High Noon Delight

Story by Kuroshio

Written as a Raffle Prize for CarnivorousCandy over on Hentai-Foundry. I'm still taking loads of commissions, so just email me at kuroshioXcommission@hotmail.com or PM if you have an idea. I also do story raffles, with the next coming at 200 fans (I'm at 175 already; it's going to be soon), so if you want the chance at a free four thousand word story like this one, just follow me over there.

Old West setting (that's a new one for me), futa-on-male, futadom, interracial, rough sex, oral, irrumatio/facefucking, anal, creampie, non-sexual violence

The posse had picked good ground for their bushwhack.

Desert scrub brush wouldn't hide much, but a little bit of time and some careful attention, it would break up a rifle-armed man's outline well enough. Finding three scrub bushes in good spots was a bit harder, but not impossible for a hard-living frontiersman. And when the four members of the Bridges Gang rode into a broken, rocky gulch... well that just made things as sweet as blueberry pie.

From the time the first shot rang out, it was a turkey shoot. Carl Bridges went down first, flopping off the back of his horse while the initial volley was ringing out across the gulch. Next was John Hawkins, who at least managed to draw his pistol and turn his mount around before the second fusillade tore into him. That left Apache Mike and Sneaky Pete, riding as hard as they could back the way they'd come, staying low in their saddles, bullets zipping over their head and ricocheting off the ground around them. They both knew they were made and the town wouldn't be safe but there wasn't any good option available to the two outlaws; only one less bad than dying in a hail of bullets to the the Sheriff and his deputies.

Sneaky Pete was grateful he'd made sure to water his mount rather than getting started in early on the whiskey that morning. Old Pillow wasn't the young mare she'd once been and age had taken its toll on the poor girl, but he needed her to run like the wind while he held himself low and threw his body to one side to prevent any of the posse's bullet from finding its mark. She was fast and he was lucky, so slowly, the sound of gunfire tapered off.

But when he looked back, he realized Apache Mike wasn't quite as fortunate, the cattle rustler slumped over heavily across his horse's back. The the mustang slowed to a trot before finally stopping to graze at a patch of hardy desert grass. It was a sad sight to see. Apache Mike's rust-red horse watched Sneaky Pete with a hang dog expression, as if to say, “What more do you want me to do? Might as well eat something.”

The outlaw shook his head and sat up in the saddle, riding his horse hard back towards Butte Creek, ten miles away and the closest thing to civilization for another fifty.

***

It was dark when he arrived, dusty in his black hat and equally black cowboy shirt, and the pickings when it came to hideaways were certainly slimmer than a jackrabbit in the Mojave. The local inn would be the first place anyone with the good sense the Good Lord gave a cactus would look. Couldn't be anywhere the Sheriff of the town would regularly be found cavorting. Staying out on a farm wasn't much a good idea either: he could certainly try to hold the family hostage, but he'd have to sleep sometime. That didn't leave too many choices.

In fact, it really left only one.

Riding around the back of the three story building, Sneaky Pete was careful to make sure he wasn't seen before dismounting his horse and tying the tired old mare to the hitching post. As he walked around to the locked back door, he found it in him to thank God for granting him the skill of dishonest living and swiftly picked it open. With one last nervous look around the deserted streets of Butte Creek, Sneak Pete slipped inside, quiet as a city mouse.

The interior was bright, clean (or at least as clean as things got out on the frontier) and decorated with the finest New Orleans had to offer, with red rugs and finery strung all about its parlor. Isabelle's bordello was certainly a classy joint, unlike the cribs and honkytonks Sneaky Pete had first expected when he'd seen the size of Butte Creek. In fact, it was probably the most respectable parlor house for the nearest hundred miles. Like most, it didn't have a name, however, and word its reputation would have spread only as the madame's nom de whore.

Unfortunately, Sneaky Pete knew he didn't have the time or proper presence to get his ashes hauled, even if he did have the princely sum of eighty genuine silver pieces on his persons, twenty-five pesos and fifty-five silver dollars. Instead he focused his attention on hiding places, wishing like hell he could have found an abandoned farm with storm shelter on the way in as he opened a door on the first floor, where the girls would never be quartered. The air inside was st

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