Wild West Wife

I came across a very detailed diary of my great, great, grandmother (GGG) that was handed down through the generations in my family. Oddly, other relatives had no interest in it, but I was completely intrigued by it after reading the first fifteen pages or so, resulting in me claiming it for myself alone. I'm not sure that other members of my family would be excited that I'm writing about my GGG's life on literotica, but since none of them even know that I'm on this site, and since none of them bothered to read up to the point that will interest literotica users, they'll never know. Plus, I've changed my GGG's name, geographical locations, and other details (although all of the other names are real the best that I can determine) including her age at the start of the story (to comply with literotica requirements). Therefore unless someone is inquisitive enough to look up more than century-old records from small towns in the Western U. S. no one will ever find her real name, or that of her kids.

I use the language of the times in this story -- the language my GGG used, although I have significantly abridged her story, and elaborated on some of the sex details. I tell the story just like she was writing it herself -- in the first person -- and some paragraphs are essentially verbatim quotes (to the extent that I can make out her handwriting). For those of you unfamiliar with the jargon of the Old West, at the end of the story I provide a dictionary,

I couldn't help myself in putting in a few of my own comments -- forgive me in advance, I'm weak!

Here goes!

****************

I was born as Rebecca Ann Sterling in Philadelphia in the 1870s. Since I had an aunt Rebecca, everyone called me Becca or Ann, never by my full first name. I was an anomaly in my prissy (to me anyway) family of eight (two brothers and three sisters) since I didn't follow most of the conventional sex roles of the time. I never wore a back staircase and I thought that it was stupid that boys or men got better educations, could wear pants, could compete in contests of speed and strength, could fight, and could vote and I, as a woman, supposedly couldn't.

Also, my language was not up to the standards of a proper Eastern lady. I was the only female I knew that not only used the word "cunt" but knew its origin (an English street word going back as far as 1250 that came from the very unfortunately named Gropecuntlane, a province once known for its sex workers).

I guess that I really was what most people called me; a hoyden. I was the only girl or woman that I knew who had bloodied half a dozen boys' noses, and got bloodied myself a couple of times.

When I was eighteen I had had enough of the constraints of proper society. I was a hell of a lot smarter than most of the people that I knew, and even though I -- like many girls/women of the time -- only went through eighth grade in school I was a voracious reader, inherently inquisitive, and unafraid to ask questions, so I knew as much as the few college educated men that were around, and was a better thinker. Maybe I was a little too full of myself, however, since I thought that I could handle anything including living in the Wild West.

I was fascinated by stories of the Wild West that appeared in Eastern newspapers and the fictionalized versions in dime novels. When I read the dime novels, however, I identified with the male heroes who set things right, not with the maidens in distress who needed rescuing. Therefore on my eighteenth birthday I resolved to make my way out West.

There was a problem, however. I didn't have much money of my own, and my parents didn't trust me to handle their money. I was supposed to find a proper city boy to marry and take care of me -- so it was difficult to make it to the prairie. My solution -- become a catalogue woman. There was a distinct shortage of marriage-worthy women out West (though apparently no shortage of Calico queens) so there was great demand.

I met with a series of "gentlemen" that I quickly determined were Bunko artists (I wasn't the least bit naïve even prior to turning eighteen) before I came across someone who was legitimate -- Johan Baxter, a principal at Halcyon Matrimonial Company. Even though Johan looked squirrely, with beady little eyes, everything that he told me rang true because he didn't try and sugarcoat things. He suggested correspondence with several gentlemen who were subscribers to his service for several months rather than just going on the basis of advertisements. Hard to believe that some men posted phony descriptions of themselves or sent phony photographs or drawings of themselves to Halcyon.

[Aside from amyyum -- you didn't think that Internet dating sites had a monopoly on this, did you? Ha, ha!]

Since the first transcontinental telegraph line had started operating in 1861, I used that -- as well as letters sent by mail -- to communicate with four different men. The one that I settled on was Ben Kilpatrick; the others were grangers or ranchers, and that life didn't appeal to me. From his photo Ben was really good looking, and he was by far the youngest "suitor," only one year older than me. He had been born in Texas, but lived in Colorado at the time.

I didn't know where Kilpatrick got his money -- he claimed he was a "businessman" -- but he sent me enough cash for me to take a train from Philly to Denver where he would meet me.

Being the smart woman that I was, much more educated about life than my peers, and wanting to enjoy some significant time before having children, I actually stole money from my parents and purchased a substantial number of Dr. Power's French Preventatives, better known as "rubbers." While they had been on the market for quite a while by the time that I purchased them -- and had been used on me several times shortly after I turned eighteen by a slick dude that I ran into when my parents were out of town and after I had been fed some corn juice -- they weren't easy to get. In 1873 the stupid pirooting Comstock Law was passed in the United States which made illegal the advertising of any sort of birth control; it also allowed the postal service to confiscate condoms sold through the mail. But being difficult to get was not the same as impossible, however, and I'm sure that my parents didn't miss the money that I stole from them until after I had already boarded the train to Colorado.

I didn't leave Philadelphia on the best of terms with my family. Only one brother knew of my plans -- he tried to talk me out of it, but swore to keep my secret until I was on my way -- and I'm sure that my parents were distressed by the terse note that I left them even though I was the black sheep of the family and they should have been glad to get rid of me.

Birth control was not the only reason that I brought the condoms with me. After the civil war, the rate of sexually transmitted diseases (stupidly called "diseases of passion") had increased rapidly and very few people were keyed into even the existence of condoms; I may not have been except for my experience with the city slicker. I resolved not to get VD. I had explained this to Ben Kilpatrick in my correspondence before accepting his long distance proposal of marriage, and he seemed to be fine with it.

The trip to Denver took almost a month -- sometimes I wished that I could have gotten on a horse and just taken off, however I didn't yet know how to ride. Riding a horse was one of the first things -- along with shooting a gun -- that I intended to learn. The trip was actually good for my ego, however. It seemed like every "unattached gentlemen" that I came into contact with wanted to make me his bride -- or at least his bed companion for a few days. I mostly politely declined, although I did hit one persistent jackass in the face with my suitcase, fortunately not spilling the contents and also fortuitously in the presence of a rather large man with a handlebar mustache who also happened to be packing iron; he intervened on my behalf and precluded any possibility of retaliation by the jackass.

****************

When I finally got to Denver there were several good things, and one bad one.

The good ones were Ben Kilpatrick's looks and his reaction to me. He was very tall, and earned his nickname the Tall Texan, and good looking. The two photographs that he had sent to me pretty well accurately depicted him, although he was even better looking in living color.

From what he said when he first laid eyes on me -- starting with the exclamation "bejabbers!" -- and from the condition of his crotch when he said it, I do believe that he might have been even more enamored of me than I was of him.

The bad thing -- I was on the rag. I was undecided on my long train trip whether or not we would be pirooting before we actually got hitched, but I thought that my menstruation cycle had precluded that possibility. Another good thing -- in fact it did not.

After Ben and I had been in each other's company for only a few hours I could tell that he was as horny as a bull sniffing a cow in heat. As delicately as I could I explained my "condition" to him. "That means that you won't get pregnant and we don't have to use a rubber" was his smiling reply.

"You have to assure me that you haven't been with a shake," I sternly responded.

"I swear on my mother's grave that I haven't," he seriously replied, with his hand over his heart. I really, really wanted to believe him because in spite of my condition I was like that cow in heat that his bull persona was after.

We got a hotel room and I would have appalled my family and friends back East by my actions. I do believe that I became a complete hussy. Ben had no sooner buried his cock in my cunt when I climaxed; the first time of many during the evening. I will say that having a bare cock up my vagina definitely beat using a condom as was the case in the only other times I pirooted. We left the hotel room bed in shambles and made a quick exit from the inn the next morning before the chamber maid could find evidence of our messy passion.

I got a quick indoctrination to riding a horse once we left the hotel. Ben had two horses and a scrub that he used as a pack animal for my two suitcases. My horse was a pied -- a really beautiful animal that was almost as large as Ben's mustang which appeared to me not fully broken in although Ben seemed to handle it easily. On our way to Colorado Springs I rode side saddle the first day. To Ben's shock, then amusement, I bought a pair of britches the next day and rode just like a cowboy. Unfortunately I was too sore to sard when we got to Ben's place outside Colorado Springs the second day despite the fact that I was even hornier than our first night. We got married by a justice of the peace the day after we arrived, and we started out our first married night with a marathon sard session even though my period was gone by then.

I hadn't yet told Ben about my keen understanding of the rhythm method of birth control. However, as soon as I decided to become a mail order bride, six months before I boarded the train for Denver, I started keeping careful track of my menstrual period. After we had pirooted ourselves almost blind for several days, I demanded that he use a condom during the fertile part of my cycle. Since he really seemed to like inserting his key into my lock, he agreed. While it wasn't as much fun as bareback as Ben put it "It's still better than anything we could do with our clothes on."

****************

The first year of married life was great. It was so much fun being away from my stifling family, and learning all sorts of new things. In addition to horseback riding -- which I quickly became very proficient at especially since I bonded with my pied in less than a month -- I learned to shoot guns. I first learned how to shoot a Winchester Lever Action 1873 rifle and then a Colt Peacemaker. I did have to learn to cut back on my cussing when around townfolk, especially avoiding the words "cunt," "sard," and "pirooting," but that was a minor concession. Actually, Ben seemed to be both amused and pleased when I cussed when it was just us two, especially during our frequent pirooting sessions.

Shortly after our one year anniversary, a complication was introduced into our married life. The complication's name was Robert Leroy Parker, who liked to be called -- for reasons that I never figured out -- Butch Cassidy. Butch was good looking and obviously a real ladies' man, although to me not nearly as good looking as he thought that he was. What I clearly didn't like about him, however, was the effect that he had on Ben. I subtly took out my disgust with him by calling him "Butcher" instead of "Butch."

Ben -- quite unusually for the time -- treated me as an equal in most things, especially since after a year of practicing I was as good a shot with the Winchester as he was, and would have been with the Peacemaker too if I didn't have to hold it with two hands because of its kickback. Around Butcher, however, Ben acted superior to me. After the first two times I "ran errands" for him when he gave me "orders" in Butcher's presence I replied "What the hell is wrong with you? You got a broken leg or something?"

Butcher laughed and then smirked "I guess the Tall Texan ain't got no control over his woman."

"What the sard is wrong with you, Butcher?" I snapped. "Control isn't the issue -- human decency is."

That ended that part of the conversation -- I couldn't tell if Butcher was amused, pissed, or pleased with my feisty personality, but I didn't really give a shit. That night, after I gave Ben a sard that he'd remember the rest of the year, I snuggled up to him and said "Don't become a jackass like your buddy Butch; I won't put up with it."

"I know," he chuckled. "I'll do my best.

In addition to Butcher at one point or another Ben introduced me to Kid Curry Logan, Harry Tracy, News Carver, and Laura Bullion (the only woman I had met up until that time that was as tough as I was), as well as several other guys that he hung out with. None of them were particularly likeable, especially Laura who I thought was always making eyes at Ben and who I was sure was a Cattle Kate. They called themselves the "Wild Bunch," and during the times that we were together at the local saloons the name seemed to fit. While they were always drinking corn juice they gave me shit for normally just sipping a cup of Arbuckle's, or a sarsaparilla. I didn't want to have any lack of control around the Wild Bunch because I didn't trust them. I also always carried with me two of Henry Deringer's .41 caliber Pocket Pistols, which were more commonly known as "derringers," when around the Wild Bunch.

Before our second wedding anniversary, Ben took off with the Wild Bunch for what he called a business trip. I never did figure out at that time what the "business" was, but it was clear that none of them liked answering questions about it. In the meantime I had set up my own business. I found out that I was good at working with leather, especially holsters, gun belts, and saddles. I could make them decorative, functional, or both, and developed a few unique designs for saddles and waist pouches that could easily hold a gun for relatively easy access although it would not be visible from the exterior.

Ben was gone for almost two months with the Wild Bunch before returning. I was almost climbing the walls while he was gone. Having gotten used to almost daily pirooting I was horny as a Longhorn steer. [I don't know if the old granger that I bought vegetables from ever figured out why I was very particular about the size and smoothness of cucumbers I got from him.] Things were especially bad when I was in my leather goods storefront on Main Street because lots of guys were obviously more interested in getting inside my knickers than they were buying stuff, some even after I let it be known that I was married to the Tall Texan. "He ain't around now is he little lady?" was a common question.

"No, but Mr. Deringer's Pocket Pistol is," was my common retort, although normally delivered with a smile just in case the cowboy would become a customer.

When Ben came back from his two month sojourn with the Wild Bunch he gave a good account of himself in bed the next few days -- although he wasn't as horny as I would have liked. He was in a chipper mood, however, when he flashed the greenback notes that he had "earned" during his business trip.

Seeing that the greenbacks were almost all crisp new notes, and $5 and $10 denominations, I became suspicious about how they had been acquired. For some reason that I couldn't really explain to myself at the time, when Ben wasn't around I wrote down the serial numbers of all of the larger bills, particularly the Silver Certificates, and the Rainbow and Bison notes, and kept the list hidden in my storefront.

It was shortly after Ben's return from his first business trip with the Wild Bunch that two of the most significant things that ever happened to me occurred. One was blatant; the other subtle.

****************

The blatant one involved Butch Cassidy.

I rode home on my pied just as things were getting raunchier than I liked at one of the local saloons, and Ben, Butch, Kid Curry, and some locals were starting to play poker after consumption of more corn juice than they should have. It was summer, hot, and unlike the vast majority of ladies of the day I normally slept naked during hot weather. I was awakened by someone banging around in the kitchen and main living area calling "Becca, Becca, are you here?" It didn't sound like Ben, so I put on a nightgown and opened the bedroom door. It was Butcher.

"What the sard are you doing here, Butcher? I'm trying to sleep; and where's Ben?" I snarled.

"Oh Ben is passed out at the saloon -- after losing at poker," Butcher chuckled, himself definitely feeling the effects of the corn juice. "And guess what he lost at poker?" he continued, now chuckling even louder as he approached me. "A night with you, Becca sweetie."

He had hold of me before I knew that he was serious, and my derringers and the Peacemaker were definitely out of my reach. He started kissing me and massaging my tits. At first I tried to resist, but it was obvious that he was too strong for me, so I needed a different approach. What I did was to play up to his male ego.

[Aside from amyyum; apparently men in the Old West were just as easy to fool as modern day guys if you stroked their egos; ha, ha!]

I stopped fighting him off, and kissed him back. Then with a smile I said "I've always wondered what pirotting you would be like, Butch, you're such a manly man. Here, give me some room to take off my nightgown so that we can get down to business."

The jackass got the biggest grin possible on his face, and backed off to take in my sweet nakedness. As I removed the nightgown, however, I slid over toward the desk in the main room of the cabin which had a metal mug on top of some papers. Still with a smile on my face I held my prodigious left tit in my left hand while I rhetorically asked "You like this udder, Butch?" as I surreptitiously grabbed the mug with my right hand. As smiling horny Butcher moved toward me to obviously suck or squeeze my tit I hit him on his left temple with the mug three times in quick succession.

The third hit was the charm. His legs collapsed and he fell to the ground. I stomped on his testicles twice as he tried to cover up with his hands, but he was too shaky to do that successfully. Then I went into the kitchen, grabbed my rolling pin, and smacked him hard on his head. He was out like a light.

Although flushed and excited from the activity, as calmly as possible I got dressed. Then I dragged Butcher toward the barn -- hard to do, but since there was a slight downward slope between the cabin and the barn it was possible. I got him under a pulley that we used for lifting bales and other heavy objects, moved his horse next to him, lifted him up with the pulley and draped him over his saddle, and tied his arms to his legs to hopefully prevent him from falling off.