The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Dry, Arabella thought as she peered out the stagecoach window. Everything out here is so dry. She wondered if she’d ever get used to it. The open plains were nothing like the New England river valleys she called home. Used to call home, the young woman reminded herself. Home was now going to be the town of Richfield, Arizona. Miles and miles away from the east coast of the United States. But maybe it would be somewhere she could make a life for herself. Somewhere she’d be needed. The town was growing, growing fast as far as she could make out. And it needed everything. Shops and workers as well as miners, families piling in after the first rush. And that meant children. And where there were children, there were schools. And schools needed teachers.

That was what Arabella was. Or, at least, what she was going to be. There weren’t that many options for a young woman, looking to escape her home and make her way in the world. She didn’t want to be a servant. She’d seen what happened to them, the hours they had to work. But not that many places back east were willing to take on an inexperienced young woman as a teacher, whatever education she had. Out west, well that was different. The town had been falling over itself to welcome her, or at least that’s what the letters she’d received had made it look like.

She just had to make the trip. She hadn’t realised how long it would be. Days on the train, to where the railroad ended, Tucson. They told her the tracks would reach Richfield soon. Maybe this year, maybe next. But not yet. She’d had to leave the steaming metal monster behind. It had been more of a wrench than she’d expected. The train was her last link to home. Her old home. She’d boarded it in the grand station in the city. And somehow it had left her here. Out west. Amongst plains that went on for miles and heat she wondered if she’d ever get used to.

It hadn’t been that hard finding the stagecoach. With the size of the town it wouldn’t have been that hard finding anything. But with the way the train pulled up right in the middle of the main street she could have thrown her bags from the carriage to the coach. At least, if they hadn’t been so heavy, one with her clothes, the others holding books for her students to be. She wondered what they’d be like. She hoped the stagecoach driver wasn’t an indication, the man giving little more than a grunt in acknowledgment when Arabella had asked him if his was the stage to Richfield.

At least he’d helped her with her bags. More use than the porter from the train, who’d simply looked lost when she’d indicated the stagecoach. The driver had put the bags up quickly enough, although he had muttered something like “No more use than tits on a bull,” in the direction of the younger man’s retreating form as the porter headed back to the train.

Arabella’s lips pursed at the crudity. She’d heard words like that before, enough to know what some of them meant. She wouldn’t put up with anything like that in her classroom. But she might just have to get used to hearing such words.

Her cases had been the only ones loaded on the coach. Which meant she’d been surprised when she’d clambered into the coach itself and found that she wasn’t going to be alone on the trip. A man had been sitting on one of the seats, idly glancing out the window. He was well-dressed and tipped his hat in greeting to her, spoken a few polite words. Arabella had returned the acknowledgement, but made sure to seat herself across from him. And on the opposite side. She might have been daring enough to travel by herself, but she knew how easily some men might take the wrong impression. She’d had to deal with one or two on the train. She wondered if it wouldn’t have been worse but for the presence of the conductor and the other passengers. Things were different out here, if the tales were even half-true. If this stranger tried putting his hand on her knee he’d soon find his attentions were unwelcome. Although all she’d probably be able to do was scream. Hopefully that would rouse the stagecoach driver from his half-stupor.

To Arabella’s relief, the man hadn’t tried anything in the hours since they’d left Tucson. In fact, he hadn’t said a word after their initial exchange. He’d simply looked out the window. She wondered what he saw there that was so interesting. It all looked the same to her. Yellowed hills, dry gulches and bare cliffs. She wondered if she should ask him how much longer it would be until they reached their destination. She really should have paid more attention to the schedule. Or maybe she could risk a little snooze. Anything to speed her on her way. Maybe if she turned a little on her side she could…

“It gets tiring, doesn’t it?” the man asked, surprising Arabella out of her half-dose. Not just that he spoke. But his diction. Much more refined than she’d expected, or noticed from his initial greeting.

“A little, I suppose,” Arabella replied noncommittally. She didn’t know him, didn’t want to encourage his attentions, however fine his outfit. And it was quite fine. His jacket well-tailored and his waistcoat of richly embroidered dark purple. She was sure the chain on his pocket watch was genuine gold.

“James Pickett,” he offered. “My apologies. I should have introduced myself earlier, but I was distracted.”

“Arabella Higginbloom,” Arabella replied politely. From the cut of his clothes Mr. Pickett might be an important person in Richfield. Maybe a mine owner or the proprietor of some store. Perhaps a rancher, but his clothes looked too fine for that. At least from what she knew.

“Well, good day to you Miss Higginbloom,” Pickett smiled. “I do assume it is Miss Higginbloom. Or it would not be that you’d be travelling alone.”

“It is,” Arabella confirmed. “Mr. Pickett.”

He smiled at her words, the corners of his lips turning up, just the slightest of crinkles at the corner of his eyes. It was, Arabella admitted, quite a nice smile. He looked to be maybe a dozen or so years older than her nineteen years. If she’d come out West looking for a husband he might have been just what she was looking for. Not too old, wealthy, if appearances were anything to go by. And definitely handsome, square-jawed and blue-eyed. But she wasn’t looking for a husband. Not now at least. Maybe someday. She’d like a family. But she wanted to set herself up first. “And what brings you to our fair city of Richfield?”

Arabella thought that ‘city’ was perhaps being overly-generous, at least from what she knew. But if Mr. Pickett was one of the town’s leading citizens she’d allow him his grandiose descriptions. “I am going to teach at the school. Mr. Evans is expecting me.” Adding the last statement was prudent. She might be travelling alone, but not without connections.

“Oh yes, I’d heard such,” Pickett smiled warmly. “Not that I thought our new school ma’am would be such a picture. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

Arabella nodded politely. She wasn’t unaware of her looks. She’d often had it mentioned, her face, her long auburn hair. Even if her hair was pinned up at the moment. Sometimes she almost resented her beauty. She wanted to be more than just some man’s pretty ornament. She wanted to make her own mark on the world.

“I assume you’ll be busy once we reach town.”

“I assume so,” Arabella replied. People to meet. Lessons to plan. She wasn’t sure what else.

“Not like this,” Pickett continued. “Not much to pass the time. Some people read on the trip. Doesn’t look like you do though. Thought a school ma’am would.”

“Reading and stagecoaches don’t agree with me,” Arabella replied. She had read on the train. But she knew from past experience that if she opened a book on the coach that her stomach would rebel. So she had little to distract her. “And my books are in one of my cases.”

“Ah,” Pickett smiled. “I’ve nothing against books myself. But on a coach? No. Useful to have something to distract you though. So I look out the window. Or,” he shrugged, reaching into a pocket on his waistcoat. “Something to pass the time.”

The man had pulled out what looked to be a gold coin. At least that’s what it appeared to be from the way the light coming in the window reflected off it. A flickering light show, the coin almost seeming to dance between Picket’s fingers, gliding over one before disappearing under another, back and forth, catching the light, almost seeming to direct it straight into her eyes before disappearing again. With the man’s obvious dexterity Arabella wondered if he was a card sharp. She’d read about those.

“It’s my lucky coin. You can watch it if you want.” Arabella was already doing that. With the way the light reflected off it she thought she should be blinking more, maybe even look away before it gave her a headache. But something about the way the golden disk twirled and glinted held her attention. “I don’t mind if you do. Sometimes folks can stare at me doing this for hours. Passes the time on the coach if nothing else.”

Arabella could understand that. There was something fascinating about it.

“Came to me from my mother’s family. She was Irish you know. Black Irish. You know that that means?”

“Um, no?” Arabella replied, half-frowning. She’d had to think for a moment before answering the question. Maybe it was just that she was drowsy from the heat and the trip. She tore her eyes away from the coin, making them meet Pickett’s. His eyes were so blue.

“You can go back to watching the coin,” the man smiled. She did. It was so easy to do that, the way the light flickered making it so easy to watch. “Black Irish have Spanish blood in them. From the Spanish Armada. My mother said the coin was from back then, too. She said it was special. Who knows? She would have just heard the story. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it isn’t.”

The coin kept turning over and over in his fingers, the flickering sunlight holding Arabella’s gaze. She wasn’t sure she could take her eyes off it now. Wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

“You just keep watching the coin. You don’t have to worry about anything else. You don’t have to think about anything else.”

Think? The one word was all Arabella could form. Then it vanished too. It was so easy just to watch the coin. And not think.

“You just watch the coin. Watch the light. Losing yourself in it. Listening to my voice. No thoughts. Not one thought in your pretty head. Just listening to me.”

Arabella could do that. Just watch the coin. And not think. The coin and the light were so pretty.

“Arabella Higginbloom. School teacher. You know, when I picture her she doesn’t look like you. I’d be thinking someone much older. Grey hair. Dried-out old prune. Does that sound right to you?

He’d asked her a question. Something told Arabella that she should answer it, thoughts almost sputtering into existence. A school ma’am. Old. Grey. “I-I suppose.” It did sound convincing. But she was Arabella Higginbloom. “I—”

“Shush,” Pickett cut her off before she could get any further. “You just sit there and watch my coin. Watch the light. Feel your thoughts just drifting away. You don’t need to think.”

“Don’t need to…” Arabella couldn’t even finish the sentence.

“Yes, ma’am.” She could hear the smile in Pickett’s voice. She couldn’t see it. She was watching the coin. “Someone much older than you. And nowhere near as pretty. Grey. That’s Arabella Higginbloom. Don’t you agree?”

“Y-yes?” She had to agree. The light was making her agree. It was so easy to agree. But something seemed wrong about it.

“Arabella Higginbloom is old and grey and not pretty. Not like you. Right?”

There was more force to his voice now. She had to agree. “Yes,” Arabella said. “That’s right.”

“Good,” that smile was in his voice again. “Good girl. So if that’s Arabella Higginbloom, you can’t be her. Right?”

Arabella could feel herself frowning. That wasn’t right. She was Arabella Higginbloom. That was her name. And she was going to be a school teacher. And… It was so hard to think. The light from the coin held her eyes and everything else slipped away. It was so much easier to not try to think and just agree.

“Right?” Pickett repeated.

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m not her.”

“Good. Good girl.” Pickett paused for a moment. “You like me calling you a good girl.”

She did. She liked it when he called her a good girl. It made her fell all warm and fuzzy and happy.

“So why don’t you tell me. Say, ‘I’m not Arabella Higginbloom’”.

Something almost made her not want to say it. Something trying to tell her it was wrong to say it. But that was a thought. And thoughts just drifted away, chased by the golden flickers that made her feel warm and happy. “I’m not Arabella Higginbloom.”

“Good girl. You keep repeating that.”

“I’m not Arabella Higginbloom,” she said. The light was so pretty and she wanted to watch it. It was so easy to agree with the man as she watched the coin twirling between his fingers, reflecting the light.

“Good girl.” She felt so good when he said that. “You believe it. You’re not Arabella Higginbloom”.

There was just the light and his voice and nothing else in her head beside that warm, happy feeling.

“I’m not Arabella Higginbloom.” Arabella did know that. She didn’t know anything else. But she knew that she wasn’t Arabella Higginbloom. Maybe her name was Arabella but she did know that she wasn’t Arabella Higginbloom.

“I’m not Arabella Higginbloom.” She didn’t know how many times she said that, watching the coin dance between Pickett’s fingers, her eyes caught by the light.

“That’s not your name,” Pickett said, she didn’t know how much later. “Tell me that.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Arabella Higginbloom is going to be our new schoolteacher. So, if you’re not Arabella Higginbloom, you’re not a school teacher.”

She, because she wasn’t Arabella Higginbloom but if that wasn’t her she had no name for herself, almost frowned. Wasn’t that why she was on the coach? They were heading to Richfield. Where she was going to be a schoolteacher. At least, she thought so. But thoughts just drifted away, meaningless.

“I’m not a school teacher,” she said. It was so easy to do what she was told.

“You repeat that for me,” Picket’s voice filled her mind. “Believing it.”

“I’m not a school teacher,” she repeated, believing it.

“Keep repeating it,” he smiled. “You know it for the truth.”

“I’m not a school teacher,” she repeated again. She knew it. Even without thinking, she knew it.

“So, you’re not Arabella Higginbloom and you’re not a school teacher. But you probably got some memories in your head. Memories that don’t make sense. Memories about this Arabella. Best if you forget them.”

“W-what?” A thought almost tried to form. What he was saying was wrong. She shouldn’t just forget. Even if the memories were wrong. She wasn’t Arabella Higginbloom. She wasn’t a school teacher. But she could remember people calling her Arabella. And she could remember wanting to teach. It didn’t make any sense.

Maybe it was easier to forget.

“Just watch the coin,” Pickett said. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she replied. Even if she didn’t trust her memories, she knew how old she was.

“That’s a good age,” Pickett smiled. “Good girl. Every time the coin flicks, the Arabella in your mind, the Arabella in your memories, will drift further and further away. Every time the coin flicks you’ll forget a year of what happened to her. All those memories, drifting away like your thoughts.”

The coin twirled over a finger. She could feel something drifting away. She could remember something. Remember being eighteen. But nothing after that. That wasn’t right. She was nineteen. So why couldn’t she remember anything past eighteen?

It was easier to watch the coin than worry. If she watched the coin she didn’t have to think. She could just feel warm and happy and not think.

Maybe she shouldn’t watch the coin. Maybe she should tear her eyes away, looked anywhere else. But she couldn’t. She watched, the coin flickering. Another flick, pieces of her drifting away. She could remember her seventeenth birthday, her mother smiling, her father grumping about when she’d get married.

Another flick and that was gone.

More flicks, years peeling away. Then another. And another. She could almost feel the tear dripping down her cheek. The image in her mind of who she was, retreating, fading. Her sixteenth year, gone, then her fifteenth.

Running through the fields with her brothers as a teenager. Gone.

Patting her favourite dog.

Gone.

A child, playing with a doll her aunt gave her.

Gone.

More flicks and the last, faint memories of her childhood were gone.

All gone.

“Who are you?” the man opposite asked.

Panic rose in her breast. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. She was in a stage coach. But she couldn’t remember how she’d got there. She couldn’t remember her name.

She couldn’t remember anything.

“I… I don’t know,” she gasped. “Help. I…”

“Don’t you worry there, you sweet little thing,” the man smiled. The panic fell, just a little, He seemed like a man she could trust. She had nothing else. “I’m going to help you find out. Everything will be all right. You just listen to me. And keep watching the coin.”

Everything was going to be alright. She just had to listen to him. He was going to help her. And keep watching the coin. Keep watching? Did that mean she had been watching? She must have been doing something. She must have got into the coach. She couldn’t reason it out, her thoughts falling away. It was much easier to just look at the coin, its surface reflecting the light as it danced around the man’s fingers. And not think.

“Let’s talk about a girl. Her name is Belle.” It was so easy to listen to the man. “She’s a pretty thing. Like you. She’s got lovely hair. Hmm. How about you take that hat off and let down your hair. I’m sure you have lovely hair.”

She could do that, taking off her hat, pulling out her hair pins, shaking out her long auburn hair. She could do it without taking her eyes off the coin.

“Yes. Your hair is just like Belle’s. Now Belle, she likes it when men look at her. She likes it when men pay attention to her. It makes her all warm and happy. You like it when men pay attention to you.”

She did. It made her warm and happy. He was looking at her. It made her warm and happy.

“Now some girls,” the man was saying. “They only want a man to look at their face. Belle does have a pretty face. You have a pretty face.”

She was watching he coin. Watching the light flicker from it. He thought she had a pretty face. That was good. And he must be watching her to know that she had a pretty face. That made her warm and happy.

“But Belle, she doesn’t mind if men look somewhere other than her face. She’s just as happy if they look at her tits or her arse. You’re happy if men look at your tits or your arse. It makes you warm and happy when they do.”

Something ghosted across her empty mind. That just maybe the man shouldn’t be so crude. But she had no memories to judge it by. And she trusted him. She did like it if a man looked at her tits or her arse, even through her dress, the garment covering her completely, he could still look at the lines and curves of her body. A man looking at her like that made her feel warm and happy. She risked a quick glance away from the coin, seeking the man’s eyes. They weren’t looking at her face. They were fixed on her chest.

That made her warm and happy.

Her eyes fell back to the coin.

“Belle knows how to get men to look at her. She’s a dancer, amongst other things. Very accomplished. I bet you’re a good dancer. You have a dancer’s figure.”

And just like that she knew that she could dance.

“Belle loves to dance. Loves to have men looking at her as she dances. It makes her all warm and happy. I think dancing for men makes you all warm and happy, too. You want to do it.”

She did. Even the thought of it was sending warm, happy feelings through her body. Swirling through her, a tightness she didn’t recognise growing. Even the thought of it was making her feel good. She wanted to dance for men. They’d look at her then. Look at her face. Look at her tits and arse.

She felt even better.

“Belle likes pretty dresses. Loves dressing up. I’m sure you do too. Special dresses. That let men look at you.”

Somehow, she knew what he meant. Dresses that showed her calves, that bared her arms, with neck lines that plunged scandalously low. Men could really look at her in those dresses. That warmth was pooling into a heat.

“And outfits for dancing. Belle likes those too. All sparkles and tassels. Showing off your dancer’s body. You like them too.”

She did. She liked them. She didn’t care how scandalous they were, didn’t care how much of her body they displayed. She wanted to be wearing one now. He’d be looking at her if she was wearing one of those.

“Belle, though. She doesn’t just like to be looked at. Belle’s a friendly girl. Very friendly. She’d happy for a man to put his hand on her knee. Do you like a man putting his hand on your knee? Does it make you feel warm in a special way? Do you want me to put my hand on your knee? I just bet you do.”

“Yes,” she swallowed. That warmth was running through her and right then she wanted to be touched. But there was something. “Not … coin.”

“Oh,” the man laughed. “Not the hand with the coin? You want to keep watching the coin? That’s a good girl. I’ve got two hands.”

She’d felt so good when he called her a good girl, all warm and runny inside. But it was nothing like how she felt when his hand landed on her knee. Delicious warmth shot up her leg from the contact, even through the layers of her clothes. The feeling pooled in her centre, hot and wet and something was tightening even more.

“You do like it when a man touches you. Just like Belle.”

She did like it. It made her feel so good. Especially the way his hand was inching higher than her knee. She liked that, the feel of his hand on her thigh, the strength of his fingers, waves of something so delicious spreading through her.

“Of course, Belle doesn’t just like her legs touched. She’s happy for a man to touch her anywhere. Like her tits. I think you’re just like Belle. You like a man’s hands on your tits. Is that right, you pretty little thing, do you want my hand on your tits?”

She did. She liked his hand on her leg, the way it was stroking up and down. From her knee, up her thigh and then down again. Slow, firm. Almost like sparks were shooting through it. Almost as golden as the flickering light from the coin. The feelings flowed along her leg and then up her spine, a sigh escaping her lips as they reached her head.

“Yes,” she said. Maybe it would feel even better if that hand was on her tits.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Please,” she gasped. “Please put your hand on my tits.”

“Well,” the man grinned. “It would be downright impolite to refuse an invitation like that.”

She groaned, wordlessly, as his hand fondled her tits. Even through her dress, her corset and her underthings, his touch was like fire, burning her up. Her back arched, a moan escaping her lips.

“You can picture Belle,” the man said, his hand still caressing her breasts, kneading them, her nipples tightening in response, ore heat added to her. “You can start to see her in your little head.”

She could. There was an image there, even as she continued to stare at the coin. The image wasn’t too distinct. Her thoughts were so sluggish, the coin and his touch burning them away. But there was a picture there. Of Belle. Who liked to dance for men. Who liked to have men look at her. Who liked to have men touch her. Who got so warm and happy when they did.

Just like she did.

“Belle’s a simple girl,” the man announced. “She can’t read.”

“I…” Even though she couldn’t remember reading a book, she knew that she could. She could picture the letters in her mind, the words. She knew what they meant. Reading was important to her.

She wasn’t reading now. She was watching the coin, as the man twirled it between his fingers. She had to listen to him.

“You can’t read.”

She couldn’t read. Had no idea what those strange symbols in her head meant. She knew they were letters and words. But they made no sense to her.

“I can’t read.” She almost felt a sense of loss then. But it disappeared, lost in the flickering of the gold coin and the warm, happy feeling that embraced her body. What did a few squiggles on a page mean against that?

“Belle has a real pretty pussy. I bet you have a real pretty pussy. Just waiting to be used.”

She frowned then. She wanted to agree with the man. She trusted him. But she didn’t know what he meant.

“Oh, dear God,” the man scoffed. “You don’t know what I mean, do you? What a pussy is?”

“No,” she replied, happy to at least be able to confirm his opinion. “I don’t know what a pussy is.”

“That place between a woman’s legs. Her womanhood. Her slit. That’s your pussy. I bet yours is all hot and bothered and wet right now.”

It was. Her pussy, now that she knew what the word meant, was all hot and bothered. And so wet. It felt good. But it felt like it wanted something more. She wanted something more.

“Belle likes to fuck,” the man told her. “You do know what that means, right?”

She did, nodding tightly. Her pussy was just so wet and she felt so warm and tingly that she couldn’t speak.

“All right then,” the man declared. “Belle likes having her little pussy all filled up with a man’s cock. You like to fuck. You like your pussy filled up with a cock. Any hole, really. You like it more than anything in the world. You’re an eager little whore. Just like Belle.”

“I’m a?” she frowned. Something almost like thoughts formed in her head. She was a whore? That was … wrong? Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it bad to be a whore?

The thoughts vanished as the coin danced across the man’s fingers, light reflecting into her eyes. She felt so warm and happy.

“You’re a whore,” the man insisted. What he was saying had to be true. “You love being a whore. You tell me that, you pretty little thing.”

“I’m a whore,” she responded happily. She trusted the man. “I love being a whore.” It was true. She did.

“Belle works for me,” he smiled, leaning back in his seat. “My name is James Pickett. Belle works in my saloon. As a saloon girl. As a dancer and a whore. She wants to do that. She doesn’t want anything else. You want to do that. You don’t want anything else.”

“I don’t want anything else,” the girl repeated mindlessly.

“You are Belle,” the man announced, an air of finality.

Of course she was. It just made sense. She was pretty, like Belle. She liked to have men look at her. Just like Belle. She liked to dance for them. She liked men to touch her. She got so hot and happy and worked up when they did, her pussy wanting to be fucked. She liked it better when they did fuck her. She liked to whore.

Just like Belle.

She was Belle.

“Belle Hawthorne,” the man said. “That’s your name. Belle Hawthorne, who works for me as a dancer and a whore.”

“Mr Pickett,” Belle replied. Then she frowned. She was sitting across from Mr Pickett. Why was she doing that? She picked herself up from her seat, settled herself down next to him, pressing her body into his. Moaned as his hand slid over her hip. Dear God, she loved a man’s touch. Needed it. Craved it. Made her feel all warm and wet and happy.

She moaned louder as his hand reached under her long skirt, travelled up her leg, bunching up her skirts. Her whole body was alive, quivering at his touch. Up her leg, higher, higher. Than his hand was pressing down on her private place. That wasn’t right. What private place did a whore have? He was pressing down on her pussy and her whole body was tightening and then, and then. Something burst over her. Something so good, her hips jerking and a wave of pleasure swallowing her.

“You just came,” he smirked. “Just from me touching your pussy. The men are going to love you.”

That sounded good to Belle.

As she came down Belle wondered why she couldn’t remember much from before getting on the stage. It didn’t matter. It was what was going to happen at the other end of the journey that mattered. She was going to be a dancer and a whore. She was going to wear scandalous clothes. Sparkly and revealing. She was going to fuck so many men. It was all she wanted.

Pickett made her cum again before they reached the town. She returned the favour by getting on her knees in the tight space between the benches, helping him unbuckle his trousers and sucking his cock. Just like a whore should. God, it felt so good to have a cock in one of her holes. She came just from sucking him off. Maybe she’d get some more whoring in when they got to town.

When the driver called that they were nearing their destination Pickett helped her smooth her clothes down. Then helped her out of the coach when they came to a stop. The first thing Belle noticed was how dry it was. And how bright. She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to be spending a lot of time outside. And well, she didn’t plan on being dry too often, either. Not where it counted.

There was a man near where the stage had pulled up, waiting anxiously. “Miss Higginbloom?” he asked. “Arabella Higginbloom? I’m Mr Evans, principal of the town school.”

“Sorry Mr Evans,” Belle smiled. “That’s not me. I’m Belle Hawthorne. Pleased to meet you.” She gave him her best smile and a neat little curtsey. Maybe he’d come to the saloon and pay to fuck her. She wasn’t fussy about who did. She was a whore. What did a whore care about who fucked her?

“But?” The man looked confused. “Driver, did anyone else get on?”

“No sir,” the driver replied as he pulled two bags from the roof of the coach. “Just Miss Hawthorne and Mr. Pickett.”

“Can I help?” Pickett asked, all politeness and concern.

“I, I don’t know,” Evans replied, looking more than a little lost. “Miss Higginbloom was supposed to be on this stage. She’s going to be our new teacher.”

“Well, we didn’t see anyone like that, did we Belle?”

Belle just shook her head. Pickett was her employer, so it was best to agree with him. And anyway, it was the truth. There’d just been the two of them. No Arabella Higginbloom. Who was probably old and grey.

“Well, sorry we couldn’t be more help,” Pickett apologised, tipping his hat at Evans. “I’ll just take Belle’s bag. Well, will you look at that.” He peered innocently at the bag he’d left sitting on the road. “Arabella Higginbloom. It says it right there.” He tested the bag. “Mighty heavy too. Might have some books in it. Maybe she’ll be on the next coach. Come along Belle.”

“Yes, Mr. Pickett,” Belle replied. But then she turned to Evans. “Does that mean you’re a teacher too? Well, why don’t you come visit me at Mr Pickett’s saloon sometime? I’m sure you could teach a little thing like me a thing or two.”

Evans’ eyes shot wide, but he didn’t no. He didn’t say a thing as she walked away, deliberately swinging her hips. Belle was sure that he knew what she meant. She didn’t mind. Soon everyone in the town would know. She was a whore.

It was all she wanted.

(The end)