Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, Romantic, Western, First, .
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This story is not designed to be historically accurate. It picks and chooses facts to suit the story. I use the term 'Indians' not in any pejorative way but because that is what they were called then. A young man leaves England in search of adventure and a woman in a small Western town finds herself destitute. Their paths are destined to cross eventually.
“Sorry to hear about your loss Mrs Johnson”
The speaker was Jeb Clinton, a businessman of the town. He owned half the saloon, all of the hotel, and a spread of land to the east. He had other ventures as well, he was the unofficial banker. The nearest proper bank was Beka Valley, 30 miles north, so Jeb Clinton was often the man people turned to for short term loans. He wasn’t some evil moneylender charging exorbitant rates of interest. No, he was a businessman; he looked for a good rate of return, but he had no desire to wreck people’s plans. He wanted the population to continue visiting his saloon, he wanted them to have money to visit the hardware store and vitals stores. That way the proprietors of those businesses could continue being good customers of his. Sam McCluskie was a strong Presbyterian, a founder contributor to the New Horizon Presbyterian Church (non-subscribing) – many of the first settlers had left Ulster as non-subscribing Presbyterians – he didn’t cuss, he didn’t drink; he did use the back door to the another business enterprise that Jeb had in the town. The whorehouse.
The saloon had serving girls, but they were respectable, if you can call serving smelly men in a drinking establishment ‘respectable’; and if that was all done in a low cut dress with a higher than normal hemline, perhaps ‘respectable’ wasn’t quite the right word, but they did not accept offers to sit on knees, there were two tough guys to keep the cow hands in check, and every girl had a small knife on her person somewhere. They did not offer sex to customers, only drinks. Indeed girls had been sacked for unapproved extra-curricular work in their spare time. Respectable is relative of course, the ‘respectable’ women of the town; the ones who were all members of the League of Teetotallers (all protestant), and the Catholic Adult Pioneer Association, did not regard women who served drinks (but did not sleep with the customers) as respectable. There was another saloon in the town – The Golden Chariot – where the girls were less choosy. Oddly these girls were not looked down on so much. It was as if since they accepted that they were no better than they should be then they should be pitied rather than despised. The girls in Mr. Clinton’s establishment (which was also the name of the saloon – Clinton’s) were despised because they had slipped so far and refused to slip further, they had scruples and the respectable women thought they had no right to them.
The Golden Chariot clientele tended to be a rougher, ruder crowd. The girls also tended to be older and less attractive; some in the whorehouse and in Clinton’s took it as a warning of where you could end up if you didn’t save up or find a husband. Because the work was not badly paid – the girls were allowed to keep their tips too, and if they worked well and encouraged drunken cowhands who had just been paid to waste all their pay on Clinton’s drink then they might get a bonus as well.
New Horizon had been founded at the site of a mountain fault line, the fault line allowed water to flow from the high lands and pool in the shade of the narrow rift. The rift continued underground, resulting in a raised and plentiful underground water table. There was always water. So this became a valuable stopping off for cattle herding. Then people settled, ranches used the seasonal rivers and cattle ranching became big business. The town flourished. Jeb Clinton was now hoping to persuade the railway to come through the town rather than pick the northerly route through Beka Valley.
Mrs McCluskie was well aware that her husband visited the whorehouse, she had always regarded sex as the duty of a wife and was proud of the fact she had never refused her husband his conjugal rights. She had also never hid from him the fact that she didn’t enjoy it. Eventually he had started visiting the whores rather than looking down on her resigned face with her closed eyes as he made love to her. She was content to escape from that duty and, as long as he used the back door (of the whorehouse, not her backdoor, even entering from behind ‘like the animals’ was verboten, strictly, absolutely and totally forbidden) so it was not too obvious, she accepted that he took that particular pleasure elsewhere once a week. The respectable ladies in the church all knew he went there too, but as long as he didn’t advertise the fact, they could all pretend he didn’t. Just as Mr. Dyer (proprietor of Dyer’s Dry Goods) and Mr. Halligan (Halligan’s Dry Goods) did. These two were able to suspend their commercial competition within the confines of Madam Riley’s. Outside they competed for restocking the passing cattle drives, happily undercutting each other to the point of barely making a profit sometimes, because the local residents used their co-religionist’s shop (Halligan being Catholic); inside the whorehouse though they just accepted each other as fellow respectable businessmen. The local priest was reputed also to visit; the prostitutes were like the confessional, what they knew stayed secret.
There never had been a Madame Riley. The first proprietress had been Mrs Jemimah Jones. She had arrived, penniless in the town and needed money to move on. She had visited Jeb Clinton for a loan, one thing led to another and the discussion became that of an investment. Two girls were shipped in, Mrs Jones was available to take part if they got busy. The agreement was she would set up the whorehouse, get it working, and then she could move on. After a year the business was booming, the competition – The Golden Chariot – had a convenient problem when several clients came down with an embarrassing disease that made riding very uncomfortable for a while. The new, clean, whorehouse suddenly found itself much more popular. The next manageress was just a front for the owner, Jeb. The name was just picked at random, not many customers were worried about the name of the place as long as they got sex, and anyway there was no sign anywhere, it wasn’t that kind of town to have ‘Madame Riley’s Whorehouse’ in big letters on the front of the building.
They had ten girls on the books now, and Jeb was looking forwards. If the town got the railway, it would need several more prostitutes. There would be well-heeled visitors, they would want clean, healthy girls to sleep with. He was on the up, he was sure he was.
Jeb was a true businessman, he was married to a beautiful woman – Chantelle - who he had met back East. She had adjusted to the reality of his businesses with admirable flexibility when she came out to New Horizon and discovered what he was running. She was clever enough to realise that this was what she had tied herself to, and that it might be very remunerative. She quickly learnt about the whores, and rightly or wrongly, equally quickly came to two conclusions: one, the women willing to sell themselves had low morals and probably enjoyed it anyway; and two, as long as her husband didn’t sleep with the employees she was not offended. Jeb Clinton was willing to agree to this latter since she was very compliant in bed; he didn’t want to undermine that. So he saw the whorehouse as just another business venture.
He had outstanding loans with three people in the town. Rev. Michael Deeds had taken a chance and borrowed to extend the church on the assumption that a church bigger than the Baptist across the way would pull in more punters, he thought worshippers, but he meant punters really. This loan was paying off well and he was good for the remainder. William Smethwick had a small spread a few miles out and had borrowed to put in a wind pump. Smethwick would be likely to repay over the next year with the larger head of cattle he could run now. Johnson had arrived a year ago with his wife and daughter, he had staked all he had on a small ranch south of the town. It was never going to work because it was too dry, but he hadn’t seen that. He had only seen his hopes and dreams. Jeb had loaned him the money realising that even if the spread failed (and he was 50% sure it would) the land would probably be valuable if the railway company came through, it would provide a less labour intensive route than coming over the dry canyon. The money had been to tide Johnson over until the profits started, but now he was dead.