Chapter 4

Bob had just started worrying about her when she came to. There was drool coming from the side of her mouth where her head lay on its right side, on his chest.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice fuzzy.

“You sat up on me and kind of jerked around for a few seconds and then you made this awful sound and fell down on top of me again.” he said.

“Oh yes,” she sighed.

“You all right?” he asked.

“No,” she sighed, again.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said, a little more firmly.

“What happened?”

“I do believe I got to a point where I felt happier than the universe says I’m allowed to feel,” she said.

“You said you don’t feel all right,” he reminded her.

“That’s because I feel so much better than ‘all right’ that there just isn’t any comparison.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. I was worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be worried about me,” she said, lifting her head. “I’m fine.”

She pressed her hands onto the blanket Bob was lying on and pushed part way up.

“You’re still stiff,” she said.

“Yes. I didn’t shoot off, yet. Doing it like this seems to be less exciting, or something.” He frowned. “Not in a bad way. I had a lot of fun watching you ride me.”

“I didn’t ride you,” she scoffed.

“It was like I was a bronc you were trying to break and you were a cowgirl, except there isn’t such a thing.”

“Now you’re being silly,” she said.

She started moving again, very slowly, languidly, just massaging herself on his stiff prick. She had no intention of going for another climax. It just felt good to have him in her.

“Can I ask you a question?” he posed.

“Anything,” she said. Her relationship with this man was on that level.

“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with somebody you hardly know?”

She pushed up a little more and looked down at his face. The candles made the light flicker and his features seemed to waver.

“When I was a little girl, my mother’s brother was in the Army. We didn’t see him for years and then the war started. I was fourteen and he came to see us before he went off to war. He looked so handsome in his uniform. I thought I was in love with him. My mother said I was not, that it wasn’t real love. It couldn’t be real love, she said, because I couldn’t marry him. He died in the war and I thought I could never be happy or love again.”

“I’m sorry he died,” said Bob, softly.

“I guess what I’m saying is that if it feels like love, it might be love.”

He didn’t reply, but she felt something change. She moved and then sat up again.

“You’re not hard anymore!” she said. “Did you shoot?”

“No,” he said.

“Why did you get soft, then?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It matters to me,” she said. “I don’t want you to have a relapse!”

“I won’t have a relapse,” he said. “I’ll keep doing it with women. It will just be with a woman of my own station.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, her voice sharp. “What station are you referring to?”

“I’m just a rough man, a cowboy. I might turn into a miner if things go well, but I’ll still be a rough man. You’re a fine lady. You should have no dealings with the likes of me.”

“Mister Grisham,” she addressed him formally, “If I may be so crude as to use foul language, you, sir, are full of shit.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, actually calmed, to some degree by her use of vernacular.

“You might be aware that your rough, cowboy penis is inside me, soft though it may be, at present. It was not soft last night, though, and it delivered your seed into my womb. I could have avoided that. My husband taught me several things to help him with when I was having my courses. I could have used one of those techniques to cure you, but I decided to give you the best instruction I could think of. Now why do you suppose I would risk pregnancy for a rough, uncouth, dirty old cowboy? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s because I like him, plain and simple. I thought he was worth saving and I still do. I do not care what his station in life is. He is a man and that’s all I see when I look at him.”

“Pregnancy?” Bob whispered. “You risked pregnancy? With me?”

“And with Rex,” she said, calmly. “I think he’s worth saving, too.”

“You don’t understand,” he groaned. “It’s not like you thought it was.”

He was on the verge of confessing that he and Rex had hoodwinked her. Had she let him continue, he probably would have because he felt guilty about it, now. But she did not let him continue. She lectured him, instead.

“Bob, we’re stuck here in this mine for who knows how long. Fate cast my lot with yours. We are going to survive this and that is the important thing. How it may affect our lives in the future can be dealt with then, as we are dealing with this issue, now.”

She got off of him and looked at his limp manhood.

“I do not want to hear any more nonsense of stations in life. The little joy I’ve had in this wretched place has been because of that.” She pointed at his penis. “And Rex’s, of course. So I’m going to do something my husband used to beg me to do when my menses didn’t cooperate with his lust. If you ever tell a single soul I did this to you I will hire a killer to find you and cut off the thing I’m about to suck.”

“Suck?” gasped Bob.

She answered by lowering her face to his groin and taking his soft member into her mouth. She did suck – avidly.

Ten or so minutes later, during which Rex paused in moving rocks to stare at her mouth sliding up and down Bob’s stiff cock, she pulled off and surveyed the results of her work.

“Much better,” she said. “Get up. If I’m on top again I might lose consciousness again. I had my fun, now it’s time for you to have yours.”

He behaved in a different manner than he had the night before. Her comment about risking her womb had stabbed into him like a bayonet. She had hazarded her womb, and now she was doing so again, voluntarily! No woman had ever said to him that she might have his child. The fact that this one had, in so many words, and the fact of who she was, electrified him. As a result, that electrification made him jerk and jitter, unable to establish any rhythm inside her. He had what amounted to a premature ejaculation, though he had never heard that term.

“Uhh, uhh, uhhhh,” he groaned as his seed raced through his prick and into her body.

“That’s better,” she purred as she stroked his back.

When one survives a life-threatening situation, there is heightened emotion for some time. How long the after-effects continue depends on the psyche of the individual in question. Some can get back to their normal lives right away, while others may have nightmares or tremors for years. It also matters what conditions someone has to endure during the life-threatening situation. In the case of our three intrepid prisoners, it is almost certain that they would have survived if nobody had ever touched Madeline. They had food and water. No one suffered an injury or was ill and needed a doctor who couldn’t get to him or her. Basically, all they had to do was wait to be dug out. In the grand scheme of things, it was an inconvenience, rather than a threat to their lives, once the rocks stopped falling.

That said, all you need to do is imagine yourself in an almost lightless, rocky tomb, where you had absolutely nothing to do and time seemed to stop, and you can understand why it would be stressful in ways that might be long-lasting, even after you were saved.

It would help a great deal if you could have lots of very good sex with a member of the opposite sex who you thought was beautiful, or handsome, even if such beauty was difficult to see, don’t you think? It would lessen your stress level if you could have two, three or even four orgasms a day, wouldn’t it? And, in the case of Madeline Fitzwater, three or four orgasms a day by a man ... times two ... might translate to as many as two dozen orgasms a day for her. The men might only be able to spurt four times in a twenty-four hour period, but Madeline almost never had only one orgasm per session, once they were all comfortable with their new level of intimacy.

Having literally nothing better to do, there was a lot of sex in the mine before they were rescued. The priority of needs was: something to make them feel like they were helping their situation (lugging rocks from the blockage down the mine corridor); sleeping; eating; and most important of all, having a stiff penis in Madeline Fitzwater’s vagina. A century and a half later a possibly over-educated psychologist might have diagnosed an addiction to sex as what the three suffered.

To them? What they suffered was a cave-in that trapped them for eleven days and some-odd hours, and what sex did was keep them from going crazy.

That is what they would all believe for the rest of their lives.

Of course they would never talk about it to anyone else, with one notable exception to be revealed later, so “what saved them” remained a secret, more or less, from the outside world. The “more or less” will also be revealed when the time is right.

For now, let’s get back to our three prisoners, who had been entombed, at this point, for two days and nights, not counting the day of the cave-in, itself. In what someone who was not trapped in a lightless mine would have thought was a very short time, an upright, respected, reserved widow woman had become a wanton slut ... again, from the perspective of an outsider.

But was she really a slut?

The word is traced back to middle English in 1402, appearing as “slutte”. Chaucer used it even earlier, but his usage referred to a man, not a woman. In 1871 a “slut” was considered to be a loose woman who had questionable (if any) morals and was sexually promiscuous. In Maddie’s case, she wasn’t really loose at all. Nor was she particularly promiscuous. And to question her morals is unfair in the extreme. Had she not been trapped in the mine, she would have finished her journey to California without having had sex with a single man! What she did in that cave was done out of a genuine concern for the welfare of two men who she believed were on the path to eternal damnation. And, lest some pious, devout person scoff and say “performing one sin to assuage another is not permitted or justified” let us just be reminded of the millions of people who have been killed in the name of this or that god. Surely a god has more to worry about than a woman deciding to have sex with a couple of men to get them back into the fold.

Alas, we are not gods, so what we believe is of little consequence, except for how it affects our own lives. For my money, though, Madeline was no slut. It could be argued that the men took advantage of her, which they would probably have confessed to, that first night. What developed over the next week, though, went far beyond that and morphed into real love and concern. Yes, they led her astray so they could wet their dicks in her moist love tunnel, but she didn’t suffer from it. Think of the little lies we tell our children to avoid in-depth, complicated explanations they probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. In any case, when she found out of their subterfuge, she forgave them for that ... and more.

The third day of their captivity established the new normal for the trio. As soon as their minimal, boring breakfast was finished, they began moving rocks. They all worked together until they were all tired. Then they took a break to have sex and lie, entwined, as Madeline played the slut and let both men between her legs. Generally, if they didn’t take a little nap after that, they’d move a few more rocks. It only took them two more days to learn almost every tiny detail of each other’s lives, and then there were long philosophical discussions as they plodded back and forth. After lunch the men would mount and mate with the woman, who was eager to receive them. Another nap and more rocks were moved until the evening ‘repast’ had been enjoyed. The sex they had in the evenings was of a different kind, a kind none of them had ever heard of and which was probably quite unique for thousands of miles in any direction.

Generally, what this meant was that Madeline would mount one of her stallions, sitting bolt upright (she had become accustomed to being stretched both vertically and laterally) while the other man stood, straddling his compatriot and she serviced him with her mouth. The aim was not to actually have climaxes. Rather it was just something to do that felt good, produced endorphins, and passed the time in a very pleasant manner. If one of the men spurted, that was all right. Maddie might have the odd quiet and gentle orgasm, too, as she languidly thrust her hips forward and backward, slowly.

Then, when it was time to sleep, each man would spurt in her one last time, for the day, and they would press together to keep warm under the blankets for another night.

When they woke up, it was another day of the same.

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