Lesbian Cowboys

by Sacchi Green

  No matter what the outcome of the game would be, I whispered her a promise: Tonight. Tonight would be ours.

  My daddy always said that playing poker was a right bit more interesting than the telling of it afterwards. If the game had gone badly, I wouldn’t be relating this tale.

  Suffice to say I got Samuel Owens where I wanted him: Out of money, out of sense, and full of desperate pride. He threw the deed to my family’s ranch into the pot with a comment about how the ranch wasn’t as important to him as the prize he’d still get to keep. Margaret froze on my lap, but I kept my mind on the cards.

  Even if I lost tonight, Samuel would never have me. It was as simple as that.

  My hand wasn’t the best at the table, I was sure of that. But my daddy had taught me well, and maybe being a woman made it easier for me to read the men sitting around me—or made it easier for me to keep them from reading me. A woman’s best weapon is her ability to keep a secret.

  I lay down my cards, and took back my destiny.

  Where Margaret had gotten the money to secure a room at the hotel, I’ll never know. I didn’t care. Giddy on success and relief, I could only follow her.

  The men who watched us go were jealous, and they had every reason to be.

  She snuck a flask of whiskey up to our room, and we drank it and giggled like schoolgirls. Still, though, my hands shook as I held the deed.

  “I should go home,” I said. “He’ll want to know what transpired.”

  Margaret rested a cool, long-fingered hand over mine, and I knew she understood. But I went on.

  “Likely as not, though, he’ll have drowned his worries in that last bottle he thinks I haven’t found.” I turned to Margaret, sitting on the bed beside me, and took her face in my hands. “We can be back tomorrow before he wakes up, and still have tonight.”

  Finally, I could kiss her again, in just the way I wanted to. Not rushed, not pretending, just the two of us, and all the time in the world.

  I’d been needing her so badly and for so long that the touch of her soft lips to mine was nearly enough to send me flying. Neither of us wanted tender or slow. A moment later our teeth knocked together in our shared eagerness to kiss harder, closer, now.

  Margaret was always beautiful to me, whether in her oldest dress, sweat beading her brow as she pounded the laundry; wearing trousers to join me when I rode out to inspect the back forty; or naked and rumpled in my bed. Now, though, I have to admit a certain baseness in that I found her astonishingly alluring in the short skirt and all-but-baring corset.

  I couldn’t help but snake my hand beneath the ruffles, gasping with delight when I found I’d been right that her nipple truly hadn’t been restrained by the corset. Instead, it had hovered, barely covered by fabric, so close to my face all night long.

  Then it was her turn to gasp—and my turn to thrill all the way down through my belly—as I rolled that tender nubbin between my fingers.

  No more waiting. I pulled the fabric down, exposing the curves of her breasts above the tight line of the corset, and feasted on her rosy peaks, suckling and nipping until I swear the boning in her corset was the only thing keeping her upright.

  That is, until I nudged her to lie back on the bed.

  I worked my way beneath her skirts with the tenacity and skill of a prospector, and what I found was worth far more than gold to me.

  She was sleek and open to me, tasting of honey and rainwater and promises. My only regret was that I couldn’t see her face as I kissed her most intimate parts and slipped two fingers inside her. I could imagine, though. And I could hear her cry out as she spasmed around me, my sweet Margaret.

  It was easy enough to get my shirt off, and she had me spinning in circles to release me from the wrapped cloth that bound my breasts. Men’s clothes being as simple as they were, we had the luxury of undressing me completely before she paused, just for a moment, to stare at me with all the desire and love a woman could.

  I’d so missed the feel of her mouth on me, kissing me everywhere, kisses and licks and nips until my body was on fire for her. Her own need sated for now, she felt she had more time to linger, and she laughed when I told her plainly that she would drive me mad before she was done.

  With no corset to hold me, I was boneless and quivering by the time she pressed a kiss against my hipbone, then brushed her hair against that same spot as she kissed me lower still.

  Then there was nothing else in the world but Margaret and me.

  My daddy had taught me to trust the cards and trust myself, not anything or anyone else. Still, when I’d bluffed my way through and laid down my winning hand that night, I’d felt a certain sense of destiny: two pair, queens up.

  FUCKING WITH THE FARRIER

  Rakelle Valencia

  Every time I worked at her barn she stared at my ass. Now, I understand when a person is holding a horse with a farrier hanging onto a hoof beneath, bent over and butt end to them, that they’re going to look. Who wouldn’t? And how can it be avoided? It does make conversation difficult when most need to talk to my backside. Folks get over it, though, because it’s just a normal event that happens when the horseshoer is working.

  But I’m saying that this girl spent the entire time ogling my ass—no conversation. It got to the point that I could almost feel her caressing my buttocks, not to mention the age-old saying about being undressed by her eyes.

  Yes, I liked it. I’m not bashful. And my hind end has always been one of my better assets, especially tied into a farrier’s apron, like wearing a set of chinks, or short chaps. The ensemble tends to accentuate.

  Okay, I knew she wanted me. But what was taking her so long?

  Maybe the barn princess couldn’t get her manicured fingernails dirty with the hired help.

  Or maybe I was just reading it all wrong. After all, my gaydar has been faulty from lack of use since I did my stint at Oklahoma Shoeing School. That was when I decided that women were women; lesbian, straight, or bi. It doesn’t matter to me as long as they’re willing to play. Hell, I just want to fuck them, not marry them.

  She’d be a nice piece to fuck, too, I thought—all up in her own shit, but quiet-like. That’s the kind I truly want to make scream.

  I was working on the last horse’s hooves, and she was still staring. There’d been no talk, just her big, round, blue eyes watching my taut asscheeks lined out in slim-fit Wranglers and framed by my leather apron with leg ties. I’d almost call that a boring morning, except for the fact that the horse was real interesting after having been foundered and needing degree pads to get it to walk visually sound. And the fact that there were several silent hours to daydream about what I’d like to do to her highness.

  I placed the left hind leg on the barn’s cement isle, scooped stand and tools out from the gelding’s way, and asked her to walk him off. The gelding appeared to go sound, though I had adjusted his pads from four degrees to a three-degree on the left and a two-degree on the right to get him more comfortable and normal after eight weeks of good growth. He’d always have the rotation of bone, but his hoof could probably be shaped over time to hold the angles he needed without pads, though I didn’t believe this horse would ever go barefoot again.

  She had a good eye, for more than my ass, because she recognized that the Quarter Horse walked off with no gimping and put him back in his stall.

  The place was ritzy. It catered to a lot of boarders, having trainers and giving lessons and hosting shows in their big indoor arena. The barn end had its own bathroom, tack room, viewing room to the attached indoor arena, and a well-appointed, locked office.

  I used the horse-washing stall to soak my sweaty head under cool water from a hose. I doused my back where the sweat had stained my T-shirt before standing to shake like a dog and sip from the stream pouring forth. It was the same old ritual at this place, but today I felt like changing the ending.

  Tools, hoof stand, anvil, and apron loaded back into the truck, I decided to meet her at the office door
for my check instead of waiting by the truck. My short-cropped hair was spiky with wetness, and my streaked face was washed clean and already dried in the summer heat. I leaned against the open doorway, feeling the coolness of an air conditioner escaping past me.

  She walked toward me, holding the check folded lengthwise like a prong between us. I stepped in to grasp the slip of paper while shoving the heavy door closed behind me. Enfolding her hand into my own, I directed it to my back pocket. “Is this where you want it?”

  The act brought her a breath away from me, face to face. Her blue eyes watched mine intently, with no question and no answer. She didn’t hesitate to shove that check into my back pocket, with a squeeze of my tight ass on the way out. Her other hand reached up to scrub through my damp spiky hair until she grasped what little there is at the back of my neck and tugged as her lips moved in to meet my own briefly.

  Rumpling the bottom of my T-shirt, the woman jerked it up and over to rest securely around my shoulders behind my neck. My small, rounded breasts hadn’t warranted a bra in this heat, so as the air conditioner blasted past my sweaty chest, bright red nipples swelled and hardened to points.

  Our fingers entwined until she had control of my hands, thrusting them behind the small of my back as she leaned in to lick each nipple like a snake testing the air. Her tongue was momentarily warm on my flesh before it was gone and the room’s frigid air raised goose bumps on my breasts.

  The girl was a vamp, a vixen. She had been awaiting this opportunity and took no time in her pursuit. Her full mouth set upon first my left breast then my right, sucking, ending in kisses before trickling her lips along the length of my neck to my chin and claiming my mouth once again.

  A hair tie acted as handcuffs as she took my wrists from being trapped low to hug the back of my head, slipping the band on one wrist and then wriggling my other wrist into it. Her tongue trailed a path through the middle of my chest to the piercing of my belly button, where it circled several times before diving in and out, pressing to the bottom of that tiny hole in a miniature fuckfest.

  If my nipples aren’t attached to my clit, like I’ve experienced with other women, my navel certainly is. The ministrations had my pelvis rocking while the crotch of my jeans was beginning to get soaked. Shit, I probably could have come if she hadn’t stopped.

  Cool hands swept along my heated ribs and waist, making me shiver. They clawed at the brass belt buckle. The rivet was easily popped open, and the gritty zipper sounded a protest as it was yanked apart from the sides.

  She was on her knees by now. Her hot, wet tongue found the top of my shaved slit, moisture slicking the dryness in that first instant of ecstasy. Wranglers were shoved roughly to mid-thigh as she tested and teased my own growing slippery wetness with both tongue and fingers.

  I threw my head back, shoving my cunt to her face. She lapped and licked and bit and tormented every inch of reddened, swollen flesh until I felt my knees would give way. At that instant, two fingers opened my twat and drummed on the G-spot. Then she turned me slightly as her mouth moved across the flat side of one butt cheek to the rounded mounds behind. Just as her thumb encircled my clit, her tongue assaulted my puckered rear hole, surprising me with a rim job the likes of which I’ve never experienced.

  Trying to respond to each of the erotic sensations twisting and tantalizing the core of my body, I didn’t know whether to thrust forward or squat backward, and instead, quivered in place as the most intense orgasm built inside of me.

  Her thumb clamped harder in its circling of my clitoris. Her fingers inside grew more insistent upon my G-spot. And her tongue prodding the opening to my anus sent me over the edge.

  I screamed like a little girl and writhed like the dying while pulling my own hair, and succumbing to the one I’d thought I would conquer that day.

  I was doubled over and panting as she withdrew toward a knock resounding on the door. Bright light from the barn fell across a thick mahogany desk and an overstuffed, dark leather couch. I jerked in a leftover spasm and then reached to pull my clothes on properly.

  She looked back at me once before escaping through that cracked doorway. After a few minutes, I staggered back to my truck.

  In all my years of shoeing horses and fucking women, none of them had ever managed to kick the breath out of me. Until now.

  MAN ENOUGH

  Cecilia Tan

  Beulah Kitt wasn’t her real name, but it was who she was. Her legs were as long as her beguiling smile was wide, and with both of them wide, and more than a little guile, she had risen to the top of her profession. A night with Beulah Kitt at the famed Galloway Hotel was one of the prized treasures of the men of the West.

  Few knew that she actually owned the Galloway and ran it behind the scenes. Most thought that Harley Lehman ran the place, and they assumed when he talked about the “owner” that the owner was some Gold Rush millionaire who’d settled in some far-off place like San Francisco.

  Beulah opened the letter from Buffalo Jones herself when it came in with the stage. She was pleased to note that it appeared unopened. It seemed Jones had a cowhand who was ready to become a man. They were building the fella up something fierce on the trail, fixing to come into town in about a month’s time.

  Beulah Kitt smiled. They would all pitch in to buy the kid a night with her, and no one but her would do. It wouldn’t be the first green, nervous virgin on Jones’s crew Beulah had deflowered, either. A month? The poor boy. Imagine the performance anxiety.

  Vance “Bulldog” Pattison hunched further down as the fire began to burn low and the inevitable talk about their next trip into Dawson began. Bulldog had hoped maybe once, just once, they’d give it a rest, but no, apparently the hands had a never-ending appetite for speculation and fantasizing about Miss Kitt’s charms and the way she would ply them on poor, innocent Vance.

  Vance’s stomach churned. The talk had grown more and more graphic in recent days as the event became more imminent, though some of it made Vance laugh silently—there was no way some of these roughnecks had ever seen a woman’s private parts, much less done half the things they described, except maybe for the one or two to whom Buff had given the Beulah treatment before. Vance ought to know, after all, how a woman’s parts worked, because she was one.

  Vance couldn’t excuse herself from the ribbing and teasing, not if she was going to “be a man” about it. Well, another week and it’d be over, one way or the other. Either she’d have her night with Miss Beulah, get through it unexposed, or somehow swear the whore to silence. Or she’d be exposed at last.

  “You better take care of business before you go see her,” Skinny Jim said. “So’s you don’t shoot off the moment she tetches you and embarrass yourself.”

  Vance adjusted the package in her jeans. “You kiddin’? I been shootin’ off every night just thinkin’ about it. Since Buff done told me, I’ve had a nonstop boner.”

  That brought laughter from all around the campfire, some of it knowing—and after all, every word of it was true. Vance had been wearing a leather piece for the past three months, to make it look good. While working on saddles she’d made it out of glove leather. She even had a harder, stiffer one, which might have done to fool some virgin farm girl on her wedding night, with the lanterns out and the sky dark...

  But it sure as hell wasn’t going to fool Miss Beulah Kitt.

  What had Buff been thinking, setting her up like this? Vance had thought for a while that maybe Jones even suspected she was a woman, but he’d seemed willing to look the other way, and he still did. Well, it would be what it would be. Vance excused herself to her bedroll, claiming tiredness but hefting her nonexistent balls meaningfully. More laughter, but no one seemed to mind. Some of them were probably off to do the same thing. Or...almost the same.

  Vance settled in the dark and slipped her hand around the leather phallus, imagining that a gorgeous, long-legged woman like Beulah Kitt was wrapping slim fingers around her hot, stiff cock. She had the thin
g strapped on so if she tugged on it just right, one of the support straps pressed and pulled on her clit. If anyone ever did catch a glimpse of her wanking on a moonlit night, her hand moving under the blanket, it’d look exactly like they’d expect.

  The added bonus was since she’d started doing it this way, she came harder than she’d come in her life. She didn’t know if that was the cock, or the added fantasy of Miss Beulah Kitt.

  She’d have to ask Buffalo Jones what color Miss Kitt’s hair was.

  Beulah looked up from her accounts. She could hear the sound of boots against the floorboards downstairs, voices starting to get raised as the afternoon crowd began to thicken. By sundown the place would be packed, but it was getting to be time to get dressed and make herself presentable.

  She had no maid. She did her own hair, her own makeup, and even put her corset on herself, the laces already done in the back, while up the front there were tiny hooks and stays. She could tighten it further if she needed a little more shape, but a “loose” woman hardly needed the strict, breath-stealing constriction of a true lady’s corset. She had learned early on in her career to put her boots on first, as once the thing was on, there was no bending over.

  She flounced her skirts, making sure they were moving right as she walked back and forth in front of the mirror. It was important to show off her legs. It drew the eyes of the lustful away from her face, which was actually quite plain, her jaw too square, her lips too thin. Makeup did wonders, softening the lines, and she had always had thick eyelashes. She batted them in the mirror and pronounced herself ready for the evening.

  Downstairs, Buffalo Jones was sitting at the bar, laughing with Frenchy about something, already halfway through a glass of whiskey. The hands were all sitting together around a table at the bottom of the stairs, and she nodded to them as she passed by on her way to Buff. The pale one in the corner, the one who looked like he didn’t shave yet, that had to be the one.