Sally laid the flowers in the middle of the dirt road that ran through the city. As she pulled herself up and dusted off her dress she was a woman.
“Your old life is over,” I hollered from the storefront as a stagecoach passed and the wind lifted dirt and dust all back on her blue and white dress sending her skirt billowing around her crinoline. It was all a poor choice in my eyes, weather was too hot for a corset and all that, especially not for him.
She lifted her pale face to me, curly locks of sun-kissed brown hair following behind her and almost hissed at me.
“You leave me alone Billy Holaday,” she turned and started to walk away as the wind picked up the flowers and started tossing them about from the bouquet to Sally’s astonishment.
She started to lift her skirt in both hands and chase after them and I couldn’t stand any more and marched myself to her in my corduroys and same frock coat I wore to the funeral–I paid for it I might as well wear it.
I grabbed her thin wrist and snapped her arm back as she was trying to chase down her failed attempt at a tribute on the spot I shot her father.
“You make me sick,” she said spitting on my tanned face and fighting as hard as her little arms would allow without tearing her chemise. She was starting a little bit of a scene with people eyeing us and the only thing to do to get rid of the attention was a slap against her face forcing her to cry and set her makeup accentuating the firm blue eyes to run.
I pulled my handkerchief out, she eyed it waiting for my offering to her, and I wiped the spit from my face and dried my pencil thin mustache with the other side before returning it to my front pocket.
“You can’t do this to me,” she said, “the man who killed my father can’t take possession of me: I’m not property.”
I slapped her again.
“Your father was a horse thief and the judge said I was in my right. He was a pitiful man and you would of become pitiful if you stayed in his house.”
“They can’t make me love you,” she said raring up a slap before my hand raised to catch it.
“You’re a silly woman, Sally, you dressed entirely too well for the funeral of a horse-thief, you try to look good to the town by laying flowers, and you decide to get on the good side of the man who will take you in by attempting to commit violence. You know I could whip you for that.”
“You’re a snake of a man,” she said pulling away and finally ripping that dandy of a dress she was wearing, “you’ll never-“.
“I can and I will,” I said sternly before grabbing under her skirt and tearing at the dress so the cage and skirt fell to the ground and her exposing her bloomers.
“Why you,” she said before I gave her a mighty tug wrapping my hand around her back to pull her in close with an embrace tighter than the corset-I could see her eyes starting to soften in that moment as she tried to catch her breath.
“You pick up that mess if you want to keep it at my home. March.”
She looked as if her little head didn’t know what to do under that endless blue sky on the dirty spot of the road her father was gunned down on. Little freckles sparkling as she looks around noticing she caused another scene and thus the state of her outerwear now being underwear.
“I’ll be quick. Which way?”
She leaned down and grabbed her debris in her hands before following to the black carriage parked on the nearby street surrounded by mud. I let go of her arm and she marched following me.
“Help me with the mud,” she said when she made it to the puddle.
“It’s just a puddle,” I said already tired of having to do everything for her, “just go through it.”
It’s obvious yet she tripped and fell almost getting covered in the stuff but only managing to dirty up her undies. I could see it was getting to her. Her life had been an endless string of failures. Still, she raised her hand up asking for help: “I need a lift.”
I stared down at her and pulled my hand so she could see it, “If I give you my hand you’re going to stop this disaggreableness.”
“Yes.” She whimpered for what must of been a full minute.
“Yes what?”
She closed her eyes, “Yes, sir. Opening her eyes I could see something breaking in her. It couldn’t be her heart because her father had died, couldn’t be her shame because of her dress, it must be that sense that she was anything but what she knew herself to be.
I reached down and gave her my hand to ease her up.
“You’re riding up front,” I said, “you’re not fit to ride inside.”
She looked around as the wind began to rise up, with the dust in the area she’d have quite the time riding with Cookie.
“A gift,” I said handing the spit-soaked handkerchief to her.
—
That night at home she found herself into more reasonable clothes: a green dress fit for housework. I made sure she knew they weren’t free and pointed to a bucket and rags. It was when she was cleaning on her knees as I ate dinner she got uppity.
“You think I’m just an animal, a slave.”
“If I think you’re anything…” I didn’t finish the thought aloud, she turned looking at me with that vantage overlooking her behind and she saw how I looked at her. The dress was tight and gave a clear picture of what she had been hiding. She turned around to clean from the other direction only to realize her blouse fell down in front and gave me an even better picture.
I wasn’t eyeballing her but I looked and she saw how I didn’t hide my gaze even if she could see.
“I’m done. I’ve given you what you asked for: give me my portion of the stew and chicken.”
I sat my fork down.
“Don’t make me pull this chair back from this table, Sally. You eat when you finish the chores.”
Her hair was falling in front of her face as the ribbon holding it together began to slip.
“You can’t make me do this: you don’t deserve it.”
She gave me a piss ass smile like she wouldn’t listen to me. She would never forgive me at this rate. I pulled my chair back and grabbed her by her hair to march her outside.
“What in blazes,” she screamed as her feet tried to keep up with me. “You can’t do this,” she kept repeating as I pulled her tripping and writing ass to the tree.
“Take off the dress or it will get ruined. I’ll have you working in rags if you make me ruin the dress.”
“This isn’t even a nice dress,” she said turning and ready to strike back before seeing the whip in my hand. I’d removed my shirt and placed it on the fence, in the moonlight I must of been a sore sight.
The wind only kept up just sightly, enough to make sure we felt the cold of the desert night. Her dress came off, the moon floated overhead dwarfing everything else and leaving the spot by the old tree almost as clear as in daytime.
“What?” she asked as she worked off the last of the belongings that prevented her nudity.
“Ain’t you been disciplined before?” I ask. “Embrace the tree and prepare for the punishment. It’s just like when you were a kid.”
“My family didn’t whip me as a kid,” she testified resting her head against the tree. The ribbon tore loose from her hair and floated off into the night leaving the strands of her hair that were once kept up shuffling in the breeze.
“I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.” I pull back the whip and throw at her, her whole body shuddering a spasm before leaving her quivering against that tree waiting for more.
“I,” she tried to start but the tears began. It was all coming to head as she realized how things had imploded. Though the whip brought those feelings out of her mind.
I could see her body find itself in a position fit to take the hit. Her back starting to show the marks.
—-
maybe do a part 2. Tired. Hope someone liked this.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/8hudiy/forgiveness_mf_western_sm_old_gender_values