Hot lead between the legs, a story of the old Wild West

ADULT CONTENT

All English translations are done as honestly as possible by a non-native speaker. However, if there are any mistakes, please feel free to comment.

🇪🇦 spanish version

    I arrived on a Tuesday evening, on foot, at Booze Ridge, a remote mining town in the middle of nowhere in the American West. My horse had died of exhaustion the day before in the desert on the way to town. He had done the thankless job of galloping me for too many hours in the hot desert. When he twisted his legs in exhaustion in the middle of a dusty valley, like a good Samaritan, I shot him in the temple. I looked up at the sun, wiped my sweat from my brow and walked the rest of the way on foot.

    No one was to be suspicious or ask awkward questions of a foreigner dressed in strict black coming on foot from the desert, so I waited for the 18:46 train to arrive at Booze Ridge. As it slowed to enter the platform, I stepped out from behind a ridge and jumped into the last rusty carriage. I emerged, mingling with the passengers on the way down.

    I hate the desert and I hate the heat even more. Booze Ridge had no more than a dozen houses. Most of the miners lived near the mine and the town had been left as a transit with a pitiful halt. The one wide, dusty main street was strewn with horse feces, sweat and blood. Battered wooden houses on both sides, most of them crooked, built with neither art nor design, beaten by the inclemency of the desert, looked like dice thrown from the sky. There was a barber's shop, a brothel crowning the hall and the office of the deceased sheriff ventilated with wide bullets and a wide hole from where a cell could be seen. A rescue with uncertain success I suppose. A rickety, gloomy, pitiful church reigned imposingly at the end of the street. By contrast, the saloon greeted me with its cheerful tunes and the smell of cheap whisky. I opted to enter it in order to quench my thirst and quench my weariness. Who needs a church when you can find the most honest devotion at the bottom of a glass?

    A whore, from the railing on the upper floor, indicated to me, lifting her petticoat a little, if I wanted to have a good time and quench more than my thirst. I smiled at her, ignored her offer and approached the bar. I tossed a coin to the barman and ordered him to pour me a drink.

    -Which way does Masterson's ranch fall, son? - I asked tersely without introducing myself.

    The innkeeper, a small man of diminutive stature and even tinier ambitions, half bald and with a prominent moustache, looked at me with a blank stare and wiped his hands on a rag.

    -About four miles north, following the tracks, it's unmistakable, father. I can take you there tomorrow if you like. I can prepare a room for you to spend the night and wash up. I won't charge you for it, Father, I only ask you to humbly bless my place. We need a little help from our dear Lord after so many misfortunes. -He said as he kissed the chain with the cross of St. Christopher hanging from his hairy chest.

    I thanked him and after a second gulp of my drink, I asked him to prepare me some dinner. I was right to keep the priest's collar after I had shot the servant of God and former owner of the collar between the eyes and three times in the balls while he was trying to molest a little girl. Who would have thought that being so devout would bring me so much joy?

    After dinner, I went up to my room and ordered a bathtub of hot water to be prepared for me. The young red-haired girl, the innkeeper's daughter, with small, firm breasts, a tight ass and an innocent face, who brought me the water with several basins, was very surprised at the sight of my revolver. A gun with a mother-of-pearl butt adorned with the symbol of a crimson snake, which I placed on the stool. After seeing me naked, and noting how muscular I was for a humble reverend, and unable to look away from my other revolver, she asked me candidly;

    -I thought God's servants didn't need guns -she confessed to me, as she finished slowly sucking my cock, holding it in a triangular shape with her hands.

    -The ways of the Lord are inscrutable and shrouded in darkness -I replied, grabbing her head firmly as I cum like a wild bison on her pale face and over her abundant reddish hair. She received the grout with her eyes closed and her mouth open. Perhaps she was expecting to receive the Eucharist. I kept jerking my cock on her delicately freckled cheek until I gave her the last drops of all my seed. -They are very treacherous roads and full of dangers. You lied to me, girl. You're not so much a virgin as you claimed, but a whore. This is not the first cock you've suck. You must know all the cocks in this stinking town by now. But Jesus Christ also forgave Mary Magdalene, the harlot, and let her wipe his feet. And I'll let you finish wiping my cock with your fleshy lips. Sinners are also creatures of the Lord. I forgive you, but don't tell your sins to anyone. It's better that way. There is no greater forgiveness than the omission of sin.

    I ordered her to say four Our Fathers and two Hail Marys, and while she was cleaning her face and her hair was sticky, I hit her with the butt of my revolver and sent her out. I needed to sleep.

    As night fell, there was a knock at the door. I was, as usual, awake. I sleep only two to three hours a night. I opened the door with my revolver crouched behind my back. It was the girl's mother, a lush Irish lady with long curly fiery hair, scantily clad in a sheer gown that showed off her full figure and a pert navel. She was accompanied by her daughter. Thank God, the daughter had taken everything from the mother and not from the father. They both passed into my room without asking. The mother was ashamed of her sinful daughter's previous behaviour. The freckled girl had told her everything a while ago. The mother told me that she was of noble birth, badly married because of her father's gambling debts. She asked me to absolve both her and her daughter from the jaws of the Evil One. I could not refuse. I had to validate my priestly façade.

    They would both leave the room, on the hour, with my disinterested absolution and their incarnated pussies brimming with lead-hot milk. I don't rule out one of them leaving with a bun of mine in the oven and the father increasing his family in nine months. As I cum inside the mother I couldn't help but exclaim a resounding "Jiihayyy". The mother was as much of a whore as the daughter, she was a purebred. Yes, sir. Amen.

    It was a win-win situation for all of us, them with the Lord's forgiveness and me with my balls nice and dry. Well, maybe the father won nothing apart from a few horns to decorate his living room.

    The next day, the innkeeper took me to the ranch of Hans Masterson, alias the Swede, without saying a word to me.

    The Swede had made a small fortune at the height of the gold rush in 1850. He acquired the rights to a copper mine at the end of the gold rush just outside Booze Ridge. The previous owner, a Navajo named "Red Bison", gave him the land in a surprise move, only to disappear shortly thereafter under strange circumstances. Things were going very well for Masterson, until a group of Apaches and Navajos, starving outlaws, broke into his ranch, murdered his wife and his eldest son Leopold. Badly wounded and mad with rage, Masterson organised a raid with some paid ex-soldiers and ravaged the Indian village, raping and murdering men, women and children alike. He then went into seclusion on his ranch, laying mines all over the land. No one knows the exact location of the mines and access to the ranch is virtually impossible unless you want a first class ticket to heaven. No one gets in unless they want the Swede. And so it has been for the last two years.

    And this is where I come in. I had been invited to a meeting with the old man. The pay was generous and the task easy for an unscrupulous mercenary, used to not asking questions, like me.

    The old fogey was waiting for me, chewing black tobacco, mounted on horseback about a mile from his ranch. His puny son Joe was standing with him. He had just relieved his bladder and watched uneasily, hand on his holster, for the arrival of the wagon. The innkeeper stopped the horse in fear. He crossed himself, kissed my hands and said goodbye to me. I laughed silently thinking that these same hands, his saintly wife bit and licked them so as not to scream with pleasure as he fucked her like a bitch in heat while his daughter waited her turn on the bed looking endlessly anxious at her mother. Praise the lord.

    I've opted to leave my collar up. I think it suits me and it gives me class. No one shoots a priest at first without fear of going to hell at a gallop.

    -I thank you for accepting my invitation, I beg your pardon, but I must cover your eyes on the way to the ranch. I don't even trust God, and we both know that, for gold, you'd sell your own whore mother -mumbles the old man, gnawing with age.

    I nod, but not before mentioning that I won't get rid of my colt and my knife. It's one thing not to see, but quite another to be stupid. Masterson complies with the request, spitting out another volley of tobacco. I get on a third horse, brought for the occasion, drawn by the son.

    After thirty minutes, we arrive at the ranch. I know perfectly well that we have made more than one unnecessary turn. The old man is not stupid enough to go in a straight line. My handkerchief is removed and I see first hand that Masterson has done very well. The ranch is a white colonial fronted Texan style marvel, with side outbuildings that don't overshadow the immensity of the main building. I notice that there are hardly any service staff. Those that are there are mostly natives and Mexicans. I count about a dozen cowboys stationed in different areas of the ranch. Ex-soldiers and mercenaries. No one is trusted. We dismount and approach the central building which is flanked by two cannons from the Civil War.

    Before I enter, a beautiful blonde, his daughter Charlotte, looks down on me from the railing of the central building above the front door. She is an imposing young woman with long curly golden hair, a generous bosom and smoky eyes that would break the celibacy of any servant of the Lord. I greet her, pinching my jet hat and looking up. She responds disdainfully, snorting and turning away. She has an ass to run a rodeo on me for hours. Before I finish the job, I'll ride between her legs or she'll blow my cock, I think with conviction. Where I put my eye, I put my dick, I mean my bullet, the Most High knows.

    We cross the farm, on our way to a grove where a table with fresh water, fruit and a few bottles of brandy awaits us. A windmill creaks lazily and watches us from a distance. A cheerful chirping and the splashing of water diverts my gaze a few metres to the right. A young Indian girl, barely twenty years old, is taking a shower, using a basin of water and a steel pan. She is a tanned cinnamon-skinned native with small pointed breasts and dark nipples, wide hips, an inverted heart-shaped ass and greedy sex. Libidinous droplets slide down her long dark rump, sliding lazily down her breasts to end up piling up on her luxuriant pubic hair where plump vaginal lips poke through. The refreshing drops of voluptuousness fall from her tight sex onto her sensual bare feet. She hums a song oblivious to everything and everyone. Joe watches her shamelessly, one hand in his fly. He's touching himself violently. It's not the first time he's seen her grooming herself and he probably wishes he could fuck her every day. And he would have forced himself on her for sure, except that the old man won't let him. In any case, he goes first, but from the little interest he shows in seeing the wet "Black Feather", I assume he's impotent.

    -If he does his job well, I can tell "Black Feather" to give him a little wank, the rosy-haired old man tells me. Joseph won't agree, but I don't give a shit what that useless son of mine thinks. We're not all savages. The squaw's a good mare, with a tight pussy and thighs. Spirited, like all the fucking Indians here, but she won't disobey if I tell her to. She owes me a life debt.

    Before sitting down at the table and pouring me a drink, Masterson, with his gaze, directs my attention to a makeshift ring a few metres away. A Mexican and a chinese are boxing bloodied to exhaustion, cheered on by half a dozen cowboys, while their explosiv daughter, newly arrived at the table, watches boredly sipping her drink. Her expensive French dress is about to surrender the square, explode and spill like a torrent her fat white tits to all present. She knows this all too well and plays her cards admirably.

    -Listen carefully, Father, if that's what you want me to call you. I need you to call off an Indian who's been busting my balls since he had the bad idea to come back from the dead. A few years ago, I got my hands on some land, admittedly in a perhaps unorthodox way. What difference does it make. The land is for those who work it, not for four lazy fucking Indians. Red Bison, unhappy with the more than fair deal I offered him, backed out after a few days and wanted his land back. A deal is a deal. I told him to go fuck himself. Shortly thereafter he staged an attack on my ranch. He took the lives of my beloved Maria and my little Leopold. God rest their souls in heaven. Nobody comes into my house and laughs at me. I wiped out their whole damn tribe. Some animals don't deserve to live. Leave no one alive except the young black feather. She loves me madly, and never stops thanking me for the life I gave her on the ranch -he says with bloodshot eyes, Masterson. He's certainly a grotesque, porcine-looking man. Now after some years, the damn Indian has come back from the grave and my men, superstitious shits, don't dare go looking for him and put two shots in his guts. They say Klaus Wolf's abandoned mine, where he's hiding, is on holy ground. Fucking shits. Take the job, bring me his head to adorn my dining room by the fire and you'll get paid well. I've accepted the hospitality of my ranch, and after dinner I'll tell you where to find the fucking Indian. How about fucking Blackfeather while you're at it? My son's crazy to fuck her. Fuck him. Black Feather is too good for my son. There are women to respect and marry, like my Maria, God rest her soul, and others to fuck so they know who owns them. Accept it as a gift of hospitality. An exotic bonus to the gold you will receive. I'm sure you'd like to ride her, give her a couple of good slaps and take out your frustration between her legs. You're one of me, we recognise each other. A survivor. Amen, as you would say.

    I nod and confirm my willingness to accept the deal, though I decline the offer to fuck and beat the native. I am many things, but not an abusive rapist.

    Some years ago, in one of fate's whims, I was granted a very special favour by a dying Navajo Indian whose life I saved, and he, in return, would take me to his village to purify my black soul. Inside his tepee, we smoked and drank for hours, and sealed a pact to always come to the aid of the other. I fell asleep.

    When I woke up, I was lying there, covered in smoke, sweating and surrounded by three natives as naked as I was. They were the three daughters of the Navajo, sisters who had little difference in age between them, and none older than twenty. Unsullied by the inclemencies of motherhood. Tight as the bridles of a wagon.

    I could not move. Strange scents intoxicated my senses and distant humming confused my mind. The delicate hand of the young Indian girl called "Fast Hare", full of sounding bracelets, squeezed my cock slowly while with the other hand she caressed my swollen balls. She kept repeating in her Navajo language that the snake should accept its position in the desert. That it should not yet unload. Not yet. Another Indian with her hair loose and the ends ending in two braided pigtails called "Night Flower" applied fragrant oils to my chest and nipples using a small stubble. She took advantage of each layer of oil to nibble and lick my nipples. My cock was throbbing and ready to explode. Fast Hare kept masturbating me and denying my hard snake to spit out all the accumulated venom. I kept repeating that the snake should be humble in the desert. That a hare would free him from his deception, seize him and show him the truth. The third Indian "Thirsty Wolf" had sat on my face and I have never enjoyed a hotter pussy in my life. It was suffocating. I licked it with an almost religious devotion. My cock was at its zenith. My aching balls on the verge of releasing the longed-for slurry. The native stopped the act of squeezing and milking my swollen, veiny member. Whispering in Navajo, she dropped down on top of my cock. I barely managed to grab her sweaty, tanned hips before I was cumming inside her like a wild bear. I couldn't exclaim any kind of pleasure as the Indian's curly pussy filled my mouth. The native of the oils was now sucking and licking my balls which were pumping a monstrosity of hot cum inside Fast Hare.

    -The hare catches the snake. And the snake will flood her with his rage and she will be free at last knowing her rightful place.

    My cum escaped from Hare's cunt to slide in thick, warm, ivory rivers down my balls. There it was collected by Sister Flower's thirsty mouth as the last sister sat on my face and cum howling like a wolf, tying up my hair, and balancing on my face. Hare swiftly, half-turned, forced her sister to keep sucking my balls. Flor had both balls trapped in her greedy mouth. With each sucking, I ejaculated a fresh salvo into Hare's hot cunt and with each salvo, Hare pushed her sister Flower back to suck my balls and thus my warm, abundant come again. It was several hours before the perfect circle was closed, the pact sealed and my snake stripped of all venomous evil. At last I was in tune with my inner animal.

    In the ring, the Chinese man falls to the floor, only to die in spasms as wide mouthfuls of blood stain his daughter's boots. Charlotte, now, shows interest and applauds wildly. Masterson gulps, wipes his chin and pours himself another drink. Isn't my ranch nice? -he says contentedly.

    The next morning, I would leave Masterson's farm with the son, this time without a blindfold over my eyes. Joe saw me off after a few miles, wishing me luck and pointing me in the direction of the wayward Indian's settlement. An abandoned mine about four hours' ride to the northwest.

    -Be careful, father, he's as smart as a snake -he says as he spits out a thick volley of tobacco on his right hand with traces of blood on it. Very clever.

    He pointed out that you should stop chewing tobacco, it will lead you to your grave. One piece of advice for another.

    By nightfall, I was back with Red Bison's bloody head tucked into my leather jacket as I whistled a children's lullaby.

    Hans Masterson was overjoyed and after checking the contents of the jacket, he hugged me and started shouting and beating on the chest of all his guards that they were shit and that I was the only man of them all who had had the balls to kill the fucking Indian.

    -He said, Spend the night with us, I'll kill a steer and we'll roast it tonight, and drink all the bottles of booze you want. What the fuck, I'll give you double what I promised, but tell me all about it. Don't skimp on the details, - the Swede shouted, staring again and again at the severed head.

    The exuberant Charlotte, pleased, watched me sinuously from a few feet away, and while Hans did not hesitate to hold up the jacket with the head inside the once proud Navajo to all present, she came up to me, placing her hands on my sweaty chest and playing with my collar, and whispered in my ear, "I also wish to reward you. Tonight I'm going to suck your cock dry, little father, and if you behave yourself, and tell me more details, I'll let you take it up my ass. I'm Masterson's daughter, Charlotte Masterson, and here you do what I want. There is no God here, little father. You will do as I say. All night long. Then I'll go to confession or not," she finished the sentence by squeezing my package hard, briefly jerking me off over my jackets. Then she bit my right lobe and whispered again. Mouth and ass. Ass and mouth. You can choose the order. I don't care.

    Black Feather, on the other hand, who was just finishing picking some pitiful vegetables in the adjoining garden, could not help but look away. Before entering the house, Joseph patted me on the back saying that he never doubted that, with God's help, we were going to end this nightmare. Amen.

    There was plenty to drink that afternoon. The old man was happy and was even encouraged to dance for a while. The bottles that were emptied served as a target for most of the guards who were exceptionally released from their duties that night. Another boxing match, with a bad result for a Mexican this time, livened up the evening to the delight of those present.

    Charlotte, tired of waiting until later, took me by the hand and led me to an adjoining haystack. Desperate to feel my cock between her tits, she unbuttoned her dress even before entering the haystack. Her beautiful tits popped out to check the situation with hard nipples. Now, it's time to sin and then apologise to the master, -she said as she violently pulled down my trousers. She leaned back on the smelly straw and pulling down her petticoat, she showed me a delicious peach topped by a graceful tuft of golden hair.

    -What is it to be, father? -Charlotte commanded me, desperate to feel my sinfully huge cock inside her. I spread her legs apart and rammed a 20cm lunge of rolling meat into her dripping cunt without warning. Praise the lord for being so generous to me and granting me such powerful weapons. She could barely exclaim more than a deep gasp as she dug her nails into my back. After I had taken five more strokes, grabbing her plump tits, squeezing her hard nipples, I withdrew my sinewy cock, rubbed my glans across her intimate lips, rolled her over and shoved it up to my balls in her ass. She gasped with pleasure. She must have been fine with that because she didn't reply as she bit her lips. I wasn't going to beat around the bush and I was going to cum when I felt like it. God, how I love to fuck rich girls who play the posh girl.

    About the time she reached her first orgasm and I was about to unload my cum on her snowy, now reddened, ass, a group of Apaches and Navajos entered the farmhouse along the safe mine trail I had pointed out to them. A trail barely guarded by Joseph who took an arrow between his eyes as he masturbated to the sight of some slimy Mexican maids washing the silverware.

    -What's going on out there? -Charlotte gasps as she hears the commotion while her tits sway to the rhythm of my penetrations. -It sounds like gunshots...

    I shut her up with another lunge of cock and finally unload voluminously into her tight ass.

    -Don't worry, they're drunk and partying -I reassure her as my cock withdraws half-flaccid and milked from inside her. With one hand I cover her mouth.

    Soon after, silence and the sobs of several maids. Unable to hide the situation any longer, I wipe my cock on Charlotte's dress and tell her to hide if she doesn't want the Indians to rape and kill her. She begs me not to leave her. I reply that her family's fate has long since been decided, that she must be smart and hide if she does not want to suffer the wrath of the Navajos. Nothing remains of Miss Masterson's authoritative demeanour. Frightened, my dress crumpled and my safe freshly burst by my meat revolver. I emerge from the haystack humming, unburdened in soul and body, buckling my trouser belt.

    The old man is tied to a table, beaten and gasping for breath. Six Navajos surround him. He spits profanities non-stop. How rude. I embrace the leader of the gang, Sad Eagle, brother of Black Feather, and pull him aside. I crouch down in front of Masterson and clarify the situation:

    -Masterson, I am going to be honest with you since lying is blasphemy in front of the Lord. It won't go beyond tonight. You've been busting my friends' balls for too long. I don't think I need to tell you how the Indians got into your beloved ranch, but perhaps you deserve to know that it was all a scheme of Red Bison and his lost daughter, Black Feather. We knew we could never cross your minefield without knowing the exact location of each mine. Just as we knew that you were the only one who knew, and you would never reveal it for good... unless you were blinded by victory. Bison was clear about this, and paid the highest possible price to rescue Black Feather and deceive him... His own life.

    She took the voice, the lost daughter, and extracted from a leather jacket that her brother held out to her, a strange revolver, old and rusty. I knew that legendary weapon, though I never thought it really existed. The devil's revolver. Six bullets, six souls. If you die in the revolver's possession before you have exhausted its bullets, before you have paid your tribute, your soul belongs to hell. And never fire it at an innocent person, for then the devil takes your soul in exchange for your clumsiness and the revolver disappears faster than a virgin in a brothel.

    -I promise you that no harm will come to Charlotte, and that she and her servants will be free to leave for the rest of the night. To-morrow his damned ranch will burn to the ground. You've been a stupid old fool, thinking I craved your damned protection when I've hated you every second of my life. That you'd touch me, that you'd wag your dick in front of me to no avail, that you'd offer me up as a welcome gift, made me sick. You wanted me like a lovely exotic porcelain doll to adorn your fucking trophy room. I curse you a thousand times, you will burn tonight in your white-skinned hell, you filthy old man. Your lands will pass back into my hands, oh yes, I will make sure of it. My father, he sacrificed his life to cheat you. Years ago, you should have consciously made sure of our deaths. I will not make the same mistake -she said slyly as she unloaded a point-blank shot from her revolver into Hans Masterson's belly. He opened his eyes wide one last time and died retching blood.

    After setting fire to the ranch, a thin line of servants loaded with bundles, and whatever clothes they could carry, would leave the Masterson farm. Hidden among the servants and dressed in rags was Charlotte. Nothing was left of her haughtiness, and with her once dishevelled and dirty hair, she looked like a commoner.

    The fire and gunfire had driven the horses away and there were no saddles left for everyone. So we shared Black Feather and this humble servant of the Most High, a horse.

    -Well, it seems your Christian lord has truly blessed you -she suggested, as my cock rose again at the touch of the native's bare ass. With a lopsided smile, I assured her that the Lord loves all his creatures equally but some more than others. She dismounted from her horse and with her eyes fixed on the amazing spectacle of the ranch burning in the cold night, she asked me to dismount as well.

    Surprisingly and without a word, the native threw me to the ground, deposited her father's head in the direction of the ranch and began to ride me as only the natives know how to ride their horses. It excited her in a strange way to fuck me in front of the burning ranch and also to show me that she was more of a woman than Charlotte. I am privileged to the lord. She rode me bareback, unmounted and without mercy. Her breasts pounded my face again and again, intoxicating me with her delicate perfume of free and wild squaw. She moaned with each thrust and licked ostentatiously. The reflection of the distant fire created strange silhouettes on her perfect body and on the Red Bison's head. He seemed to smile.

    I tried my best not to ejaculate with every downward thrust of the native. There came a moment when it was impossible, I prayed to our Lord, and without hardly giving me time to pull my cock out of her pussy, the first ejaculations started splashing her wild ass and my stretched legs. She howled like a she-wolf in heat, and then rose to her feet and, squatting down, half-crazedly grabbed my cock, and finished squeezing it over her belly and breasts. Violent spurts of semen splashed across her reddish skin up to her chin. When she finished with my cum still on her body, she rummaged through an Indian shawl her brother had given her hours earlier and began smearing the ashes of her ancestors on herself. She fell into a trance and began her own victory dance, howling in Navajo.

    No wonder, she had defeated each of us in the end.

Epilogue

    I would meet Charlotte Masterson again years later in El Paso, but under very different conditions, but of course this is not the story to tell here, don't you think?

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Many thanks to Klaus Fernandez for the multitude of corrections, advice and challenges he presented me with the story and to Luis Fernandez for encouraging me to make a trip to the old Far West. Without his undeniable contributions to this story, the story would only serve to adorn the bottom of a Booze Rigde watering hole :)

Leave us a comment if you liked the story and want to know more John Cuervo or Booze Ridge!

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