Mrs Hill
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Boob Hill free porn video
John ‘Long’ Johnson held up a weather-browned hand,
bringing to a halt the six horsemen and women trailing
behind him. He pushed back his dusty, ten-gallon cowboy
hat and shaded his brow, squinting stinging sweat out of
his blazing blue eyes as he gazed down at the ramshackle
collection of wood frame buildings and homes that were
Dike City, Kansas. Shimmering waves of heat rose off the
sun-baked land below, and the sluggish Little Snake River,
which regularly overflowed its banks and the town’s
crudely constructed dykes, wound its way like a muddy
artery through the burnt-stubble heart of the valley bowl.
‘That her?’ one of the men asked, bringing his mount
alongside Johnson’s.
‘Yep,’ was all the handsome, taciturn cocksman
replied.
‘Her’ was a good description of the wind-whipped,
bare-ass town, because Dike City, Kansas, was home to
the infamous Boob Hill – a barely-legal brothel that was
busy turning the local female population into howling
nymphomaniacs. Married men were being left wifeless,
families daughterless, single men ecstatic by the depraved
goings-on at the sprawling whorehouse. Good-hearted,
god-fearing womenfolk would enter the brothel on a
mission of mercy and never leave, turned on to the
powerful pleasures of the flesh by the devious Madam of
the house, Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme.
By hypnosis or potion, or some other means unknown,
Chesty would transform the modest little ladies of the
prairies into sex-craved she-devils that no one man could
ever hope to satisfy. The reborn brazen babes needed,
craved, men, and plenty o’ ’em, and Chesty provided the
man-meat to temporarily satiate their overwhelming
hunger, at a tidy profit to herself, of course.
Johnson had been hired by the town council, twelve
married men good and true, to put a stop to it – to tame
Chesty and lift the gate on her ever-expanding corral of
lust-addled women, to reunite families torn asunder by allconsuming
carnality. Sure, the single men, and a good
many of the married, too, had objected to the Town hiring
Johnson, but most of those men weren’t landowners, and,
thus, couldn’t vote, so their opinions counted as much as
cow chips to the political leaders who felt the Wild West
had no place in Dike City.
‘We gonna hit her tonight?’ another of Johnson’s mob
inquired.
‘Naw,’ the well-endowed tail boss drawled. ‘We’ll hit
’er come mornin’, when the debauchery’s at low ebb.’
The attractive group of cowboys and girls nodded,
confident of Johnson’s skills on the range, the battlefield,
and in the sack. Every clam-shaped notch on Johnson’s
rifle stock spoke of his abilities of seduction and survival.
There were a hundred and twenty-five such notches in all.
Johnson kicked a glowing ember back into the campfire,
then squatted down and tilted a tin cup of hot, black coffee
up to his thick, sensuous lips, taking a good, long draught.
Somewhere far off in the night-shaded wilderness frisky
coyotes barked love songs back and forth, while lusty
gophers made chattering love in their funk-smelling
burrows. Good signs, all.
Johnson sagely regarded the flame-licked faces of his
posse, liked what he saw: three men – experienced, dickheavy
dudes who could cunny-ride the orneriest of ladies;
and three women – big-breasted beauts who kept their
men’s tools well-oiled, and pacified any stray males who
got in their way.
‘Mebbe y’all should work on your moves some, so y’all
be ready come mornin’,’ Johnson instructed.
The sex-hardened gang quickly jumped to their feet and
shucked their buckskin like it was crawling with fire ants.
They stood nude and lewd before the flickering campfire,
the men’s iron-hard dongs bobbing long and heavy and
sure, cocked for action, the women’s hefty, heaving jugs
swollen with mother’s milk, begging to be sucked dry.
Then they paired off, started getting down and dirty with
each other.
Johnson studied their technique, mindful of any flaws
that could get a man bucked, a woman chucked. He drew
his own ten-inch cum-cannon out of its cotton holster and
commenced to stroking, watching Lynn ‘Man-Eater’
Craven tease Cal ‘Sure-Shot’ McGroot’s lengthy prod
with her playful, pink snake of a tongue. Her awesome,
snow-white tits, capped by inch-long, rosy-red nipples,
swayed ponderously from side to side as she licked all
over Cal’s hard wood. Then she ably swallowed the
groaning man’s timber in one slobbery gulp, her fiery-red
hair cascading across her pretty face.
Lynn bobbed her head up and down on the bucking
cowboy’s bushwhacker, sucking hard and sure with
precision mouth-strokes, from bloated tip to furry base, till
she finally yanked Cal’s dripping lady-killer out of her
stretched-wide mouth and asked, ‘Y’all gonna fuck my
titties, or what?’
Johnson’s lips creased into a smile, as he pulled on his
pecker with a calloused, practiced hand, looking on
appreciatively as Lynn cupped and seductively juggled her
over-ripe melons. Her magnificent, blue-veined mams
were enough to tempt even a not-so-straight-shooter to
bury his spunk-gun in between her soft mountains and
lighten his load, frost her flesh-cones.
Cal ambled closer and eased his throbbing rod into
Lynn’s heated chest canyon, began churning his hips in a
dosey-do as old as the Jism Trail itself. Lynn shoved her
ivory mounds together, smothering Cal’s pumping dong,
then spat into her tit-tunnel to grease the action even
further. Cal sawed his saddle horn back and forth in the
redhead’s depthless cleavage, fucking her treasure chest
faster and faster, pinching and rolling her fully-flowered
nipples as best he could. And Lynn stuck out her tongue,
providing a warm, wet cushion for Cal’s peek-a-booing
cocktop.
Cal rode roughshod over Lynn’s tremulous titties,
blazing a heated, humid, velvety path between her
jouncing jugs, till he broke the flesh-spanked night air
open with a yowl of satisfaction and blasted a bandolierful
of white-hot jizz onto the girl’s all-natural endowment. He
coated Lynn’s neck, her cupped casabas, with the unerring
accuracy of a man who’d corralled and domesticated a
passel of damsels in distress (and out of ‘dis dress’). Lynn
joyously rubbed Cal’s salty jerk into her massive, shiny
breasts, revelling in her own wicked powers of tit-suasion.
Johnson’s shrewd eyes roamed over the rest of his
merry, messy band of fucking and sucking cummers,
confident that they could handle the wayward women of
Boob Hill. He tucked his own purple-knobbed fuck-stick
back into his trousers, saving his juice for the personal
challenge that lay ahead – a high-poon showdown with the
dangerous, money and man-lusting proprietress of Boob
Hill, Chesty Laflemme.
Come the crack of dawn, Johnson rose up on his hind legs
and stretched, felt his manhood to ensure it was in
working order, and then roused the rest of his posse. The
plan was simple: take on all comers, cum on all takers –
hands-on demonstrate to the horny, horn-swoggled women
of Boob Hill that one man could, indeed, satisfy one
woman, and then return the satiated gals to their rightful
families.
The group of well-hung twat-tamers and their busty
cock wranglers mounted up, cantered off the high ground
and down towards Dike City, rocking sensuously back and
forth in their polished leather saddles. They were trotting
Main Street in a matter of a minutes, then pulled up and
looked towards the end of the deserted street, where on a
rocky, barren plateau stood the gaily-lit brothel that would
be the sexy scene of Johnson and his gang’s
showdown/ho-down with Laflemme and her lusty ladies
of the evening, and morning, and afternoon.
The gang dismounted, and with the torpedo-titted
women covering their broad backs, the thick-membered
men trod the dirty, grey planks of the sagging wooden
sidewalk, resolutely striding past shuttered storefronts and
up the hill to the din of iniquity that had laid claim to so
many normally monogamous women. The brothel was a
gaudy, rambling mansion of twenty-some rooms, as
structurally unappealing as a temperance tomboy with
bumps where breasts should’ve grown. Johnson didn’t
waste time skinning his knuckles on the red-painted front
door; instead, a well-placed boot splintered the entryway
and his posse passed inside.
They crossed a long, marble entrance hall, climbed a
spiralling, red-carpeted staircase, and then trundled down
an upstairs corridor. Johnson fanned his men and women
out in front of him, and they burst open doors and leaped
into chambers framed in chiffon and doused in perfume,
taking the slumbering, all-too-temporarily satiated women
of the house of ill-repute unawares. The heavy-breasted
cowgirls pulled the paying customers aside, using their
ample charms to convince the stunned johns to make love,
not war, while the three-legged cowboys bared their loins
and put into practice their studly powers of seduction,
rustling up memories in the confused ladies’ minds of just
how sweet and sweaty it was to be a one-man woman.
Johnson, meanwhile, moseyed off further down the
hall, in search of even breastier babes to stamp with his
brand. When he reached the end of the long, wallpapered
passage, he toed the last door in line open and strode
inside, found one Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme ensconced
in the bubbly chop of a cast-iron bathtub like a siren in the
sea. Johnson could tell it was she, both from the fact that
her striking face matched the Wanted poster he carried on
his person, and the fact that, even though her body was
completely submerged in the soapy water, her Sierra
Nevada-like breasts still peeked their pink tips out of the
suds.
‘Been lookin’ for ya, Chesty,’ Johnson drawled, slowly
and carefully unbuttoning his buckskin jacket.
‘Been waitin’, long rider,’ Chesty replied, a defiant
smile lifting the corners of her crimson lips. Her sunbleached,
blonde hair was piled atop her head like a stook
of ripened wheat, with a blood-red rose stuck in its midst,
thorns and all. She pushed her mams still further out of the
bursting bubbles, till they glistened huge and hypnotic in
the oil-lamp light, gargantuan in size, tanned an almost allover
tawny, saddle leather brown and twin-peaked by
jutting nipples that looked like they could spray enough
white gold to satisfy the most parched of ’49ers.
‘What’s it all about, big ’uns?’ Johnson asked,
cautiously dropping his jacket, going to work on his
flannel shirt, warily avoiding any sudden movements that
might spook the big, brazen, bathing mama. ‘Why you
turnin’ good women bad, wives into wantons?’
Chesty regarded him steadily with her slate-grey eyes,
watching as the loaded-for-bare cunt rustler deftly
unbuttoned his shirt, shunted it aside. She surveyed
Johnson’s hairy, muscular chest and licked her bee-stung
lips. ‘A girl’s gotta have her gold,’ she replied. ‘And
business is boomin’, big man.’
‘That the only reason?’ Johnson inquired, wellknowing
that dollars and cents weren’t the only factors at
play here. The weaker sex coveted coin and carnal
knowledge as much as the male of the species, sure, but
they coveted something else even more, something that all
the money in the world couldn’t buy – love, sweet, love.
Chesty blushed, looked down, up, at her tremendous,
sud-sprinkled titties. ‘I was a one-man woman once,’ she
spoke softly. ‘But then he ran away with a two-bit bar
floozy and…’ She glanced angrily up at Johnson, whose
pants were now down around his ankles, his rigid dick
sticking out like a flagpole at a frontier fort, waiting to be
saluted. ‘Well, let’s just say that I vowed to never let that
happen again, and filthy lucre became my one true love;
you treat it well and it’ll never leave you.’
‘Money’s cold comfort on a long winter’s night –
’specially ’round these parts,’ Johnson stated.
‘I’ve plenty of one-night stands to keep my bones warm
through the winter months,’ Chesty responded. ‘So don’t
think for a damn minute that you can bring me back in line
with that handsome pussy-prod of yours, cunt-puncher,’
she sneered, her spongy, soap-lathered boobs undulating
as she slid upright in the bath, her glittering eyes locked on
Johnson’s twitching trenching tool.
‘Well, ma’am, we’ll just have to see about that,’
Johnson said modestly, lifting his snakeskin cowboy boots
out of his puddled denim trousers. He stood before the
dripping, over-endowed frontier goddess, the both of them
as naked as Adam and Eve save for the ten-gallon hat and
size-f******n pair of boots Johnson was wearing. And then
he rushed her.
Chesty toppled the tub over on its side and spilled out
of the bathwater, was on her bare feet in the blink of a
third eye, brandishing a steely eighteen-inch dildo in her
clenched right fist.
Johnson slid to a stop on the slickened floor and held
up his hands. ‘Whoa there now! You put that hole-plugger
down, ma’am,’ he intoned.
‘This is all the man I need!’ Chesty shrieked. ‘Maybe
you wanna try it on for size yourself!?’ She hurtled herself
at Johnson, the metallic cock-substitute aimed ass-high.
Johnson scrambled backwards, slipped, and crashed to
the floor. He desperately kicked out his right boot, caught
Chesty’s shin, and knocked the top-heavy madam off her
feet. She cried out in alarm, flailed her arms, and then
landed smack dab on top of Johnson’s propped-up pecker.
Her sticky, splayed pussy lips caught on the cowboy’s
bloated dickcap, and then her downward momentum
buried his massive schlong to the hairy balls inside her
stretched-out pink.
Johnson pinned Chesty’s arms to her side and
frantically pumped his hips, savagely fucking the
discombobulated babe before she even knew what hit her.
Her foot-and-a-half-long lady-pleaser/man-smasher lay on
the wet floor, as defunct now as the twin cities of Sodom
and Gomorrah.
Johnson pounded the tittified gal’s poon with his prong,
fucking her relentlessly, striving to pacify her, to
demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt that one man
could readily satisfy one woman, even a huge-breasted,
jilted woman. And when Chesty finally let out a soft sigh
of surrender, Johnson knew he was hitting his mark. He
released her arms and grabbed up her overhanging jugs,
fondled and squeezed her sodden, stunning breastworks.
Chesty closed her eyes and moaned, dug scarlet
fingernails into Johnson’s striated chest, pumping her
firm, round bottom in rhythm to his urgent thrusting.
Johnson knew then that he’d at last brought law and the
natural order of things back to Dike City, Kansas. He
rolled Chesty’s rock-hard, distended nipples between his
long fingers, kneaded her smooth, sun-kissed, Texas-sized
titties, the muscles on his arms standing out in stark relief
as he feverishly worked tit and banged twat.
The pace of the Westerners’ frenetic coupling grew
even more intense, and the chest-blessed gal bleated in
ecstasy and Johnson grunted with satisfaction at a job well
done. He blasted wad after wad of heavy-calibre cum deep
into Chesty’s gushing gash. Steaming justice had been
served.
The Boob Hill brothel now sits as empty as a
politician’s promise, abandoned by its proprietress and her
minions of man-lust, the wives returned to their loving
husbands, the daughters to the warm bosoms of their
families. The Johnson posse disbanded shortly after the
bringing to a halt the six horsemen and women trailing
behind him. He pushed back his dusty, ten-gallon cowboy
hat and shaded his brow, squinting stinging sweat out of
his blazing blue eyes as he gazed down at the ramshackle
collection of wood frame buildings and homes that were
Dike City, Kansas. Shimmering waves of heat rose off the
sun-baked land below, and the sluggish Little Snake River,
which regularly overflowed its banks and the town’s
crudely constructed dykes, wound its way like a muddy
artery through the burnt-stubble heart of the valley bowl.
‘That her?’ one of the men asked, bringing his mount
alongside Johnson’s.
‘Yep,’ was all the handsome, taciturn cocksman
replied.
‘Her’ was a good description of the wind-whipped,
bare-ass town, because Dike City, Kansas, was home to
the infamous Boob Hill – a barely-legal brothel that was
busy turning the local female population into howling
nymphomaniacs. Married men were being left wifeless,
families daughterless, single men ecstatic by the depraved
goings-on at the sprawling whorehouse. Good-hearted,
god-fearing womenfolk would enter the brothel on a
mission of mercy and never leave, turned on to the
powerful pleasures of the flesh by the devious Madam of
the house, Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme.
By hypnosis or potion, or some other means unknown,
Chesty would transform the modest little ladies of the
prairies into sex-craved she-devils that no one man could
ever hope to satisfy. The reborn brazen babes needed,
craved, men, and plenty o’ ’em, and Chesty provided the
man-meat to temporarily satiate their overwhelming
hunger, at a tidy profit to herself, of course.
Johnson had been hired by the town council, twelve
married men good and true, to put a stop to it – to tame
Chesty and lift the gate on her ever-expanding corral of
lust-addled women, to reunite families torn asunder by allconsuming
carnality. Sure, the single men, and a good
many of the married, too, had objected to the Town hiring
Johnson, but most of those men weren’t landowners, and,
thus, couldn’t vote, so their opinions counted as much as
cow chips to the political leaders who felt the Wild West
had no place in Dike City.
‘We gonna hit her tonight?’ another of Johnson’s mob
inquired.
‘Naw,’ the well-endowed tail boss drawled. ‘We’ll hit
’er come mornin’, when the debauchery’s at low ebb.’
The attractive group of cowboys and girls nodded,
confident of Johnson’s skills on the range, the battlefield,
and in the sack. Every clam-shaped notch on Johnson’s
rifle stock spoke of his abilities of seduction and survival.
There were a hundred and twenty-five such notches in all.
Johnson kicked a glowing ember back into the campfire,
then squatted down and tilted a tin cup of hot, black coffee
up to his thick, sensuous lips, taking a good, long draught.
Somewhere far off in the night-shaded wilderness frisky
coyotes barked love songs back and forth, while lusty
gophers made chattering love in their funk-smelling
burrows. Good signs, all.
Johnson sagely regarded the flame-licked faces of his
posse, liked what he saw: three men – experienced, dickheavy
dudes who could cunny-ride the orneriest of ladies;
and three women – big-breasted beauts who kept their
men’s tools well-oiled, and pacified any stray males who
got in their way.
‘Mebbe y’all should work on your moves some, so y’all
be ready come mornin’,’ Johnson instructed.
The sex-hardened gang quickly jumped to their feet and
shucked their buckskin like it was crawling with fire ants.
They stood nude and lewd before the flickering campfire,
the men’s iron-hard dongs bobbing long and heavy and
sure, cocked for action, the women’s hefty, heaving jugs
swollen with mother’s milk, begging to be sucked dry.
Then they paired off, started getting down and dirty with
each other.
Johnson studied their technique, mindful of any flaws
that could get a man bucked, a woman chucked. He drew
his own ten-inch cum-cannon out of its cotton holster and
commenced to stroking, watching Lynn ‘Man-Eater’
Craven tease Cal ‘Sure-Shot’ McGroot’s lengthy prod
with her playful, pink snake of a tongue. Her awesome,
snow-white tits, capped by inch-long, rosy-red nipples,
swayed ponderously from side to side as she licked all
over Cal’s hard wood. Then she ably swallowed the
groaning man’s timber in one slobbery gulp, her fiery-red
hair cascading across her pretty face.
Lynn bobbed her head up and down on the bucking
cowboy’s bushwhacker, sucking hard and sure with
precision mouth-strokes, from bloated tip to furry base, till
she finally yanked Cal’s dripping lady-killer out of her
stretched-wide mouth and asked, ‘Y’all gonna fuck my
titties, or what?’
Johnson’s lips creased into a smile, as he pulled on his
pecker with a calloused, practiced hand, looking on
appreciatively as Lynn cupped and seductively juggled her
over-ripe melons. Her magnificent, blue-veined mams
were enough to tempt even a not-so-straight-shooter to
bury his spunk-gun in between her soft mountains and
lighten his load, frost her flesh-cones.
Cal ambled closer and eased his throbbing rod into
Lynn’s heated chest canyon, began churning his hips in a
dosey-do as old as the Jism Trail itself. Lynn shoved her
ivory mounds together, smothering Cal’s pumping dong,
then spat into her tit-tunnel to grease the action even
further. Cal sawed his saddle horn back and forth in the
redhead’s depthless cleavage, fucking her treasure chest
faster and faster, pinching and rolling her fully-flowered
nipples as best he could. And Lynn stuck out her tongue,
providing a warm, wet cushion for Cal’s peek-a-booing
cocktop.
Cal rode roughshod over Lynn’s tremulous titties,
blazing a heated, humid, velvety path between her
jouncing jugs, till he broke the flesh-spanked night air
open with a yowl of satisfaction and blasted a bandolierful
of white-hot jizz onto the girl’s all-natural endowment. He
coated Lynn’s neck, her cupped casabas, with the unerring
accuracy of a man who’d corralled and domesticated a
passel of damsels in distress (and out of ‘dis dress’). Lynn
joyously rubbed Cal’s salty jerk into her massive, shiny
breasts, revelling in her own wicked powers of tit-suasion.
Johnson’s shrewd eyes roamed over the rest of his
merry, messy band of fucking and sucking cummers,
confident that they could handle the wayward women of
Boob Hill. He tucked his own purple-knobbed fuck-stick
back into his trousers, saving his juice for the personal
challenge that lay ahead – a high-poon showdown with the
dangerous, money and man-lusting proprietress of Boob
Hill, Chesty Laflemme.
Come the crack of dawn, Johnson rose up on his hind legs
and stretched, felt his manhood to ensure it was in
working order, and then roused the rest of his posse. The
plan was simple: take on all comers, cum on all takers –
hands-on demonstrate to the horny, horn-swoggled women
of Boob Hill that one man could, indeed, satisfy one
woman, and then return the satiated gals to their rightful
families.
The group of well-hung twat-tamers and their busty
cock wranglers mounted up, cantered off the high ground
and down towards Dike City, rocking sensuously back and
forth in their polished leather saddles. They were trotting
Main Street in a matter of a minutes, then pulled up and
looked towards the end of the deserted street, where on a
rocky, barren plateau stood the gaily-lit brothel that would
be the sexy scene of Johnson and his gang’s
showdown/ho-down with Laflemme and her lusty ladies
of the evening, and morning, and afternoon.
The gang dismounted, and with the torpedo-titted
women covering their broad backs, the thick-membered
men trod the dirty, grey planks of the sagging wooden
sidewalk, resolutely striding past shuttered storefronts and
up the hill to the din of iniquity that had laid claim to so
many normally monogamous women. The brothel was a
gaudy, rambling mansion of twenty-some rooms, as
structurally unappealing as a temperance tomboy with
bumps where breasts should’ve grown. Johnson didn’t
waste time skinning his knuckles on the red-painted front
door; instead, a well-placed boot splintered the entryway
and his posse passed inside.
They crossed a long, marble entrance hall, climbed a
spiralling, red-carpeted staircase, and then trundled down
an upstairs corridor. Johnson fanned his men and women
out in front of him, and they burst open doors and leaped
into chambers framed in chiffon and doused in perfume,
taking the slumbering, all-too-temporarily satiated women
of the house of ill-repute unawares. The heavy-breasted
cowgirls pulled the paying customers aside, using their
ample charms to convince the stunned johns to make love,
not war, while the three-legged cowboys bared their loins
and put into practice their studly powers of seduction,
rustling up memories in the confused ladies’ minds of just
how sweet and sweaty it was to be a one-man woman.
Johnson, meanwhile, moseyed off further down the
hall, in search of even breastier babes to stamp with his
brand. When he reached the end of the long, wallpapered
passage, he toed the last door in line open and strode
inside, found one Lurlene ‘Chesty’ Laflemme ensconced
in the bubbly chop of a cast-iron bathtub like a siren in the
sea. Johnson could tell it was she, both from the fact that
her striking face matched the Wanted poster he carried on
his person, and the fact that, even though her body was
completely submerged in the soapy water, her Sierra
Nevada-like breasts still peeked their pink tips out of the
suds.
‘Been lookin’ for ya, Chesty,’ Johnson drawled, slowly
and carefully unbuttoning his buckskin jacket.
‘Been waitin’, long rider,’ Chesty replied, a defiant
smile lifting the corners of her crimson lips. Her sunbleached,
blonde hair was piled atop her head like a stook
of ripened wheat, with a blood-red rose stuck in its midst,
thorns and all. She pushed her mams still further out of the
bursting bubbles, till they glistened huge and hypnotic in
the oil-lamp light, gargantuan in size, tanned an almost allover
tawny, saddle leather brown and twin-peaked by
jutting nipples that looked like they could spray enough
white gold to satisfy the most parched of ’49ers.
‘What’s it all about, big ’uns?’ Johnson asked,
cautiously dropping his jacket, going to work on his
flannel shirt, warily avoiding any sudden movements that
might spook the big, brazen, bathing mama. ‘Why you
turnin’ good women bad, wives into wantons?’
Chesty regarded him steadily with her slate-grey eyes,
watching as the loaded-for-bare cunt rustler deftly
unbuttoned his shirt, shunted it aside. She surveyed
Johnson’s hairy, muscular chest and licked her bee-stung
lips. ‘A girl’s gotta have her gold,’ she replied. ‘And
business is boomin’, big man.’
‘That the only reason?’ Johnson inquired, wellknowing
that dollars and cents weren’t the only factors at
play here. The weaker sex coveted coin and carnal
knowledge as much as the male of the species, sure, but
they coveted something else even more, something that all
the money in the world couldn’t buy – love, sweet, love.
Chesty blushed, looked down, up, at her tremendous,
sud-sprinkled titties. ‘I was a one-man woman once,’ she
spoke softly. ‘But then he ran away with a two-bit bar
floozy and…’ She glanced angrily up at Johnson, whose
pants were now down around his ankles, his rigid dick
sticking out like a flagpole at a frontier fort, waiting to be
saluted. ‘Well, let’s just say that I vowed to never let that
happen again, and filthy lucre became my one true love;
you treat it well and it’ll never leave you.’
‘Money’s cold comfort on a long winter’s night –
’specially ’round these parts,’ Johnson stated.
‘I’ve plenty of one-night stands to keep my bones warm
through the winter months,’ Chesty responded. ‘So don’t
think for a damn minute that you can bring me back in line
with that handsome pussy-prod of yours, cunt-puncher,’
she sneered, her spongy, soap-lathered boobs undulating
as she slid upright in the bath, her glittering eyes locked on
Johnson’s twitching trenching tool.
‘Well, ma’am, we’ll just have to see about that,’
Johnson said modestly, lifting his snakeskin cowboy boots
out of his puddled denim trousers. He stood before the
dripping, over-endowed frontier goddess, the both of them
as naked as Adam and Eve save for the ten-gallon hat and
size-f******n pair of boots Johnson was wearing. And then
he rushed her.
Chesty toppled the tub over on its side and spilled out
of the bathwater, was on her bare feet in the blink of a
third eye, brandishing a steely eighteen-inch dildo in her
clenched right fist.
Johnson slid to a stop on the slickened floor and held
up his hands. ‘Whoa there now! You put that hole-plugger
down, ma’am,’ he intoned.
‘This is all the man I need!’ Chesty shrieked. ‘Maybe
you wanna try it on for size yourself!?’ She hurtled herself
at Johnson, the metallic cock-substitute aimed ass-high.
Johnson scrambled backwards, slipped, and crashed to
the floor. He desperately kicked out his right boot, caught
Chesty’s shin, and knocked the top-heavy madam off her
feet. She cried out in alarm, flailed her arms, and then
landed smack dab on top of Johnson’s propped-up pecker.
Her sticky, splayed pussy lips caught on the cowboy’s
bloated dickcap, and then her downward momentum
buried his massive schlong to the hairy balls inside her
stretched-out pink.
Johnson pinned Chesty’s arms to her side and
frantically pumped his hips, savagely fucking the
discombobulated babe before she even knew what hit her.
Her foot-and-a-half-long lady-pleaser/man-smasher lay on
the wet floor, as defunct now as the twin cities of Sodom
and Gomorrah.
Johnson pounded the tittified gal’s poon with his prong,
fucking her relentlessly, striving to pacify her, to
demonstrate beyond any reasonable doubt that one man
could readily satisfy one woman, even a huge-breasted,
jilted woman. And when Chesty finally let out a soft sigh
of surrender, Johnson knew he was hitting his mark. He
released her arms and grabbed up her overhanging jugs,
fondled and squeezed her sodden, stunning breastworks.
Chesty closed her eyes and moaned, dug scarlet
fingernails into Johnson’s striated chest, pumping her
firm, round bottom in rhythm to his urgent thrusting.
Johnson knew then that he’d at last brought law and the
natural order of things back to Dike City, Kansas. He
rolled Chesty’s rock-hard, distended nipples between his
long fingers, kneaded her smooth, sun-kissed, Texas-sized
titties, the muscles on his arms standing out in stark relief
as he feverishly worked tit and banged twat.
The pace of the Westerners’ frenetic coupling grew
even more intense, and the chest-blessed gal bleated in
ecstasy and Johnson grunted with satisfaction at a job well
done. He blasted wad after wad of heavy-calibre cum deep
into Chesty’s gushing gash. Steaming justice had been
served.
The Boob Hill brothel now sits as empty as a
politician’s promise, abandoned by its proprietress and her
minions of man-lust, the wives returned to their loving
husbands, the daughters to the warm bosoms of their
families. The Johnson posse disbanded shortly after the
Elle
- 30.08.2022
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