Trible Indians fuck
This is tha tale that I read in a book. It is not real tha story goes this way. The beautiful young woman was on her way, in a coach and under military escort, to the commander of Fort Hayden in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. They were only a short distance from their destination when the small tribe of renegade Indians attacked them. There was little hope the coach could outrun the swift horses of the attackers, and there were only two soldiers and the coach driver against at least six Indian braves. The driver passed a rifle through the window to the commander’s wife and told her to hold on tight and not to waste her ammunition as the coach lurched down the rutted trail at speeds it was never built to endure. The woman looked out of the window in the coach door through the sights of the rifle. She’d never seen near-naked Indian savages before, and what she saw made her heart leap into her throat. Out in front of the riders paralleling the coach and shooting at the escorts was the one who surely must be the leader. He was bare backing a huge golden palomino stallion with a flowing white mane. The woman had never seen such a magnificent savage beast and she thought the horse looked quite nice too. The man was bronzed, nearly naked, and formed well enough to start any woman’s juices a flow. Long, straight, jet-black hair flowed behind the man’s head as he and the horse galloped along in an undulating motion of rolling, syncopated muscled perfection. A breastplate of feathers and turquoise beads pounded back and forth on a strong, deep chest, which tapered down to a tight waist and strong thighs, pressing closely against his horse, giving it expert directions. The woman fantasized about those strong thighs, about those thighs pressing between hers, but then she shook her head and took a bead on the beautiful bronzed hunk. But she couldn’t do it. She’d hate herself if she hit the horse, and be absolutely mortified if she hit that luscious hunk of man flesh. She fell back into the cushioned seat of the coach and breathed hard, trying to get herself under control. The coach made for a formation of red rocks in the foothills of the Rockies and managed to separate from the pursuing Indians long enough to pull between two partially concealing boulders. The escorts madly pulled at the traces holding the horses to the coach, freeing the steeds from the cumbersome vehicle. The door of the coach jerked open, and the driver stuck his head in. “It’s no use trying to shake ’em, Ma’am. We can’t outdistance them, and they’ll figure out where we are and be back any minute.” “But, but,” the woman stuttered in confusion. “Can you ride a horse, Ma’am?” “Certainly I can,” she exploded in indignation. “Then we have a plan. The commander will have our hides if you don’t get to the fort safely. I and the escorts are going to ride out in that direction over there and let the Injuns see us. They’ll give us chase, and then we want you to ride off straight down in that direction over there. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour to get to the fort, if you can ride straight. Do you think you can do that?” “Of course I can,” she said. “Just leave me a good horse.” “You’ll get the best, Ma’am. Sorry we can’t do better, but this has the best chance of working’.” Moments later the three men broke cover on three of the coach horses and managed to put some distance between them and the hidden coach before the Indian renegades saw them and took chase. They hadn’t distanced themselves enough, though, for the young and wily leader of the tribe. He didn’t give chase. He traced the trajectory of the three men with his eyes and worked his sights back, where he managed to see a bit of the coach at the edge of one of the boulders. He let his braves take chase, and he turned his horse toward the coach. He dearly wondered what precious cargo justified two military escorts. The coach appeared deserted when he rode up to it and got off his horse. He unsheathed a long knife, pulled the door of the coach open wide, and leaped in. There was a brief commotion in the coach and then a bloodcurdling scream. The young, virile Indian chieftain had been completely nonplused when he leaped into the coach. The last thing he had expected to see was a beautiful, yellow-haired white woman, draped across the coach seat, her back arched over a tapestry valise so that her breasts jutted out nicely and completely naked. The shock of discovery had put him off enough that she had pulled him to her by his hips, ripped off his loincloth, and had wrapped her lips around his horse-hung member and started to suck him hard before he was able to react. He was greatly conflicted. She was doing divine things to his cock with her mouth, but she was supposed to be deathly fearful of him. The scenario was set. The Indian braves raped the screaming and crying white woman when they could to terrorize the invaders and encourage them to go back to wherever they had come from. This vixen was raping him. This would never do. That’s when the bloodcurdling scream occurred and he was the one screaming in shock and frustration. The Indian brave had to take charge. He pushed the woman’s back into the corner of the seat with a strong hand between her breasts, her legs stretched down the seat, and came down between her legs with his knees. The woman laughed, spread her legs, gripped his engorging cock in both hands, and pulled his formidable battle ram into her cunt. She was rubbing the head of his cock on her clit, unhooking it with his sensitive member, and working herself into a heavy-flow frenzy. He gave a roar of anger, slapped her hands away from his cock, and gripped it with one of his own hands. He pushed his dick away from her clit, adjusted the angle of the spear’s attack, and sheathed it far up her cunt.