Sundance

̶ San Antonio, Texas - February l899

Who is he, and why do I feel something for him?

My mind searches for answers, even as my body otherwise engages him--unspeakably so.

Had he asked for me? Am I the girl who offers that special thing? Most of all, will he come back for me later on?

Leaning forward in the way she taught me, the way Parisian girls do, and knowing today might be my only chance, I make clear I am a modern girl, open to modern ways of joining with men.

Gripping the tall oak bedpost with both hands and showing him the woman in me, I open until I hurt, and closing my eyes, I listen for his breathing.

He is a quiet sort, leaving a woman searching for clues to who he is and what he wants. "You have taken girls this way before, haven't you," I gasp, "before today, I mean."

Saying nothing, he seizes my loosened hair and, jerking my head back, treats me like an unbroken filly mare. My reason collapses as he drives himself like a stake into me. Deep in my rectum, the one orifice I have not offered anyone else, he takes ownership of me, if only in the moment. I like that he does.

Though I know of him, I do not know this man. Word about him is out and about in San Antonio's sporting district. The other working girls know; they jockey in line to be first up whenever he stops by.

He had visited previously, though not since I arrived; I would remember. He is not like the other cowboys; he is lean and handsome, and his black eyes follow the women who swirl around him. When he visits, the house's habitual prattle heightens as girls, like bunnies, scamper about, primping and fussing in hopes of getting at him for an evening's romp.

A woman needs to like a man's look; I like his. He has dash about him, a disregard, though he comes across in a subdued kind of way, a quiet way. In passing, Fannie mentioned him. If half of what she hinted is true, I want him all the more, even in my off-limits backside, where his substantial manhood currently lodges.

When he calls at Fannie Porter's Sporting House, the instant competition for his attention surges, intensifying suspense in the otherwise restrained atmosphere of the bawdy place.

Two Sundays ago, I became Fan's newest girl. Being the least senior put me last in line for walk-ins. To get me, a fellow has to point me out. If he does not, he joins with another, and being overlooked is hard on a girl's feelings.

Somehow, today, he is mine. Is he partial to my look? Is he drawn to my womanly curves? The seniority rule is unfair, but my madam has overruled it, and I do not complain.

Fan's is the best boarding house in the little city. Everybody knows about boarding houses, including so-called upper-crust ladies who secretly pant to see the goings-on inside.

By God's grace, upstanding or 'regular' women, despite their ardent curiosity and the ease with which they pass judgment on us, 'fallen frails,' are not allowed in. These curious kittens want to nose about and should mind their own business. However, women's wariness keeps them away, and they shun Fannie's place. Association with such a house plays poorly in polite society; it prompts questioning looks and compromises a woman's virtue.

Instead, proper women make up stories of lurid trysts. They say groups of men stand in line to take not-so-innocent girls in Fannie's front parlor; ridiculous! Such is the reality of the situation; either through jealousy or fear, it is the style of tall tale proper people improperly spin.

Fannie is hardly my first madam. I am experienced and have worked in two other houses; I liked neither. The 'Dirty Em' in Deadwood and the 'House of Mirrors' in Denver proved seamy. Our money was stolen, and girls got fined for minor infractions.

On the other hand, Fan treats us like a madam should, as ladies. We are clean and well-fed; our near-celebrity station separates us from fancy women elsewhere.

Fan dresses us posh; we are true sport-side girls. We are attired in the latest styles from far away St. Louis and, yes, even New Orleans, making us the envy of other fair belles. It is why the sheriff of distant Austen and even an 'honorable' councilman or two make the long trek to Fan's on the off-chance of finding that special lady who will carry out that special thing.

For going on a year, my friend worked for Fan. Della convinced me to come here. "It's the best place, Etta," she gingerly insisted. "It's the finest, you know, to make a quick buck." Down on my luck, I needed money, and since such employment requires another's reference, Della put in a good word.

Fannie Porter's is a small house with only a few girls. "Fan pays us regular," Della proclaimed. "And there's not no trouble due to the high clientele that frequents the place." Though I believed her, for a time, I dithered. I was not a high-class courtesan type, but Della persisted. "Etta, please, go meet Fannie; she'll hire you; you're beautiful and have the prettiest eyes east of Langtry. With your innocent look, men will pay serious money for the likes of you."

The following day, shivering, penniless, stranded on the frontier, and desperate to get to New York, I walked to Fan's at the corner of Durango and South San Saba Streets.

At the back door, the girls' entrance, Butterfly Barton, the former slave and Fannie's chief housekeeper, greeted me. Her half-smile, though welcoming, set her boundaries. "I done seen many an upmarket hen cluck on in through dis here chicken coop, Missy, and you ain't no different. A pussy's a pussy. Still, good lucks to ya." Taking my cloak and scarf, she motioned me to a small office at the center of which stood a wood stove, its crackling fire most welcome on a wintry day. "Dis here, Miss Etta Place," the housekeeper gruffly grumbled.

The sharp-eyed, elegant woman sitting at the miniature roll-top desk looked up but only fleetingly. Butterfly, about to leave, turned back to me and said, "Best'a luck to ya, honey." Then, with a telling giggle, she coyly added, "Da Wild Bunch be 'n town dis here week. You gonna be one busy dove-a-da-roost. Come Monday mornin', you be havin' a raw lady-slit I more 'an suspect."

Quietly stepping away, the old woman left me alone with the infamous madam. Attractive and middle-aged, she presented kindly but regarded me with no-nonsense firmness. "I only take in the best girls," she curtly declared. "Keep clean, very clean." Highlighting the point, she raised an eyebrow. I knew dousing my private parts after each visitor finished his business was rule number one.

"Of course," I assured her. "I always--"

"You needn't reply, Miss Place. I'll talk, tell you the rules, and you listen so we understand each other. Take off your top. I need to see your breasts."

I watched the floor as she watched me unbutton my immaculate Lolita Gothic blouse. "On second thought, you'd best remove everything," she added. "I need to know you are a good fit for our guests." Her eyes continued wandering, and she nodded several times in what I took to be approval.

Keeping my arms at my sides, I did my best to project comfort. However, with the top of my dress bunched at my waist, and despite a past that was less than proper, I accepted Fannie's scrutiny as the motherly woman sensed my self-consciousness. She stood and circled me, studying my essentials as she moved.

Stopping abruptly, Miss Porter, without taking her eyes from mine, placed her fingertips under my breasts. Lifting them, she let them fall, raised them, and freed them again. She pinched my nipples, which hardened to the occasion, arousing a considerate look from the madam.

Though I had the breast lift done to me many a time, hers, being a woman's touch, made me blush. Without comment, she stepped back as I removed the remainder of my clothing. Once naked, she said, "Open your legs wide so I may look."

Resting myself against her desk and looking the other way, I did as I was told. Miss Porter intently examined my secluded areas, then gently parted the folds of my femininity. "Red hair," she remarked, running the back of her soft hand over my mound. "I expect you to keep her trimmed. You have an especially pretty cunt; she should fetch a tidy sum. Now, turn around and bend over."

Instantly, she detected my reluctance. "Don't be prudish, girl. Spread your cheeks. I have a business to run and don't have all day."

This being my third house, and given the madam's complimentary remarks, I relaxed as much as a girl can relax. A fundamental of this game includes obedience. It is how a new girl earns her way to the good graces of a proprietress. Submitting, I reached back, opening my buttocks to her scrutiny.

After seeing what she needed to see, Miss Porter gave me a light slap on each cheek and stepped back. "You're a handsome girl," she declared. "But I must know beforehand, will your hindquarters be accessible to our patrons? I do not mean to be overly assuming, but you must consider this if you want to work here. Say yes now, or be on your way."

I blinked at the suddenness of her question and, meekly nodding, I neglected to reveal my anal virginity. "Good," she said, pleased. "And a customer's seed? I can depend on you to consume such?" Her smile was friendly, but her tone was insistent.

"I have ingested many a benefactor's seed, ma'am; if a gentleman wants it, ma'am."

"I'm glad, Miss Place," she said, smiling. "Dispatching a man's seed draws extra and adds two dollars to what the more limited act typically occasions. Your friend Della tells me you are quite good and are ready for a change, a step up to the standards of Fannie Porter's. Here, you will encounter higher-level fare. If a man wants your pudenda, he pays nine dollars to the house; a girl gets three. It is a fair amount, don't you agree?" I nodded again as she continued. "And, your backside, if he takes you there, you collect four dollars, twelve to the house. You will report to me each month at your menstruation; all girls report. Now, get yourself covered and join me in the parlor."

Finally employed, I was out of the cold. I breathed a sigh of relief as Fannie curtly turned away. Moving a heavy silk curtain aside, and with the light click of her hard heels against the polished floor, the madam faded into the darkened hallway.

Hurriedly dressing, I followed, my direction set by the good-natured, manly voices just beyond.

I rejoined Miss Porter at the landing of an elegant mahogany stairwell, ascending to the upstairs bedrooms. There, in the presence of others, her poise and bearing made a statement of authority. "Come here, Etta," she ordered, pointing to the floor at her feet.

At the same time, she shooed a voluptuous and obviously dilly-dallying blonde girl into the next room. There, an elderly, well-dressed man with glowing eyes awaited. Though already taken, the man, brashly and with ill intent, looked my way. Miss Porter interrupted his misguided attention. "Miss Bullion, accompany Judge Bean to room two," she ordered.

"Yes, Miss Porter," the youthful scarlet lady answered. Eying me in a not-so-friendly way and possessively taking hold of the old man's arm, Miss Bullion returned her attention to the legendary 'Hanging Judge' from far-off Langtry. The pair noisily chitchatted as they climbed the curved stairway, disappearing aloft. Fannie, watching their ascent, shook her head, complaining, "That girl is a pain in my back end, but Judge Bean fancies her."

Looking up, I admired the girl's shapely form. Dressed elegantly in an off-white evening gown, she stepped confidently onto the floor above. Making light of something with His Honor, the echo of their laughter trailed off with the closing of bedroom door number two.

Numerous masculine voices broke the momentary spell. I turned my attention to the adjacent parlor, where I observed two men fussing over a petite and rather well-endowed thirty-ish lady of the line. Impatiently, she leaned against the wall, dividing her attentions between the pair as she attempted to move the afternoon's endeavor along.

Immaculately dressed in dark green, she wore a matching equestrian top hat; for effect, she held an ornamental umbrella aloft while displaying mild irritation.

"Make your decisions, gentlemen," Fannie, clapping her hands, intervened. "My girls have other obligations, and time is money."

The men smiled, and the shorter of the two, taking the woman's hand, accompanied her to the base of the stairs. "Room six," Fannie declared.

"Yes, ma'am," the frail sister answered, displaying a slight curtsey as she passed by.

Shrieks emanated from the second floor. All eyes upwardly followed the sound of a woman either in ecstasy or labor. Gas lamps illuminated the stairwell. Their yellow glow vainly compensated for the interior's dearth of sunlight as heavy drapery wrapped the windows against the cold and the prying eyes of nosey neighbors.

Though only afternoon, the building's interior was an intentional study in perpetual late evening ambiance. Large photographic portraits depicting women in varying degrees of undress covered the amethyst-papered walls. Each displaying the female's naked bosom and womanish parts, they presented in ways one rarely sees despite 1899's progressive tendencies. Notwithstanding their brazenness, the depictions were devoid of vulgarity, and their message was clear: women are to be admired.

"Do you think well of our Daguerreotype pictures?" Mrs. Porter asked, observing my attention.

I stuttered nervously. "Y-yes, m-ma'am, these ladies are handsome. I wish I was half again as pretty as them."

"Once onboard, you too will pose. It pays two dollars."

"I'm no model, ma'am. I'm afraid my numerous imperfections will show."

"Your addition to our collection will be most prized," the madam insisted. "My decision is made. You will pose."

Quickly conceding, I said, "Of course, Miss. Porter. If you say so, I will happily oblige, yes, ma'am. Will you be wanting me to start work next week, then?"

"As your friend Della said, Miss Place, you're picture perfect," she answered. "But remember, appealing isn't sufficient. My rules are strict. Your body is made to please. Do not disappoint me."

"Yes, ma'am, I know. But Della said--"

"I insist you keep yourself looking special, hair, nails, everything perfect for our gentlemen callers. My girls are top quality, for which I pay top dollar. Fanny Porter never shorts her painted cats."

"Yes, ma'am, and Della said--"

"A clean girl is a good girl in my house," she said. "Your look is scrutinized daily, and I expect you to dress completely after every tête-à-tête. There is no waiting around half-naked at Fannie's place. Appear well-bred whenever you come down the stairs. Am I clear?"

"Yes, but--"

"That's for other houses, not for our upscale part of town. So what say you?"

"How many gentlemen must I see, ma'am, each day, I mean?"

"It depends on your reputation and who wants you," Fannie matter-of-factly pronounced. "Word of your repute will be out and about soon enough. If you are as good as Miss Moore, you will service five or six per day. We are busy here, so with that in mind, you will necessarily lag if you become chafed, so we close on Monday and Tuesday."

"It is a good place for me, Miss Porter. I am through with freebooters, dirty ranch hands, and scheming rustlers. I want gentlemen now, men of quality and breeding. After all, I am turned twenty. Reaching such an advanced age, a girl, well...a girl has to find her way."

Della was right about Fannie; she put her cards on the table. I was instantly fond of her forthrightness and knew my appreciation would grow if she treated all her girls the same, which was only fair.

"So? What is your decision?" She asked.

"Yes," I said politely. "Shall I start next week? Is that--?"

"You start now!" Turning toward the parlor, she directed my attention to a man seated in a far corner, quietly reading a newspaper; somehow, I had overlooked his presence. "Be with him," she added coyly. "He's special; see that you treat him special."

Even seated, I could tell he was a tallish, slender fellow. He sat relaxed, comfortably, his legs crossed the way men do. He was sitting close enough to have overheard my conversation with Miss Porter.

Without making the slightest sound, he stared at his paper, seeming to pay no attention to our womanly goings-on.

"Will that be all, ma'am?" I asked courteously.

She nodded and said, "That is all, Etta. Now, be a good girl and get to work. Room seven is at the top of the stairs and to the left."

As Miss Porter stepped away, I glanced at him. This time, he looked up, and our eyes fleetingly met before he returned to his reading. His features were handsome, ruled by a dark and neatly trimmed mustache and a strong jaw. Though his gaze had shortly focused on my own, he displayed little sign of being ready to engage. As I sashayed toward him, he carefully folded his paper in half, dropped it onto the coffee table, and rose from his chair as a gentleman should.

He wore a lesser revolver in a cross-draw holster at his waist, and a second, larger Colt hung at his side. I looked him up and down. Unlike most cowboys, his leather boots were neatly polished very black, with silver buckles and sharp spurs that jingled as he shifted his weight.

He sported a dark blue tie, a clean white shirt, and a well-tailored brown jacket, his pants perfectly pressed, snugly fit. His only reaction to my approach was the careful removal of his derby hat. Holding it over the smaller of his shooters, I took his manner to be an affirmation of respect for a lady. Though he otherwise waited motionlessly, with incisive eyes, he scanned me with interest.

The gentleman, I concluded, had unquestionably overheard Fannie's checklist of admonishments. Interestingly, he had stayed aloof, paying us no particular attention. He was equally standoffish with the other men milling about the parlor, all waiting for girls to come down the stairs after completing their current duties.

Not surprisingly, Fannie's visitors displayed unease. Anxiously making small talk, one attracted my attention. He revealed that only today, the Wild Bunch, the territory's most notorious outlaw gang, plundered the Union Pacific Overland Flyer, making off with a trove of company silver.

I smiled when he said it, even nodded to him, but then returned my attention to the quiet wrangler. Displaying my most friendly air, as I surveyed him, his formerly dull eyes brightened.

That is when he drew hard on a slender cigar. Its tip burned orange-red in the murky cloud surrounding him, its tiny light a beacon in the haze of the dimly lit room. "Hey cowboy," I enquired, "you looking to be with a nice girl for a bit?"

"Hey to you, beautiful," he answered smartly. Joining his eyes to mine in an unforeseen display of tenderness, he grasped my hand and curled my fingers over his own. He bowed slightly and smoothly planted a soft kiss on the middle knuckle.

"You must be new here," he said a little too assuredly. "I haven't seen you before. You're prettier than the others I've been...that is, that work hereabouts."

Disregarding his indiscretion, I returned his smile and hinted at slender embarrassment. Then, I lied, saying, "I haven't worked very long at...at this life, not like the other girls."

He did not believe me but let the comment pass. "So, pretty lady," he continued, "If I'm going to marry you one day, I need to know what name you go by."

Standing straight, I replied, "Etta--Etta Place. What do they call you, mister?"

"Harry Longabaugh, at your service, ma'am; friendly folk call me Sundance."

End