Riding Naed & Wet in the Rain

His face hidden in shadow beneath the brim of a black hat, the man on the train gazed out at the high desert. His eyes were gray and cold and expressionless, like a knight without armor in a savage land. The ticket-puncher asked with a bored smile: "Business or pleasure?" The tall man touched his black hat and said softly: "Business."

Miles away, Georgia O'Leaffe was riding. She was riding toward the little town in the shadow of the tall, forboding mountains. Georgia O'Leaffe had been making her way in a westerly direction that hot afternoon, her sturdy horse making slow progress in the oppressive heat of the early afternoon.

Two roads diverged in the yellow sun. And that made all the difference as Georgia decided to take a brief break from her ride. The vastness of the desert under that big sky made her feel alone on the earth. And so, as she stopped by a well near an old abandoned mine, the thought of using the old wooden bucket to have a makeshift shower first started to her mind.

Glancing around to make certain that there was no human presence, Georgia slowly unbuttoned her flannel shirt, and even more slowly removed her tight, form-fitting wrangler jeans. Sluicing water over her lean, tan arms, she happened to spill a few precious drops of water on her lace demi-bra. Given the solitary nature of her journey, she saw no harm in removing her bra and hanging it on the pommel to dry. And that act gave her such relief from the blazing high desert sun that Georgia decided, in due course, to remove her chaps.

Georgia was proud of how her lingerie coordinated with her outerwear, the sultry sage matching the faint check of the flannel, the blue of the tiny bow echoing the denim of her jeans. In fact, a lingerie aficionado such as Georgia only regretted that she was't able to wear the garter belt and stockings she'd purchased with the balconet bra and matching thong. Um, thongs. The very thought was yummy, and Georgia began to imagine a lean, tan cowpuncher kissing along her sage thong. But there was no time for fantasy, and jeans were more practical. At least most of the time. Finally, as her mid-afternoon break ended and it was time to hit the trail again, she decided to wriggle out of her faded bluejeans in the interest of coolness.

So it was that Georgia decided to ride nude to the outskirts of town. Other than a few prairie dogs, there was no carbon-based life-form to see her svelte body as she rode erect in the saddle, her tanned legs gripping the big dappled horse. Her skin gleamed golden in the bright sunshine, and tiny beads of sweat formed on her forehead. As the afternoon warmed, droplets of perspiration bloomed on her tan shoulders, hesitated, and then descended toward her swelling breasts. The steady motion of the horse, rocking slowly up and down, back and forth, lulled her into a sensual trance.

The afternoon heat, combined with her naked flesh and the movement of the horse, appealed to her sensual nature. She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of the leather saddle, and then avoiding a little puff of dust from the trail. Georgia wished that she had time to delve into the bag of sex toys loaded on the trailing pack mule. Alas, there was no time, for her journey was long and arduous. But her mind did drift back to that tour of the Orient.

She remembered well the day she first entered the little shop and saw the array of polished sex toys. Toys made of wood, ivory, and gold, in all shapes and sizes, all designed by erotic masters to tease fortunate users to delightful convulsions of pleasure. That day, years ago, she had made bold to purchase a slick dildo made of teak. It was an intriguing and non-threatening toy, perfect for preventing abstinence. She named it "William." And, given its polished surface, she began to refer to it privately as "Slick Willie."

In those days, the manufacturers of sex toys could not just opt for the simple solution of battery-powered vibration. No, quality still mattered back then, and the old ways endured. Passed down from generation to generation, sex toy makers were true craftsmen who took pride in their work. Georgia made many selections that day. She bought an ebony dildo which gleamed in the afternoon sun. She purchased tiny anal beads made of ivory upon a silken string. Georgia bought golden Ben Wa balls. Used separately or in combination, these toys delivered years of dependable, daily pleasure. As Georgia gazed upon the enticing toys, she realized that much had she travelled in realms of gold, but she stared at the toys in wild surmise, silent, upon a peak of interest.

Georgia knew that her toys would serve her well for years to come. Come? She blushed and reconsidered her Freudian slip, doing so decades before the publication of The Interpretation of Dreams. And then, with a sudden crack, the desert lightning brought Georgia back to the harsh reality of her high desert journey. Without warning, a hard rain pelted her tan, naked body. She dug her heels into the sides of her trusty horse, trying to make a little stand of trees before the storm worsened. And then, through the rain, Georgia spotted the sign reading "Black Pebble: Elevation 6200, Population 620."

In the years that followed, as Georgia purchased the saloon in town, with its two floors of rental rooms above, the wise gray heads in town did not know what to make of her. Despite her mane of brown-blonde hair, and the remarkable figure that even a long Victorian dress could not conceal, there was something different about her. Maybe it was the mysterious air of potential abandon that hung about her, emanating from the lace-up mesh corset in black and pink underneath her demure dress. It was, she thought, a corset crying out to be kissed. Every time Georgia wore it, she could picture some swarthy fellow, his eyes glazed with lust, kissing the delicate fabric of the corset, his kisses burning through the material to her tender skin.

Georgia never discussed her background, though some deduced from her knowledge of Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux that she had attended Bryn Mawr College. She did seem more educated than the rough cowboys in town, but nobody knew. Opinions varied. Some found her a free spirit, a breath of fresh air in the dusty town. Buy judgmental types frowned upon her willingness to pose as a nude model for artists who passed through. These same judgmental types, in true Peyton Place fashion, tended to sneak through the trees and try to catch a glimpse of her sensual body as she posed.

Given the small size of the town, and the lack of modern technology, the pace of life was slow. There was time to talk, and people did so. Old men rocked on the wooden sidewalk in front of the general store. Cowboys leaned on hitching posts, expertly rolling cigarettes and talking of cattle prices and cougar sightings. And, sooner or later, the talk always returned to the forbidden topic of Annabelle Sasaki, the stunningly beautiful Japanese girl who had once lived in town. Where was she? Nobody knew. Or, more accurately, nobody would say.

Georgia shrugged off the rumors. Every town had its secrets, and time marched on and made them less relevant with each passing day. But then one day, as the 3 pm train left the station, a tall stranger remained standing in the sun. His face was emotionless and cold, his eyes glinting as they raked the street. Sweeping off the porch in front of her saloon, Georgia paused, leaned on the broom, and assessed him. He was dressed in black, all black, except for the off-white shirt and black tie. She couldn't see a gun, but suspected his long coat was hiding one.

And then he turned and she noticed his left arm was missing. She stared in surprise, and her mind was filled with speculation. Had he lost an arm in the Civil War? A mining accident? The possibilities were endless, but she wondered if such a dreadful loss had caused the cold, dead look on his face. And then he was walking in her direction, and she saw a movement, and she saw the 1851 Navy Colt on his right hip. It was a big weapon, almost 14 inches long, and it underscored the seriousness of his demeanor.

And then she couldn't think because he was looming over her, inquiring about a room, and she was looking up at his even features, his tan face cleanly shaven but for a handlebar mustache. When she turned the room register around for him to sign, he took off his hat, swept a hand back over his long, straight hair, and just drew a scornful line through that section of the register. Clearly, he intended to remain anonymous. As he turned away, Georgia felt a shiver run down her spine, a strange combination of fear and -- dare she think it? -- desire.

In the next few days, as the one-armed stranger rented a horse at the livery stable and made subtle inquiries, it became clear that the worst fears of the town had been realized. The mysterious stranger was, in fact, trying to ascertain the whereabouts of Annabelle Sasaki. As this became more clear, the reception given him became more guarded. When the stranger visited the ranch of James "Big River" Cash one afternoon, the reception became overtly hostile. He was asked to get off the property and not return. The stranger, soft-spoken as always, complied.

On other occasions, Cash's cowboys tried their best to get under the stranger's skin. To no avail. Faultlessly polite, he stepped aside, moving as gracefully as a big cat, when they demanded priority on the narrow wooden sidewalks of the town. But one of the cowboys, who had been assigned by Cash to prod the big one-armed stranger, squinted at him, took a closer look, and quit his job. Asked why, he made no reply, but just packed his saddlebags and rode out of town.

The tension was palpable in the little town that day when the stranger pushed through the swinging doors of Georgia's saloon at 1 pm and asked if he could still get a bowl of chilli for lunch. One of Cash's toughs, a man named Ernie, scowled and insulted the stranger. But the stranger merely smiled. And then Ernie reached over and put out his little black cigar in the stranger's chilli. A slight smile crossed the stranger's face, but he did nothing. Two of the other of the cowboys came up to push the stranger off the barstool. But suddenly he was not there, and Ernie was choking, his hand clasped to his throat. And, with equal speed, the other cowboy was doubled over in pain as well. The third of Cash's cowboys, sensing that discretion might be the better part of valor, ran out the door. It was over in seconds, and the saloon doors were the only sound, swinging back and forth.

The outbreak of violence -- and, more particularly, the swift and savage nature of the one-armed man's decisive reaction -- was the talk of the small town. The stranger had invited gossip before, with his dark good looks, his menacing appearance, and his missing arm. But now it was different. Two strong cowboys had been vanquished by a man with one arm, and a third had fled. Using a deadly martial art, he had easily disposed of the roughnecks who had been assigned by Cash to harass him. But why was he in town? What was his business there? Why was Cash so concerned?

That evening, as it happened, Georgia was posing for an artist who would be serving that autumn as a visiting professor. At the appointed time, Georgia appeared at the red rock canyon outside of town, a place she often used as a posing location. The harsh rocks provided an excellent counterpoint to her soft tan skin. And the little stream, meandering between the cliffs, made a pleasant place for nude posing. Artists, amateur or professional, admired Georgia's beauty for reasons both esthetic and sensual.

For her part, Georgia was a bit of an exhibitionist at heart, and she used care with diet and exercise to preserve, protect, and defend her taut, shapely form. It excited her to think, on the days before she would pose, that her lithe body would be seen by a lust-filled male. She enjoyed providing a visual tease because it was part of the vast cycle of desire, in which a wisp of lingerie tantalized the wearer as well as the viewer. Georgia dressed to incite desire, and this excited her. She could see the excitement she caused in the men who painted her, as they struggled to conceal their erections behind the easel. And that, in turn, made her writhe even more suggestively on the blanket as she posed. She was confident that Fredric Remington would have lost focus under such circumstances.

On the day she would pose, Georgia would begin to prepare several hours ahead of time. She would paint her toenails and fingernails. And shave her pubic hair until she was as smooth as new saddle leather. And she would cover her entire body with scented oil. Her nipples would swell as her oil-laden fingers danced over them. Her hips would tingle as she applied a light sheen of oil to them.

But Georgia -- ever the prudent hedonist -- was careful to avoid having an orgasm on a day she would pose. She would gently, oh so gently, pinch her nipples to make them swell, but she would not permit herself to enjoy a climax until after she had posed, the theory being that her sexual tension would contribute to better posing. And so, as Georgia posed, she was constantly looking forward to her post-posing orgasms, when she would writhe and undulate in ecstasy, savoring wave after wave of pleasure. It was this smoldering sensuality which artists admired.

As Georgia waited for the professor to paint her that evening, she saw a tall rider approach on a horse. Protectively, she gathered her robe tightly around her on the canyon rock where she sat. With a start, she realized it was the one-armed stranger. Dismounting, he explained, in that soft voice, that he had sought and received permission from the professor to take his place that evening. The stress of his mysterious quest, it seemed, had caused the one-armed stranger to seek a peaceful interlude, a moment of relaxation. And, as it happened, the stranger had once been an amateur artist.

He did not finish his explanation. He did not explain what dark destiny had taken him away from the world of art, but it was immediately apparent to Georgia that he had the eye of an artist as he dashed off a sketch. Her reluctance to pose for him began to vanish as she noticed his hawk-like eyes on her cleavage in the dressing gown. And Georgia thought that it might be fun to tease him with her lush nudity, to feel his hungry eyes as they feasted on her body.

And so Georgia spread out the blanket on the sandy bank of the stream. She turned away from the stranger and slowly, slowly dropped her robe. She heard, but did not see, his gasp of visual pleasure, but it gave her a sense of satisfaction to know that he appreciated the long hours of physical exercise it took to keep her body in such delicious condition. And "delicious" was the word. Every evening, after her bath, Georgia paused in front of the mirror and acknowledged, more in candor than in hubris, that her figure was as delicious as warm, crumbly apple pie.

As Georgia reclined on the blanket, she watched him watching her. She saw the hunger. She knew that only social decorum prevented him from replacing his burning glances with even more burning kisses. He had switched his pencil for pastels and he began to render faithfully the shadows between her breasts as they deepened from violet to indigo. Against the warm peach of her skin, the simple curves took on a radiant clarity of line and color. She sensed that his need to draw her blended with a more primal need, yet he would not yield to his carnal desires till he had conquered his artistic impulse.

Georgia admired his fervor even as she divised ways to thwart it. She stretched, letting her fingers trail over the slight curve of her abdomen, and then dip downward ever so slightly. She let her fingers further brush her hipbones as though whisking away imaginary dust and wondered if she might drive the stranger to cut off his ear in a fit of lust and mail it to her via Pony Express. Alarmed at the prospect, she stilled her fingers and concentrated on the sunset.

Before long, however, as she posed nude before the stranger, Georgia's sensual nature emerged. She had laboriously prepared for the posing session. The grooming, the nail-painting, the shaving, and the oiling -- not to mention the building anticipation of being seen naked -- had created in her a hunger for sensual release. Not wishing to seem unprofessional, Georgia casually let her right arm brush her right nipple, casually let her right hand brush down her side, as if touching a little bit of the oil gleaming on her body. And then, as if to scratch an itch, Georgia allowed her right hand to run over the firmness of her right thigh. She glanced up and the stranger was watching, mesmerized.

With a tiny inner smile, Georgia wondered what the stranger would think if he knew that she would really prefer to be playing with her ample collection of sex toys while he watched. Still, given the stranger's quickly-made reputation, she considered that teasing him might be playing with fire. And though fire was what she hoped to ignite, it was not precisely that kind. Yes, more of a fire in his loins. Georgia imagined his own fingers trailing over her hipbones, grasping them in shameless hunger as she let her own wantonness guide her. Would their encounter be as torrid as she imagined it? Somehow, she thought so. Measured in Scoville Units, she felt their passion would rate with a jalapeno pepper drenched in Tabasco and roasted with a blowtorch.

She heard a rustle and realized that the stranger had put down his pastels and finished his drawing. Georgia glanced up to find his piercing eyes looking directly into hers. She uncoiled herself from the rock and moved toward him as instinctively as a horse toward water, feeling their combined erotic potential pulsing in every nerve of her body. When she stood before him, she leaned in and kissed him first, but that decision was her last conscious thought. The instant their skin met, she was swept away by a powerful erotic charge and she couldn't stop running her hands over his hardened muscles and through his rainwater-soft hair. She tasted the salty edge of his collarbones and licked his neck as he pulled her against him till she was breathless.

Time seemed to halt as her breath became more ragged. She felt a moment of pity as she wondered if his single arm would present a barrier of some sort, but her thought process was halted by the electric feeling of his lips on her left nipple. She looked, her eyes heavy, and the sight of him kissing her nipple was even more erotic. Then she felt his one arm on her back, and his hand was teasing her spinal column, and then it was caressing her firm hips. The sensations began to multiply as his lips mercilessly taunted her left nipple, and then she felt him kissing his way down her side. Georgia twisted a bit, but moaned as she felt his hand gently spank her left hip, and then kiss the area of the gentle little spanks. Lost in pleasure, she twisted again. Her eyes opened briefly, looked out at the stream shimmering in the twillight, and then her eyes closed in ecstasy as his tongue found her shaven labia. The last reserves of inhibition blew away like a stray tumbleweed and she lifted her hips toward him, eager for his wet, soft touch as shivers of pleasure consumed her.

In the morning, the one-armed stranger was at the telegraph office. To eliminate gossip, he had banished the clerk and sent the message himself. In a few days, a "For Sale" sign appeared in front of the entrance to the Cash ranch. "Big River" Cash vanished and was never seen again. Rumors circulated like wildfire, but the precise details were never known in the little town. By way of explanation, the stranger spoke not a word.