by Darcy 2006
Originally posted on Isobel’s Lair, April 2006
Part 2: Another Bordello
Tombstone, Arizona Territory
With a glass of suspiciously pale whiskey in hand, Cort leaned on the rough wooden bar and watched the room from under the lowered brim of his hat. His eyes were narrowed, restless. They moved over each new arrival, flickered often to the men he had already made as shooters. He was quiet and almost blended into the shadows, but he knew the gunmen in the saloon had taken his measure, just as he had taken theirs. The old instincts had come to the fore as if they had never been discarded, and in only a month's time he had put aside all he had learned in service to God and was once again what John Herod had made him.
He was a killer.
Cort sipped his whiskey and grimaced, muttering, "Goddamn rotgut…" But he drank it anyway, then caught the bartender's attention and pointed to the empty glass. "Another."
"Bourbon, ain't it?"
"I doubt that's bourbon, but hit me again," Cort said.
The barkeep pulled a bottle from the shelf, poured a double, and took the silver half dollar from the bar top. He loitered a moment, wiping at the rough wood with a towel until he finally said, "You look like a hombre could use a little pussy, friend. There's a whore upstairs who'll ride you for six bits. Or she'll suck your prick for a quarter."
For a moment Cort's interest was piqued, until he heard the price. He had no use for a cheap crib girl, diseased, ugly, dirty...wasn't that hard up. His eyes flashed behind the curtain of hair and caught the barkeep's. "No thanks," he said evenly.
"We got us a boy if you're inclined that way..." the man began, but didn't get any further.
"I said I ain't interested." There was no mistaking the finality in Cort's tone, or the contempt.
The bartender backed off, wary at last. "Sure mister. Just trying to be friendly, is all." He turned away.
Cort sipped his whiskey and grimaced at the taste. "Bourbon, my ass," he muttered under his breath.
e e e
Hanging over the bar was a life-sized painting in a gilded frame. Cort stared at it until he could have told off every detail. The dusky-hued lady reclined in what looked to be a damned uncomfortable position. Her upper body was twisted to reveal her tits, but her ass was in plain sight too. It was a nice ass, full and round, and the dark place between her thighs beckoned his eyes. He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. Maybe he did need a woman. Ellen had been the first in a long time, and she had awakened the carnal need in him that he'd suppressed since he'd added the 'Reverend' before his name. And now he'd turned away from the comfort of his God. Might be that the touch of soft hands and lips would ease the ache in his heart, the darkness in his soul.
He'd been looking for Ellen for almost a month, trailed her from Cascabel to Mescal to Dos Cabezas, and then into New Mexico. In Shakespeare, a saloon girl told him she'd seen the lady and talked to her. Said she'd mentioned El Paso, so Cort crossed over the border into Chihuahua and followed an old trail he knew to Texas. But Ellen wasn't in El Paso, and nobody there had seen her. He followed his instincts and came back to Arizona, and now he was in Tombstone, getting drunk and randy in the Black Dog Saloon.
He looked at the painting again and made up his mind, was about ready to leave the saloon to find a whore that cost considerably more than six bits when a dust-covered man stepped closer and stood next to him. Cort had marked him before, sensed the aura of danger that surrounded him. The stranger faced straight ahead while he spoke, but Cort knew he was talking to him.
"You lookin' for work, pard?" The stranger raised his drink and slung it back.
Cort kept his eyes on the painting. "Might be. Got some needs doing?"
"I do if you got the sand for it. Takin' a ride into Mexico tomorrow...gonna cross the border after full dark. Bring a herd of beef on the hoof back to Bisbee."
Rustling. It was a hanging offense, but not if you got your stock from Mexico. Nobody gave a damn if you stole cattle from the beaners, as long as you didn't bother Arizona ranchers. Cort turned slightly until he could see the man's profile. "What about the Rurales?"
"Chasingbanditos down in Chihuahua."
That took care of the Mexican policia. Cort grunted, "Got a rendezvous in mind?"
"You familiar with these parts?"
A nod. "There's a ridge outside Naco...got three wooden crosses on the crest. You know it?"
"Tomorrow night, full dark. I take it you know how to cowboy?"
Cort thought of his youth back in Texas. He'd joined up with an outfit driving cattle to Abilene when he was just a squirt. The trail boss was a good man, never too busy to spend time with a curious kid who was anxious to learn everything he could. Cort became adept at running cattle during the two years he'd stayed with them. He thought it might be his life's work, until he'd met up with Herod...and then he'd learned how to do other, more interesting things.
"Reckon I can cowboy enough to get them longhorns across the border," Cort answered laconically.
"Good enough." The man finished his drink and turned to go.
Cort's voice stopped him. "Not so fast, amigo. We ain't discussed the pay."
The stranger's eyes were calculating. Cort met his gaze coolly, waited until he said, "Full share, divided betwixt the riders. I take two shares."
"How many men?"
"You make six. All we need." He changed his mind about leaving, dropped a dollar on the bar and beckoned. The bartender poured two shots and when he'd gone, the stranger asked gruffly, "You in or not?"
Cort thought of the greenbacks he had left from the Oracle robbery. There was still a goodly amount of money in his pockets, but who knew how long it would take to find Ellen? Might as well earn more, and in his experience, stealing cattle was a sight safer than robbing banks.
"I'm in," he said, straightening.
The man turned his back on the bar, leaned on it. "Name's McCabe. Frank McCabe, in case you want to ask around," he offered.
"I don't need to ask." Cort had already taken note of the sixgun on McCabe's hip, the steel in his eyes. They were silent testimonials, but more convincing than any words could be.
McCabe's eyes flickered with something like suspicion. "You got a name, pard?"
"Cort what?" asked McCabe.
"Just Cort." He set his empty glass on the bar. "I'll see you at Tres Cruces tomorrow at twilight."McCabe watched him push through the swinging doors into the desert night, and wondered if he'd done right, asking the stranger to ride with his men. Cort. The name sounded familiar, dimly associated with a man McCabe had once feared and respected. Word had come that John Herod was dead this last month, dead and largely unmourned. Some said a woman had bested him, shot him down in the street to top off his own quick draw contest. McCabe sipped whiskey, wondered if this Cort hombre had anything to do with it.
e e eOutside a brisk wind whistled through the street and tore the fog of his breath away as soon as he exhaled. Cort strode the plank sidewalk, his bootheels striking the splintered wood with a hollow thud, his spurs marking every step with a metallic ring. When he reached the end of the walk, he crossed the dust-deviled street to the livery and fetched his saddlebags, then headed to the bathhouse. Two bits bought him a wooden tub full of hot water, and a sliver of soap. An extra dime got him towels that hadn't been used by the man before him, and another dime tossed to the old Mexican abuelo sent him outside to beat the dust from Cort's pants and coat.
When the old Mex brought his clothes back, Cort dressed. He sat on a bench to tug on his boots, then stood to buckle his gun belt. A broken piece of mirror hung from a bent nail, and the sudden flickering of his reflection caught his attention.
He stared at his own face, lean and scruff-bearded, hungry-looking, the face of a desperado. No wonder McCabe had come to him with his offer of work; if anyone in the Black Dog looked like he knew how to steal and kill, it was himself. He dragged his hand along his cheek, thought he ought to see the town barber. His hair hung almost to his shoulders, and even damp, it looked wild, like a lion's mane. Scowling, Cort brushed it straight back with his fingers and set his hat to hold it out of his face, and then examined his reflection in the glass. A mite more presentable. At least he didn't look so predatory.
Tombstone, like all mining towns, had a thriving red-light district below the railroad tracks. Cort made his way there, stopping once to touch the brim of his hat and respectfully step aside for a couple out walking. Once across the tracks, he bypassed several sporting houses until he came to one that looked discreet, almost proper. He squinted to read the name painted in gold script on an inconspicuous sign---Tywla's House of Flowers ---and pushed open the door.
Warm light from pink-shaded parlor lamps soothed his eyes. A man looking to rut is a man with every sense heightened, and as Cort stood in the vestibule, he took in the flocked red wallpaper, the scent of lilacs, the tinkling of a honkytonk piano. His eyes drifted into the parlor, and there they were. Miss Tywla's fancy ladies. Only problem was, they all had callers.
The four whores were in the customary stages of provocative undress...chemises and corsets over frilly bloomers or petticoats; one wore a dressing gown of virginal white. For a minute he stood silent, his hat in hand, and just looked his fill at ripe tits pouting over the edge of a tight corset, a waist cinched in so small he could have spanned it, a pert ass in white cotton bloomers, full enough to fill a man's hands. As he stood enjoying the view an older woman approached him, rigged out in a fancy blue dress glittering with jet beads. He turned to greet her, saw that she was handsome but past her prime. Cort hoped she wasn't all that was left, or he'd be searching out another cathouse.
"Ma'am," he said gravely, inclining his head. "Evenin'."
Tywla cast an experienced eye over the man standing in her vestibule, her gaze lingering just a moment on the bulge at the juncture of his thighs, accented by a pistol in a scarred leather holster. It was a professional appraisal; she wasn't one to entertain riff raff in her establishment, didn't tolerate rude behavior. This fellow seemed courteous and quiet, despite the gun on his hip. His clothes were rough, but he didn't appear to be. He was clean, and he was certainly virile, if the package he toted was anything to go by.
The madam gave Cort a smile that was both friendly and calculating. "Welcome to Tywla's. Can I offer you a drink?"
Cort nodded. "Bourbon if you have it."
She led the way to a sideboard where liquor waited in glittering cut glass decanters. He followed, glancing hungrily at the whores. Tywla took note, said in a soft voice as she poured his drink, "Those are my Flowers. That's Rose, Ivy, Daisy, and Iris."
The girls smiled and waved languid hands. Cort nodded a greeting.
Her eyes tilted up to his. "See anything you like?"
He grinned. "I like 'em all."
He sipped from the glass, gave an appreciative grunt of pleasure at the sweet taste of unadulterated bourbon. Miss Tywla didn't water her liquor. The madam snapped open a black lace fan and flirted it like the professional she was. The scent of her cologne wafted toward him, Cort sniffed appreciatively.
Twyla thought of the new Flower tucked away upstairs in the rear bedroom. Might be this was the man to pluck that bud. She'd bought the whore only the day before from an Illinois pimp on a tour through the mining towns. He'd said the girl knew her business, but he'd stretched the truth a bit...the girl had no experience at all. It made no matter because the new Flower...rechristened Violet...was a pretty little thing, and best of all, she was fresh. But she was also naive and had fallen prey to the oldest con in the book, and now that she'd seen the light, all she wanted was to go home to Chicago. Weeping bitterly, Violet confessed that she'd never had relations with anyone but her stepfather and the man who'd brought her here, and it had not been her choice to accommodate either of them. She didn't know how to please a man, all she knew to do was lie still, close her eyes, and grit her teeth while they had their way with her.
It didn't matter to Tywla how sad Violet's story was. She'd heard it all in her time and feeling sorry for whores was bad for business. Violet could leave the House of Flowers as soon as she'd paid off her debt and a little more, and she'd best start taking tricks and work hard at pleasing her callers or she'd never get home until she was old and dried up, a temptation to no man. The madam was not unkind, nor so hardened that she had no sympathy for Violet's plight. But life was hard, and the sooner the girl realized it the better off she would be. There was no Prince Charming waiting in the wings to marry her; there were only lonely men willing to pay well for a night of sexual gratification and a warm bed to sleep in. Tywla gave her a day to settle in and come to grips with the reality of her new life. And she promised Violet that she would choose her first trick personally.
She said softly to the visitor, "Unfortunately, these ladies are all busy, but I do have one more Flower in my bouquet. A new girl, fresh from Chicago." She tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan. "You look like a man who knows how to break in a new girl."
"Will you have a seat while I see if Violet is ready to receive company?"
His gaze slid to the other Flowers, and the madam's eyes flickered knowingly before she lowered her lashes and asked, "Or do you see someone else who takes your fancy here? Ivy, perhaps?"
He shrugged. "She's pretty. They all are. But I'm not in the mood to wait." His gaze traveled the room. "And those fellers don't appear to be in any hurry."
She took his glass and topped it off with more of the rich amber liquor, handed it back. "We only have the finest at Tywla's House of Flowers. Is it any wonder the gentlemen want to take their time and savor them?"
"Reckon not," Cort agreed mildly. "How about you go up and see if the lady from Chicago is ready for her first customer?"
Twyla inclined her head. "Of course. Will you have a seat, Mr...?"
She paused, waited for him to supply a name, and was both pleased and intrigued when he lifted her hand to his lips like a cavalier of the Old South.
"Just call me Cort, ma'am."
e e e
It seemed like a long time, the waiting. On her way through to the stairs, he watched the madam discreetly signal to her girls, and one by one, they left the parlor and led their gentlemen callers up the carpeted stairs. The piano player began a new tune. It was a Chopin sonata, both the music and the composer were unfamiliar to Cort, though he thought it pretty. All he knew was that it was softly played, not loud and rollicking like the earlier tunes. Didn't drown out the bedsprings squeaking above his head, the sound bled through Chopin and the floorboards. Slowly at first, then faster, until the steady thumping of the bed against a wooden wall provided a percussion section. Low moans and muffled curses had him off his chair and pacing, his hands gripping his hat. He'd broken a sweat before the madam returned."Violet will see you directly. We'll discuss price now, Mr. Cort." With a swish of silk skirts, she sat at a dainty French escroitoire and indicated a chair across from her. Cort settled down again, his hat held discreetly over the bulge in his pants.
"This house is often used as a hotel by some of our gentleman callers," Twyla explained. "There is a small increase in the charge if you expect to avail yourself of that service. Breakfast is included, as are the favors of the lady until morning. We would expect you to leave us by nine o'clock, or make some other arrangement."
Cort's eyebrow lifted. He had never heard of such a thing...but then, he had never been in a whorehouse of this quality.
"There is also the matter of the girl being a fancy," the madam continued. "She's not a virgin, but close enough to satisfy most men. Her price is slightly higher for that reason."
He leaned back in the chair, replied in a lazy drawl, "Miss Tywla, sounds to me like the girl is inexperienced. Seems her price should be considerably lower, since she don't know her job as yet."
Twyla stared at him, her amusement plain. She hadn't figured him to be a haggler, and she wasn't one to bargain over her Flowers. She offered only quality, thus her prices were high, and they were firm.
"I'm sure you'll leave her bed satisfied," she said, a trace of humor in her voice. "Now, will you be staying the night?"
"No ma'am." He'd already taken a room at the Miner's Friend Hotel. No sense wasting money...he was here to get his ashes hauled and that was all. And he was ready to get on with it.
"That will be ten dollars then, payable in advance."
Ten dollars was a steep price for a whore, but Cort was too randy to wait any longer. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold eagle, handed it over.
"There's no charge for the liquor," the madam said, discreetly sliding the coin into her desk drawer. "Would you like another?"
"You might top it off some," Cort allowed.
She moved to the sideboard, took the stopper from the decanter and poured, wishing she was ten years younger. In her time, she'd have given a man like this one a ride he'd remember all his life. She still could, because in her business, experience counted and Twyla had not forgotten the tricks that pleased men. But those days were long past. She took no men into her bed now, not even when a former favorite asked for her.
"Enjoy your evening." Madam Twyla smiled and handed him the glass. "Violet awaits your pleasure in Room 7, top of the stairs and to your right."
e e e
Cort rapped once on the door and without waiting, opened it.
The girl stood near the window, dressed in a dark red wrapper that formed a deep V at the front to draw the eye to her bosom. From across the room, he saw her clench the folds of her skirts to still the trembling in her hands. His eyes lighted on her face. She was a pretty thing, with light brown hair and tip-tilted dark eyes. Wary eyes.
Cort stepped into the room and closed the door firmly behind him. He stood waiting, watching, his posture non-threatening, relaxed and easy. After a moment, he sipped from the glass, set it down on the bureau. He took off his hat, hung it on a hook near the door. And all that time, she stood silent and watchful, tiny pearl-like teeth worrying at her bottom lip.
"I won't hurt you." His tone was gentling, coaxing, but she still started at the sound of his voice. Cort said softly, "Come here, darlin'."
Violet took a tentative step, thinking of what Miss Twyla had said. That this fellow seemed decent, even gentlemanly. That if she did as he asked and was pleasant, it would go well. But she couldn't make her feet carry her any closer. She looked up, her eyes huge and frightened, imploring.
Cort nodded encouragingly. "That's it, come close. Let me see your pretty face."
He lifted his hand, held it out to her. Two more steps brought her near enough. She slipped her hand into his; he squeezed it gently. His voice was deep and pleasant, almost soothing.
"There you are, darlin'. Not so dreadful, am I?"
She shook her head, but started again when Cort raised his hand to touch her cheek.
"Here now…easy does it. Just want to look at you." He lifted her chin with two fingers, murmured approvingly. "Real pretty. What's your name again, little one?"
"Ginny...umm...no." She swallowed. "Violet."
A flower's name, a whore's name. It didn't matter, not to him. But maybe it did to her.
"So which is it, darlin'? What do you want me to call you? Ginny or Violet?"
"Miss Tywla said to tell you my name's Violet."
As she spoke, he watched her mouth form the words and his mind pictured those sweet pink lips pursed tight around his cock. Cort didn't realize that his eyes narrowed then and changed his expression from benevolent to feral, but he saw the confusion on her face.
He reached for the glass of whiskey.
"Let's sit down over here, Violet." He walked to the bed, sat on the edge to the creak of protesting bedsprings. After a moment's hesitation, she followed to perch primly beside him. Cort offered her the glass. "Take a drink, honey."
She shook her head. "I don't like it."
He put the glass near her lips. "I want you to take a little sip or two. It'll make things easier if you relax some. Whiskey'll help. Come on now, darlin'. Just a little."
Tentatively, she leaned in and Cort tipped the glass for her like he would for a child. Her nose wrinkled and she grimaced as she pulled away. "It burns," she said, and coughed.
"It's a good burn, honey. Warms you up..." his grin widened to a leer. "Gonna warm you up for me." He brought the glass closer. "Take another sip now, a big one," and when she obediently took another without choking, he praised her with a low, "Good girl..." and drank some himself. She watched for his reaction, but there was none.
"It doesn't burn your throat?"
Cort held up the heavy glass tumbler and eyed the amber liquid inside. "Whiskey's an acquired taste, darlin'. I reckon I acquired it long ago."
He stood and put the glass down on the table beside the bed. Violet watched anxiously as he shrugged out of his coat, undid the buckle of his gun belt. He hung it on the post at the foot of the bed and sat to tug off his boots, then threw them carelessly into the corner. His braces next, pulled down off his wide shoulders, and then the shirt, unbuttoned and drawn over his head. When his hands reached for the buttons on his pants, she stood up nervously and took another drink without his urging. Behind her, she heard his soft laugh, felt his hands circle her waist.
"Little..." Cort murmured, as his fingertips met. "You're a pretty little thing, Violet. Gonna have all the boys after you for sure."
He drew her wrapper away to kiss her bare shoulder, and the shock of his warm lips on her skin traveled down her spine. As he murmured softly in appreciation, Tywla's voice echoed in Violet's head:'Listen to me, missy. It's a sight easier to work on your back than to wear yourself out slaving for some man who's no better than he ought to be. You play this right and you'll have them lining up for you. Make your pile while you're young and get out before it's too late. Marry some nice greenhorn who doesn't know you sucked pricks for a living and forget all about what you were. That's my advice, and if you're smart, you'll take it...'
Cort's voice came from behind her, soft and low, but demanding. "Turn around now, Violet." She wanted to obey him, but she couldn't make herself move.
"I'm not going to hurt you, honey...but I won't take no for an answer."
His fingers dug lightly into her waist, he turned her to face him. Disjointed images of her stepfather's leering face, memories of pain and humiliation, and then Cort's fingers tipped her chin and his mouth came down over hers. His lips were warm and tasted of whiskey, and his hands were gentle on her back. He was nothing like Daddy Ambrose, nothing like the man who'd brought her to Twyla's. His tongue pried her lips apart, he took a half-step and drew her in closer to his body. Through her thin petticoat she felt him grow hard against her belly, and for the first time, there was a quickening in her blood, a leaping of her pulse, a thrill that chased ripples down her arms. Unconsciously, her hands lifted to his waist and she held on as his mouth moved to her throat.
"You taste sweet," Cort whispered against her skin. "Smell like flowers...I reckon that's fitting." He chuffed a soft laugh at his own joke then slid his hands to the hook that fastened her wrapper at the waist. "Take this off, honey. I want to see you."
Obediently, she let the dressing gown go, shrugged it off her shoulders.
He caught it with one hand and tossed it onto a chair, bent to whisper against her ear. "That's better, ain't it?"
She felt his smile, and even though it seemed like the only barriers between them were going too quickly, she smiled too. His hands cupped the back of her head and brought her face to his. Nuzzling at her ear, he spoke softly so that his breath fanned her cheek.
"This is what a man wants, darlin'. He wants to think you like him, or at least that it don't disgust you, being with him. He wants to smell sweet perfume, feel soft skin. He wants the comforts of a woman. It ain't all just the pokin'. You remember that, and you'll do all right."
She nodded, slipped her arms around his waist and held him.
"That's it, touch me," Cort urged, his breath coming faster. He pressed her closer, rocked himself into her belly. "Feel that, darlin'?" At her tentative nod, he licked delicately along her neck. "That means a man wants you real bad. When he's hard like this, he'll do most anything to lay you down."
She stiffened and he told himself to take it slow, give her a little something more than an impersonal fuck for her first time out of the gate. She was still trembling, but her breath was coming faster. Cort ran his hands down her arms and back up, smiled when she shivered again. They moved to her waist, then lower. He cupped her buttocks, squeezed, then let her go. She swayed a little, leaning toward him as if she didn't want him to stop, and a glance at her eyes told him she was feeling the effects of the liquor.
He unbuttoned his pants the rest of the way, took them off. His cotton drawers followed, and then he was standing naked and rampant before her, unashamed of his lust. His hand went to her shoulder and tugged at the strap of her chemise. "Take this off, Violet."
She shook her head. "Miss Twyla said most men would just push my skirts up."
"I ain't most men, honey. Take it off."
"Shhh, now...let me help you."
Deft fingers worked the buttons of her bodice, spread it open. She watched his face, his eyes, saw the flare of lust when her breasts were bared. Behind her back, he untied the waist tapes of her petticoat and pulled at the band. The white muslin garment fell to the floor, leaving her as naked as he was. He guided her to the bed, lifted her onto it and crawled in beside her.
"Lay back, let me love you," he breathed.
Suddenly afraid, Violet tried to rise, but a gentle hand pushed her down onto the pillow. And then his mouth found her breast. She wasn't prepared for it, hadn't expected the surge of intense sensation. Her eyes snapped closed as his tongue rasped against her nipple, she felt it pucker and draw as the delicate skin responded. His hand glided from her waist to her hip, slid to her sex with a touch so light she was not certain he'd actually gone there. But then long fingers stroked through soft curls, parted her to slide inside and stroke. And all the while, his mouth moved on her breast, lips brushing back and forth over the nipple, tongue lapping like a cat laps cream. His long hair was like a soft delicate brush that drifted across her skin, raising gooseflesh in its trailing path.
"Gonna make you come for me, darlin'."
She knew what he meant. That was the reason men did this, to come. It felt good...it had to, judging from their faces and the helpless sounds they made when they spilled their seed. It had never occurred to her that women could feel that way too, but as his fingers played, sliding rapidly in a circle, the faint warmth in her belly flared into a concentrated heat. She could not keep still, but rocked against him, could no longer breathe without gasping.
Cort leaned up to kiss her open mouth, spoke gentling words against her lips in a low murmur that throbbed deep in his chest. Violet soaked up his lust, felt it in the prodding hardness against her thigh, the trembling that seemed to ripple under his skin. And for the first time, she understood the power women had over men.
His voice was a hoarse whisper: "Feels good, don't it honey? Most fellers won't do this for you. They'll be too taken up with chasin' their own to worry about how you feel. But I want you to know the pleasure for yourself."
His finger moved faster, circling and pressing, and each time it passed over a certain place, a burst of sweetness radiated in her belly and she writhed. His lips moved back to her nipple, nursed in rhythmic pulls. His hips seemed to have a life of their own; they rocked into her thigh, pressed his hardness into her flesh. Her breath was heavy and she tensed, reaching for something, straining toward it. Her legs stiffened; she whimpered.
And as her first orgasm rushed and broke over her in rippling waves, her hips rose off the bed, rocking of their own volition in a motion both instinctive and primal, and her knees dropped open as if inviting him inside.
Cort's mouth left her breast and swooped to cover hers, his tongue pressing inside, sweeping, tasting. Violet clutched him, drew him down closer, returned his kiss with a fervor that drove him wild. He crawled between her legs, pushed them open wider. The sight of her pink and glistening sex fired him, his nostrils dilated as the scent of her flowing juices reached his nose. He took himself in hand and eased inside a little way then stopped, waiting.
She made no protest, just watched him, eyes locked on his.
He gave her more. Pushed in deeper, almost all the way. She was tight around him, tight and hot andsweet Jesus, slick from her coming. Cort sank until his hips kissed hers, until the crisp hair that nested his cock pressed and melded with the damp curls between her thighs.
"Move with me, Violet. Mmm, sweet Violet..." He braced on one arm, reached with the other and drew her leg up to circle his waist.
He showed her how, taught her the motion with a hand gripping her hip. From under drooping lashes, Violet watched as his head dipped, saw the muscles in his shoulders bunch and flex. Sweat dripped from the chestnut colored hair that hung over his face and fell to her chest. She thought him beautiful, young and strong and virile. The power and depth of his passion excited her, her belly felt like it caged a flock of birds, and below, in the place where his body joined hers, heat grew and pulsed. He threw his head back, clenched his teeth and grunted each time his hips plunged, and his thrusts grew powerful enough to shunt her backward. Dimly, Violet heard the squeak of bedsprings and the solid thump of the bed against the wall. She flung her arms over her head and braced her hands against the headboard.
"That's it, honey..." he panted. "Hold on. Sweet Jesus...."
His rhythm faltered, his hips hitched and then he was motionless, his body tensed over hers. His lashes fell, he grunted once, again, then shuddered violently. And for the first time in her life, Violet folded her arms around a man while he spilled his seed into her body, and held him. Cort plunged, ground hard against her and collapsed, gasping, to bury his face in her throat. As he struggled to recover his breath, she tentatively caressed his head, winding her fingers through his disheveled hair. It was then she realized she had not once thought of her stepfather,for this…this sweetness…had been nothing like the cold and sinister coupling she'd endured in Chicago and on the road west. Shyly, she kissed Cort's cheek, grateful that he had made her forget.
e e e
She woke to the sensation of warm wet kisses. Violet lay still as his lips nuzzled her breasts and traveled over her ribs. Butterflies fluttered in her belly, her skin twitched under his caressing mouth. Her breath left her in a low pleasured moan, but she protested when he rose up over her and straddled her waist with his knees. His prick jutted from his body, bobbed like a divining rod just below her chin.
"Time for a new lesson, honey." Cort hushed her protests with a finger laid across her lips, then leaned over her to grasp the brass headboard. Hot and throbbing, his manhood lay against her cheek. He guided it to her mouth, lay the tip against her lips. "Open up, darlin'."
She tamped down a rising panic, a surge of disgust. And then she remembered Miss Twyla's almost clinical instructions, her assurance that done correctly, such favors brought hefty tips from men. With soft lips, she kissed the reddened head of Cort's cock and he hissed through gritted teeth. She opened, allowed him into her mouth. A musky smell, not altogether unpleasant, and the taste of salt. The skin of his member felt soft as velvet against her tongue. Above her he groaned, and that same feeling of power bloomed, the realization that she could make a strong man weak as a kitten.
"Suck it, darlin'."
The crude words sent a thrill coursing down her spine, made her feel wanton and decadent. Made her want to please him and earn that fat tip. Thinking of gold eagles, she dragged her tongue experimentally along his length, ran her hands up his thighs to his rock-hard buttocks.
A shuddering Cort lifted his free hand to the brass headboard, hung on desperately as beneath him, Violet sucked her first cock with a novice's clumsiness. But Christ, it felt so good, beginner though she was. He winced as the sharp edges of her teeth suddenly scraped him until she instinctively covered them with her lips, and then he felt nothing but heat and the press of her tongue.
"Harder..." he grunted.
Her cheeks caved as she sucked, the sound of it enflamed his lust. So obedient, this little whore under him. She was a natural, and what she didn't yet possess in skill she more than made up for in sweet compliance. His hips angled in short thrusts as he responded to the instinctive urge to fuck. He was so hot it would only take a little more to make him come. She kept on, her head bobbing in time to his thrusts.
His semen erupted with the oath, boiling out of him like a volcano discharges its flow of lava. And she took it, by God...swallowed it down without gagging or pulling away, her lips still closed around his prick. Cort's arms, anchored to the bedstead by his gripping fists, shook with the sweet hot pleasure of his ejaculation. For a moment he hung there, too weakened to move, and then he looked down at Violet. His rapidly deflating cock rested against her flushed cheek, and if he had not just shot his load twice in an hour, he knew the sight of that would have had him hard again. He slid down until his face was over her breasts, then lowered his head and kissed first one pert nipple, then the other.
Violet lay quietly, her eyes closed, long lashes like ebony fans on her cheeks. The bed dipped and sagged as he eased down next to her, and her heart was touched when he gathered her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. She rolled toward his warm body, soothed him with gentle hands trailed over his back, continued her caresses long after he had fallen asleep, his head heavy on her shoulder. And she thought.
It would not always be this way, Violet knew that. The man in her arms was a decent sort to treat her so well her first time…but there were others who would be as coldly distant as her stepfather had been. They would use her as no more than a receptacle for their seed, and some would do worse. But this one, her first one, she would always remember for his kindness.
She looked down at the man asleep in her arms, smiled at her foolish surge of tenderness for him. She didn't even know his name.
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