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The Sheriff left early this morning. Matt. The man I love. Leaving me behind, all alone with my dreams and delusions, freshly laundered petticoats hanging on the line to dry out in the sun, quickly, to be ready in time for the 7 o’clock rush.

Sundown is when all the men finish their hard day of labour – or their easy day of making other men’s lives hard – and come to the saloon for a little company, a little lovin’, malt liquor and the occasional bar brawl.

As usual, tonight I will make myself pretty for them, put ribbons in my hair and fresh rouge on my cheeks and lips and nipples and smile at them, twirling my skirts so seductively and laughing as I flirt and flatter to earn my keep and make a living.
And what a living it is, what a life.

Before the Sheriff, Matt, first came in under the pretence of wanting to prevent anticipated Friday night trouble, I loathed this life. I had been here three weeks then, I was fresh meat, new blood, and the dirty hungry men descended on me like starved vultures on a freshly dead horse. Three weeks in this hell hole and already I had given up on life and all the dreams I had before coming here to this land of opportunity and riches.

Gold rush, my ass.

Under the gleaming layer of fool’s gold lay an ugly, rotting core of hatred, betrayal, and despair.

Three weeks here and the gild had worn off my lily and I was starting to be tainted, myself, coated with the dust and grime of days spent in an end-of- the-road town surrounded by mud and nothingness.

I’d given up on life, all right, until the Sheriff walked in and smiled at me. All of a sudden I saw hope, and sunshine. Light at the end of the tunnel. My head filled with visions of a nice little house in a prairie town, with a white fence and a coffee-coloured mare hanging out by a large willow tree in the green pasture nearby. It was a pretty picture, all right. In one smooth move, the Sheriff gave me what I had given up, first thing, when I got here: hope.

I fell in love, right there on the spot.

“Get you anything, Sheriff?” I asked with my best smile, bending over the bar so he could catch a glimpse of my bosom, scrubbed clean and scented with rose water.

He took off his hat, gave me that drop-dead-gorgeous smile and just said “Ma’am.” No one had ever called me Ma’am before, and I felt heat spread across my rouged cheeks. “I’ll take a whisky,” he said.

“And on the house,” Boggie replied, sliding a tumbler full of rye in the Sheriff’s direction, toothless grin splitting his face into two wrinkled halves, each one uglier than the other. “Girl’s on the house too, Sheriff, if yer keen on her.”

Matt eyed me up and down and smiled again. “Oh I’m keen all right,” he said, and I felt a little bit of wetness between my legs – another thing I hadn’t felt since coming to The Creek three weeks ago, a lifetime ago.

“Would you like to come upstairs so we can chat privately?” I asked, as we had been told to ask, and the Sheriff nodded.

 

“You just lead the way,” he said, and took my hand and led me upstairs to the bedrooms where we girls lived, and worked, and played.

I pointed out which room was mine and he walked in, gently dragging me in behind him. I stood in the sparsely furnished room, unsure of what to do next. I’d tried to make the place pretty by draping sheer scarves over the chairs and the night-table. Bottles of perfume and hair ribbons littered the small dresser where I kept my hats and hatpins and underpinnings and my personal treasures. My best Sunday dress, a faded olive green gown I’d inherited from an aunt when she had passed away a few months ago, hung in the corner, unworn.

“Take off your clothes,” the Sheriff said, snapping me out of my reverie. I blushed furiously. “That is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Slowly – as I had been taught to do, I ran my hands across my cleavage and started to undo my dress, letting it fall to the floor as I stood there, wearing nothing but a corset, frilly white cotton bloomers and stockings that had seen better days. Something stirred in the Sheriff’s body, and he cleared his throat. “All of it,” he said.

I slowly pulled the bloomers down and stepped out of them as daintily as I could, and unlaced my corset, as I had practiced a hundred times. I let it fall to the floor and stood in front of the Sheriff, breasts bare, hard nipples revealing my excitement as clearly as the soft, dark hair between my legs concealed it.

“Sit down,” the Sheriff said. I pulled the chair away from my dressing table while he sat on the edge of the bed. “Spread your legs for me.” I skipped a beat, taken aback: this was unusual.

Slowly I parted my legs, acutely aware of the spreading dampness between my legs. Seated this way, it was impossible to hide my excitement. Heat radiated from a spot beyond the soft, dark bush and spread throughout my entire body.

“Touch yourself,” the Sheriff said. I hesitated and started caressing my breasts, hands lingering in the rouged nipples, squeezing and pulling on them, lifting my breasts to make them appear fuller… “Lower,” the Sheriff said. Slowly and shakily, I brought my hands to my waist and lower, and started caressing the wetness between my legs.

Slowly and shakily, I brought my hands to my waist and lower, and started caressing the wetness between my legs.

I had never done this in front of anyone. I started to breathe faster, and my heart threatened to burst out of my chest. I was dizzy with excitement, filled with the sense of danger that comes from playing with the sinful, the taboo. Despite myself, I gasped and a small moan escaped my lips. “Good girl,” the Sheriff said, “keep going.”

He leaned back into the pile of cushions that littered the bed and as I caressed myself, I could see his excitement: the bulge in his pants grew substantially as I slipped a finger in my mouth, sucked on it briefly and slipped it into my wet, eager slit.

The Sheriff breathed heavily and licked his lips as he watched. My pussy was soaking wet by then, my fingers covered in the sleek excitement and I too, was breathing heavily until the Sheriff abruptly yelled for me to stop. He walked over to my chair, unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt and swiftly grabbed my hands and cuffed them behind my back. I gasped, and started to whimper. I was excited and titillated and terrified and aroused at the same time.

“Shh,” the Sheriff whispered, putting his hand over my mouth. “It’s gonna be ok, I promise.”

He got down on his knees and with rough, callused hands, parted my legs further. His touch burned my skin like hot coal. Slowly, he caressed my thighs and made his way to the thick bush between my legs, and expertly parted the fold of soft, eager flesh. He then lowered his mouth onto my pussy, kissed me and slipped his tongue inside me.

Against myself, a scream escaped my lips and turned into a loud moan as the Sheriff started to lap at the wetness between my legs, sucking delicately on the small pearl that had never been touched except by my own hands. He licked and kissed my lady bits until the wetness dripped from me and his face was covered with the juice of me, and I lost all sense of time, of space. All that was left of my life was this moment, those rough hands holding on to my legs, the stubble on the Sheriff’s cheeks scratching my thighs and my body exploding as I screamed, and screamed and screamed.

The Sheriff pulled back from me and smiled, and licked his lips. His eyes bore an evil flame...

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