasy, Marion was begging him to tease her with the mini-whip, pleading with him to let the little strands taunt her golden thighs, her luscious hips. Over time, as the howling winter winds blew down from the surrounding mountains, such images drove Rikker to the point of madness. And beyond.

And so, as autumn moved inexorably toward winter, a crisis was building in the valley. Nobody could predict the outcome, but everybody sensed that an explosion of some sort was coming. All of these thoughts whirled through my mind as the lone rider brought his horse to the water trough, stepped off, and threw cold water on his face. His long black hair, straight and thick, fell down over his face, then was swept away as he rose. He was of average height, but there was something compressed about him, an air of coiled power. A chill, like the chill of an early fall.

His clothing was of excellent quality, though worn from what looked like a long, long ride. The overall effect of the stranger's clothing was of worn elegance. His gunbelt was black leather, intricately tooled, and I recalled the way the 45 had appeared in his hand, the movement too rapid for the naked eye. And it appeared that the word "naked" was on the stranger's mind too, for he had caught his first glimpse of the schoolmarm as she placed a warm apple pie on the windowsill to cool.

He looked at her. She looked at him. Their eyes met, as if across a crowded room, and it was then that I first suspected that his chance appearance was an act of destiny. Oh, not that I knew such fancy words back then. But there was something about the length of their gaze, something palpable. Even as a little kid, it made me wonder. And I heard Marion introduce herself to him, explain her situation, and indeed explain her predicament. Life was like that; sometimes people poured their hearts out to people they had known for 5 minutes. And I heard him say his name was "Cade." No last name was offered, and Marion did not press the issue.

Later that evening, as the sunset burned blood red streaks into the big sky, Cade bathed in the old metal tub on the back porch. Watching, I wondered what he had done to get such muscles. And the scar, the larger one, which snaked across his chest and arm. I wondered why he had propped his lever-action Winchester within easy reach even while washing. And, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the curtain over the kitchen window rustle, which meant that Marion had also glanced out at the stranger as he washed off the months of trail dust.

At dinner, the stranger happened to notice, atop a copy of Origin of Species (1859), a notice advertising the annual arm-wrestling championship. The winner, year after year, was none other than Sam Rikker. The prize was an enormous sum of inflation-adjusted money, a sum sufficient to buy a farm. But every year cowpokes came, and every year they lost to the mighty right arm of big Sam Rikker.

As Cade scrutinized the flyer, I could not help but notice a small smile cross his face, followed by a grimace. Even as a child, I tried to understand that fleeting emotion. Perhaps Cade had injured, or even killed, another man in some brutal, lawless arm-wrestling contest long ago and far away? Perhaps a crashing blow from that strong right hand had sent a Louisiana fellow to the promised land? Perhaps, in an effort to escape his violent past, he had elected to wander in a western direction, to start anew?

It was all speculation, just the thought process of a child, but the tension had been building all summer in the valley. I could not help but think that the Western Heritage Autumn Festival, the highlight of the little town's year, would prove particularly eventful. For Marion, the summer months had been excruciating. First, there was the matter of money to preserve her farm. Secondly, she had been frustrated by nonreceipt of her favorite lingerie catalogue.

After dinner, which was early as a consequence of the fading autumnal light, I saw Cade step outside and pick up an axe. He moved to the big stump in the yard, the one in the way of everything, the one nobody had the diligence to remove. When he began to work on the stump, his pace seemed slow, but soon I saw that it was measured. Cade was pacing himself against the tree stump, pausing to drink water as he began to sweat, removing layers of clothing as the chore became more aerobic. And then, with his slow, steady pace, a third was finished, then a half, and soon the almost impossible task was nearly done.

Sweat glistened on his naked torso, and Marion had walked outside to see the stump removed. He tried to lift the stump, and failed. I saw his body slump, and felt the agony of defeat. Then I saw it. A strange light began to burn in his eyes, the muscles in his body flexed, a wave of energy burned through him, and the stump was lifted. I looked over at the schoolmarm and noticed a Mona Lisa smile on her face. Cade glanced over at her and saw that the flyer for the arm-wrestling contest was in her hand. A look of pain crossed his face.

As always, the arm-wrestling contest and its vast cash prize were the talk of the valley as the great day neared. Cade heard the talk, of course, during his routine visits to town to pick up supplies. And he heard the people express their fervent hope that somebody, some strong young man, would one day come along and defeat Rikker. If only, if only. But Cade did not sign up for the contest. Nor did he acknowledge its existence.

But late one night, I heard murmuring from the front porch and knew Marion and Cade

were discussing the contest. From the pleading note in Marion's voice, I surmised she

was entreating Cade to defeat Rikker on our behalf. But then her voice changed, and the snippets of converstion I could hear seemed to strike a more confidential tone. The cadence of their talk slowed, then stopped. Worried that perhaps they had fallen asleep and would catch an ague from the night air, I peered around the the corner of the house, but when I saw Marion and Cade locked in a deep embrace, their bodies straining against each other, I thought it tactful to retreat to the barn for the night.

Given my absence, little did I know that Marion was gasping, pushing her corset lacings to their limit, as Cade's arms crushed her to his sinewy frame. She ran her hands over his rock-hard biceps, fleetingly thought what an effective workout stump-removal must be, and then let herself be swept away by the urgent need she felt coursing through her supple body. His hands adroitly undid the pearl buttons at the back of her dress, and made just as short work of her petticoats. When the voluminous garments fell to the porch floor, he took one piercing look at her sleek cherry-red bustier and garterbelt and swiftly gathered her into his arms. With one stride, Cade was through the door and had laid Marion gently on the feather bed. Wantonly, Marion worked his belt free of his jeans, whipped his shirt off, and pulled him down to her. Drawn to that long scar that intersected his chest, she traced it lightly with her fingers, then her tongue, but as his fingers nimbly began on the hooks of the bustier, she forgot all about it and began to help undo her fetching but labor-intensive lingerie.

Marion's skin was as delicate and creamy as unbruised magnolia petals, contrasting against the lace-up back corset bustier she woere, itself as vermilion as the Venus River itself. Ever mindful of the punishing sun of the prairie, she had kept her skin soft and supple with daily application of sunscreen and nightly applications of moisturizer. Now she was glad, for as Cade's calloused fingers ran over her body, she felt her skin calibrate to his excitement with every touch. But looking down at his sand-scourged chaps, he suddenly swooped her up into his arms and carried her back onto the rear porch, lowering her gently into the water which was warm from the day of soaking up the hot sun. Doffing his own clothes, he joined her and she playfully sluiced water over his tanned skin. Though roomy, the old tub was not intended for two, and Marion and Cade were pressed tightly together, which suited both fine.

She pulled him closer to her and he nipped at her creamy shoulder, leaving a trail of rosy imprints as his gentle but persistent kisses turned, now and again, into tender love-bites. The kisses continued, tormenting Marion without mercy. The kisses moved from her shoulder to her arm. And then, as she trembled, she felt his soft lips -- and the slight scratch of his beard -- on her tummy. She looked down and he was licking tiny droplets of water off her stomach. His eyes were half-closed in passion as she watched and felt him kiss the little area where the upper thigh turns to waist.

As he began to kiss down her right leg, Marion lost control and fell back against the back of the wooden tub. When the kisses reached her right inner thigh, Marion involuntarily said "Oh" and braced her legs against the sides of the tub. It seemed as if the plain wooden tub had turned into a literal whirlpool of passion as his body moved, his lips pursuing her shapely leg, and her body writhed in pleasure.

Looking down, she saw his hair, black and long, and then she felt the shock of his kiss on her inner thigh. She trembled at the thought of what might happen. Would this rootless drifter -- this rough cowboy -- bring her to ecstasy with the maddeningly delicate kisses that seemed to move mercilessly and inexorably toward the soft, sensitive skin at the top of her thighs? Not wanting to appear wanton, she tried in vain to stop her hips from undulating in reaction to his burning kisses.

Gently, Cade pulled Marion to her feet in the tub. Still kneeling in the warm water, with the stars bright overhead in the big western sky, Cade began kissing at the side of her right leg. For some unknown reason, Cade had always liked to begin kissing at a woman's waist, and then move to the outside of her upper thigh. Not that Cade had patronized women of negotiable virtue on the frontier; he had not. But Cade had run into a few sensual women on his odyssey. And now Marion felt his kisses wend their way back around her waist, to the top of her right hip, kissing her low back. With each kiss, there was a little intake of her breath at the pleasure.

Marion shivered. And gasped as her right hip, so firm and ripe, was kissed by the lone rider. His kisses burned her hip. And then she felt it, a new sensation, a love-bite. Cade, who had ridden down the dusty trail from a mysterious past, had somewhere learned to place unbearably tantalizing little love-bites on female hips. But Marion had little time for reflection. She was too busy moaning in pleasure, and trying to keep her hips from moving. It was madness. She was dimly aware that one of his rough hands had reached around and was lazily flicking her swollen left nipple. That was her remaining rational thought. He paused, the love-bites on her right hip halted, and involuntarily Marion's right hip moved toward his lips in search of more of the little love-bites that seemed to propel her to the edge of climax, pull her back, and then push her to the brink again.

Struggling to maintain decorum, Marion could not. Her lingerie therapy had created a strong self-seduction long before the stranger had ridden down from the distant mountains. He did not light the fire, but merely noticed its presence. But such philosophical reflections were far from her mind. She reached back, grasped his hair, and tried to push him away from her hip for a second to normalize her respiration.

The tactic worked, his kisses halted, and then she turned around. It was then that she realized her tactical error. He was kneeling in front of her in the tub. She looked down as his kisses began on her stomach again, and slowly drifted lower. Marion could not believe the evening was unfolding in such a manner. In spicy novels, alone in her bedroom, she had read of such lustful hot tub pleasures. But it never crossed her mind that a dust-covered cowboy would possess any degree of erotic sophistication.

As she stood there, in the rough wooden hot tub, she threw her head back in pleasure, catching a glimpse of the stars before his kisses made her eyes close again in ecstasy. Dimly, Marion realized that her first orgasm might be powerful. But she was unprepared for its sudden speed. It struck like a jagged bolt of lightning searing its way across the open sky. It was unexpected and intense, like everything about that autumn. It was not a mundane orgasm, like her daily de-tensioning ones after a tough day at school. No, it was more like the third orgasm of a lazy Sunday. It was delicious and sweet, like warm apple pie. And it went on and on, like a political speech. Marion shuddered as the waves of pleasure hit, and clenched her teeth to avoid crying out. And the night was young.

In the morning, at breakfast, I could sense a change in the atmosphere. When Cade offered Marion some of the primitive corn flakes we made on the farm, she looked directly at him and said: "No, thanks, I've had plenty." What was the meaning of her cryptic comment? I had no idea, but it was clear that something had shifted. Even Cade, who rarely displayed any emotion, almost seemed to smile.

But time marched on and soon the day of the festival arrived. On the day of the contest, muscular young farm boys came to town, as they always did. And, one by one, Rikker bested them. The ones with technique were crushed by Rikker's raw power. The ones with strength alone found it insufficient. In the store to purchase oats for the horses, Cade watched until he could watch no more. As he entered the contest and placed his right arm on the table, he seemed almost small compared to Rikker's vast bulk. The contest was long and arduous, marked by grunts of exertion, but after a titanic struggle it became apparent that the contest was a draw. There being no clear winner, the reigning champion would retain his title and be awarded the money. Salty tears came to my eyes at the fact that Cade could not defeat the horrible Rikker.