Loretta Lariat: Law of Lawless

The other one was just as silly. No, worse. A white girl in an Indian costume, buckskins and moccasins. Even had herself a beaded headband with feathers in it. Impressively long hair—the braids reached almost down to her knees. Bad luck for her though if some asshole caught hold of those. An outlaw should know to watch out for shit like that, if she had half a brain. More sensible to keep her hair hacked short like her masked partner did.

It came to Loretta all the sudden—the cover of a dime novel. The illustration on it had depicted these two female outlaws. That was why she recognized the pair. Some kids had it. This was quite a while back, in happier times ... She'd just happened to notice the boys flipping through the booklet in an alley next to the general store back home in White Buttes. She'd taken a minute to chase the scamps out of there because they were supposed to be in school. Confiscated a whole big stack of books like that from them, including one or two of the set that had been written about her. (The nicer, cleaner ones, in those days, before her fortunes took their first major downturn.)

Sheridan Shooter and Swift-as-a-Snake. That was their names. Hadn't thought they were real people. But then in fairness she knew the same thing was often said about her.

Then another fellah came creeping up on his tiptoes on her other side, swaying a little, with a goofy expression on his mug ... Thinking she wasn't aware of him. He wasn't gonna be the first sonofabitch that tried to lay his hands on her, despite the Mayor's "request". Though the pistol at her side was empty, it still worked mighty fine as a club. She was naked and she was dishonored and she was drunk, but she wasn't bound and she wasn't toothless, not entirely. The other assholes had found that out. And one of them ended up genuinely toothless, when she got done pounding on his face. This fellah would get his taste of the same medicine, in another moment ...

Only then rather than lunge at her like she was preparing for, he drew himself up tall and coughed to attract her attention, like some rich prick's butler. "'Scuse me, Marshal," he said, with exaggerated politeness, "Could I trouble you for a brief minute of yer time?"

She shrugged. "I don't seem to be otherwise occupied at present. What is it you want?"

"Settle a bet for me, if you don't mind. 'Tween me and my boys over there in the corner there, in that booth. See 'em wavin'? Sure you do. We got to havin' a discussion, or a debate, after we saw you come up to the bar again this time. And what we was debatin' was this ... See now, we all remember what the Mayor said. But I don't believe this qualifies. Not if I'm askin' you directly, is what I mean. Makin' you a fair and gentlemanly offer, face-to-face."

"Asking me what exactly? You seem to have skipped right over your offer itself, friend."

"Did I now? Ha! Well, it's real simple and straightforward, matter of fact. Goes like this ... See, me and the rest of my compadres couldn't help but notice that you don't seem too happy or comfortable in yer present circumstances. You go around with a sort of mournful slump to your shoulders, and a downcast gaze. Hope you don't mind me pointing that out. Also you have this tendency to twitch your arms, and shudder all over. Kind of sad to see. It's still in the middle of the summer, but I guess you must get pretty chilly in this mountain air, all the same. We're pretty high up, aren't we? Perhaps I can help you out some. If say, I was to give you this here good flannel shirt off my back, would you in turn agree to come on over to our corner right now and let me have a good screw with you on that tabletop? Just me now—my boys will keep their hands to themselves, you got my word. They'll just wanna watch us, is all. And only on account of ensurin' the sub-see-quent transaction is truly and satisfactorally concluded. So they'll know for certain it really took place, is what I mean. I'm afraid they wouldn't just take my word for it, if I start suddenly boastin' I got to make sport with the legendary Loretta Lariat. Especially in light of the Mayor's grand decree. What say you? How's that sound?"

Sounded damn disgusting and offensive, of course. Not that she was gonna say so.

Because after all ...

A shirt! A good thick flannel shirt! Big enough too, she could tell, its tails would hang down clear to her knees, just about.

But who was she kidding? "The Mayor won't let me keep it," she said.

"I don't see as he'll have the right to butt in. This is a matter 'tween you and me. I ain't been tryin' to go takin' no unwelcome liberties, have I? We're makin' this deal out in the open and fair and square in front of loads of witnesses. Not just my boys, but all the other bunch of folks in here right now. So if later on he decided to try takin' away somethin' nice I've given you—well, sold to you, rather—I imagine I'm gonna have somethin' to say to him about that. And so would my boys. And maybe a number of these other gentlemen, too. They might also have an opinion on the matter they'd be inclined to express."

Pretty bold words. Probably bullshit. Loretta very much doubted a guy like this would actually go so far as challenge the Mayor, if it came to that. He'd back down, or more likely disappear from town altogether once he'd got what he desired ... Loretta wouldn't get to wear his shirt for long.

Still, even if she only had it for a little while. Just the rest of the day, at the most ...

It would be bliss while it lasted. To be warm and to be covered. It would be Heavenly.

"Hand it over," she said, "Give me the shirt first. Then I'll let you have as much fun as you want with me."

"Wonderful," he said, beginning to unbutton himself, "Only hold on, wouldn't it maybe be better if I gave it to you after we got done? It's just I won't be able to see what I'm doing any good, is all."

"But then how do I know you'll hold your end up? I'm afraid this isn't gonna work unless you let me put it on right now. Otherwise we can't do business. Only I guess I won't button up the front until afterward. That gonna work for you? You'll still be able to see ... well, every damn thing. I'll just have my arms through the sleeves. But I'll have established my possession. I'll know it's mine and it's on me and that'll make me happy. Fair enough?"

"Yeah, that'll do. That'll be just fine. Here you are, Marshal."

"Thank you, sir."

"Name's Bob. If later on you feel an inclination to moan ..."

"Hm. Well, sure. I'll keep that in mind, if such an inclination arises."

Un-damn-likely. Courteous enough chap. Still didn't save him from being an asshole. And a goofy one, which was worse for him. For this sort of thing ... His face was just too plain goofy. Impossible to imagine a man with a face as goofy as that ever instilling enough passion in a woman to make her have to moan his name out loud. A harsh truth, but there it was. Only in his wildest dreams. Poor fucker.

Should she do it anyway? Just pretend? Fake it, for a second or two? Wouldn't be tough; wasn't so much to ask. Was she grateful enough to him for that?

Fuck no. Why would she even consider that, even for half a second? Christ, what was wrong with her head? She really was losing her mind in this town. All he'd done was ask her to whore herself for a goddamn flannel shirt. Better than trying to jump on her back, like those other sonsofbitches. Yet hardly the actions of a knight in shining armor. Let's not get carried the fuck away.

5.

She sat on the edge of the table, propped upright on her hands behind her, and with the brim of her hat tilted back far as it could slant without falling off. She'd have preferred to keep it pulled low, but Bob had flicked it up out of the way like that, so he could stare soulfully into her eyes, for Heaven's sake ... He held her legs on either side of him, from under her knees, with his own trousers pooled around his ankles. Sawed away feverishly, red in the face, as his pals pounded the table around them with their fists in time to his thrusts. Her hands and arms kept getting splashed by their jumping beers.

He had the happiest smile on his face she'd probably ever seen on a man. Almost heartbreaking, how happy she was making this piece of shit.

She could hardly feel him inside her at all. Well, she could—but there was no response happening. She wasn't numb in there—and he was big enough to fill her adequately. But none of his motions were triggering any pleasure. No hurt neither. Just movements. Meaningless pumpings. It was a bit weird. Even the fat Mayor had stirred up the usual sex-craziness in her—only then he hadn't pushed it to fruition. With Bob, she might have been watching this happen to some other woman. Except that might have got more of a charge out of her, from sympathy if nothing else.

She wasn't even experiencing her standard emotional flood of embarrassment, guilt, despair and self-recrimination, despite the large villainous audience. Not only Bob's group, up close, but all the other assholes in this crowded tavern. Big and rowdy as the place always was, it wasn't near so big nor so noisy that everybody couldn't see and hear exactly what was underway over here in this booth. Yet somehow none of this was bothering her like it normally would. With Bob it appeared she'd finally achieved the professional detachment and indifference she'd seen so many whores display.

How about that.

But then he spoiled it.

It was her boots. The smelly muck caked all over them, plus he kept accidentally jabbing his ribs with their jingling spurs. Put him off his stride.

"Let's just slip these off, shall we?"

"No! No! Don't! Don't you dare!"

"It's just 'til I'm done. Don't fret. You can have them right back. They stink too bad and I keep stickin' myself. Quit kickin' and let me pull the damn things off, all right? What's the big deal?"

She probably shouldn't have made such a thing out of it. They were just too important and precious to her. "No! Take your hands off 'em! You leave 'em goddamn be!"

And she kicked his face. Didn't exactly mean to. Cut a nasty slash down his cheek with her spur.

"Jesus! You bitch! What the fuck!"

His comrades grabbed her, from all around. Seized her arms and her legs and the collar of the damn shirt. One of them grabbed her hair behind her, after her hat fell off. Together all at once they dragged her further backward across the tabletop, pinning her all the way down flat on her back, and spread-eagle.

"Now I know you didn't mean to do what you just done," said Bob, panting. His dick was still all the way inside her, believe it or not. "But this was exactly why I toldja we gotta take off these damn boots! So that's what we're gonna do!"

And off they went, one right after the other. She moaned with despair each time. "Oh God! Oh no!" And after he tugged them free, he hurled them clear across the room over the batwing doors into the street. She faintly heard them splash out there. Christ. How could she get them back now? She'd have to wade into that shit ... Unthinkable. And even if she grit her teeth and did, the boots would more than likely have got the muck inside them. Probably both filled with it. Ruined forever. Oh hell. She started to cry.

"What's the matter with you? Why make all this fuss? You got some nasty horrible green fungus growin' in your toenails? No, they look just fine to me. Your feet look perfect. Why you carryin' on so bad? Are you ticklish? Is that what you're scared of? Maybe that's the problem. Let's see here."

And he started tickling her feet. One gripped in each hand, using just his thumbnails, mainly. While his cock was still planted in her all the way to the root.

So much for professional detachment.

She went goddamn nuts. Thrashed around as much as she could—wasn't much, with all those men's hairy sweaty hands clinging hot and strong to her in umpteen different places. Her hysteria also made her clamp inside—her cunny. It went into wild squeezing spasms on his cock. Tight as it could press. She couldn't stop it.

And she wasn't just feeling meaningless movements in there anymore. Full and meaningful responsiveness had been instantly reactivated. Her interior surfaces had leaped back, in a blazing flash, to their original level of overeager sensitivity. And it was like she was feeling not just the intruding dominating fullness of his cock in there, but both his tickling thumbnails at the same time as on the soles of her captive feet. Somehow tickling the bottoms of her feet was letting him tickle inside her cunny too.

That was it seemed like. And of course it was excruciating. It made her scream and scream.

All of her usual accompanying emotional responses surged back to life as well. The horror, the shame, the guilt, the hatred ... the whole familiar torrent, blasting through her system. Determined to make up for lost time, it appeared.

"Oh! Oh! Ahh! Ahaahaahh! Ahuuhhn! Ahhuuhhnn! Ahhaarrhuurrh!"

"Holy shit!" cried Bob, "Mother of God almighty!"

Started bucking his hips again. Now she was responding to it for real. Didn't matter no more how damn goofy his goofy stupid face was. Now his goofy face was gonna get the fuck he wanted. A real fuck. And he didn't let up her feet.

Got to hear her moan his name, too, the bastard. And mean it when she did. No faking. "Bob! Baawwwbb! Stop tickling me! Stop tickling! Please! Just fuck me and stop tickling! Just fuck me! Bob, listen! Please pretty please LISTEN! BOB!"

"Can't," he gasped and groaned and grunted, "Can't. Sorry. Can't. This is—this is—Shit! Oh shit! So much! Better! So! Much! Jesus! Jesus!"

"Stop! Bob! Please! Please! Stop! Stop! Please! STOPPIT! STOPPIT! PLEASE! PLEASE! STOPPIT! STOP!"

He didn't ... not even after he spent. Even after he'd gone pretty much totally limp, he kept his cock stuffed inside her and kept on tickling her feet, and she was forced to keep on wriggling and clamping on him. Stretched out his climax like that almost a full minute and a half. Screamed his head off all through it, just as loud and out of control as she was ... Only difference was he kept screaming "Jesus!" and "Mother!" while she kept screaming "Please!" and "Stop!" (Or "Stoppit!" Kept switching back and forth, for some reason, or no reason at all.)

"Jesus! Jesus! Mother! Jesus! Mother!"

"Please! Stop! Please! Stoppit! Stoppit! Please! Stop!"

6.

Bob passed out cold on the floor and had to be carried from the tavern by his pals. But before they did that, the whole group around her had all whipped their pricks out of their pants and jerked themselves off all over her on the tabletop.

They left her the shirt, though. And none of the jizz had landed on it, since the front had been completely unbuttoned and spread itself out to her sides, when they'd pinned her flat. All the assholes had aimed their discharges on her boobs or her face.

(Well, almost none got on it. Noticed a couple splotches, a bit later, here and there.)

Bob hadn't brought her to climax. Damn close but not quite. She rapidly finished herself off with her fingers while the other evil men just as rapidly pumped themselves to theirs. The group were still holding her pinned flat—but not near as firmly, not gripping her in as many places. Only one hand each instead of two. So with a little wriggling, she was able to wrest an arm loose from them, in order to take care of her own need. Thank Christ for that, anyhow.

Loretta Lariat enjoyed the feel of thick scalding jism showering crisscross streamers over her skin. It was yet another of those things she hated enjoying, yet could never prevent. In her mind, that sensation—together with the hate that went with it—these torturous feelings inside and out were inextricably linked and intermingled with the explosive sensations of orgasm. She could not feel one without remembering and wanting to feel the others ... Experiencing them simultaneously again in real life, as it always did and always would, enhanced and extended all.

"God!" she yelled, "Oh God you bastards—you assholes! You wicked vile beasts! You're coming all over me! All over me! You're covering me all over ooohhh GodGodGod OH GOD OHHuuhhhooohh oh oh ohhhh ..." While the spurting shitheads surrounding her yipped and yelped like coyotes, beasts indeed, as they drained themselves upon her.

The pleasure. The release. The submission. The hate. The pleasure. It was all one thing, altogether. It was everything ... the only thing. While it lasted.

After it was all over and the gang had exited, Loretta didn't bother trying to clean her face or her torso. When she pulled herself to her feet, she left the shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose. She'd wait until the mess on her had dried before she fastened the front. Most of the slime would completely evaporate, she knew, and it wouldn't take very long.

There was much more of it than she'd bargained for, however. So she was taken by surprise again when she stood up straight and gravity did its work. Heavy stretching strings of the stuff drizzled down off her chin and her nipples to the floor and the tops of her toes, while a few thicker streams, clinging more solidly to her skin, ran down her belly to collect like heavy pearls inside her navel and the curls of her bush. And more of the stuff—Bob's share—escaped from inside her. Making its way steadily towards her knees, a matching parallel trickle for each inner thigh. She was fucked and filthy and gross.

Some of the other outlaws in the room snickered, some whistled, some cheered and applauded and fired guns at the ceiling.

Her cheeks heated anew with fresh blushes. She hung her head and put her hat back on, tucking her hair on the sides behind her ears and then tilting the oversized hatbrim as low as possible to shadow her eyes. "Oh fuck," she muttered, "All you bastards. You brutes. Mock me now all you like. I'll get you all one day. I swear I will."

But she wasn't fooling anyone, not even herself. In her heart, in her gut, she knew she'd never get to keep that vow. What she was right now, this was all she'd ever be from now on. The naked wanton Marshal, enslaved for sex. Powerless and humiliated and covered all over with reeking jism. All she was good for was fucking and laughing at.

Her cunny had made Bob pass out, from the pleasure of fucking it. The pleasure of her spasms upon him when he tickled her feet and made her beg him for mercy. The further pleasure from overwhelming her bored contemptuous diffidence and successfully triumphantly dominating her—such heights of bliss that he in turn himself was dominated and overwhelmed, at the cost of his senses. And she even felt a strange sort of pride in that fact, almost. Tried to tell herself it was her way of getting back at him a little, for what he'd done. But it was hardly much of a revenge, was it? Knocking him out with the greatest orgasm imaginable. Yessir, that sure musta taught him a thing or two.

"Hey, Marshal."

It was the masked bandit girl, Sheridan Shooter. She'd walked over with her billiard stick propped over her shoulder, and handed Loretta a fresh drink (which she didn't hesitate to drain). "Come over and have a game with me, for a spell. Get your bearings back. My partner went to retrieve your footwear."

She was in no shape to accept any sort of kindness, true or feigned. "Probably no point. Ruined."

"Maybe not. If you're right, we can find something else for you. Swift's got spare moccasins. You ever wore moccasins? More comfortable than boots, most of the time. Usually just as durable, too. People don't think so, but they don't know what they're talking about."

"If you give me new shoes, that mean I'm gonna have to bend over the billiard table right now and let you shove that stick up my ass? Or what?"