Free Hangtown Hellcat by Jon Sharpe

puddle around her dainty feet.
    Buckshot couldn’t restrain himself. “Wouldja
look
at thejahoobies on that little filly, Skye! Oh, Moses on the mountain! Right off them French playing cards!”
    “Damn it, pipe down,” Fargo whispered back. “She’s got ears as well as tits.”
    But in fact he was looking, all right, forced to roll onto one hip as hot blood surged into his man gland.
    Her tits were full, hard, and pointy, the strawberry nipples hard from the cool air. Her loose hair curtained one of them, just the pointed nipple peeping out provocatively between the dark tresses. Fargo’s eyes slid over the flat, alabaster stomach to a triangle of dark mons hair. When she raised one leg over the edge of the tub to get in, he caught a quick glimpse of the soft inner petals of her sex.
    His breathing was ragged and uneven now as the pent-up rut need brought out the savage stallion in him. But even with lust depriving his brain of blood, he noted something odd—the stunning brunette beauty had not removed the string of pearls she wore around her neck. As soon as she had adjusted to the hot water and relaxed, he found out why.
    She pulled the pearls over her head and, slowly at first, began rubbing them one by one across both of her nipples. She began rubbing faster, ever faster, until her breathing matched Fargo’s. When she had aroused herself sufficiently, she raised both legs, hooking one over each edge of the tub.
    Buckshot was whimpering by now, and Fargo jabbed him with an elbow.
    She slid the pearls down into the water and began the same treatment between her legs, many hard pearls rubbing one soft one. Her head rolled back and forth on the edge of the tub, she began to pant, then to groan. Suddenly she cried out as a climax shuddered her body.
    Fargo was so stunned and aroused that he almost failed to restrain Buckshot in time when he started to lunge up.
    “Damn it, Skye, let’s
both
bull her right now!” he whispered, the sound almost a plea.
    “Settle down or I’ll shoot you,” Fargo warned.
    “Settle down, my sweet aunt! My dick is hard ’nuff to quarry with. Oh, to be them pearls!”
    Before Fargo could reply, the languid beauty in the tub called out, “Jasmine! Warm up the water!”
    A minute later a willowy blonde in a white gingham dress emerged from the house and poured more steaming water into the tub.
    “C’mon, sugar britches,” Buckshot urged under his breath, “shuck off that dress and climb in the tub with Pretty Pearls. Grind them tits together, gals.”
    But his Isle of Lesbos fantasy was dashed when Jasmine merely returned to the house.
    “We’ve seen enough. Let’s vamoose,” Fargo said.
    “She ain’t done,” Buckshot complained.
    “I’ve seen all I can take, old son. She’s a beauty, all right, but horny as I am, just
watching
her is like staring at a fresh-baked pie when I’m starving and knowing I can’t have a slice.”
    “Yeah, I take your drift,” Buckshot said. “I got me one helluva bellyache.”
    The two men carefully threaded their way through the protective ring of plum and chokecherry brush. They crept out into open country, eluding the sentries, then headed back to the southeast toward their horses.
    “Tell me,” Fargo said in a sly tone, “are you still reluctant to come back here?”
    “We got us a duty to them prisoners,” Buckshot asserted, suddenly eager and sanctimonious. “Why, the pond scum in that gulch is holding little children! You know us Western men got us a code.”
    Fargo chuckled. “Uh-huh.
Now
you come to Jesus.”
    “Skye, that gal in the tub—you figure she’s one a them whatchacallits, a coocoobine? You know, a fancy whore for the man who runs the whole shebang in the gulch?”
    “Concubine,” Fargo corrected him. “Well, it don’t seem likely a woman could be ramrod of a cutthroat bunch like that. Especially a woman who looks like her. I’ve seen outlaws’ whores, and they sure’s hell don’t look like that little