Little Darlin’

“Ho, boy!”

John looked up from his campfire at the horse he had heard coming an hour back.  He touched the brim of his hat to the figure silhouetted against the setting sun.  "Evenin’, partner.“

The rider giggled and swung down off the fidgety animal’s back.  John tried to keep his eyes from widening but was only partly successful – the riding skirts were too shocking.  "Ahh, my ‘pologies.  Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Ain’t no ladies from where I’m standin’.”  The girl flipped her hat off, loosening a mane of curly brown hair and revealing freckled cheeks and a tilted smile.  She thrust her hand in John’s face.  "You can call me Little Darlin’.“

"Can I now?”  A suspicious bubble boiled up in John’s gut, and he stared at the hand without taking it.  The looming emptiness of the desert around him seemed to yawn and shift.  "Or is there gold to be paid if’n I do?“

The girl narrowed her eyes for just a second, then collapsed into a cross-legged sitting position next to the fire.  "Nah, not out ‘ere.  Out ‘ere we’re all just lonely and lookin’ for some company.”

“I see.”  John kept his voice level.  "And what sort o’ company you be huntin’ tonight?“

"Yours,” the girl said.  She shrugged, digging her teeth into something she’d fished out of the leather bag on her belt.  "Probably.“

John sized her up for another long moment.  Despite her haphazard appearance, she was at ease and in surprisingly good condition for as long as her stallion’s hooves indicated they’d been traveling.  He guessed she had a small firearm tucked away somewhere, but he didn’t imagine she would use it.  He straightened up.  "Arright.  Shoot.  What’s your game?”

“I like cock,” she said, wrapping her whole tongue around the word with a toothy smile, “and ain’t no spit-polish piece o’ wood gonna satisfy my hungry pussy.”

John’s body responded for him.  He leaned towards her, and this time he was the one to offer his hand.  "I think I can help with that.“

She tugged him with such strength that he fell forward onto her, and they both landed in the sand.  Her hands were clutching at his hair, sliding into his shirt to grope his back, then slipping into his pants and finding where he was waiting for her.  John kissed the place he loved to kiss on women: where the jaw met the neck, the knot of strength and determination.  She moaned and arched up against him.

He sat up to paw at her skirts until he found where they came loose from one another.  Separating them with deft fingers, he found her, too, waiting eagerly.  Already she was thrusting, her torso writhing and her legs scrabbling for traction in the sand.  John ducked beneath the skirts and put his mouth against her, breathing in sweat and horse and desire.  He lapped at her until she wailed like a coyote, head thrown back towards the moon.

He found the gun, in the top of her boot, and gently slipped it free.  He felt her tense, then relax, then laugh, "Well, hungry is as hungry does,” and came against his cheek.  His face dripping, John flipped her skirts up against her chest and unzipped his pants.  He wiped his cheek on his shoulder, smiling down.

“Come along, little darlin’.”