Loretta Lariat Gone Bad

This dark sketch follows Loretta Lariat: Peace Officer.

1.

She was calling herself Loretta Shrike now. It was a sort of dark private joke. Very dark, and very bitter. Not that she had talked to many people in the last few weeks, since she rode away from White Buttes.

Her plan for vengeance had been successful. Not entirely, but mostly. The Maddox's were no more. Their ranch was burned to ashes.

She had meant to see the town destroyed, as well, but that hadn't happened. Loretta hadn't been able to push things that far. Perhaps for the best.

Angie had saved the townspeople, whether she knew it or not. It was her last act on this earth. She had slain Captain Shrike, the very same instant he'd slain her. She'd banished the demon back to hell, and left Loretta a widow. And as much as she'd loathed the evil bitch, and delighted in her death with all her heart, Loretta would always retain some gratitude to the woman for that last deed.

She still wasn't free of the demon entirely. She feared she never would be. But bad as things were, they would have been worse, if Angie hadn't shot the creature down.

The best part, and the worst: Angie Maddox had used Loretta Lariat's enchanted sixgun to do it.

Then afterward, when Loretta tried to take the weapon back from Angie's dead hand, it had burned her. She'd had to fling it away, screeching. And then, before it even landed on the grass, it had dissolved into silver smoke, in midair, before her eyes. Gone forever. Taken back to heaven, no doubt. Because Loretta was no longer worthy of the gift. She had befouled herself.

Her alliance with Shrike had bought her vengeance, but at the cost of rendering herself unclean.

Loretta then found she could pick up the demon's gun. That had been another mistake. Once she picked it up, she found she couldn't throw it away. Or rather, she could—she had, on a few occasions—but then she always ended up changing her mind, and going back for it. Because it was too powerful a weapon to abandon. Giving it up would leave her feeling too vulnerable. Too ordinary.

It worked almost exactly like her old gun had. It was black instead of silver, and it was a larger, heavier thing, with a longer, thicker barrel. But like the old gun, it never ran out of bullets, no matter how many times you fired it, and it never missed. Whatever you shot at, you were bound to hit. Even if you fired it with your eyes shut, or pointing in the exact opposite direction. Didn't make a difference.

That was deeply troubling—how similar it was, to the other weapon. Her old gun was a weapon of light, and this was a weapon of darkness. A tool of shameless unrepentant predatory wickedness. And yet it seemed in no way inferior to the other gun. Evil isn't supposed to be as strong as good. Evil is supposed to be fundamentally flawed and unsound. Yet Shrike's gun didn't seem to be. It seemed just as good as the good gun—only it was bad.

Except it tormented her. The weapon had a whispery voice—very similar to Captain Shrike's, yet still not quite the same—and a twisted sense of humor. It was a whimsical device. And perverse.

She had angered it, those couple times she tried to throw it away. So now it made demands on her, when she needed to make use of it. If she didn't do what it wanted, what it told her, in its whispery voice, it simply wouldn't work. It wouldn't fire. The trigger would lock.

It had become ritualized, almost. To use the gun, she had to perform two ritual tasks. One before, and then the second afterward.

How many times had she performed those absurd, demeaning rituals? She tried not to keep count. She tried not to remember. But it wasn't the kind of thing you could forget. In the last few weeks, she'd had to do this business on four separate occasions. It was getting easier, each time. That was the scariest part. It kept getting easier. She didn't fight it anymore. She didn't fuss. She just did what was necessary, keeping the damn thing happy.

She thought of herself, half joking and half in guilty shame, as Captain Shrike's widow. No longer Loretta Lariat. No longer a heroine of the west. Now instead she was one of the bad guys, an outlaw. The widow of a demonic gunslinger. She'd given herself to the horrid creature, to turn him against the Maddox's. He'd killed all three of them for her, just as she had desired, but then been killed in turn. Even so, maybe she wasn't properly widowed. Maybe she was still wedded. Not to the dead demon, though. She was wedded instead to the tool he'd left behind for her. The devil's evil gun.

2.

Horsemen were chasing her. Eight men with rifles.

They were dressed as Indians, but she doubted they really were. Maybe some of the bunch. Didn't matter. They were bandits and villains, whatever their race. Up to no darn good, no sir.

Loretta knew she couldn't stay ahead of them for much longer. It looked like she was going to have to kill them all. It was tedious and annoying, but it shouldn't be difficult. It wouldn't take her much time, at least. Not with the demon gun.

In fact for a few minutes she contemplated taking on the men without using the thing. She had several other ordinary weapons in her possession. The risk would be greater, of course. As opposed to it being no risk at all. In the end, as she always did, she discarded the notion. Men like these weren't worth the trouble. They didn't deserve a fair chance. Not from her, not from anyone. Hell could have them, with her compliments.

So she pulled up her horse behind the next stand of trees, and dismounted to tether the beast and make her preparations. At least on this occasion they were out in the midst of the wild. Last time she had to do this, she was on a crowded train. A couple bad men had recognized her from her former life, and decided to murder her on the spot—she had, if she remembered their faces correctly, killed the leader of their outlaw gang and chased the rest of the bunch over the Canadian border, the year before last. The Mounties were supposed to have got them all, but that pair must have slipped away.

Well, she'd put both the stinking bastards down for good. But of course she had to make quite a shocking spectacle of herself before all the other passengers, in the process. Nice to know that this time she wouldn't be troubled with bystanders. Those people had been more aggrieved with her actions than they felt toward the dastardly villains that started the affair. It was this kind of behavior that turned her more and more against the vast majority of so-called civilized society. They weren't worth protecting.

Loretta doubted she would ever again consider settling herself in any substantial towns. Too much hasty judgment and hypocrisy. She was quite capable of condemning herself for her own idiotic mistakes and misdeeds, and more than willing to do so. Eagerly, in fact. She didn't need self-righteous crowds of others to do it for her, especially when it was clear they took so much greedy, giddy pleasure in the business. More and more, in fact, she'd been fantasizing about joining one of the friendlier Indian tribes, such few that remained. If she could find her way to one, and get them to accept her ... It seemed the best means to put her whole past behind her irrevocably. She'd reinvent herself as an Indian. Many more whites had willingly chosen that path than the so-called civilized world would ever realize, or dare to accept. So-called race traitors. She felt she understood their motivation now. If she didn't go through with the idea, it would only be because she didn't feel herself worthy of any such absolute renewal. She was probably much too tainted, at this stage. Too far gone into the consuming darkness.

Of course she was only thinking through those inclinations again to distract herself as much as possible from her present activity ... which was the removal of all her clothing, while she was briefly screened from the outlaws' view behind the trees. For the demon gun would only allow her to fire it when she was undressed. Entirely nude. That was the rule. The first of them.

In her former life, Loretta Lariat only ever wore white or sky blue. Now because she was a widow and because she was cursed, all her clothes were black. Even her underthings, when she still bothered putting any on. Which was rare. She had none on that day. Saved her having to remove them. No socks either. She had decided she was through with socks, in this life. Plain fed up with them.

The gun didn't mind if she kept her hat on, or her boots. She kept the hat but left the boots off. Her pants were too close fitting for her to take them off without taking off her boots first, and she didn't take the time to pull the damn things back on, once her pants were out of the way. Took too much struggle. Anyway, she didn't mind going barefoot. She preferred it, in fact. She always had, but it was only recently she was able to admit that to herself. And that she'd go everywhere barefoot, if it was allowed. If it wouldn't draw attention to herself. In fact, the inclination went even further ... if it was allowed, she probably wouldn't bother with clothes at all, most of the time. Only when the weather got cold.

It was part of the reason she dreamed about living with Indians. Of course the stories about them were exaggerated. They didn't go around as naked as people claimed. Not all the time. In their own way, most of them kept covered up just as much as whites. But she liked to imagine herself going around with a tribe of her own in just a loincloth, with a headband for her hair, with a few pretty feathers in it. Maybe some nice beaded necklaces and bracelets, but nothing else at all. And nobody minding, because they would all go around that same way all the time. It would never be a cause for embarrassment. It would always be innocent and clean and feel safe. No sin in it, no sex. Wouldn't that be marvelous? Except when she didn't want it to be like that. Because there would be times she wouldn't. There were times she liked to imagine it differently—with the whole tribe having sex all the time with her. Just none of them caring if it was a sin or not, because they were all heathens and lived like animals, without God or guilt. That sounded so nice, sometimes.

It used to mortify her, to be undressed. After everything Angie and her brothers had subjected her to. The sensation of exposure—and defenselessness. It reduced you to your weakest and most vulnerable. Even thinking about it alone could terrify her. Well, it still did. But she'd got used to the feeling, kind of. Or rather, she'd got used to not being used to it. Loretta could never feel comfortable like this anymore, not even for a minute, not even when she was safe somewhere out of sight, all by herself—the condition of nudity always flooded her whole body with anxiety and embarrassment, making her quiver all over with the intensity of those feelings. And that intensity never eased, not even a little. Just taking a bath had become a trial. But now she missed those feelings when they were gone. She'd got hooked on them—that keyed-up state on the teetering edge of hysteria. With clothes on, she felt safe—but also muffled. Diminished and less alive. A kind of numbness settled over her spirit. Everything felt too ordinary. Colors seemed dimmer and food lost its flavor. And she hated it. But she also hated herself for feeling like that. She was always fighting the desire inside herself—the desire to get naked again. And to stay naked. To open herself and abandon herself utterly to this wild madness which it immediately ignited in her soul, every single time.

While she was still their prisoner—their slave, in fact, to put it plainly—the Maddox's kept her completely naked on their ranch, the entire time. It was only a few days, before she turned Captain Shrike against them and brought it all to an end. But it seemed to go on much longer.

This was after Angie had whipped her in the town square, in front of all the citizens. They had left her there, tied over a barrel on the gallows platform, when Angie was finished with the show—using Loretta's public disgrace to reaffirm her power and untouchability across the territory. And none of the townsfolk would go up there and untie her, after the Maddox's rode off. They were too scared, and they didn't pity Loretta. They thought she'd got what she deserved. She'd had to wriggle loose on her own. Took hours. And then she didn't go home. She stuck to the crazy plan she thought up before her punishment began, and walked out of town all the way back to the Maddox's. Took her most of the night. Presented herself at the front door, knocking meekly. Still stark naked, covered in dust from the road, her buttocks completely purple with bruises and throbbing and burning so fiercely she couldn't stop whimpering or rubbing at it, even though that only worsened the agony.

"You've come back again?" Angie had said.

"Don't send me away. Please don't send me away. I can't stay there in town. Not now. You know I can't. No one could bear it. No one could face those people again."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

Loretta had knelt down for her, on the porch steps. As if she were a queen or an empress. "Whatever you choose," she had said, "Mistress."

"Don't call me that. I'm not fond of that word. You call me Boss."

"Yes, Boss," she had said.

So they made her a maid, sort of. Angie already had a few other servants. But Loretta was kept separate from them—never spoke to any of them. She slept on straw in the stables and was fed only oatmeal. During the day she was put to drudge work, scrubbing the floors in the house, or shoveling manure from the stables. Whitewashing the chicken coop. She stayed naked the whole time she worked.

And of course Angie's brothers made sport with her, a great deal. Off and on, all through the days. She spent much more time performing for them than on any of those other lowly chores Angie assigned her. Whenever she satisfied them, it only bought her a few hours of peace, before they'd get the hankering for more and come calling for her.

They never actually fucked her. Angie had forbidden them that, for some reason. Mostly she was made to pleasure them over and over with her mouth. Though one of them liked to play with her feet. He liked to make her pump off his cock with her toes, or between the arches. She'd got rather good at that, from so much practice. The other never made her do that stunt, but he nevertheless enjoyed watching her do it again and again for his brother.

They would finger her cunny to make her spend too. But only if she asked them too. Only when she pleaded for it. She always did. Every time. Which was most shameful of all of it. She had tried to swear if off, between sessions. Tried telling herself she wouldn't ask them for that anymore. But then the next time they'd have another go at her, the flavor of their cocks, or the tickling slimy friction of one under her toes, would spark the urge anew for a release of her own, and it would soon build up too strong again until she'd have to yield to it.

But they never put their cocks into her. She didn't get to feel what that was like until Captain Shrike did it to her, on the third or fourth day. After she made her pledge to him.

Hadn't hurt at all. She'd thought it still would, but it hadn't.

Killing her eight pursuers only took moments. She just walked out from behind the trees, waited another minute 'til they got a little closer, and then blew them all away, one after the other. Just that easy. None of the bastards even tried to shoot back. They must have seen that she had her gun ready, but they hadn't readied theirs. Just rode up smiling to their deaths. Because she was a woman and she was naked, except for her hat. Well, this would teach them.

It wouldn't, though, since they were all dead. Idiot bastards. Brought it on themselves. It's dangerous out here in the wilderness. You gotta think twice, before you start hassling someone.

She was a cold-blooded murderer now. Liked this much better than being the damsel in distress. Felt nice. You don't have to be scared out here in a place like, when you're the scary one. The predator instead of the prey. Doesn't matter if you're all alone.

And she wasn't, actually. The demon was always with her.

Time for the second part of the ritual. The payoff.

To begin, she held the steaming gun barrel up to her lips and gave it a kiss. Then she put out her tongue and licked it up and down and all around until the entire length of the barrel was shining with a thick bubbly coat saliva. Then she stuck the end of the barrel into her mouth and sucked on it, noisily, like it was a lollipop. Like it was a cock.

After firing as many times as it had, the barrel was hot. It was still steaming, after all. It should have still been hot enough to burn her mouth, badly. But it didn't. Or if it did, it didn't hurt her. Or maybe it did, but she didn't mind the pain. Because it felt good to her. It shouldn't have, but it did.

Sometimes the gun made her suck on it a very long time—once as long as two hours. This time it only made her do that for a minute or two. Now the next part, she heard it whisper, in her mind. Now. The voice of the gun was a curious blend of Captain Shrike's and her own. Like both of them were talking over each other in sync. She pulled the gun from her mouth and lowered it down between her legs. Then she penetrated herself with the barrel. She pushed it all the way into her cunny, deep as it would reach. It wasn't difficult for her to do, despite its size and its heat. She'd got a great deal of practice at this. And her passage was very wet and ready, to receive the weapon. It always was, when she did this.

Do it! urged the gun ... Do it!

"I am," she answered out loud, her voice shifting into that petulant whine she hated so much to hear from herself. But she couldn't help it, when it did that. "I'm doing it! I'm doing it!" She pumped her hand to fuck herself. She fucked herself with the devil gun. The sensations were excruciating. But also exquisite. "Hoohrrh! Heewwrrhh!" Always made her make such funny noises. Like a dying animal.

-- Do it harder! Do it harder! Push it deeper! Deeper!

"It's as deep as it can go! It is! I swear!" At this point, in the ritual, she always changed her position. She unfolded her legs and sat down, bare bottomed on the prickly grass, leaning back—never lying completely flat, but supporting herself with her other hand, propped behind her. Her hat fell off on the ground, but she didn't retrieve it. Couldn't break her rhythm now, oh no sir. She stretched her legs as wide as they could go, pointing her toes to increase the strain. Which always tightened her cunny inside and heightened the feelings.

-- Spend on it for us. Make yourself spend. Do it now. Do it hard.

"I will! I am! I'm doing it! I'm doing it! I'm going to ... I can feel it ... Soon ..."

-- Moan your pleasure for us. Let us hear it. We want to hear your moans.

Yes, she was waiting for that—it always did. "Ohh. Uhh. Ohhoohh huuhhnn Huuurrrhhnn ... I'm gonna spend soon ... You're making me spend ..."

At this point, just before the first climax, things would always change. She would be able to take her hand off the gun, but it would continue to move against her, by itself. And then a devil would appear, lunging over her. Massive and muscular, with blood red skin and coal black eyes. He had horns and wings and a tail, a proper devil. But he wore a black cowboy hat, the horns jutting through holes in the brim. That hat was the only thing he wore. Its face was not Captain Shrike's. Similar but not the same.

The devil gun was attached to him right at the crotch, in place of a cock. So now the monster itself was fucking her, as a man would. But still with the gun—the weapon did not transform into a penis. It stayed the same.