by J. Roberts
“You didn’t seem so hesitant in the bath house.”
“I’m not hesitant,” Clint said. “I just don’t want you to do anything you’re gonna regret tomorrow.”
“What’s it matter to you?” she asked. “You’re going to be gone tomorrow.”
“Good point.”
She stood up. She was wearing a men’s shirt that was too large for her, a pair of trousers, and a pair of boots. When she walked the street she didn’t like to show herself off. Men stared, and women glared, and she didn’t need any of that. She got enough of it when she was at work.
She unbuttoned her shirt, peeled it off, and then sat down to remove her boots before sliding her trousers off. Clint did his best not to watch as he removed his own clothes. But he couldn’t help catching a glimpse of her from time to time, and by the time he was naked, he was also fully erect. When she finished and looked at him her eyes locked on his hard cock.
“Wow,” she said, “there’s somethin’ I didn’t get to see in the bath.”
“You had a hold of it, though,” he said.
“Yeah, but . . . look at it. That’s about the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen . . . and believe me, I’ve seen my share.”
SEVENTEEN
There was still some awkwardness between them, even while they were naked. But once Clint took Debra into his arms, and their hot bodies pressed together, all their reservations seemed to fade away.
She came alive against him, rubbing herself all over him, reaching for his cock, taking it in both hands and then dropping to her knees.
“Damn,” she murmured, “so pretty . . .”
She stroked it, took his testicles in one hand, then licked the fingers of her right hand and used it to wet the head of his penis. Her tongue came out, then, and wet it some more. She was going slowly, because this was something she only did for men when they asked for it, and then with no enthusiasm. Most of them came to her smelling like the trail, and when they removed their pants the odor got even worse. But they expected her to gobble their smelly cocks with pleasure.
Clint’s cock was clean, and she was sure it wasn’t just because he had just come from a bath. He struck her as a man who kept himself clean, even on the trail. And if he came off the trail and was going to see a woman, she was sure he’d clean himself up first.
He was simply like no man she’d ever met or been with before.
Clint filled his hands with Debra’s breasts, enjoying the feel of them—smooth skin, but heavy and solid in his palms. He lifted her to her feet, turned her, and deposited her onto the bed. For a moment she was afraid he was just going to spread her legs and thrust himself in. Instead, he lowered himself onto the bed with her and lovingly began to kiss her body—her breasts, her nipples, her belly, down and down until he was nestled between her legs, his face pressed into that golden bush, tongue seeking her out.
When his tongue touched her she jumped. As a whore, no man had ever seen to her pleasure—and certainly not before his own.
His tongue lapped at her, made her wet and sensitive, while his hands moved up and cupped her breasts again, pinching her nipples. The combination of sensations drove her over the edge to her first orgasm in years.
But not the first of the night.
“Who’s there?” someone yelled.
“Take it easy,” Spud said. “My name’s Spud Johnson. I’m the new cook.”
“Who’s that with you?”
“Your boss, Mr. Flood.”
A man with a rifle stepped out into the open from behind a stand of junipers.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Drunk.”
The man peered at Spud suspiciously.
“How do I know he hired you?”
“Wake him up and ask him,” Spud suggested.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Well, that’s kinda why Mr. Flood is drunk,” Spud said.
Suddenly, the man stepped back and pointed his rifle at Spud.
“Ain’t that Jack Trevor’s horse yer ridin’?” he demanded.
“Hold on, hold on,” Spud said. “Yeah, it was Trevor’s horse, but he’s dead.”
“What?”
“Somebody killed him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
The man with the rifle looked at Henry Flood again.
“Is Mr. Flood alive?”
“Yeah, he’s alive,” Spud said. “I told you, he’s drunk.”
“And was he drunk when he hired you?”
“No,” Spud said. “He got drunk after Trevor was killed.”
“How was Jack killed?”
“Somebody stabbed him in the back.”
“Jeez!”
Spud sniffed the air.
“Somethin’s burnin’,” he said.
“Yeah, one of the boys decided to try to make somethin’ ta eat.”
“Doesn’t smell like he’s doin’ a very good job,” Spud said.
“Yeah, well, the boys are hungry.”
“Well, I can fix somethin’,” Spud said, “but maybe you wanna make sure Mr. Flood is alive first?”
The man studied on that for a minute, then put up his rifle.
“Hell, no,” he said. “If you can cook, then get to it!”
EIGHTEEN
Debra Moore was lying across the bed, still naked, in a daze. Her pale, smooth skin was dappled with perspiration, her golden hair a wild, exotic tangle around her head.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Clint said.
“That’s how I mean it, believe me,” she said. “I’m used to having men grunt and groan on me, and then roll off when they’re done. I’ve never had anybody spend that much time on me, making sure that I was satisfied.”
“Then you spend too much time at work,” Clint told her. “You need to spend more time with men on your own.”
“Not the men in this town,” she said. “Not the men I’ve had to deal with over the past ten years or so. Are you like this because you’re a legend? Does that have anything to do with it?”
“I’m like this because I like being with women,” he said, “and I want them to like being with me.”
“Well, oh my God!” she said. “Have you ever been with a woman who didn’t like it?”
“I’m sure I have,” he said, although he couldn’t remember anyone in particular.
“I can’t imagine that,” she said, lifting her head to look at him. Her eyes fell on his penis, which was still hard. “I have to take care of that.”
“It’s okay—”
“No, no,” she said, rolling over and leaning over him. “I mean I have to—as in if I don’t I’ll die.”
“Well, in that case,” he said, “be my guest.”
The simplest and fastest thing Spud could think to make was some chunky chili. The meat, chicken, peppers, and onions just went into one pot with olive oil, simmered there until he added the seasoning, beans, and tomatoes. While it was cooking he made some corn bread and some tortillas so the men would have a choice.
By the time Henry Flood was up and walking around the men were sitting with their bowls full of chili, happily eating and dipping with their bread.
“What the hell—” he said.
“Supper’s on, Boss,” one of the hands said. “That new cook you hired is the best.”
Flood walked over to the chuckwagon, stared at Spud.
“Spud Johnson, Boss,” Spud said, “Remember?”
“Yeah . . . Oh, yeah, I remember. What you got there, Spud?”
“Just some quick chili I threw together. Want a bowl, Boss?”
“I feel like hell, but I sure do.”
“Corn bread or tortillas with it?”
“Can I get both?”
“You’re the boss.”
Spud handed Flood a bowl of chili, a hunk of corn bread, and a rolled up tortilla. Flood went to sit with the men and eat.
“Is somebody o
n watch?” he asked.
“Henderson is, Boss,” Eddie Mott said.
“Bring him a bowl of chili when you get a chance, Eddie,” Flood said.
“Sure, Boss.”
“Hey, Mr. Flood?” Dan Quick said.
“Yeah?”
“Henderson said that cook tol’ him Jack Trevor was dead. That true?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” Flood said. “Somebody stabbed him in the back.”
“Did they catch who did it?”
“No,” Flood said, sourly. “That’s why I said ‘somebody’ did it.”
“So what are we doin’ then?” someone asked. “We still pullin’ out tomorrow?”
“We are,” Flood said. “I need two men to go to town at first light and get our supplies from the general store.”
Two men volunteered. Well, seven men volunteered, but Flood pointed out two he figured would not try to get the saloon to open for them.
“What about Jack?” Eddie asked.
“What about him?”
“Well, he was segundo,” Eddie said. “Who’s gonna replace him?”
“I got a replacement already,” Flood said. “He’ll be here tomorrow mornin’.”
The men all exchanged glances. Obviously they’d expected a replacement to be picked from their number.
“Who is it?” Eddie asked.
“You’ll find out in the mornin’,” Flood said, brushing him off. “Okay, listen up, here’s who I want on night duty . . .”
Sitting at the back of the group of men eating chili were Roy Sobel and his friend, Andy Dirker. They had managed to get back to camp before Flood returned.
“Wonder who the new segundo’s gonna be?” Sobel said, around a mouthful of chili.
Dirker remained silent, but he thought he knew.
NINETEEN
Debra could not recall ever treating another man’s penis the way she was treating Clint’s—lovingly.
She positioned herself between his legs, stroked him until he was painfully hard, then took him deeply into her mouth and began to ride him wetly. He groaned, began moving his hips in unison with her head.
She rubbed her hands over his thighs, belly and chest while she continued to suck him. She was such an expert that she used no hands. She was able to take him to the brink, then back him off, then to the brink again, only using her mouth and tongue and throat.
She made an “Mmmmm” sound at one point, and he didn’t know if it was because she was enjoying herself, or because she wanted him to feel the vibrations from the humming, which he did feel, right down to his toes.
“Jesus, Debra—” he said.
“No, not yet,” she said, although she did release him from her mouth. She straddled him, smiled down at him and said, “First I want a ride.”
“Fine with me,” he said, reaching for her . . .
Flood walked over to where Spud was cleaning up after everyone had finished eating.
“Well, looks like you can cook,” Flood said.
“Yessir,” Spud said. “I’m glad they all liked it.”
“Listen . . . thanks for gettin’ me back to camp.”
“Sure, Boss.”
“Now that I’ve had a small nap and a meal, I’m feelin’ a lot better.”
“That’s good.”
“Except about Jack Trevor.”
“Oh, yeah,” Spud said, “I’m real sorry about that.”
“Say, you didn’t notice anything in the saloon, did ya?” Flood asked. “I mean, anybody hangin’ around, maybe followin’ us?”
“I’m real sorry, Mr. Flood, but I didn’t see nobody,” Spud said.
“That’s okay, Spud,” Flood said. “Good job on the chili.”
“I’m figurin’ on makin’ a mess of eggs and bacon for breakfast, Boss, with some biscuits.”
“You go ahead and make whatever you want, Spud,” Flood said. “You got all the supplies you’ll be needin’ in your wagon?”
“I took a quick look, but yeah, it seems well stocked.”
“Good, good. I’m gonna ride out and take a look at the herd with a few of the men. I’ll see you later—or in the mornin’.”
“Okay, Boss.”
Flood walked away. Spud was thankful he’d gotten through the day without getting shot by the sentry, and he seemed pretty secure in his new job—at least, for the next three months or so.
When Clint flipped Debra over onto her hands and knees, she cooperated fully, and happily. This was nothing like the sex she’d been having in grubby whorehouse rooms for years. This was the kind of sex that was going to have her questioning her profession after it was over.
But as Clint gripped her wide hips and slid his penis up into her wet pussy from behind she didn’t want it to end—ever. She had no idea what time it was, or what day it was.
And she didn’t care.
Clint couldn’t remember having been with a woman who enjoyed sex so much. And given Debra’s job it was amazing to him that she was acting like a woman who had just discovered sex—except she was very, very good at it.
She had ridden him for a long time, her breasts mesmerizing him as they swayed in his face. He was able to stay with her, but it took every effort he had not to just explode.
Once she climbed off him, he gave in to the urge to flip her over and take her from behind, and she didn’t mind at all.
He drove himself into her, and at the same time she rocked back into him. As their efforts continued, they both became covered by a sweaty sheen, and his hands began to slip on her hips. She grunted with every thrust, and in between grunts he thought she was laughing. She had a body made for sex, and he was pleased to enjoy it, but he doubted he was enjoying it as much as she was.
Maybe she was enjoying it for the first time in years—maybe in her life. Idly, he wondered if she’d want to talk when they were finished—but then all thoughts fled as he felt his orgasm building, and from then on he concentrated only on pursuing that.
TWENTY
“Well, this is just fine,” Debra said.
“What is?” Clint asked.
“You’ve ruined me,” she said. “How can I go back to being a whore after this?”
“I didn’t mean to cause you a career change,” he said. “Should I apologize?”
“Hell, no!”
They were lying side by side, catching their breath.
“So do something else with your life,” he suggested.
“Like what?” she asked. “At my age how can I change?”
“You’re not that old.”
“If I’m not an old whore,” she said, “then I’m an old maid.”
“At . . . what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s real old.”
“It is, for an unmarried woman.”
“There are lots of jobs you could get, Debra,” he said.
“That may be true,” she said, “but not in this town. I’d have to leave here and start over again.”
“You seem to me to be the kind of woman who would have some money saved.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, for one thing you have your own room, away from the whorehouse. You have to be able to pay for that, somehow.”
“Well, you happen to be right,” she said. “I do have some money put away.”
“There you go,” he said. “Buy a stagecoach ticket and get out of this town.”
“And go where?”
“Anywhere,” he said. “What’s it matter?”
“And wherever I go, will I find another man like you?” she asked.
“You’ll probably find more than one,” he said. “You’ll have to beat them off with a stick and make a choice.”
“Yeah, right.”
He turned his head to look at her. She sensed it and turned hers to look at him.
“You’ll never know unless you try,” he said.
“Well,” she said, “I can’t very well argue with that, can I?
”
They got dressed and Debra took Clint to a small café where they wouldn’t be stared at.
“You know,” she said, “the legend and the whore?”
“Men stare at you because you’re beautiful,” he said, as they sat.
“Women glare at me for the same reason,” she said.
“They should keep their husbands at home.”
“Well, here I’m just Debbie. The waitress and her husband run this place.”
He looked around at the other empty tables.
“Doesn’t look like they do a booming business.” And it wasn’t just due to the late hour.
“Nobody does, these days. I’m sure you’ve noticed Doan’s Crossing is dying.”
“All the more reason for you to leave.”
A waitress came out of the kitchen, saw them, and came over, smiling. She’d been pretty once, but that had been before life had gotten so hard. She looked beaten down, tired, and ten years older than she was, which was probably forty.
“Hey, Debbie, who’s your friend?” the woman asked.
“Annie, this is Clint Adams. Clint, this is Annie Camp-bell. Her husband, Charlie, is the cook.”
“Best cook in town,” Annie said.
“I hope so,” he said. “I had a horrible steak this afternoon.
“Well, we can fix that. Steak?”
“Please.”
“Just a bowl of stew for me, Annie. A small one—it’s late.”
“I know,” Annie said. “I’m going to lock the door. Normally, we’d be closed, but for you . . .”
“Could I bother you for a cup of coffee?” Clint asked.
Annie smiled at him and said, “How about a whole pot?”
He grinned back and said, “I think I love you.”
“I never asked you why you have to get going early in the morning?” Debra said.
“I’m riding with a trail drive.”
“The Henry Flood drive?” she asked.
“That’s right. You know Flood?”
“No,” she said, “but I know one of the hands, Roy Sobel.”
“Customer of yours?”
