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The night was starry and indigo, dust settling over Valentine—the wind on the saloon porch had been bristling through your hair when he’d tugged you inside.
You… It was you who had been provoking him, Arthur claimed, while you keened and rolled your bum backward with bated breath. You denied as much, for what it was worth.
This was an old and familiar game of cat and mouse.
The inn’s quaint room was dimly lit by oil lamps and candles, but the bed was rather…creaky. Every motion made the old rusted springs squeak, although it didn’t stop your desperado from making sure your face was pressed squarely into the mattress at all times.
Tusslin’ under the sheets turn to rough-housing—the very improper kind. Extremely improper. The kind that could have an unmarried little lady like you shunned to the next settlement over if word got out.
It was stuffy. Arthur shed his drab duster coat, soot-stained and frayed at the edges, and hung his hat on the wooden bedpost.
He eased up your ruffled sugarplum skirt, in a gentle way that felt quite unfamiliar to you. Especially, as he’d downed a few beers and rum already, foam and all, full as a tick. And, well…Arthur often took little time for formalities—if at all—when sober, and even less so while inebriated.
But tonight, he was drawing you out, squishing into your soft inner thighs and spreading you from behind. You sat with your arms braced, head smothered into a pillow and back arched, vaguely aware that this sweet buildup was only temporary.
To your surprise, though, Arthur was still playing along. His tone was kind and warm, with a little bit of a slur to his speech. And he spoke slow and carefully, as if teetering on the edge of cracking this little ploy: “Easy does it, littl’ lamb.”
Oh, now that was rich. You knew full-well what was coming next—after this jest. This gag.
Arthur’s purrs—his throat warmed by his deep, gruff voice and crackling like a bonfire—vibrated against you, and you steeled yourself.
Lamb.
The singular word struck you, much too tender coming from his zesty lips. He was messing with you. This visage’ll be pulled out from below you like the bearskin rug underneath the bed-legs, and his harshness will come through, make you squeal and cry, and—
The linen of your bloomers grew warmer and moist as you bit your bottom lip.
There it was: the deadeye opening.
Arthur whistled, hooked the waistband with his finger, and yanked your panties down. “…Hussy wearin’ sheep’s wool, more like.”
—Spank.
You mewled. A swipe of Arthur’s Cattleman painted your ass-cheek a pale, vintage rose. The metal barrel was chilled, yet it made a sharp heat rise in your face.
He’d slapped you as he would a riding mare, deep in pursuit and bouncing on her saddle, urging to go faster.
Still, you held your ground. “‘H-Hussy’? No one’s had me ‘cept you, I swear it!” It was a pointless attempt—Arthur only slapped your rump again, harder, this time with the revolver’s butt. You cried out, your skin stinging up ruby. The shot of bursting sensation had you reeling, in the best possible way.
“So ya say.”
“I do say! I’m sparklin’ clean and fit as a fiddle!”
“Suppose we’ll see—“
That, you both would.
Arthur’s dry finger-pads prodding you, the heat of his bare bulge nestled against your slit… It was too much. But there could always be more, to push you over the edge.
His pillowy tip, dipped in pre, carved its way into you, squishing between the walls of your dripping hole with creaky humps. The coarse hairs of his treasure trail tickled your nude butt every time he rode into you, along with the gentle squish of his lower tummy.
Arthur was very well-endowed and strong to boot, and had no problem maneuvering you just how he needed…but he was sloppy and rough even at the best of times. With alcohol-fog, his plunges were doubly uneven and hard, scraping up against your cunt on the inside and making your ass jiggle at the most inopportune times.
You shivered. Shivered and hummed out a melodious moan. Your hips buckled when he squeezed the divots of your waist, pressing into your warm skin as he drilled into you.
“You gonna cry?” Arthur taunted, and he yanked your lower half toward himself, pushing further into you until he could thrust no deeper.
Indeed, some stray tears were welling up in the corners of your eyes—thank the stars above he couldn’t see them and chide you for it.
He sneered, again, when you failed to answer. “A tramp like you can’t handle it? Ain’t ya done this sorta thing plenty’a times?”
“N-No…” You suckled in a breath, fingers gripping the musky sheets and glistening eyes fluttering shut.
“Quit lyin’.”
The muzzle of the gun pressed sharply between your cheeks, Arthur grunting as he dug it in, shimmying his dick further into your pussy at the same time, then back out and in again. Suddenness combined with the burst of pain had you calling out, head whipping back and your expression contorting to a wince. (For the second time, you were grateful Arthur was none the wiser to the intense pleasure on your face.)
But, shit, you also couldn’t stop yourself from squirming where he could fully see, unabashedly rolling your hips and waist ‘til you crooned. The gun’s tip, then, sidled up to your hole, and Arthur jingled it—catching your clit twitching and spritzing with cream.
And Arthur fucking laughed. He chuckled all deep and raspy, patting your butt with the side of the Cattleman very casually, like he hadn’t just been drilling it into your most sensitive bits.
It made you whine, loud but drowned out by the thumping of the saloon music downstairs. When you squeezed your thighs from the overstimulation, Arthur’s dick squished and bouncing, he huffed and pulled the pistol away, almost instantly tossing it off the bed.
It was back to humping, then, giving you no breaks. His hands were rough, sure to give you bruises where they held you, and his palms sure were nice and warm… He cupped your skin and your throat vibrated, lowly humming, and you felt your legs grow weak like pudding.
“—C’mon, darlin’.”
Your flesh flushed all shades of the sunset at his words. The weight of everything in the moment was too great, and your knees finally bucked, sending you flat on your stomach.
That…only gave Arthur more room to work with: he rocked you, and you clenched around him, tight and full, the ridges of his dick getting you wetter and
With you spread all the wider, his rhythm only sped up, sliding in and drawing out with very unceremonious pumps. He was getting needy, now, and certainly close.
You hugged the pillow cradling your chin and let him wear you out like a bull-rider at a rodeo. Your nerves felt electric, cunt pulsing and quivering with little bits of cum squirts, and through your daze of ecstasy you prayed none of the droplets stained your rumpled up dress skirt.
Arthur dragged himself out, pressing up against your ass and holding you close. You were warm, and he scratched at your waist, his soft, fuzzy stomach finding its place rutting against the curve of your back. His cock rested between your lips with the tip rubbing against your clit, the veiny shaft pressed between you and the mattress.
A lovely squelch came as he came all over your folds and lower abdomen, with a splurt of hot seed.
When Arthur caught his breath and pulled away, you plopped back down on your ass, twisting around to finally get a proper look at him. Disheveled, dark butterscotch hair, trouser flaps open. He was in a pretty pinstripe vest, all unbuttoned, the white dress-shirt underneath open and bearing his chest. An oily sheen made his skin shine in the orange glow of the lamplight.
Arthur drew out a cigar, now, lighting it and spreading his legs, and snapped his crossed black suspenders back into place. He stared at you as if in a standoff.
That was when you flattened your long skirt back down, readjusting your leather-corseted blouse while wholly unable to keep your eyes off the man. Greasy, rugged, solid…
You’d wager most folks may kill to be in your position, especially the hoity-toity barmaids downstairs, in their painted faces and lovely frilled dresses. Even wives of general store owners spared Arthur sneaking glances whenever he passed, sometimes the occasional outlaw would size him up with a lingering, steady gaze.
But he was yours, tonight. No one else had earned that right. And for as long as you two occasionally exchanged pleasantries together, you’d always let him play with you as he pleased, after a hard day’s work.
“—Yer a lucky gal.” Took the words out of your mouth, hmm?
“Yessir. Just your lucky lil’ lamb.”