Black Conley
Authors: Shari Dare
Mojocastle Press
www.mojocastle.com
Copyright ©2008 by Shari Dare
First published in mojocastle.com, 2008
Excluding legitimate review sites and review publications, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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I'd like to dedicate this book to my erotic friends, Debi Wilder, Honey Jans and Lynn Crain. Without them I wouldn't have started writing in this genre, to say nothing of enjoying it.
Black pumped against the whore he'd bought for the night. The act represented nothing but self-pleasure and release. This girl was no more to him than any of the others he'd had over the past fifteen years, but he didn't care. She was warm, she was somewhat pretty and she allowed him to vent his anger and satisfy his longings. He'd put his emotions aside years ago. There was no place in his life for such things.
"Deeper, Baby, deeper,” she crooned.
Unlike things he'd heard about whores only pretending, he knew that he rarely left a woman wanting in that department. “Are you certain?” he asked, withdrawing his cock from her cunt.
"Positive,” came the whispered reply.
He repositioned himself and turned her onto her belly, then instructed her to get on her knees.
"You aren't going to fuck me in the ass, are you?” the girl asked.
"Hardly. You said you wanted it deeper. Well, this is as deep as I can get.” He shoved his cock in from the backside of her cunt, burying it all the way to his balls.
The girl screamed in delight. To add to the enjoyment, he grabbed one of her tits and played with it while he pistoned against her.
"More, more,” she demanded.
Black was more than willing to accommodate her, slowing his actions to prolong the hardon that he actually wanted to get rid of. When at last they both came, he was careful not to collapse on top of her. Instead, he rolled off and turned her over so that she could face him. While he lay there, spent and exhausted, he played with her clit until she again moaned with pleasure. A long time ago he'd learned that women could go all night, while men had to recuperate in between.
It didn't take long for her to cum again and mix her velvety juice with that which he had deposited only minutes earlier. Convinced that he had indeed satisfied her, he pulled himself into a sitting position and lit a cigarette. Beside him, the girl continued to kiss his chest while she played with his balls. He knew it wouldn't take much of this type of attention to have him ready to take her again by the time he finished his smoke. He did like to get the most for his money, and this girl was more than ready to give it to him.
He crushed out his cigarette and was sucking her puckered nipple when a knock at the door interrupted him.
Cursing a blue streak, Black disentangled himself, grabbed his gun and went to the door. It was clearly evident that the young boy who stood there with an envelope in his hand was embarrassed.
"I-I have a telegram for you, Mr. Conley,” he stammered, looking alternately between Black's weapon and his cock, standing out as stiff as a poker. It was as though he was comparing one gun to the other.
"Well, give it to me,” Black ordered, moving toward his pants.
By the time he returned, the boy had focused his attention on the whore in Black's bed. “Cover yourself,” he growled, pulling a coin from the pocket of his pants.
Once the boy left, Black slammed the door.
"Come back to bed, Sweetie,” the girl crooned. “Whatever is in that wire can wait until we finish our business."
"Like hell it can,” Black retorted, ripping open the envelope.
What the hell was the big rush in getting this to me?
He scanned the contents of the wire.
Why wreck a perfectly good fuck just to get me my next assignment?
The only answer he could think of was that the telegraph office hadn't gotten it to him when it first arrived. He'd have a talk with the telegraph operator when he went across the street to send the return wire.
Rather than going back to the whore, Black threw some money on the bed before he got dressed. Although the girl pretended to pout, he knew she was counting his money, all the while anticipating getting another man to pay her tonight. If she was smarter than she looked, she would give the bartender only his usual pay while keeping the rest for herself.
"I guess this means you're done with me.” She pulled on the dress she'd discarded earlier. The deeply-cut neckline made him wish that he didn't have to leave her. Of course, he knew he couldn't stay after reading the contents of the wire. Work always came before pleasure in his book. With this wire coming from Denver, he had no choice other than to read it and find out where he would be sent next.
Once she left, he read the wire from his boss, Ed Heath, more thoroughly. His assignment would take him to Larson's Gap in Montana and a ranch called the Double Bar B. According to Ed's wire, the woman who ran it, Belle Barton, was in trouble. She'd been losing cattle, and couldn't get the sheriff to help her find the rustlers. It would be Black's job to find those responsible and put them under arrest. Ed doubted that the sheriff would be any help, but he said it was worth a try.
After sending a return wire to Denver, Black packed his gear in his saddlebags, tied his bedroll to the back of his horse, and prepared to leave Laramie behind. A glance inside the saloon told him the girl he'd bedded earlier was already attaching herself to a cowpoke with more money than brains.
At least I was the first one to have her tonight. If she's like most of the girls in these places, I doubt that she cleans herself up between customers. There's nothing worse than fucking a woman who is full of some other man's cum.
As he rode out of Laramie, he thought about his life. In the past, he'd done everything he could to make a living. He'd started out as a gunslinger and ended up a lawman. Since he'd become a U.S. Marshal, he'd found a job that was to his liking. The life of a gunslinger was iffy and he really didn't enjoy killing people, but it was what he did best. With the title of U.S. Marshal, he did the job that he'd done when he'd killed his first man.
Even though he hadn't done any ranching in over fifteen years, a job on one of the ranches would give him the perfect cover in order to investigate the rustling. Ranching was hard work, but it wouldn't hurt him to ride herd on a bunch of cattle in Montana for a while. At least he'd get to eat three square meals a day and be able to sleep somewhere other than outside. That was better than where most of his assignments took him. With winter coming, it sounded pretty damn good. He didn't need to work, but the situation demanded that he blend in with the locals and what better way to do that than to work as a cowhand?
Besides, spending the winter in a hotel room with nothing to do was as far from his liking as sleeping outdoors. It would do little but draw attention to his presence. Working with the locals usually raised a whole lot less suspicion about why he was in this small town rather than where his gun could make him a hell of a lot more money.
The town he rode into looked about as lively as a Sunday school picnic. Outside the saloon, two horses were waiting for their owners to return. At least he didn't have to guess where the saloon was in this town. As quiet as this place was, he could get a drink without having to make any explanations about who he was.
"Whiskey,” he said, stepping up to the bar.
The bartender looked up. “Don't serve Injuns. It's best if you get your ass out of here."
Black pulled his gun and pointed it at the man. “Look, you son of a bitch, I'm no Injun."
"You got black hair and you're dark-skinned. You're an Injun, all right."
"My ma was Mexican and my pa was white. That makes me pure Texican. Push me too far and you'll find out why they say there ain't nothin’ meaner than a Texican when you rile him. Trust me, Mister, anyone who takes me for an Injun riles me no end."
"Yes, sir, Mr..."
"The name's Conley."
The man's hand shook as he poured the whiskey. “I shoulda known from the way you drew that gun of yours. Is it true you killed thirty men?"
"Probably. I don't keep count, especially since every one of them lost their lives in a fair fight."
"How can it be a fair fight when that gun of yours comes out of the holster like a rattler when he's ready to strike?” the man at the far end of the bar asked.
"When a man is drawn on, he has to defend himself. That's all I intend to say on the subject. I don't lead that life anymore. I was hoping to find out if there are any ranches in the area hiring for the winter."
The man began to laugh. “Just the Double Bar B, but no one wants to work up there."
Black hid his pleasure at hearing the name of the ranch. “Why not?"
"Because word is that the double B in the name of that ranch stands for the way that bitch can bust a man's balls."
"Bitch?"
"Her name is Isabelle Barton. She took over the ranch after her old man died and left it to her. She spent most of her life in the East and what she doesn't know about ranching could fill a book. She calls herself Belle, but that hardly fits her. I just call her Ballbuster. I worked for her for about a week. As much as I wanted to get in her pants, one of her tongue-lashings was enough for me. I lit out the next day. I hear tell she's got a bunch of women up there trying to run the ranch. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? What in the hell do women know about ranching? The only thing they're good for is fucking, if you get my drift."
"Thanks for the warning,” Black said. He downed his whiskey. “Which way is it to the Double Bar B?"
"You can't be serious. Why would you want to work for that bitch?"
"Why not? I've always liked a challenge. This sounds like one I want to take on."
"You'll be sorry. I'll be here waiting for you when you decided you've had enough of her high and mighty ways."
"Thanks again. I hope you don't hold your breath waiting for me."
Black left the Purple Moon Saloon and mounted his Appaloosa gelding. The Double Bar B was the ranch he was looking for, and it would be the perfect place for him to spend the winter.
Now he'd come full circle. If he could persuade Belle to allow him to work on the Double Bar B, he'd be once again working with women who were ranch hands by day and whores by night.
Belle Barton looked out her front window. This was her empire.
Her mind turned from the girls to Clayte Adamson from the Diamond A. He'd been begging her to let him buy her out since the day her father died, leaving her with clear title to the Double Bar B. In the past few years he'd become more adamant, especially when she landed the contract for the way station.
A month ago, she'd gone to the funeral for his wife, Nettie. Clayte told everyone Nettie had taken a bad fall down the stairs and hit her head. By the time he got to her, she was dead.
Even though Belle knew that was the official cause of death, she also knew the underlying reason that they were putting Nettie in the ground. Clayte had worked his wife to death. In the nine years they were married, she'd given birth to seven children and was pregnant with the eighth when she died. That much childbearing coupled with the work Clayte expected her to do was enough to make any woman throw herself down the stairs in an attempt to get away from it all.