Tabor Evans - Longarm and the Ambush at Holy Defiance

Her legs were bare. In fact, she wore nothing at all. He could see the long, pink gash across her throat, but all it did was complement the fire in her eyes, add an erotically savage aspect to her elemental beauty. Her legs were tucked under her, and he could see the black tuft of her groin hair up high between her thighs.

He groaned. It was a groan of pain as well as pleasure, he suddenly realized. Looking down, he saw where the pleasure was coming from.

His cock rose straight up out of his balbriggan fly, red and fully engorged. Her right hand was wrapped around it, pumping it slowly, gently, bringing the foreskin up over the head and then back down again. There was a crackling sound of whatever grease she had lubed her warm hand with.

Lard, his nose told him.

It felt delightful.

Her hand rose, pushing the skin up with it, and fell again, making the grease crackle softly. The fat glistened in the candlelight beween her hand and the hard flesh it was wrapped around.

He groaned again, sighed.

He was dressed only in his longhandles and socks. He lay on a bed in a dimly lit room somewhere, he assumed, in Dobson’s saloon. He lay on the bed, dreaming the girl was here, naked on the bed beside him, stroking his cock and gazing at him with those peculiar, copper-irised, erotically charged eyes.

At least, he thought he was dreaming. He would have to be dreaming, wouldn’t he?

In fact, going a step farther, maybe he was dead and these images and sensations were merely the last vestiges of his consciousness firing like miniature rockets in his dwindling soul as said soul was being hurled off to wherever souls went when the body dies.

She tilted her head slightly to one side, brown-copper eyes crossing slightly. A fine sheen of sweat glistened above her lip. Her oiled breasts sparkled in the candlelight, as well. She followed his gaze to one of the orbs and then with her free hand she lifted one of his and placed it on the tip of the breast he was staring at it.

And then, feeling the firm, rounded flesh beneath his palm, he realized that he was not dreaming. He wasn’t dead, either.

He’d been hauled up here to this cozy little room lit by a dozen candles on a near dresser, and this Apache witch had undressed him and was now massaging his cock with excruciating slowness and gentleness, so that he was only vaguely aware of the sundry other miseries squealing in the rest of his body.

She swallowed and parted her lips, her breasts rising and falling heavily as she breathed and massaged him. His aches and pains were dulled by the wild, warm pulsing in his loins. Even the ringing in his ears and the steady pounding in his brain dulled when, keeping her hand on his engorged member, she straddled him, rose up over his belly on her knees, and positioned her black-furred pussy directly over the head of his shaft.

Slowly, she lowered her crotch over the head of his swollen organ. He stared down his belly at his cock and her snatch and groaned when he saw the pink folds of her pussy opening as the bulging head of his purple mushroom head slid into her.

He sighed as the pink petals closed around him, warm and slick with her own warm honey.

She gritted her teeth and stared at the ceiling as she slowly lowered her pussy over his cock until her ass was on his hips. She pivoted at the waist, twisting and turning, corkscrewing around on him and tipping her head back, making animallike sounds deep in her chest.

She got her heels under her, squatting, and then began bouncing up and down on him, making the bed’s leather springs complain like rusty door hinges. She growled and snarled as she bounced up and down on him, increasing her pace until she was a dark-skinned blur before him, her long hair sliding across her face and hiding it.

Longarm’s blood churned. His ears were so hot that he thought smoke must be curling out of them. His balls throbbed deliciously, tingled as though little firecrackers of sheer ecstasy were exploding in them. He felt like he was being fucked by some rabid beast of the Arizona wild.

The lard crackled as she rode him.

Her hair danced wildly, the ends brushing his chest.

His blood sang in his veins.

Finally, after he thought he couldn’t take another moment of the sexual pummeling she was giving him, she leaned back toward his feet, placing her hands on his knees. Her brown breasts flatted slightly against her chest, bouncing, hard nipples lengthening to the size and shape of .45-caliber slugs.

Just that slight repositioning, the shifting of the angle of her rising and falling pussy, was too much for him. He couldn’t hold back the dam of his desire for another second.

He spasmed hard and violently, rising up on his elbows and bucking into her. The girl flung herself straight up and forward, grinding against him so that he could feel the coarse hair of her snatch scratching his belly.

She mashed her nose against his left cheekbone and he could smell the sweet musk of her hot breath as she grunted and panted and snarled, pummeling him harder and harder and more violently with her hips, shuddering wildly as she succumbed to her own craving.

He must have passed out after that.

When he woke, she lay twisted beside him, half-covered by a twisted sheet. She was snoring softly. Her round ass shone in the starlight slanting through an open window over the bed. The candles were out but their scent as well as that of the lard she’d lubricated him with lingered.

He stared at the ceiling. Aside from her quietly raking snores, silence. He took inventory of his aches and pains. The eye that had been swollen shut was now open a slit. The other was sore, but he could open it fairly wide. His ribs and jaws ached, and he could feel the jelled blood on his cut lips with his tongue.

He rose up on his elbows, slid his legs over the side of the bed, and dropped his feet to the floor. His ribs barked at him, but he couldn’t feel any splintering or grinding around inside him. They were badly bruised but he didn’t think that any were cracked or broken.

Leyton’s cutthroats had given him a good pummeling, taken the “hump” out of his neck. But they’d left him alive because Jack Leyton was genuinely mad enough to think that Longarm would actually join him.

Longarm had to find his horse and ride the hell out of here. He was in no condition to even attempt to do anything more about Leyton and Mercado’s plans beyond locating the wagons hauling the gold and alerting the drivers and outriders to the imminent ambush. Then he’d have to get help from the army in running Leyton and Mercado to ground.

He doubted he’d be able to accomplish even half of that, but he had to try. As he heaved himself to his feet and managed not to pass out though it was close there for a minute, he thought he was well enough to ride…if he could stand the agony of it, that was…

The girl really must be some kind of witch. Taking a tumble with her was like soaking in a mineral spring.

He could sure do with a gun, though.

As if in response to his thought, the girl grunted. He turned to her. She was kneeling on the bed—a vague, brown form in the darkness, black hair hanging over her shoulders.

Something glistened in her hand. Longarm frowned. He reached out and wrapped his hand around the cold steel of a pistol.

He held it up to his good eye. “I’ll be damned.”

The girl grunted.

Chapter 31

Longarm took about ten minutes to dress, stumbling around as though drunk.

He couldn’t see well in the darkness through only one good eye; the other was still swollen and a little blurry, likely from caked blood. Finally, he wrapped his cartridge belt and holster around his waist, and donned his hat. He plucked the girl’s gun off the dresser and spun the wheel.