Story Excerpt

Hell At The Watering Hole

Margaret’s knees scraped stone.

Gravel bit into the soft flesh of her thighs as she knelt at the waterhole, skin slick with sweat and terror, red curls tangled and plastered to her face. The sky overhead was a pitiless white sheet, sun beating down hard enough to crack the world open. Dust danced like ash around the horses, snorting and stamping behind the men.

And him—he was already in her mouth.

“Fuuuckin’ suck it puta,” the desperado hissed, fingers coiled in her wet hair, yanking her down so his unwashed cock forced deep into her throat. Her eyes rolled. Her gag reflex fired. He didn’t stop. “Yeah, gag on it, comprende?”

His scent hit harder than the dick.

It wasn’t just sweat. It was weeks of filth—saddle leather, matted hair, sour whiskey, old blood, something like mule shit baked into his jeans. His coat was damp in the pits, sleeves stained with trail grease. His balls slapped her chin with each thrust, reeking of filthy skin that hadn’t seen water since Texas.

Margaret gagged, hard. Not just from the thick cock battering her tonsils—though it was long and curved and brutal in her mouth—but from the hot, rank animal stench rising off his crotch. She tried to jerk back, gasping for clean air, but his grip twisted cruel in her hair, keeping her face mashed tight to his groin.

“Uh-uh. Stay fuckin’ down there. Smell what a real caballero’s like.”

She whimpered around his length, drool already soaking her chin, strings of spit connecting her stretched lips to his shaft as he slammed forward again. The back of her throat spasmed. Her shoulders shook. Her stomach lurched.