Chapter 1: Emma's Awakening

Hortonville, Nevada

Spring of 1872

Emma Pickering was a young, spirited girl, and not always the proper model of what an army major's daughter should be. She was outspoken, and blunt, when confronted with rudeness or cruelty. Yet there was something else in her blood -something that boiled, simmered, and steamed. All this ... all this proper behavior of a lady never really suited her. And even though she had the classical-education, and the lessons in courtly etiquette, it all seemed like a steaming pile of offal to her.

She was, however (at the tender age of fourteen), a forward thinker -a progressive. She had read Marx, and even Henry David Thoreau; and she knew that the class-struggle for freedom was being played-out right outside her door. The indigenous people of this very land were in a fight for there way of life, and her unwitting, bourgeois father was facilitating their demise. As if, they did not have the right to exist under the reign of the capitalist-elite back in New York City.

She knew quite well about their ways: her own mother's family were fascist-capitalists from New England. Wealthy, pampered, and entitled, her matriarchal heritage was one of exploitation of the masses. Not more than a few years before she was born, her grandfather was becoming rich from processing the hemp from plantations in Virginia that were driven by the sweat of negro slaves. The thought of this made her gorge rise, and made her feel ashamed of her mother's family.

In her opinion, her father's family wasn't much better: Pennsylvania industrialist that realized that emancipated slaves would work cheaper than the Irish and Germans that poured off the ships from the other side of the Atlantic. Her family's support of the union was nothing more than a hypocrisy of exploitation.

All these thoughts, and opinions, were a part of her secret-life. It was a life that no one knew about -much like this night:

It was almost summer in Hortonville, Nevada. Nestled in the foothills near the California border, about twenty miles from Las Vegas Station, but only a few miles from Fort Chamberlain. The night was warm; it was these nights that she enjoyed the most, as she crept from her bedroom window, and scurried down the gutter-pipe to the ground. It was only about fifteen yards to the barn, and the young girl carried a candle, but not for light. It was specially sculpted for her, for her midnight rendezvous with carnal indulgence.

Emma needed a place away from the house. It had to be somewhere where she could call-out her desires without the fear of being overheard by her mother or father. Although the thought of the intonations of her ecstatic release waking everyone in the house had a salacious appeal to her, she knew her parents would most likely not be so understanding of the lust that burned within her soul. And the object of her lust was in her hand.

She had spent the better part of two days fashioning it. She found the candle in a kitchen drawer. It was about eight inches long, and a good inch-and-a-half in diameter. In the evenings, after dinner, she carved it with a pocketknife, and smoothed her whittling by heating over the oil-lantern allowing a thin layer to melt, and silking-over its surface with her hand. And now, it was a thick rod that she could not wait to plunge deep inside her nethers.

She wasn't worried about breaking her hymen. That happened almost two years ago while riding bareback. It was her favorite horse -a stud named Tuco. And it was one of her favorite pastimes ... She loved the feel of all that muscular strength working between her legs, her little mound rubbing against the hot, moist flesh of the beast. Little did anyone else know, she would remove her bloomers from beneath her skirt, and straddle that animal like a boy. This way, the horse's back would be pressed against her most intimate-of-intimates. She new it was dirty of her to do such things, but she didn't really care either. How could something that felt so good be a bad thing? Once again, it was back to hypocrisy.

It wasn't as if she hadn't noticed the way Reverend Pickett had been looking at her in the past couple of years, and the same went for Marshal Creighton (of Hortonville), and Sergeant-Major Finlay (the top sergeant of father's regiment). When she walked by, they would cast lust-filled eyes upon her, and she knew that they were imagining her taking their swollen members into her taught, little cunny. To her, they were all hypocrites; they were slaves to their natural instincts that a puritanical society told them was unnatural.

Well, that was their loss, she reckoned.

Emma Pickering was never going to be one of those sheep that blindly obeyed a church, a society, that told her that her innate sexuality was taboo. The thought that the very thing that ensured the survival of the specie was to be repressed, and shunned, was ridiculous to her -illogical, and unthinkable. After all, this was the 19th-Century! There were Existentialists that had proved that 'God' was merely a construct of power-elite to ensure an obedience of the masses; and the Transcendentalists, they were saying that the existence of an Omnipotent-Being would be so far beyond the understanding of the limited, human mind, that defining Its purpose was arrogant, and futile. No, she would not be a part of this failed experiment of culture.

Tonight, the young major's daughter would give in to her licentious inclinations, and feel that hot, blinding release that she had discovered while riding Tuco years before.

Emma opened the man-door on the barn, and headed inside. While it was pitch-black, she remembered where the lantern was placed on the wall, and took it down from its hook, lighting it after the door was closed behind her. The warm, orange glow of the whale-oil cause the inside of the barn to explode in a riot of savory color. Everything seemed more animated, as if the wood planks, the hay, and the iron fixtures had a vibrant life of there own. They seemed to breathe, and swell, and pulsate, like a greedy heart was throbbing at their core.

This was, obviously, a manifestation of her own libidinous desires that welled within her, and pushed her toward the door that was marked by the words, "Tack Room." Inside there, the glow of the lantern would not be seen. Right now, she knew that if anyone saw the barn, from the outside, they would see the light emanating from between the slats. But once inside the tack-room, the light would disappear, and she would be alone. So, she hurried across the hay-strewn floor, between the empty stalls, and to the far end of the barn.

The tack-room door shut quickly behind her, and Emma could see in her mind's eye that sudden blackening of the light that penetrated every gap in the exterior construction of the barn -she knew she was finally alone. She was alone, with her wax phallus, her loins dampening in rapt anticipation of the violation to come...

She could feel her pert nipples harden against the gauzy material of her nightgown, as they became overly sensitive to the gentle friction of the cloth. Her grip tightened on the tallow shaft, as the other hand drift downward to her moistening slit, and found its mark through the thin textile.

She gasped at the sudden sensation caused by her brazen digits, and realized that she would have to tease herself as much as possible before feeling the carnal penetration of the lustful fetish.

She had tried her best to shape it the fashion of the real thing, but never having seen a real one before, she could have only guessed on the proper dimensions. She had only seen Cisco's (her dog), and Tuco's, and they looked very different: while one had a conical head, the other looked like a mushroom. So, she decided on something in between. It was something that was well-rounded, and could slip inside her with some relative ease, yet she wanted it to be thick enough to really open her up; she wanted it to be bordering on painful.

In the past, she had put two fingers inside herself, and relished the way it felt. But she had done it both ways before. Sometimes, she would thrust down her slit and plunge inside, while letting the flats of those same fingers rub against the hardened nub at the top of her lips; and other times, she would furiously let the fingers of one hand thrust at her taut sex, while the fingers of her other hand rubbed relentlessly at the magic button that sent an electric rush through her young frame. But, this night would be different from all her former explorations.

The warmth of the spring night, and the cramped quarters of the tack-room closed in around Emma, as she felt the sweat begin to bead from her pores. It was then that the flimsy nightgown was pulled from her nubile body -over her head, and to the dusty floor.

It was there she stood, naked, her skin aflame with the promise of earthly pleasure. Every nerve seemed exposed, sensitive, as if her flesh sizzled over a hot fire. The fuel of this fire welled from within, and was composed of raging lust as she was burning from the inside-out.

The young girl caressed her small breasts, as her fingertips found her rosy nipples that were hard, and engorged, with excitement. She purred at the sensations that gently hummed through her body, as the hand that held the wax-cock fondled the object, and she imagined the moment it would penetrated her. It was this thought that made her sex prickle with impatience, as she felt her juices begin to flow like a torrent, and run down her inner-thigh.

It was all she could do to hold-back, and continue the self-seduction. Emma knew the more she teased herself, the more intense her climatic release would be. However, she knew that she could not taunt her salacious yearnings all night, so she took a saddle-blanket from the self,

and laid it out on the floor of the tack-room.

She carefully set the toy on the blanket, as she sat, and opened her legs to further explore her body.

Emma allowed her hands to meander over her silky-smooth skin down over the light, feathery patch of her downy pubic-hair, and to her inner-thighs. Once there, she mover her ginger touch dangerously close to her sodden slit that glistened with her lubricious nectar. The young girl took a sudden breath when her fingertips wandered too close, and touched the outer-lips of her little pussy. At this, her body jolted, as if struck by lightning, and she knew that climax was not far away.

At this point, young Emma had worked herself into such a frenzy that she doubted that her waxen toy would even get the chance to slip inside her before she would cum, so she hurriedly pick it up from beside her.

Emma started to immediately pant, and felt the excitement within her well, as she ran the length of the tallow cock along the tender folds of her ravenous sex. Waves of prurient sensations washed over her, making her head swim, as her sopping gash hungrily awaited violation. She felt she was getting too close, and would not have time to thoroughly enjoy the wax phallus she had made, so she aimed it to go inside her.

This would be the largest thing she would ever have in her, and this was apparent by the resistance her taut opening as she began to push. But her little pussy was too wet to repel the salacious invasion, as she felt her-self begin to accept the object into her slick passage. She moaned with delight as it moved deeper, and deeper, into her restrictive tunnel. It stretched her farther than she could even using two fingers, and it was a little painful, but not enough to pull it out.

She wanted it; she wanted all of it in her; she wanted to feel it pounding into her depths. And moments later, this is what she began to feel, as she began to just piston the wax prick her greedy fuck-hole.

"Oh, Jesus, shit!" she exclaimed, as she felt the onset of her climax.