A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
"Please..." she said, and Roland was sure she wasn't begging for him to stop.
This was a lamb that wanted to be eaten. Perhaps she'd surrendered to the idea of being consumed, and wanted to grasp the singular tiny freedom available to her: To choose her devourer.
Perhaps of all the predators in the forest of the night, she had chosen Roland.
Perhaps she wanted to give herself to one monster in the hopes of keeping the others at bay.
Well, fine. He'd be her monster, tonight.
But if he was going to eat her up, then he wanted to skin her, first.
His hands were used to delicate work, but he was consumed by indelicate emotions. He sought to unbutton, unlace, unhook. But these clothes were not designed for the rapid, ready access he craved. It was uncertain what parts of her wardrobe would survive his increasingly savage ministrations.
His goal was to strip away all artifice. Every stitch that separated Zenobia from the world. Every fabric within which she might take shelter. And then to reach down between her thighs and find her center of femininity. To lay claim with his fingers to her heat, her wet, her willingness- nay- her passionate demand that he sink his wolf's teeth into her tender lamb's flesh.
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
His goal was to strip away all artifice. Every stitch that separated Zenobia from the world. Every fabric within which she might take shelter. And then to reach down between her thighs and find her center of femininity. To lay claim with his fingers to her heat, her wet, her willingness- nay- her passionate demand that he sink his wolf's teeth into her tender lamb's flesh.
So much for Roland's wants and needs. This was Zenobia, her wants and needs were somewhat more direct than even those of the hungry Englishman. She reached down and undid his belt with ungodly and clumsy haste: thank God he wasn't wearing braces. Once undone, she started fiddling with the fly-buttons of his trousers, but after the top two just impatiently yanked them down, unleashing what she sought. She was not disappointed. Then she yanked up her skirts and deftly pulled at two tied laces at the sides of her utilitarian looking white cotton drawers, which puddled around her ankle boots.
There she stood, legs straddled with her back against the wall holding up her skirts with one hand for Roland to take her standing up, in the same way as a drunken cowboy might take a despised whore like Sally Adams in a grubby side-street. Her sex was starkly displayed as was his, the fact that apart from that white flesh, they were fully clothed, making it all seem so much more animalistic, visceral and urgent. She grabbed at him with her free hand and pulled him back to her: she wanted him to crush her again, but this time he would enter her, too.
"Do it! Hurry!" she demanded urgently, burying her face in his necks and kissing it passionately, pushing herself toward him below.
@[Cuban Writer]
A good person is like a good gun: Reliable to the Last.
The Best Laid Plans of Men and Monsters could not hold up to a hot-blooded request for immediate penetration.
Roland's own rising need was hard and ready for the offered task, and he nearly slammed her back against the wall again as he positioned himself and-
There was a magic moment when stiff needs merged with slick yearning. If gaining access to heaven felt any better than that enveloping perfection, chaste Christians everywhere would be glad of their worldly sacrifices. For Roland's part, he intended to indulge in this taste of false divine reward as often as possible, for he surely was not going to be escorted in through any other pearly gates.
"There she is," Roland grunted as they began their primal rhythm, "there's the woman you hide."
He dipped his head, pressing his lips to hers once more. Probing, pressing, demanding. He consumed her breaths and moans as they burst forth from her, feeding her his growls and grunts in kind. It did not take Roland long to become drunk on this heady brew, and she was quickly bringing him to an end he hadn't enjoyed in too long.
To preserve the moment, and enhance the final eruption, he pulled from her. Otherwise, this would have ended too soon.
He led her to the front of the shop, bending her forward so that her hands were upon the wooden counter, her bum and fanny presented for entry. He slid a probing finger to find his mark before positioning himself and pushing once more into the silken petals of a flower she'd surely seldom permitted anyone to pick.
"I unchain you, Zenobia." He grunted as he worked into her again and again, feeling the pressure welling up to a crescendo, "I release you from your cage."
Grunting with growing fervor, his words became guttural as he climbed the final rungs of the ladder towards his own explosive release, "Roar, Lioness! Roar!"
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
"There she is," Roland grunted as they began their primal rhythm, "there's the woman you hide."
"Ugh! Yes!" Zenobia moaned, as she bore down upon his upward thrust "Release her, Mister Smith, release her!!" They had never been formally introduced, of course, and so were still on second-name terms. They kissed and they rutted roughly, up against the wall of the newly acquired gunshop, Roland lifting the smaller Zenobia quite off her booted feet each time he gallantly sallied forth.
To preserve the moment, and enhance the final eruption, he pulled from her. Otherwise, this would have ended too soon.
"Oh no... don't stop!" she entreated him breathlessly, trying to pull him back to her, but then saw that he needed to take her in a different position, somewhere else, and gladly complied. Along the way, she lost her drawers.
He led her to the front of the shop, bending her forward so that her hands were upon the wooden counter, her bum and fanny presented for entry. He slid a probing finger to find his mark before positioning himself and pushing once more into the silken petals of a flower she'd surely seldom permitted anyone to pick.
"Oooooh!!" she purred at the touch of first his outraging fingers, and then "Ahhh!" once more, his mighty staff of English Oak fulfilled her, her still gloved hands gripping the far lip of the counter, her breasts, half uncovered from Roland's abortive fumblings, crushed painfully against the workman's tools and spare gun parts on the counter beneath them, all adding the the wild and ragged impromptu nature of the hard rogering she was enjoying as she pushed back firmly and rhythmically against the penetrating prods of his rigid ramrod.
"I unchain you, Zenobia." He grunted as he worked into her again and again, feeling the pressure welling up to a crescendo, "I release you from your cage."
Miss Matthews knew not of any storied Queen of Palmira, she only knew that she was a proud American woman, giving herself up body and soul to a mountebank foreign bounder of an Englishman and basking in every blissful second of it.
Grunting with growing fervor, his words became guttural as he climbed the final rungs of the ladder towards his own explosive release, "Roar, Lioness! Roar!"
"Oh My Lion!" gasped Zenobia, reaching toward her own fulfilment, now: it was come so much quicker than she could ever achieve alone. "Oh my sweetheart! My lover! My... oh my darling... my Hector... Oh my English rogue! Oh. My. LORD!!" she finally bellowed, juddering to a climactic series of spasms as Roland did the same.
As he withdrew from her, sloppily, she let go of the counter and turned, wanting him to take her in his guniron-strong thews and hold her there forever, but instead, she let out an almighty scream instead.
There, standing at the back entrance to the shop, was an open mouthed Arabella Mudd with one hand placed over the sightless eyes of Miss Grimes "Don't look Frances!!" the Southern girl managed to blurt out a warning.
Zenobia covered her face and with a groan of shame ran past the two witnesses to her disgraceful and all too obviously wanton and needed 'covering' by the tall handsome gunsmith, and the backdoor was slammed before Arabella had even finished picking up the large pair of discarded pantalettes from the wooden floor of the store.
"But Miss Matthews, you forgot your..." Arabella sagged and looked at Roland.
"Oh gosh, I'm so real sorry, Mr Smith, if I'd know you an' her was..."
"What is happening?!" asked a very confused Miss Grimes. "Was that Miss Matthews, the hairdresser?"
"Er... yeh.. er... Mister Smith was just showing her a weapon." she glanced down "Looks like a Colt Navy from here" she at least complimented him. "Oh Mr Smith, we're so sorry for bargin' in round the back like that..." she apologised, perhaps subconsciously describing what she had just witnessed him doing to Zenobia.
"I hope that you and Miss Matthews had at least completed your transaction" chipped in the blind girl.
"Oh... I reckon they had" nodded Arabella. Then she held the pants up to the owner of the store. "Oh Mr Smith, look... just like Cinderella!"
@[Cuban Writer]