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John ‘Long’ Johnson held up a weather-browned hand, bringing to a halt the six horsemen and women trailing behind him. He pushed back his dusty, ten-gallon cowboy hat and shaded his brow, squinting stinging sweat out of his blazing blue eyes as he gazed down at the ramshackle collection of wood frame buildings and homes that were Dike City, Kansas. Shimmering waves of heat rose off the sun-baked land below, and the sluggish Little Snake River, which regularly overflowed its banks and the town’s crudely constructed dykes, wound its way like a muddy artery through the burnt-stubble heart of the valley bowl.
‘That her?’ one of the men asked, bringing his mount alongside Johnson’s.
‘Yep,’ was all the handsome, taciturn cocksman replied.
‘Her’ was a good description of the wind-whipped, bare-ass town, because Dike City, Kansas, was home to the infamous Boob Hill – a barely-legal brothel that was busy turning the local female population into howling nymphomaniacs. Married men were being left wifeless, families daughterless, single men ecstatic by the depraved goings-on at the sprawling whorehouse. Good-hearted, god-fearing womenfolk would enter the brothel on a mission of mercy and never leave, turned on to the powerful pleasures of the flesh by the devious Madam of the house, Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme.
By hypnosis or potion, or some other means unknown, Chesty would transform the modest little ladies of the prairies into sex-craved she-devils that no one man could ever hope to satisfy. The reborn brazen babes needed, craved, men, and plenty o’ ’em, and Chesty provided the man-meat to temporarily satiate their overwhelming hunger, at a tidy profit to herself, of course.
Johnson had been hired by the town council, twelve married men good and true, to put a stop to it – to tame Chesty and lift the gate on her ever-expanding corral of lust-addled women, to reunite families torn asunder by allconsuming carnality.
Sure, the single men, and a good many of the married, too, had objected to the Town hiring Johnson, but most of those men weren’t landowners, and, thus, couldn’t vote, so their opinions counted as much as cow chips to the political leaders who felt the Wild West had no place in Dike City.
‘We gonna hit her tonight?’ another of Johnson’s mob inquired.
‘Naw,’ the well-endowed tail boss drawled. ‘We’ll hit ’er come mornin’, when the debauchery’s at low ebb.’
The attractive group of cowboys and girls nodded, confident of Johnson’s skills on the range, the battlefield, and in the sack. Every clam-shaped notch on Johnson’s rifle stock spoke of his abilities of seduction and survival.
There were a hundred and twenty-five such notches in all. Johnson kicked a glowing ember back into the campfire, then squatted down and tilted a tin cup of hot, black coffee up to his thick, sensuous lips, taking a good, long draught.
Somewhere far off in the night-shaded wilderness frisky coyotes barked love songs back and forth, while lusty gophers made chattering love in their funk-smelling burrows. Good signs, all.
Johnson sagely regarded the flame-licked faces of his posse, liked what he saw: three men – experienced, dickheavy dudes who could cunny-ride the orneriest of ladies; and three women – big-breasted beauts who kept their men’s tools well-oiled, and pacified any stray males who got in their way.
‘Mebbe y’all should work on your moves some, so y’all be ready come mornin’,’ Johnson instructed.
The sex-hardened gang quickly jumped to their feet and shucked their buckskin like it was crawling with fire ants.
They stood nude and lewd before the flickering campfire, the men’s iron-hard dongs bobbing long and heavy and sure, cocked for action, the women’s hefty, heaving jugs
swollen with mother’s milk, begging to be sucked dry.
Then they paired off, started getting down and dirty with
each other.
Johnson studied their technique, mindful of any flaws that could get a man bucked, a woman chucked. He drew his own ten-inch cum-cannon out of its cotton holster and commenced to stroking, watching Lynn ‘Man-Eater’ Craven tease Cal ‘Sure-Shot’ McGroot’s lengthy prod with her playful, pink snake of a tongue. Her awesome, snow-white tits, capped by inch-long, rosy-red nipples, swayed ponderously from side to side as she licked all over Cal’s hard wood. Then she ably swallowed the groaning man’s timber in one slobbery gulp, her fiery-red hair cascading across her pretty face.
Lynn bobbed her head up and down on the bucking cowboy’s bushwhacker, sucking hard and sure with precision mouth-strokes, from bloated tip to furry base, till she finally yanked Cal’s dripping lady-killer out of her stretched-wide mouth and asked, ‘Y’all gonna fuck my titties, or what?’
Johnson’s lips creased into a smile, as he pulled on his pecker with a calloused, practiced hand, looking on appreciatively as Lynn cupped and seductively juggled her over-ripe melons. Her magnificent, blue-veined mams were enough to tempt even a not-so-straight-shooter to bury his spunk-gun in between her soft mountains and lighten his load, frost her flesh-cones.
Cal ambled closer and eased his throbbing rod into Lynn’s heated chest canyon, began churning his hips in a dosey-do as old as the Jism Trail itself. Lynn shoved her ivory mounds together, smothering Cal’s pumping dong, then spat into her tit-tunnel to grease the action even further. Cal sawed his saddle horn back and forth in the redhead’s depthless cleavage, fucking her treasure chest faster and faster, pinching and rolling her fully-flowered nipples as best he could. And Lynn stuck out her tongue, providing a warm, wet cushion for Cal’s peek-a-booing cocktop.
Cal rode roughshod over Lynn’s tremulous titties, blazing a heated, humid, velvety path between her jouncing jugs, till he broke the flesh-spanked night air open with a yowl of satisfaction and blasted a bandolierful of white-hot jizz onto the girl’s all-natural endowment. He coated Lynn’s neck, her cupped casabas, with the unerring accuracy of a man who’d corralled and domesticated a passel of damsels in distress (and out of ‘dis dress’). Lynn joyously rubbed Cal’s salty jerk into her massive, shiny breasts, revelling in her own wicked powers of tit-suasion.
Johnson’s shrewd eyes roamed over the rest of his merry, messy band of fucking and sucking cummers, confident that they could handle the wayward women of Boob Hill. He tucked his own purple-knobbed fuck-stick back into his trousers, saving his juice for the personal challenge that lay ahead – a high-poon showdown with the dangerous, money and man-lusting proprietress of Boob Hill, Chesty Laflemme.
Come the crack of dawn, Johnson rose up on his hind legs and stretched, felt his manhood to ensure it was in working order, and then roused the rest of his posse. The plan was simple: take on all comers, cum on all takers – hands-on demonstrate to the horny, horn-swoggled women of Boob Hill that one man could, indeed, satisfy one woman, and then return the satiated gals to their rightful families.
The group of well-hung twat-tamers and their busty cock wranglers mounted up, cantered off the high ground and down towards Dike City, rocking sensuously back and forth in their polished leather saddles. They were trotting Main Street in a matter of a minutes, then pulled up and looked towards the end of the deserted street, where on a rocky, barren plateau stood the gaily-lit brothel that would be the sexy scene of Johnson and his gang’s showdown/ho-down with Laflemme and her lusty ladies of the evening, and morning, and afternoon.
The gang dismounted, and with the torpedo-titted women covering their broad backs, the thick-membered men trod the dirty, grey planks of the sagging wooden sidewalk, resolutely striding past shuttered storefronts and up the hill to the din of iniquity that had laid claim to so many normally monogamous women. The brothel was a gaudy, rambling mansion of twenty-some rooms, as structurally unappealing as a temperance tomboy with bumps where breasts should’ve grown. Johnson didn’t waste time skinning his knuckles on the red-painted front door; instead, a well-placed boot splintered the entryway and his posse passed inside.
They crossed a long, marble entrance hall, climbed a spiralling, red-carpeted staircase, and then trundled down an upstairs corridor. Johnson fanned his men and women out in front of him, and they burst open doors and leaped into chambers framed in chiffon and doused in perfume, taking the slumbering, all-too-temporarily satiated women of the house of ill-repute unawares. The heavy-breasted cowgirls pulled the paying customers aside, using their ample charms to convince the stunned johns to make love, not war, while the three-legged cowboys bared their loins and put into practice their studly powers of seduction, rustling up memories in the confused ladies’ minds of just how sweet and sweaty it was to be a one-man woman.
Johnson, meanwhile, moseyed off further down the hall, in search of even breastier babes to stamp with his brand. When he reached the end of the long, wallpapered passage, he toed the last door in line open and strode inside, found one Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme ensconced in the bubbly chop of a cast-iron bathtub like a siren in the sea. Johnson could tell it was she, both from the fact that her striking face matched the Wanted poster he carried on his person, and the fact that, even though her body was completely submerged in the soapy water, her Sierra Nevada-like breasts still peeked their pink tips out of the suds.
‘Been lookin’ for ya, Chesty,’ Johnson drawled, slowly and carefully unbuttoning his buckskin jacket.
‘Been waitin’, long rider,’ Chesty replied, a defiant smile lifting the corners of her crimson lips. Her sunbleached, blonde hair was piled atop her head like a stook of ripened wheat, with a blood-red rose stuck in its midst, thorns and all. She pushed her mams still further out of the bursting bubbles, till they glistened huge and hypnotic in the oil-lamp light, gargantuan in size, tanned an almost allover tawny, saddle leather brown and twin-peaked by jutting nipples that looked like they could spray enough white gold to satisfy the most parched of ’49ers.
‘What’s it all about, big ’uns?’ Johnson asked, cautiously dropping his jacket, going to work on his flannel shirt, warily avoiding any sudden movements that might spook the big, brazen, bathing mama. ‘Why you turnin’ good women bad, wives into wantons?’
Chesty regarded him steadily with her slate-grey eyes, watching as the loaded-for-bare cunt rustler deftly unbuttoned his shirt, shunted it aside. She surveyed Johnson’s hairy, muscular chest and licked her bee-stung lips. ‘A girl’s gotta have her gold,’ she replied. ‘And business is boomin’, big man.’
‘That the only reason?’ Johnson inquired, wellknowing that dollars and cents weren’t the only factors at play here. The weaker sex coveted coin and carnal knowledge as much as the male of the species, sure, but they coveted something else even more, something that all the money in the world couldn’t buy – love, sweet, love.
Chesty blushed, looked down, up, at her tremendous, sud-sprinkled titties. ‘I was a one-man woman once,’ she spoke softly. ‘But then he ran away with a two-bit bar floozy and…’ She glanced angrily up at Johnson, whose pants were now down around his ankles, his rigid dick sticking out like a flagpole at a frontier fort, waiting to be saluted. ‘Well, let’s just say that I vowed to never let that happen again, and filthy lucre became my one true love; you treat it well and it’ll never leave you.’
‘Money’s cold comfort on a long winter’s night – ’specially ’round these parts,’ Johnson stated.
‘I’ve plenty of one-night stands to keep my bones warm through the winter months,’ Chesty responded. ‘So don’t think for a damn minute that you can bring me back in line with that handsome pussy-prod of yours, cunt-puncher,’ she sneered, her spongy, soap-lathered boobs undulating as she slid upright in the bath, her glittering eyes locked on Johnson’s twitching trenching tool.
‘Well, ma’am, we’ll just have to see about that,’ Johnson said modestly, lifting his snakeskin cowboy boots out of his puddled denim trousers. He stood before the dripping, over-endowed frontier goddess, the both of them as naked as Adam and Eve save for the ten-gallon hat and size-fourteen pair of boots Johnson was wearing. And then he rushed her.
Chesty toppled the tub over on its side and spilled out of the bathwater, was on her bare feet in the blink of a third eye, brandishing a steely eighteen-inch dildo in her clenched right fist. Johnson slid to a stop on the slickened floor and held up his hands. ‘Whoa there now! You put that hole-plugger down, ma’am,’ he intoned.
‘This is all the man I need!’ Chesty shrieked. ‘Maybe you wanna try it on for size yourself!?’ She hurtled herself at Johnson, the metallic cock-substitute aimed ass-high. Johnson scrambled backwards, slipped, and crashed to the floor. He desperately kicked out his right boot, caught Chesty’s shin, and knocked the top-heavy madam off her feet. She cried out in alarm, flailed her arms, and then landed smack dab on top of Johnson’s propped-up pecker. Her sticky, splayed pussy lips caught on the cowboy’s bloated dickcap, and then her downward momentum buried his massive schlong to the hairy balls inside her stretched-out pink.
Johnson pinned Chesty’s arms to her side and frantically pumped his hips, savagely fucking the discombobulated babe before she even knew what hit her.
Her foot-and-a-half-long lady-pleaser/man-smasher lay on the wet floor, as defunct now as the twin cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Johnson pounded the tittified gal’s poon with his prong, fucking her relentlessly, striving to pacify her, to demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt that one man could readily satisfy one woman, even a huge-breasted, jilted woman. And when Chesty finally let out a soft sigh of surrender, Johnson knew he was hitting his mark. He released her arms and grabbed up her overhanging jugs, 1 fondled and squeezed her sodden, stunning breastworks. Chesty closed her eyes and moaned, dug scarlet fingernails into Johnson’s striated chest, pumping her firm, round bottom in rhythm to his urgent thrusting.
Johnson knew then that he’d at last brought law and the natural order of things back to Dike City, Kansas. He rolled Chesty’s rock-hard, distended nipples between his long fingers, kneaded her smooth, sun-kissed, Texas-sized titties, the muscles on his arms standing out in stark relief as he feverishly worked tit and banged twat.
The pace of the Westerners’ frenetic coupling grew even more intense, and the chest-blessed gal bleated in ecstasy and Johnson grunted with satisfaction at a job well done. He blasted wad after wad of heavy-calibre cum deep into Chesty’s gushing gash. Steaming justice had been served.
The Boob Hill brothel now sits as empty as a politician’s promise, abandoned by its proprietress and her minions of man-lust, the wives returned to their loving husbands, the daughters to the warm bosoms of their families. The Johnson posse disbanded shortly after the graphic action at Boob Hill, the Wild West, it was clear to see, becoming a whole lot less wild. And Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme and John ‘Long’ Johnson? Well, they bought a spread due south of Dike City and hung up their guns, hers in a bra, his in a clean pair of hand-spun drawers, for hire no longer.