Bushwhacked by Cactus Sal!

Every last inhabitant of Reno was waiting for Fiona and Jolene when they finally hopped back to town. Judge Jackson. Father Dockerty. Mr. Raffles, who ran the general store. Peggy Ping, who owned the Chinese laundry. Roxanne, who managed the saloon. Ms. Arabella Pumperknuckle, who headed up the local chapter of the Ladies’ Moral Decency League. They lined the porches of Main Street, some regarding the girls with the cold contempt of moral condemnation, others laughing hysterically and making lewd remarks.

“Well, now,” said Judge Jackson, tall and serene in his robes of office, stepping forward to greet them. “Where on earth have you two young ladies been?”

Fiona and Jolene exchanged worried glances. How could they explain that Jolene had finally been made to strip out of her pink panties and dance a naked jig to the strains of a country fiddle, while the gathered outlaws fell about in laughter, before lying down over Cactus Sal’s knee and loudly apologising for being such a naughty little sheriff while her bottom was spanked firmly with a wooden spoon? The whole gang had gotten the opportunity to disgrace Jolene, groping her tits and squeezing her bottom and passing her round the campfire to be toyed with like a helpless little ****.

And, as the most bitter indignity, Lopez had bent Jolene over a convenient fallen log and fucked her in front of everyone, making her gasp and squeal her way to a very public naked sweaty orgasm, her red hair clinging to her cheeks and neck as she moaned and struggled and threw her limbs about with wild abandon. While Fiona sat naked on Cactus Sal’s lap, yelping and squirming as the soft-but-strong hands of her villainous doppelganger roamed over her **** bare body, pinching and tickling and stroking and, inevitably, dipping between her legs to investigate the forbidden wetness that lurked therein.

And, all the while, the country fiddle played on.

Many more mortifications had awakened the girls, during the long hours of their captivity at the hands of the cruelest and most perverted gang of outlaws in the whole Wild West, before they were finally put to bed. To be specific, their breasts and pussies were daubed with an ancient Native American ointment derived from certain cacti, which produced an intolerable tickling sensation like a thousand tiny cactus needles dancing over the skin, and which was also an incredibly powerful aphrodisiac. And then they were stuffed together into a buckskin sleeping bag, face to face, skin to skin and nipple to nipple, with no way to wriggle free.

It had been a very long and awkward night.

And, the next morning, they’d been set off down the long road back to Reno in hats, boots and Jolene’s gunbelt, wrists tied behind their back and ankles bound together so they could only move in awkward little hops. Sal had kept Jolene’s horse, of course. The road, as it happened, was heavily trafficked with stagecoaches, couriers and farmhands on horseback, but not one of them stopped to help the hopping nude girls out.

Jolene, looking into Judge Jackson’s wide, warm, amused face, considered for a second how best to explain all this, and settled for not bothering. “Just untie me already,” she snapped, her own face burning as yokels gawked at her from windows and looky-loos peeped at her from storefronts. “Can’t y’all see I’ve been bushwhacked?”

“Why, that’s plain as day. Why else would our own Sheriff Jolene Jezebel be standin’ in the fair streets of Reno, all roped up and nekkid as a jaybird, side by side with what we can all plainly see is the notorious outlaw Cactus Sally? But who bushwacked you?”

“Cactus Sally did.”

“Well, now, that hypothesis don’t exactly hold no water. For, if y’all were bushwhacked by Cactus Sally, why’s Cactus Sally standin’ here beside you, in exactly the same nekkid condition as your own pretty self?”

“This ain’t Cactus Sally! It’s an Englishwoman travellin’ round the world who just so happens, by sheer coincidence, to look exactly like, er,” Jolene faltered. “Cactus Sally,” she finished, lamely. “So if you’d care to untie us now…”

Judge Jackson shook his head sadly.

“Not that you ain’t mighty persuasive,” he said, “but let me offer you an explanation of an alternative sort of a kind. Cactus Sally here offered you a slice of her treasure, which rumour has it is buried in an old mine just west of Reno. In exchange, you violated your oath of office and agreed to let her go. But Cactus Sally’s gang, sick of her wicked ways, bushwhacked you both, took the treasure for themselves and left y’all in your current amusin’ predicament.”

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd. Jolene glanced left and right, her red hair flying every which way, her tall rangy body, small pert strawberry-nippled breasts and unkempt ginger bush all targets for ribald remarks and insolent jibes from the laconic cowgirls and cowboys assembled on balconies and rooftops. “Come on, folks! Y’all know me! I’m your sheriff! I ain’t the kind of woman who'd do a thing like that!”

“First time for everything,” shrugged Judge Jackson. “Luckily, I already got the punishment in mind.”

Jolene tried to make a run for it, and was quickly brought down by a dozen laughing cowgirls as Fiona, who had been cautiously sneaking towards a nearby alley the whole time, made an effort to do the same. Ms. Arabella Pumperknuckle of the Ladies’ Moral Decency League had been keeping an eye on her, however, and dragged her back into the town square at the end of an umbrella. The two cursing, shouting women were then doused from head to toe in molasses and feathers, and paraded all through the bustling streets of Reno, protesting their innocence in loud voices and squealing their little hearts out as the town’s three thousand or so inhabitants gathered to jeer and boo at the girls’ shameful condition.

Embarrassment didn’t even begin to cover it. It was public humiliation, pure and simple, and the two squirming lovely ladies despised every last second of it, as their sticky bare breasts and bottoms were immodestly exposed to a hollering audience of grubby-handed prospectors, ill-mannered frontiersmen, sneering saloon girls and scandalised shopkeepers in wire-rimmed spectacles. Judge Jackson marched behind, chanting “SHAME!” and ringing a bell, as the whole town turned out to laugh at the utterly humiliated naked ladies, and remind them not to do it again.

And then they were clapped in the stockade in front of the sheriff’s office, bent over, bottoms raised in the air, for the entertainment of whoever came along. Which happened to be the entire local membership of the Ladies’ Moral Decency League, lead by Ms. Arabella Pumperknuckle, with very stern expressions on their faces, brandishing wooden spoons.

Fiona and Jolene squealed helplessly, breasts jiggling below them, facing down a crowd of laughing waitresses and roustabouts from the saloon opposite, as their rapidly reddening bottoms were peppered with fierce blows from dozens of wooden spoons.

Arabella stood by, giving them a stern lecture on moral rectitude and decency. The girls were obliged to confess their sins at length, including lustful thoughts, masturbation, general silliness and letting boys see their tits, and to ask the LMDL politely if they could please have a number of very firm strokes to the backside with a leather tawse. These were duly delivered, making the girls shriek to high heaven, with one extra at the end since they hadn’t said “thank you” quickly enough.

And then they were left to wait out the rest of the day. Fiona and Jolene, two utterly humiliated and very nude young ladies, faces and bare bottoms both glowing bright red as they were exhibited naked in the public stockade for all of Reno to see. The saloon across the street soon grew very busy as people gathered from all over town to amuse themselves at the furious, embarrassed and helplessly nude women’s expense.

“Well, how about that,” said Sam Clemens, correspondent for the Territorial Enterprise, popping by to snap a picture. “Almost makes me want to write a story.”