El Paso - Cover

El Paso

Copyright© 2007 by Joe J

Chapter 22

Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 22 - Tyler McGuinn was a washed up rodeo bull rider when he boarded a plane in Phoenix one day in 1977. The next thing he knew, he was a no account cowboy on a cattle drive headed for El Paso in 1877. To make matters worse, he was the cowboy destined to die by the back door of Rosa's Cantina. Fate had dealt Ty an ugly hand...or maybe not. NOW AVAILABLE ON BOOKAPY!

Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Mult   Romantic   BiSexual   Historical   Harem  

I said goodbye to Melosa and headed back to Molly’s boarding house. Since it was Sunday, I was looking forward to spending the evening and night with my diminutive Irish sweetie. It made me sort of sad to know that I might not be spending many more nights with her, but I was resigned to doing right by Molly, regardless. She was too good a person for me to even think about doing otherwise, and I thought that like Anna, she had been cloistered up long enough being the grieving widow woman. It was time for her to meet someone and give love another try. We both knew that someone wasn’t me, no matter how good we were together in bed.

As if to reinforce the feelings I had walking home from the stables, our lovemaking that night was exceptional. As Molly had overcome her Victorian hang ups, she had taken a much more active role in our lovemaking. She was quick to let me know what she liked most, and even quicker to reciprocate my attentions.

That night as I joyfully licked and lapped her sweet little quim, I also paid lots of attention to her incredible ass. To my delight, Molly really enjoyed having me play with her firm and shapely bubble-butt. When I had her on the brink of her second or third orgasm, I wormed the finger I’d wetted with her copious juices up her backdoor. Molly grunted in surprise, then cooed and tightened the grip she had on my hair.

“Oh, Tyler!” she yelped as she frantically rolled her hips to get more of the wonderful sensations my finger and tongue were creating.

I smiled to myself as I gently probed her ass and licked her clit. With my other hand I pried her thighs from around my head and splayed her legs apart. I slipped the index finger of my other hand into her steaming slit and searched for her g-spot. I had no trouble telling when I found it, because as soon as I started rubbing, she had a monumental orgasm. She squealed and stiffened up, her body quivering like an over tightened bowstring. She stayed that way for an incredibly long time before she suddenly went slack and her hands fell away from my head.

I didn’t give the little red-head a chance to recover as I moved over her and quickly filled her tight sheath. She gave a little moan when I sunk into her and her hips twitched up against me.

“Oh my goodness, Tyler, what are you doing to me?” she whined.

I didn’t say anything as I ground my pubis against hers and bent my head down to take one of her nipples into my mouth. I kept up the grinding motion until her hips started moving, then I started stroking in and out of her. I took her right to the edge, then quickly pulled out and started working her with my tongue and fingers again. She came quicker this time, and just as hard, as I burrowed a second finger into her ass.

Molly was not the first woman I’d ever played with like that, the first was Cora Leigh. Cora taught me that some women liked it while others don’t. The trick was to try a little when the time seemed right, and your partner will let you know if you should pursue it. Molly was letting me know very clearly that she liked it as her orgasm thundered over her.

I thought I knew something about sex when I met Cora Leigh Sikes. I was thirty-three then, and she was ten years younger than me. Turns out I didn’t know squat compared to her. I swear that girl wrote the Kama Sutra. Sometimes I missed the hell out of Cora Leigh. Granted we were only married for three days and she did try to kill me, but still ... she was a heck of a gal.

It really is true that time passes faster when you are having fun or staying busy. That Monday was the second of July, and I’d been back in 1877 El Paso for over two months already. I wasn’t setting the world on fire, but I wasn’t dead either. So I figured that I was doing better than okay.

Being Monday, it was payday and our day to meet with the saloon staff. Business had been good. Pen said it was the best week the saloon had ever had. Because of that, everyone, including me, received a sweeter paycheck. I was right happy with my seventy-five dollars. I was going to miss those fat paydays when I started at the new club. My deal for running the new place was that I’d draw twenty-five dollars a week with a room and meals. On the other hand, I was in line for one-sixth of the profits, if there were any. The pressure was on me to make my idea work, especially since everyone had shown such faith in me.

My stash of money had actually grown a good bit the last week, even after my investment in the gents’ club was factored in, because of the reward from Agent Gordon. I was up to six hundred and fifty some odd dollars, more than double what I started with. It made me feel pretty good that I’d done it honestly, too. I figured that I’d need about five or six thousand dollars to set myself up with a real nice ranch. It didn’t discourage me a bit that I had so far to go to reach my goal, because I could see myself earning that much in a couple of years. To put that in perspective, as Ty Ringo McGuinn, I’d only be twenty-four-years-old, at the most.

Thinking about Ty Ringo made me think about his brother, the first Raymond Joseph McGuinn. Ray McGuinn was about as opposite from Ty as it was possible for brothers to be. Ray was six years older, married and already the foreman of a spread up near Clovis, New Mexico. Ray had two children, a daughter named Amanda and a son, my great grandfather Calvin Andrew McGuinn.

My family’s history says that Raymond moved his family to El Paso in eighteen-eighty to ramrod a ranch for some big shot El Paso lawyer. I had the distinct feeling that in this history, I’d be that lawyer. As I thought about it, I decided that in the original history of the McGuinns, Chet Benton, the first owner of my law books, should have been that lawyer. I was also starting to believe that there had been a serious hiccup in the flow of time around El Paso during the last six or seven months, and my presence here was an attempt to straighten it out. I know that sounds far-fetched, but how else can you explain the sheer number of coincidences I’d run into?

I had done all that heavy thinking while I was walking to the Grand Hotel to check on my carpenter and his crew. Once at the hotel, I was pleased at the progress the crew had already made in removing the interior partition walls. The carpenters were working fast, and yet they still managed to salvage most of the wood that was in the walls so it could be reused later. They had also saved all the trim and casings. Everything that couldn’t be salvaged was shoveled out a side window into a large high-sided wagon pulled up close to the building.

I left the carpenter hard at it and walked down to the restaurant for a late lunch. Maria and Juanita both worked the lunch meal. On most days, Juanita worked from six in the morning until two in the afternoon and Maria from noon until eight at night. I sat at an empty table in the back and Maria scurried over to take my order. The table I’d chosen was in the corner of the room farthest away from the kitchen. When Maria stood beside me, her back was to the wall and the table cloth hid her from the waist down.

Maria turned that look on me as soon as she had my attention, and asked what I’d be having.

I slid my hand up the back of her dress and replied, “Is this on the menu?”

Her eyes opened wide, but she pushed her firm little derriere back against my caressing hand.

“I think that item will be the special of every day starting in August for sure,” she said.

I laughed at her cheeky response and gave her tight little ass a squeeze before she scampered off for my grub. As soon as she left, I had an idea and followed her into the kitchen. Hector and Ramona were both working, prepping for the supper meal. I shook hands with Hector and Ramona gave me a firm hug.

Greetings dispensed with, I asked them to give some thought to what it would take to double the number of meals they served, especially at supper. I told them that I wanted them to hire family as much as possible. That suggestion got me an even bigger hug from Ramona. It seemed that Miranda and her mother both were looking for work, since the last restaurant they worked in went out of business recently. I told Ramona to start them immediately, and I’d square their pay somehow.

I stopped off at the gunsmith’s on the way back to the Toro. Mister Klineman, the smith, was flummoxed that I was trading in the pistol I’d just bought from him, but he wasn’t about to turn down a chance to make a couple of bucks as I upgraded to a seven and a half inch Colt Cavalry. The pistol I ended up buying was expensive at twenty-two dollars, but it was a gem. The revolver was fit together perfectly and the action was as smooth as silk. Even with the extra two inches of barrel, the balance of the pistol was phenomenal. The smith beamed in pride at my praise.

“I found that pistol in a lot of surplus weapons I bought from Fort Bliss when the horse soldiers started moving west. I spent a lot of time fiddling with it to make it just so. It ain’t cheap, and I wouldn’t sell this to just anyone either.”

I was pleased that he thought enough of my abilities to trust me with the pistol. We went out back and I fired nine rounds through it in three round shot groups. The gunsmith was impressed that each set of three holes were smaller than a dime.

“I think we might have a new pistol champion this year, if you shot like that at the contest on the Fourth of July,” he said.

I shrugged noncommittally.

“Who do I have to beat?” I asked.

I wasn’t surprised when he said Sheriff Faulkner had won three of the last four years, but I gritted my teeth when he said that George Howard had won last year.

The mention of Faulkner’s name reminded me I needed to go by and see him about the part-time deputy sheriff position. So I headed that way. I had thought about it quite a bit, and decided that it was a civic duty for me to volunteer for one of the part time positions, now that I was a resident of the town. Heck, if there was a volunteer fire department, I would sign up for that too.

Faulkner had the authority to swear me in himself, so I took the oath and was issued a badge. The badge was a silver alloy five pointed star with Deputy embossed on it. It fastened to a shirt or vest by way of a tack affixed to the back. It was a plain but surprisingly sturdy assembly.

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