Cheyenne

“No! Let me go!”

Fiona, tied to a totem pole, cackled helplessly as the questing fingers and stiff eagle feathers of the half-dozen copper-skinned Indian maidens, with dark braids and buckskins, sought out her most intimate spots. Like all the other female passengers on the intercontinental railway, she’d been caught entirely by surprise when the train had come to a screeching halt somewhere on the high plains of Wyoming in the cool prairie dawn, and a war party of Indian braves had come leaping aboard.

By a strange mischance, there were almost no men on the train, and the handful aboard were easily pacified by offers of whiskey and invitations to watch the upcoming fun. The women, meanwhile, had been **** out of their carriages onto the flat, rolling prairie, and there obliged to strip off all their clothing and stand completely naked under the wide blue sky. Fiona, like many of the ladies on the train, attempted to resist at first, but this just meant being pinned down by strong coppery hands and having your bodice torn.

“Nudie raids,” as the Indians called them, were of course not unknown on the frontier. Indeed, there was barely a woman west of the Mississippi who hadn’t suffered the indignity, at one time or another, of being compelled at gunpoint to step down out of her stagecoach and peel off her dress before a gaggle of jeering bandits, who always had a lot to say about the ensuing spectacle.

All efforts were normally made to embarrass, dishevel and break the composure of the adorably shamefaced nude lady victims, this being what passed for comedy among the sort of low-down ne’er-do-well rapscallions who would engage in such a nasty-minded prank. All too frequently they were made to sing The Yellow Rose Of Texas naked for their captors’ entertainment, or dance a rousing country jig to the lively strains of a fiddle.

And it often came to pass that they were dunked in molasses, doused in feathers, and left tied to wooden posts at well-trafficked rural intersections, where the pretty, fuming captive would inevitably find herself exposed to half the yokels in the county before some decent soul deigned to put an end to her humiliating predicament.

Yes, the strong-willed but modest women of the Wild West were well-acquainted with the custom of the “nudie raid”, and had often day-dreamed about putting a posse together to stamp it out once and for all. But every attempt so far had ended in failure, and the exceedingly thorough and public nudification of all the pretty, outraged posse members. So far, then, it seemed the tradition would live on.

And this, Fiona realised, with a sinking heart, had to be the greatest nudie raid yet. Over three hundred respectable ladies, Texan and Californian and German and Irish and Chinese, marching in single file naked across the great prairie, flanked by Indians on horseback who kept a sharp eye on their wiggling bare bottoms and made sure they didn’t run away. Worse, she knew from the war paint that these were soldiers of the notorious Cheekikinki tribe, famous for the countless ingenious methods they had devised to torment pretty female prisoners. What, oh, what was going to happen to them?

Suddenly, a bugle sounded.

“Look,” said the woman next to Fiona, a red-headed former sheriff of Reno, Nevada by the unlikely name of Jolene Jezebel, who’d run into some misfortune at home and elected to try her luck further east. “It’s the cavalry! We’re saved!”

And so it was. An all-female cavalry division. Blondes on horseback, in smart blue uniforms with golden buttons, dispatched from the nearby town of Cheyenne, brandishing sabres and crying “Huzzah!”. The Indians, masters of girl-roping, had every last one of the pretty lady soldiers lassoed and on the ground in about ten minutes without the slightest bit of damage to either girl or horse. They added the horses to their remuda, peeled the smart blue uniforms off the squealing girls, took the buttons as souvenirs and added the conquered lady soldiers, now naked and squirming with the sting of defeat, to their herd of captured women, with a few insultingly casual slaps of copper hands on bare white bottoms to remind the red-faced girls how easily they’d been stripped and brought down.

In only a few moments, the only difference between the former cavalry girls and the other blushing naked ladies shuffling across the plains was that the cavalry girls blushed even brighter than the rest.

Finally, after a long bare-bottomed trot across the grass, being ogled by laughing Indian braves on horseback the whole way, Fiona and the rest of the naked ladies found themselves entering a circle of wigwams. For one brief moment, they permitted themselves the luxury of believing that the dark-eyed, copper-skinned Indian maidens who lurked in the shadows of the tall, pointed tents, giggling to each other behind cupped hands, might be their allies against the muscular, painted, shirtless braves. Maybe they were in for nothing worse than being given some new clothes, and a nice cup of tea.

This comforting fantasy lasted for about a minute and a half.

“Please,” whimpered Fiona pathetically, squirming and thrashing her hips against the tight buckskin bonds that held her fast to the totem pole, “please, please stop! I’ll do anything! Stoohohohooop!”

The Cheekikinki maidens didn’t stop, of course. They’d painted every inch of her skin with a sensitising unguent, brewed from sacred herbs, that made the tickling feel approximately a thousand times worse. They had tiny stiff-bristled brushes for her nipples, labia and clit which inflicted the most exquisite torments on those extremely sensitive regions, and they were using them with gleeful abandon. Oh, and one of the Indian braves was standing by, allowing two of the maidens to idly toy with his magnificent copper-coloured 6.5-inch erection, in case they decided it would be funny to see Fiona fucked.

All around her, the naked captive girls from the train were getting the same treatment, Texans and Californians and Germans and Irish and Chinese alike. Squeals and hysterical giggles split the cool spring air as the girls writhed in the grass, some in the open air, some dragged off into the shadows of wigwams. Thighs parted, breasts bounced, bottoms wiggled, copper-coloured fingers stroked and squeezed and tweaked and tantalised and dragged eagle feathers across bellies and hips and clits.

And, much later on, once the tickling and teasing and squirming and fucking was all done, the girls would be marched back across the prairie to a certain spot of grassland a few miles outside Cheyenne. They’d be bound hand and foot, gagged with leather and painted with the traditional Indian marks of shame, red stripes on their breasts and buttocks that wouldn’t wash off for weeks. A bundle of eagle feathers would be shoved up each girl’s bottom, to make a tail she couldn’t remove, and more feathers would be plaited into her hair. And she would be cursed by the tribe’s most powerful shaman, He-Who-Laughs-In-Winter, to ensure that humiliating misfortune would follow her wherever she went, and it would always be her destiny to find herself embarrassed and naked in public. (The curses were 100% effective, of course, and most of the girls had very interesting future careers.)

And they’d be left to hop back into the thriving little prairie town of Cheyenne, where the train would hopefully be waiting for them. Plus the whole town, laughing hysterically, with zero sympathy for their misfortune, and dozens of photographers from every major American newspaper (who’d all been tipped off by the Cheekikinkis.)

The comic photos of the hundreds of utterly mortified nude girls hopping down Cheyenne’s Main Street, with eagle feathers sticking out of their bare bottoms, would go on to become some of the most famous images ever to emerge from the Wild West. The girls, much to their chagrin, were soon to become legends. They would live forever in infamy as the squirming red-faced victims of the legendary Great Wyoming Train Stripping, the biggest and boldest Indian nudie raid of all time.