No Brand on My Pony by NotWise
"Discover the erotic tale 'No Brand on My Pony' by NotWise,NotWise. Get seduced by steamy encounters and forbidden desires in this provocative sex story. Dive into a world of passion and pleasure as boundaries are pushed and fantasies are fulfilled. Read now!" #erotic #sexstory #NotWiseNotWise #NoBrandonMyPony<br/>
This story is my entry in the Literotica 2022 Valentine’s Day Story Contest. It’s also my entry in the 2022 Pink Orchid writers event, so maybe it isn’t a very usual Romance. Happy Valentine’s Day, and happy reading.
I almost overlooked her until she smiled, and then I tipped my Stetson and asked, “How’s that cocoa?” Had to say something, right?
To me, she looked like a refugee from some religious cult. She stood on the sidewalk in the glow from a gallery window while snowflakes swirled around her. She nursed her drink, and studied the fanciful landscapes in the display.
“It keeps my hands warm,” she said and inhaled the fragrant steam from the cup. “Tastes good, too.”
It was a little dark on the sidewalk, but I didn’t see any sign of makeup. Her red hair—I thought it was red—hung down the back of her quilted jacket in a long braid, and her flat-heeled shoes barely peeked from under the hem of her dress. I thought she was kinda pretty for a refugee.
She took one hand off her cup long enough to motion to the pictures in the window. “Santa Fe is just filled with Georgia O’Keefe wannabes.”
I jammed my hands deep into the pockets of my sheepskin jacket and shrugged. “I guess it still sells.” The weather had changed without much warning, and I envied her hand warmer. “Where did you get the cocoa?”
“There’s a little cart.” She glanced past me, west down Palace Avenue to the crowd of Black Friday shoppers in front of the palace, and she touched my elbow. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
I was a little surprised when she stepped close and nudged me along the covered walkway. “Thanks,” I said. “Name’s Adam—Adam Cruz.”
We stepped around a laughing foursome that lurched out of The Shed before she said, “I’m Hope Hallam.”
“With a name like ‘Hope,’ you should be an optimist.'”
“I’m an architect,” she said. “My parents were optimists. They had Hope.” That had to be a practiced reply, but it made me laugh. I decided she probably wasn’t a religious refugee.
We found the vendor’s cart under the portal just a block away, and I had a steaming cup of cinnamon-spiced Mexican cocoa in my hands when we found a bench on the plaza.
Hope seemed to have an interest in me. I didn’t know why, but I wanted to find out. I waited until she threw her empty cup away and settled on the bench next to me. “Tell me, ma’am, how do I deserve all this attention?”
She glanced up and laughed. “I like your hat. I want to find out what you have under it.”
I took my Stetson off and ran my fingers through my hair. “Nothing special.” I dropped the hat on Hope’s head, and it fell to her eyebrows. “Now maybe it has something special under it.” She tipped the hat back to look at me, and I motioned to her clothing. “Do you always dress like this?”
Hope plucked at her long dress. “Like this? It’s how I dress. It’s comfortable and I don’t get hit on as much.” Her eyes searched my face before she went on. “I have to be careful. Sometimes the men who do hit on me are looking for a victim.”
I tapped my hat onto my head when she handed it back, and I said, “Don’t need a victim.”
“You haven’t hit on me, either.” Hope found a scarf in her pocket and tied it over her hair. The snow was falling harder.
I tipped my cocoa cup toward the crowd of shoppers. “I wanted to get a Christmas present for my sister back in Santa Rosa, but I think that’ll wait.”
Hope touched my hand. She seemed a little distracted when she asked. “Is that where you’re from?” I watched her for a moment without answering, and she looked up. “I like your hands. They’re big and rough.”
“And yours are small and soft.” I crushed my empty cup and tossed it into the trash with hers. “From right near there, but that was fifteen years ago.”
Maybe I would have hit on Hope right about then. I don’t know because her telephone rang first. She found it in her jacket pocket and checked the number. “I left my friends at La Fonda and told them I’d meet them on the plaza.”
Hope held the phone to her ear and watched me while she talked. “Ready now? I’ll meet you at the corner across from the hotel.” She put the phone away and we both stood. “Will you walk with me?” She tucked her hand around my arm, and pulled herself close. “You’re warm. I like that.”
“Setting the bar pretty low,” I said.
Hope covered her mouth and laughed, and I asked, “Are you from here?”
She flipped her hand to the west. “I’m from LA. I moved out here about three years ago—after my divorce. I thought it would be a good place to find myself, and it has been.” Hope stayed quiet for a few steps, then asked, “You’re from Santa Rosa, but what do you do here?”
“These days I’m working for the Cattle Growers Association—lobbying, mostly.”
“That’s an odd cowboy job. Not mending fences and rounding up dogies?”
We stopped at the corner where Hope told her friends she’d wait, and she turned under the streetlamp to face me. She brushed a few snowflakes off my jacket and looked up against the falling snow. “I have to ask,” she said. “Is there a Mrs. Adam Cruz?”
“There isn’t, but there have been applicants.” A noisy group of women started across the street from the hotel, so I caught Hope’s hands and held them. “Can I have your phone number?”
Hope pulled her hands away and glanced over her shoulder at the women. “They’ll wait when they see us together, but they might heckle a little.” She found her cellphone in her pocket. “What’s your number?” She typed into her phone as I recited it. “There. You have a message from me, I have your phone number, and you have mine.”
* * *
The snow that fell the night I met Hope had melted away, and the air was dry and crisp when I waited for her outside the restaurant. We’d both been out of town all week, and meeting at the restaurant was the plan that worked for us.
I heard Hope before I turned to find her hurrying toward me. “I’m late. I’m sorry,” she said, “The bus was off-schedule.”
“You’re not too late.” I waved toward the door. “They don’t have our table ready.” She looked just as eccentric as she did before. Now her braid fell down the back of a long sweater over a dress that brushed her ankles and buttoned to her throat.
The host was waiting with menus in his arm when I guided her through the door with my hand on her waist. The secluded table I wanted was ready, and I meant to ask the questions that went unanswered in the snow.
“How did things go in Dulce?” I asked. I studied the nape of her neck while I slipped the sweater off her shoulders and hung it on the coat rack in the alcove.
“Very slowly.” I pulled Hope’s chair out to seat her. She seemed to like my attention and my cowboy courtesies. “There were a lot of questions the Apache hadn’t asked themselves, so getting answers took a lot of time. And you? How was Clovis?”
“Went well.” I hung my hat and my camel hair blazer with Hope’s sweater as I talked. “We’re on the same page as far as the new Land Office rules are concerned, so the ranchers will put up money to get them stopped. It’s good to get paid.”
That was all the business we needed to talk about. I had a veal shank in front of me, and Hope had seafood pasta in front of her when I asked, “How was your voyage of self-realization? Or is it still on?”