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Sunday, November 02, 2014

Another Sexy Spanking Cowboy ...

I'd like to share an extract from Mail Order Mary. Mary has journed from England to America, only to find things don't turn out quite as she had planned ... but a stranger steps in to help ... a handsome cowboy who has no qualms in turning her over his knee for a spanking when she misbehaves. And she misbehaves a LOT!


The heat of the afternoon was intense, and the odour of the place was appalling, being a mixture of cattle and horse dung, stale beer and sweat. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, then resolutely picked up her bag and headed off to the building across the road which bore a saloon sign. It was as good a place to start as any!

She received many admiring looks and cat calls from various men, for the sight of an attractive single woman was a rarity. Ignoring them, Mary pushed her way through the saloon doors and stepped inside. The hum of conversation hushed as she made her entrance and all eyes turned towards her.

Mary swallowed, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and took a few steps more. "I'm looking for Isaiah Bean. Can someone please tell me where I can find him?"

No one responded, but Mary noticed that several people turned their gaze from her to a weasel-faced old man with a mop of unruly grey hair sitting at one of the tables surrounded by several empty glasses. His right arm was around the shoulders of a brassy-haired saloon girl, her breasts straining to be free of the tight fabric of her low-cut bodice. The man stared at Mary; what teeth he had left were stained dark brown. Trickles of beer ran down his chin into his wispy grey beard. He wiped his mouth with a dirty, ragged sleeve.

"Yeah? Who's askin'?"

Some instinct warned her not to answer that question. She stared back at the old man, and the sinking feeling she experienced when she walked into this place intensified ten fold. With an effort, she kept her voice level. "I'm asking. Where is he?"

"He's right here, pretty lady," he cackled and patted his lap, shaking off the embrace of the saloon girl. "Come sit with Isaiah," he said gleefully.

Mary felt the world spin as the blood rushed from her head. She staggered and grabbed hold of a chair to help keep her upright. "You? You're Isaiah Bean?"

"I sure am. And who might you be?"

"No one." Mary shook her head, reeling in disbelief.

A speculative look crossed Isaiah's weather-beaten face. "Say ... you look like you've been travelling awhile. And you don't talk like the rest of us. Where you from, huh?" He got up from his chair and lurched towards her. "I got an idea who you might be. I'm darned sure I'm right. You'll be my wife come over from England. You'll be Ruby Fairweather!"

"No," whispered Mary. "I'm not she."

"Oh but I think you are," said Isaiah. He lunged forwards and deposited a wet kiss on Mary's lips, his hands pawing her rear.

"Uggh! Get your stinking hands off me, you loathsome little man!"

Isaiah's look turned mean. "It ain't good to insult your intended husband lady. It ain't good at all." He grabbed her and leaned in for another kiss. But this time Mary was prepared. She balled the fingers of her right hand into a fist and punched him on the nose. There were many guffaws of delight from the crowd at this unexpected display of entertainment - a delight not shared by Isaiah. He blinked in surprise, then bellowed out his anger as blood spurted from his nostrils. He raised his right arm to strike her a heavy blow, but was intercepted by a restraining hand on his arm.

"Hold it, Bean. Leave the lady be."

"What's it to you, Miller?" Isaiah turned and aimed a punch at the cowboy, who deftly sidestepped it then delivered an upward blow to Isaiah's chin, sending him sprawling on the floor.

Isaiah dragged himself upright and aimed a punch at the big cowboy, who again deftly stepped out of the way, so Isaiah's blow hit someone else - who retaliated at once. It wasn't long before a full scale brawl was taking place, guys joining in the fist fight just for the hell of it. During the mayhem that ensued, Mary tottered out of the saloon on wobbly legs. The bright sunlight hit her and the heat ... oh such terrible heat ... she gasped and felt dizzy, and would have fallen had it not been for a steadying hand on her arm.

"Here, take my arm," said the stranger. It was the same cowboy who had intercepted Isaiah's blow. He was a giant of a man, tall, broad-shouldered, with heavily muscled arms and powerful thighs. A pair of vibrant blue eyes pierced her own. "Where are you heading?"

"I ... I don't know. I've nowhere to go and I've used up most of my money, and ... and I don't feel well." Mary staggered along as pulsing waves of dizziness sent her reeling. And then there came the respite of welcome darkness.

When she came to, she was sitting on a sack of flour in the back of a covered wagon and the stranger held a cup of water to her lips.


"I don't want-"

"I said drink."

She drank, and drained the cup, and began to feel a little better. The man hunkered down opposite her regarded her thoughtfully. "Feeling better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"So you're Isaiah's mail order bride?"


"You're not Ruby Fairweather then?"


He raised an eyebrow. "That's not what it says here." He held up a piece of paper.

"Oh! You've been snooping in my luggage! How dare you!"

The stranger merely shrugged. "While you were in a faint I looked for some identification. And I found it - Ruby."

"But I'm not Ruby," she wailed.

The stranger gave her a hard stare. "Ain't no need to lie. I don't hold with liars."

Mary bit her lip. "Look, I don't know who you are, but-"

"I'm Nathan Miller."

"Mr Miller. You've shown me kindness and I appreciate it. Please believe me when I tell you my name isn't Ruby Fairweather. It's Mary Grace Ashford. I'm the daughter of Sir Henry Ashford, and my mother is Frances, Lady Ashford of Ashford Hall, Surrey, England. I ran away."

"You what?" His eyes widened in surprise. "You ran away from England?"

So Mary began to tell him her story, and once she started, the words flowed freely. It was a relief to unburden herself. She told him everything, leaving nothing out. "So imagine how I felt when I got here to find that ... that horrible stinking little man is the one I'm supposed to marry. Kitty warned me. I should have listened. I just dismissed her warnings and said I wouldn't marry anyone if I didn't want to, and that I would have enough money to carve out a new life for myself. Only ..." Tears welled up behind her eyes. "... I haven't even got enough left for the passage home, and I don't know what to do!" She covered her face with her hands and although she tried desperately hard not to cry, hot salty tears trickled down her face.

Nathan leaned back. This was an unexpected development. She was a pretty little thing. Courageous. Spirited. He liked that. But stupid also to place herself at such risk. And headstrong ... probably stubborn as a mule and used to getting her own way, coming from a family of quality and wealth. He pondered the options: he could give her the money for her passage home; he could give her a sum of money to stay in the town - but what would she do in the long term if she stayed here alone? He wasn't going to have Isaiah Bean putting his grubby paws on her again. Or ... he could take her home to the ranch.

"Here," he said gruffly, handing her a none too clean handkerchief. "Dry those tears. You're coming with me."

Mail Order Mary is available for Kindle from Amazon and in a variety of formats from LSF Publications:

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