Western Tale: Chapter 4

The pastor staggered to his feet and buttoned his pants.  In a stupor he wandered off in the direction of the creek.  I smiled a little to myself as I watched him go.  I had reduced him to that gibbering wreck with a few minutes--very enjoyable minutes--teasing and squeezing his pecker.  What else had Joe called it?  His Johnson, his cock.

I climbed into the coach and put on the rest of my clothes; my corset was hard to negotiate by myself but I managed it, my stockings and all.  Then I sat down and saw the carpetbag.  What other treasures did it hold?

I rummaged through the bag, finding a smaller leather bag containing a shaving kit, and other toiletries.  There were various clothes and underclothes.  At the bottom there was a small parcel, gift wrapped in a pink tissue paper.  It was a gift for a woman, no doubt.  I decided to open it, and tore through the paper.  Inside was a card box with the words 'do it yourself' printed.  I opened the box to discover that inside was a cock--a dick--a johnson.  It seemed to be made of painted and lacquered wood, but it had the distinctive shape I had seen twice that morning.  I was fascinated.  

My fingers explored its length, it's girth; my body remembered the pastor's and Joe's hot flesh.  Heart racing once more I put it back in its box and then into my own trunk.  I didn't want Joe or anyone else discovering this treasure.  It was mine now.

Shortly after I climbed down from the stagecoach, a very embarrassed looking Reverend Brown returned from the creek.  Without a word, he picked up his bible and began to read.  He could not bring himself to look me in the eye.  To ease his embarrassment I strolled a little way from the camp, checking on the horses.

I realised that, although we had taken the saddles from both bandits' horses no one had searched their saddle bags.  This I did now as the pastor continued to read his scripture.  I found a few shirts, a small bag of gold coins, a six shooter, a Bowie knife and a bundle of papers.  I set those things of value in one pile and the rest in another pile.  I unwrapped the bundle of papers and started to go through them.  Letters from mother to son (even bandits have mothers); letter from a lover, swearing eternal fidelity and some pictures.  

One seemed quite a demure picture of a lady--perhaps that lover. A couple of of pictures of loose saloon women wearing corsets and stockings but little else.  Then one which really caught my eye.  It was as depraved and startling as the carpetbaggers.  A different woman this time, and a different man.  But again, the couple were naked and the man was lying on the bed.  His cock was standing straight up and the woman appeared to be impaled on him.  Oh my goodness, how that picture made me feel.  My heart hammered in my chest, and between my legs there was a tingling and a wetness the like of which I had never before felt.

The photograph in my hand I walked over to the pastor as he read.  "Reverend, are you a married man?"

He looked up--surprised by my question.

"I am a widower.  My wife died only two years after we were wedded.  A fever took her."

"I'm sorry," I replied.  "Am I the first woman who ever..."

I didn't need to finish that sentence.  He knew what I was asking.  His jaw dropped open.

I held out the picture to him.  "Good Lord," he said. "Did you save that from the fire?"

I just shook my head.

The silence crackled between us.  Neither of us spoke a word.

He reached out and tried to take the picture from me.  I pulled it out of his reach, "Don't burn this one."

He nodded and reached for it again.  This time I let him take it.  He examined it closely.

"Does that look like sin to you, Reverend?"

"I can't believe they're married."

"But they're not hurting one another, are they?"

He shook his head.

"Do you envy that man?"

He didn't answer straight away.  The pause extended and I could hear the wind through the dry grass.  

"Do you envy her?" He finally replied.

"I don't know," I said, truthfully.  "I've never done what she's doing... But I am certainly curious."

The pastor looked up at me, looked down at the postcard and back up at me.

"You know what curiosity did..."

“I know,” I nodded, "But I'm not a cat," I said.  

The pastor had been sitting on a log as he read his bible.  I knelt down beside him, as he studies the obscene photograph.  I put my hand on his knee and gave it a squeeze, then slid my hand up along his leg.  Still, he studied the picture; he couldn't bring himself to look at me.  When my hand got to his crotch, I felt that he did, in fact, have a growing erection and wrapped my hand around it through his pants.  I felt it throbbing.  I rubbed my hand up and down along his shaft, and got that tingling sensation between my own legs.  Slowly I undid his buttons and slipped my hand inside his pants, feeling my hand against his manhood.  Finally, the pastor gasped and closed his eyes, no longer examining the fornicating couple.  

I stood up and stood astride the pastors legs then slowly lowered myself as if I were sitting astride him.  I reached under my skirts and wrapped my hand around his... His cock... And felt it throbbing in my hand.  I rubbed the tip of his manhood against my private part and the feeling made me gasp.  I knew I was wet... I'd never felt so wet, so excited.  When I felt the tip of his cock brush against me, I gasped.  When I felt the tip of his cock push me apart I swoon, almost losing consciousness at the moment I lost my virginity and let this man slid his hard cock into my most private part.  It felt so good, and I felt so tight around him. As I bounced slowly up and down, I could feel him inside me; I felt amazing, like I was on top of the world, like nothing bad could happen.  My private part was stretched tight around him, making him groan as I lifted myself up and down, teasing him.

"Oh God above," he whispered and held my waist as I bounced up and down relishing every movement, every moment with the pastor inside me.  He closed his eyes and I felt his grip tighten on my waist, but still I bounced, and felt his hips bucking, thrusting himself up inside me.

“Oh Lord,” I whispered.

The pastor’s grip tightened still more and he held me suspended a little above him, then he thrust more earnestly ramming himself into me over and over again.  Thrust after thrust he continued until after a minute or so, he stopped as if under a sudden spell which froze him, mouth open, every muscle tense.  He let go my waist and flopped, his part slipping from me, leaving me feeling bereft, incomplete.

“Why did you stop?”  I whispered, not understanding what had happened.  Then I felt his ejection dripping down my thigh and I realised.  He may have been sated, but I certainly was not.  I stood up, turned and walked away from him.

Then I heard something.  “Do you hear that?” I said.

“What?”

“A horse.”

The pastor stood up himself and tried to make himself presentable.  We looked around and saw dust coming from the direction in which Joe had ridden earlier.  It wasn’t long before the dust gathered form and became a galloping horseman.  Moments later, it was clearly Joe, returning from town.

“Woa,” called Joe to his horse, pulling hard on the reigns and getting the horse to come to a complete halt.

“What news, Joe?” I asked.

Joe jumped from his horse.  “We can’t go back there.”

“What?”

“And no one’s coming to help.”

“Why ever not?”

“No one left alive.”

“What?”

“Far as I can tell, though I didn’t go right into town.”

“What are you talking about?”

Joe sat down next to the embers of the campfire and tried to explain.  It seems that, as he approached the outskirts of town, he saw smoke rising.  He’d stopped just shy of the brow of a hill, to take a look see.  What he’d seen had forced his decision to come straight back.  The town had mostly burned.  There were a few dead bodies in the street and not a living soul to be seen.  

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Hard to say.  Could be indians, or outlaws.  Anyway, I watched for a while and didn’t see anything stirring.  As I rode back here, I wondered whether you’d still be alive when I got here.  Seems we’re real lucky that this weren’t the direction they was headed.”

Almost involuntarily, we all scanned the horizon for movement.  How lucky were we?

Joe sat down at the fire and the pastor and I joined him.  If we couldn’t go back, where could we go?  We felt like we should stick together--though the pastor pointed out that if a whole town could be devastated by whoever it was, then whether we were two or three together would hardly make a difference.  We should make for the next two, and hope that we met their search party on the way--assuming of course that they sent a search party at all.

We split up the tasks that needed doing before we could break camp.  There were the horses to hitch up and saddle, the stage to be packed.  The campfire needed to be doused.  It took us an hour of hard work before we were ready.  When all else was done, the pastor and I waited by the stage while Joe went and filled the canteens with water from the creek.

On his return, he climbed up on the stage.  The pastor insisted on riding inside the stage.  I took one of the bandit’s horses and rode next to the stage; the other was tied to the back of the stagecoach.

Finally, with the reins in his hands, Joe gave a shout and the team slowly rolled back to the trail and on towards the next town.  Horse riding had become a whole new experience for me after my time with the pastor earlier.

We took it easy, not wanting to exhaust the horses, and followed the trail at a gentle trot.  At that speed, we thought it would take us until sundown to get to the next town.  Every so often we’d stop, the pastor would stick his head out of the stage, wondering why we’d stopped--but it was just to size up the next stretch of trail, have a slug of water and exchange a few words.

I reckon we’d probably have made it to the next town if it hadn’t been for the broken wheel.  After two hours or so in the saddle, the back wheel on the right hand side of the stagecoach lost its rim and pretty much disintegrated.  I had been on the left hand side of the stage at the time and didn’t see the wheel deteriorate, so when it happened, it happened without warning.  Suddenly, the wagon had only three wheels, and was tipping back at a precarious angle.  In moments, the stage stopped and the pastor’s head was sticking out again.

“What’s going on now?”

Joe jumped down from the front of the stage.

“Darn,” he said.  “We’ve lost a wheel!”

“Lost?”

“She’s broke,” he said, “She’s broke and I cain’t fix her.”

“What are we going to do?” asked the pastor.

“Well you may as well climb down from there for a start,” said Joe, “THis old stage ain’t going no further today.”

The pastor opened his mouth to speak again, but Joe pre-empted him, “And I ain’t in the mood for any more damn fool questions neither,” he said.  He took off his hat and threw it to the ground in apparent disgust.

The trail at that point was curving round to the left of a grove of trees.  Joe jumped on the other horse and scouted around.  A few minute later he returned, “I don’t want to go to far from the trail, case we miss our rescue party.  But if there’s indians or outlaws in these parts, I don’t want to be right next to the trail neither.  The other side of this here grove there’s a creek.  I reckon we should make camp there, takin’ with us anything we value from the stage.  We can camp there tonight and carry on to the next town on horseback in the mornin’.  Whaddaya say?”

I shrugged.  It wasn’t very ladylike, but then given the events of the say and how the saddle was making me feel after a couple of hours, you shouldn’t be too surprised by that.

It took Joe a few trips to get our valuables over to the camp.  I unhitched the horses, and then emptied the carpetbag.  I picked and chose my most valuable things from my trunk and transferred them there.  The pastor then helped me carry the trunk a little ways into the trees, where I hid it as best as I could, in the hope I could return in a few days to retrieve it.  Using saddlebags left by one of the bandits, the pastor followed a similar process and I, in turn, helped him to hide his trunk.

Eventually we lead the team of horses around the woods and to the camp.  Joe had taken the bandits horses down to the creek, so we took the team there too. When the horses were well watered, we tied them up and left them to graze.  Joe made a fire and boiled some coffee.

That night we all made bedrolls by the fire, with Reverend Brown and Joe either side of me, though in the presence of the other, each kept a discreet distance.  just before sun up, it started to pour with rain; there was thunder and lightning too.  We did our best to keep the fire going, but by the time the sun was in the sky, we were all wet through and the fire was definitely out.  We realised that the horses had bolted too.  Now we were really on our own.

Even wrapped in a blanket I was freezing cold.  Joe got up and went looking in the woods for something dry to burn.  The pastor, as ever, went back to his bible and read.  I rummaged in the carpet bag and found a few dry things to wear.  I took off my jacket and hung it out on a bush to dry.  I turned my back on the pastor and slipped off my corset and chemise.  Naked from the waist up I quickly put on a clean dry white cotton blouse.  Almost immediately I started to warm up.  When I glanced over my shoulder it was clear that the pastor had been watching as I got changed.