Loretta Lariat: Bushwhacked

expanded a bit further just for fun 1/14

1.

Just another one of the durn days when it seemed the whole durn world was out to get her.

Little over an hour ago, couple no-good shameless bushwhackin' rascal sonsabitches tried to assassinate her. Burst in her hotel room while she was in the middle of taking a bath, guns blazing soon as they kicked the door open.

Luckily at just about the last possible moment, she'd got warning. A third member of their party had been posted to guard outside her half-open window. She had its shade pulled down, only the steady breeze kept pushing it aside again and again, making it thump the wall. The dirty stinker lurking out there, hearing her splash around and humming to herself, must have got under his skin. The blackhearted dog just couldn't resist taking a peep over the windowsill at her, and gave the whole game away, 'cause she'd spotted the bastard doing it. Saw his big black hat, and that the lower half of his face was masked with a blood red handkerchief. Instantly she realized what was about to happen, and lunged for her gunbelt which she'd left draped with the rest of her things across the back of a chair right next to the tub. Loretta always made durn sure, wherever she was or whatever she was doing, that she kept a weapon or two in close reach. In preparation for unfortunate circumstances exactly like this one. Thus, despite her state of undress, she had herself armed and ready when the pair of villains charged through her door. Still hunched over in the bathtub, though, where she'd set it up dead center in the middle of the room—hadn't been enough time for her to clamber out completely and take better cover.

Should have probably had her dead to rights, if they'd been any good at their jobs. Only they was too chickenshit, and in too much of a rush. Both bastards were shooting wildly when they charged in. So they didn't hit nothing. Loretta did better. Killed one outright with her first shot—got him in the throat. Then winged his comrade in the shoulder or his arm, not sure which. He retreated into the corridor, hollering pitifully, but kept firing into her room, shooting through the wall over and over while that third peeper turdface crouched at the window stuck his gun in at her as well. She swung over that direction and blasted him next. Pretty sure she nailed him dead through his left eye. Quite a nice shot, if she did say so herself.

Only then she felt a bullet from the fucker in the corridor buzz past her ear, and a second later another just about parted her hair on the top of her head, and she just about pissed herself. And after that she heard the man yelling to somebody else to come help him. "Getcher asses in here, both of ya! Back me up!" Both, he'd said ... That would indicate he probably wasn't talking to the shithead she'd just killed at the window. At least two more bad guys were about to join the attack from the direction of the doorway.

The gunfire intensified. Like the wounded man, his reinforcements kept their wicked asses out of her view in the corridor, shooting blindly through the wall. Peppering it all to hell. Whole durn thing would need torn down and replaced after this. Knew she was bound to get hit, sooner or later. Didn't matter how lousy their marksmanship was, not when they kept pouring in as much lead as this. Loretta had to get out of that room toot durn sweet. So she jumped from the durn bathtub and then jumped out the durn window. Moment she was outside in the alley, she scrambled to her feet and ran around to the front of the building, fast as she could, to attack her attackers from the rear. She'd take them completely by surprise and finish this business then and there.

She had been still absolutely stark naked, obviously. Except for the soapsuds all over her. Actually, the white foam was clinging thick enough to the right spots of her person to almost keep her decent. More or less. Anyway, in the giddy red heat of combat, she didn't have time to feel embarrassed at her exposure. And luck was on her side—at this hour of the morning, nobody was out in the main street to see her run around like that to the front entrance of the hotel. Or else, more likely everybody had taken shelter at the sound of the shots. Perhaps some citizens were watching her from other surrounding windows and various outside vantage points, such as crouched behind wagons and barrels along the street ... But in any case, she didn't see anyone seeing her. Thus Loretta could pretend to assume that nobody had, at least for a while ... And if there were in fact hidden witnesses, she was grateful not to have to face their shocked and judgmental expressions, in that immediate moment. Would have thrown her off. Distracted her from what still needed doing. The unfinished business at hand.

2.

Two of them had ended up getting away from her, by running into her room and then jumping out the window she'd just jumped out a minute ago. And then they made it to their horses and fled the town.

Loretta straightaway pursued them on her own steed. She didn't hold back for a second. Not even to put any clothes on first.

Yes, that sounds ridiculous. But it's what she did. What she felt she had to do.

For one thing, she was too caught up in battle-madness. A real frenzy had come over her. She was so furious that the scoundrels had dared to ambush her in this particular lowdown weasely way, she wasn't really capable of thinking straight at that stage. The only thought in her thundering head was that she wasn't letting any of these fuckers get away from her. She wasn't quitting today until she'd shot them all.

Also, one of the desperadoes, before he leaped out the window, had the presence of mind to grab her shirt and trousers from the chair next to the tub and carry the things off with him. No doubt hoping this would stop her from following them, or at least significantly delay her. Even if she'd wanted to take a few minutes to get dressed before she mounted her horse, she couldn't have, because she didn't have a spare set of clothes with her. Not clothes she could ride in, anyway. She had a nice frilly dress in her bag, and a nightgown, but nothing else suitable for chasing bandits through the wilderness in. She would have had to purchase or borrow new masculine garments.

And of course that would have meant facing the townspeople about what had just occurred. Further hassle and delay—and humiliation—answering everyone's foolish questions, well-meaning or otherwise. From painful past experiences, Loretta knew there would undoubtedly be a number of citizens who would feel she had brought the damnable attack on herself. Furthermore, they would view the conduct of her self-defense to be almost as reprehensible as the actions of the assassins, or possibly more so. A respectable woman, after all, would have allowed herself to be shot, rather than engage like another criminal in bloody gunplay, as well as lewdly exposing her unclad body in the public street in broad daylight—as if martyrdom for the sake of honor was a social obligation, at least for a well-bred, properly raised female. Not everyone in town would take that ghastly kind of perspective. But more than a few would, whether or not they ever said so to her face. They would sneer and titter at her behind her back, and there would be nothing she could do about it. It would be horrid. That twofaced bullshit always was.

Later she considered, perhaps it might turn out better if she never returned to that town at all. Just kept on riding further out on the frontier, after she'd caught those baddies and dispatched them. Provided she could recover her stolen garments, why not leave the citizens to sort out the mess she'd left behind her and let them all think whatever they liked about her behavior and character. Wouldn't make a difference to her, so long as she never had to see or speak to any of those people again. It was only one more dinky little town like countless others she'd passed through in her wanderings. And while probably the story of the ambush and her, um, unusual departure would soon spread to other towns, so fucking what? It wouldn't be worse than half the other tales that already circulated about her, far and wide. That was a plain irrefutable fact.

And then not long after she'd brought herself to that conclusion, still pounding at a full gallop across the dusty open yellow plain with all the power and urgency as she could drive her horse to give her, there was a further unexpected complication ... A new experience she discovered herself to be completely and utterly unprepared for.

It was because she was riding the horse naked. She'd never done that before.

She must look quite a picture ... Imagine: Her hair, waist-length now, unbraided, streamed and rippled behind her like a golden angelic banner. The bathwater and soapsuds had completely evaporated from her body by then, but she'd already from top to toe become more soaking wet probably than she was when she leaped from the tub. Only this was all greasy, itchy sweat drenching and dripping from her flushed fair skin, and her heaving breasts (hurting a bit from the forceful unsecured flopping this mad gallop was subjecting them to), and the wild, wind-tangled mess of her hair.

The feeling was strongest, inevitably, below, between her legs. The texture and the motion of the saddle beneath her, and against her ... You might not think it would make a great deal of difference to the sensation, not having any pants or underwear on. Some, sure—but not an enormous change. Pants and underwear together are only a couple relatively thin layers of cloth. They don't provide an enormous amount of physical protection and cushioning for one's crotch. Only a little. Yet trying to ride that horse without those two little layers ... it was turning out much more problematic than she would ever have predicted. In fact not for one moment when she saddled up and started out had it occurred to her that this factor might become an issue, as the trip progressed.

Right then, though, it had become an issue. A serious and troubling one.

She should have mounted sidesaddle, perhaps. But Loretta never rode a horse that way. Always thought that was absurd.

Was her cunny always stretched so open, each time she straddled a horse like this? If it was, she had never noticed before, when it was safely shielded and cushioned by clothing. Without any, Loretta found she couldn't think of anything else. The sensations from down there and inside there swamped out the rest of the world. The gaping aching oozing stretched openness, fitted to the hot upward curve of the front of the saddle, and its horn. Which the galloping of her horse was compelling her stretched-openness to bounce and grind upon. Again and again. Endlessly. The stimulation of the impacts—the pleasure they triggered—causing her to expel and drench the saddle and its horn with her juice, her sexjuice, more gushing out of her each time she bounced and clenched, each time she was jolted again with another surge of the maddening sensations. Soon her whole saddle was soaked with the stuff, and all down both her thighs. The leather of the saddle was made to darken and yet to glisten in the blazing sun, and started squeaking every time she moved on it. She feared she'd slip off the horse altogether, stirrups be damned. They were hurting her bare feet, too, the durn things, cutting into the arches from the pressure of her legs straining against them, and from curling her toes too tight. But she couldn't make her legs ease off, or her cramped toes. It was impossible.

She hadn't been able to slow the horse. Couldn't remember how to control the beast. Couldn't remember a damn thing about anything. The sensations were too strong. All she could do was cry out. All she could do was groan and curse in useless protest.

"Oh. Oh shit. Oh God. Oh."

Exclamations helped her cope with the intensity, for a time. More so when she let herself do it louder. "Oh. Uhn. Uhrr. Ohhrr." And yet she realized they also added to it all somehow. Should have known that would happen. Like opening a window or a door. Voicing the feelings was an admission, and in turn, a yielding to them. "Oh. Ohh. Oh!" They only continued to strengthen, the louder and more embarrassing she allowed her vocalizations to be. "Shit! God! I didn't know this would happen ... I didn't know ... Oh my God! Ohhoohh!"

Could the men ahead of her hear these words? These pitiful shouts? They were tiny figures, still a great distance off, almost on her horizon ... Probably they couldn't hear her. Or only angry yelling; they wouldn't be able to make out the actual words. The pleas they were turning into, as she succumbed to desperation. God she hoped she was right about that. If they had understood her cries, and then turned and saw her like this ... If they could figure what was happening to her while she tried to chase them down ... They'd fall off their fucking horses, the pair of them, just from laughing at her. God, the shame alone would strike her dead on this spot.

She was being fucked by her own horse, or at least by her saddle. Or was she the one fucking it? No, she had no control, not anymore. Or even if she was the one doing the fucking, she was being made to do it. Like a puppet, or like a horse herself. Like the saddle she was riding was riding her.

"No. No. Get a-fucking-hold of yourself. Dammit! Oh shit! Ohh! Concentrate. Calm down. You've got a job to get done. You're got a gun in your hand and you're riding into battle. Doesn't matter that you're naked. It's not important." But it was, because it made her vulnerable to these atrocious unstoppable feelings ... God, why did she have to be so keenly sensitive? Why hadn't she been prepared? Why hadn't she mounted sidesaddle, instead of spreading open her cunny and mashing it against the horn like a damn fool whore? But how could she have known it would feel like this? It was never like this with pants on. Or was it? Never near this strong of course but still ... It was always a pretty durn great feeling, wasn't it? Galloping along as hard as you could go ... She'd just never fully acknowledged to herself how excited that would make her. The root of the thrill. "God! Shit! Fuck! Get your head right, girl! Damn you! Dammit! Damn youuuhh ... uhh ... uuhhhrrnn ... "

It was so crazy and it was so inappropriate and humiliating. Made her feel weak and idiotic and perverse. Another disgraceful mistake. Thinking she could stay naked and it wouldn't matter—it wouldn't screw everything up. Why didn't she realize something crazy like this would happen to her, after all the other crazy sinful shit she'd put her body through? If she'd known it was going to feel like this and do this to her ... But she didn't like to admit her vulnerabilities. Like they'd vanish if she just pretended hard enough that they didn't exist. She wanted to have changed! The point of this ride wasn't just to make another lewd and indulgent spectacle of herself! Or had it been all along, under the surface? Had she been deceiving herself again? God, she was a law officer on a mission of justice. Pursuing murderous ruffians. She hated allowing herself to succumb this way, to mindless wantonness that would turn her away from her righteous purpose. But that was exactly what was going to happen. She couldn't prevent it. It was fucking too late. Her nakedness had enabled the feelings to awaken and overwhelm her spirit. They had erupted too sudden, and too strong. Lust had conquered her ... again. Her duty and honor must give way to it.

She just had to orgasm. One big one, at least. That was the fundamental thing. Had to just get it done and get it over with. Get it out of her system. Clear the craziness, settle her hungers. Then she could get her head back to her true purpose. Hopefully. Maybe.

"All right. All right then. Fine. Fine." She closed her eyes, let her head tilt back ... "I'll do it. I'm doing it. I'm just gonna do it ..." She let go of the reins so she could use that hand to pinch and tug at her nipples, while she fired her gun off a couple times into the air straight overheard, just for the fuck of it. A kind of punctuation. "Oh God. Oh now! Now! Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh God! God! GuuuhHOD!"

Unfortunately, in the midst of the transcendence, she dropped her pistol. And then when it hit the ground, it went off again. And by just absolutely wonderful luck, it shot her horse. Bullet went straight up through its lower jaw into its brain.

It was a miracle she didn't get her neck broke, when the horse tumbled and catapulted her off.

3.

She lay spread-eagled, spent and stupefied in the prickly yellow grass, staring up at the sky and gasping like a landed fish, trying to figure out what on Earth had just happened to her ... Couldn't seem to sit up or move. Was she paralyzed? Thought for a few seconds she was dead and floating up into Heaven ... that her spirit had abandoned her body altogether ... but then gradually she became aware of the itchiness of the dry, sharp bladed grass on her back and bottom. Plus she could feel a tiny beetle of some kind crawling over her hair. And she found she could wriggle her fingers and toes, though her arms and legs still felt too heavy to shift. Not numb. Just much too heavy, like they'd turned to stone.

Her cunny felt swollen, and sore, and leaky. She needed to pee, and also realized she'd got very thirsty and a little hungry too. Her tummy rumbled.

She smelled bad. She reeked of sex. Sweat and cunny juice.

Hoof beats. Getting louder, getting closer.

The men she'd been chasing. God, they were riding back toward her.

That got her to sit up. But already they were too close. No chance of escape. And she couldn't see her weapon anymore. (Later turned out to be under the corpse of her steed.) How could she defend herself? The answer was: she couldn't. No way. She was Hell and Jesus with a pistol, and as she'd just proven, could scare the daylights out of bad guys regardless of her unclothed state, chasing them clear across the country like Vengeance Personified, a Fury out of ancient myth ... but without iron in hand, Loretta was powerless. Instantly reduced to just a mere damsel in distress, same as any other ordinary untrained female. A pair of big frightened blinking blue eyes abrim with panicked tears, a pair of big quivering sweat-beaded titties she cradled in her hands, and a lily-white ass with broken yellow grass stems stuck across its cheeks. A figure of delectable prey for hungry predators. Bait in the field.

She heard herself whimper, which made her pissed at herself even more than she already was, but the rage still didn't stop her from starting to cry. She struggled up to her feet and started to run back toward town. Useless and undignified, but she ran anyway. If the villains caught her like this, totally stark naked ... Oh God, it was unthinkable, the things they'd do to her, the things they'd force her to do. Oh God oh shitshitshit Jesus God Noooo! NOOO! How could she have done this to herself? How could she been such a suicidal idiot? Her stomach was cramping and her legs had turned rubbery and she could barely breathe. If only her legs could race as fast as her heart was pounding now ... But they couldn't.

She saw a clump of trees she could try to hide in, maybe, if she got that far ... Off to her left, to the south. Could she make it?

The answer, of course, was no. A lasso dropped over her head before she was close to halfway there. She screamed as the loop jerked tight around her belly, the scratchy rope pinning her arms to her sides, lined up perfect at her elbows when it closed to trap them.

She was bound! She was captured!

"Noooo! Nooo! Dammit! Damn you!" She fell to her knees, bawling. Blubbing like a little schoolgirl, couldn't stop. Christ, she was such a pathetic mewling crybaby when things didn't go her way. Hated how weak she was. How easily she broke. "Lord save me! Someone help! Please God!"