Chapter 7

Once Hetty finally descended from the summit, Yuma Joe tugged free of her face, trailing big, messy strings of saliva from her guts. The woman slumped there on her knees—locks disheveled, tits drooping, gulping air like a stranded catfish.

The colored bandit clearly hadn’t let loose with his load, remaining about as stiff as a man could be. And George (who’d been inclining sentimental towards the lass since dumping his sperm in her), rose and slipped over to murmur in Yuma’s ear. “Say Joe, how about if you was to come on the lady’s face, eh? Or in her mouth? ‘Cause if you get her in a motherly way, you know it’ll go damned hard for her.”

Yuma didn’t really care what George said or did, so the request didn’t exactly make him angry. Still, he slapped a disgusted frown on his face, and spat expressively in the dirt—for form’s sake if nothing else. “Fuck that Sirico. You and Tomo get a shot at the prize, and I’m supposed to settle for mussing her hair? You’re off your fiddle if you think I’m buying that horseshit. Just sit your ass down, and watch how it’s done.”

George shrugged and did as he was told. At least he’d tried.

Circling around behind Hetty, Yuma shoved her firm in the back, so that she toppled over onto all fours—arms locked, teats dangling, head bowed wearily.

In such a compromising position, she knew the dripping, ruddy folds of her pussy and cute pink pucker of her asshole were freely on offer, available for the use of all and sundry. And dimly, from the depths of her fog, she understood what this meant. She, Hester Wilcox, wife of John Wilcox, lately of Cuyler, New York, now residing in Wyoming Territory, was presenting to this pack of mongrel bastards like a back-alley bitch in heat.

She ought to have been ashamed. Only ... well, she didn’t seem to have any capacity for shame left.

Yuma leaned down to rumble close in her ear. “Heaven knows I’ve taken it up the ass from white folk often enough, metaphorically speaking. But it’s your lucky day, ‘cause I ain’t aiming to return the favor. Naw, I’m just gonna mount you, as befitting the pretty little cow you are. So spread those knees, quick like, and say thank you.”

Silently, the woman submitted, splitting her legs wide so that her vagina slopped open afresh—served up as a fertile, feminine bullseye. Yuma waited a second, then nudged her with his boot. “Say thank you.” George couldn’t catch the words she mumbled in response, but apparently they worked to satisfy his partner. After that, without any further preliminaries, Yuma crouched down behind her haunches, planted that monstrosity of a cock against her opening, and simply started heaving.

Jesus God—George thought, peering through his fingers in horrorstricken fascination—it was like the man was pushing a fucking telegraph pole up there!

Yes, for the third time in one day, Hetty’s reproductive tract had to find new ways to slacken and bend, in order to accept the fresh indignity being dealt it. And in this instance, it seemed plumb-certain that what was being asked of the girl was more than she could take. Yet remarkably—marshaling unexpected reserves from somewhere deep down—her body appeared game to at least make the attempt.

It was like watching a slow-moving train wreck ... Inch by straining inch, Yuma’s thick, slick cacao prick tunneled its way in between her ivory thighs. Beads of perspiration stood out on Hetty’s forehead, and her bare shoulders trembled as she braced herself against the assault. Her vaginal ring was wildly distended, the lip clinging on to the man’s fantastical girth in desperation, pushed to the very limits of its pliancy.

Hetty panted and moaned, sublimated by the sheer extremity of the experience. Shedding her last tatters of dignity, she threw herself completely into the ungodly coupling—wholly partnered with the Black man, now, in the joint project of wedging him inside her. The sensations of it were overwhelming, as if her guts had to rearrange themselves to make room. And through it all, she felt the man’s fingers digging deep into her hindquarters, pinning her there like a specimen in some lepidopterist’s collection. He was snorting and grunting with exertion and arousal and ownership. And always grinding forward, inexorably forward.

Truly, the wench did her level best to take that cock—consecrating herself to the effort, body and soul. But when all was said and done, the plain fact was that Yuma didn’t fit. There was simply too damned much of him, and she just couldn’t stretch any further. And at that fraught moment when he bottomed out in her, kissing lightly up against her cervix with inches still to go, the ecstasy and abnegation of it finally became too much. For the last time on this benighted day, Hetty lost herself in the grip of climax.

It was different this time—dark, earthy, unhinged. Wild, throaty sobs of need and desire and loss and fulfillment spilled up from Hetty’s chest. Irresistible tremors wracked her frame, and spasmodically she rotated her hips, reveling in the sense of being utterly filled, and taken, and possessed. Her last bits of autonomy, poise, decorum ... all of it was stripped away by the sheer force and size of this final imposition. And in that frenzied instant, at some instinctive level, she grasped that these three men would always have a claim on her, no matter how far she ran, or how much time might pass.

The barrel-chested highwayman took pity on her after that, knowing it would be asking too much if he tried hammering himself in any further. Looking down benignly over the shapely curve of her back, he landed a resounding smack on her ass. “Don’t fret it, missy. I ain’t met a cracker cunt yet that could take all a me.” Then, cocking an ear to her degenerate moans, he broke into a wide, sparkling smile. “Yeah, that’s right, slut, let it out. Let it all out.”

Softly, gently, Yuma Joe slid his cock back and forth, just a fraction of an inch, enough that he could properly enjoy the white-knuckle clinch of her canal. And George, watching the girl abandoning herself to depravity, wondered what it must be like for her. For a proper Christian woman—a gal who musta always deemed herself better-than—to know she’d let herself get plowed by the scum of the earth? Know she’d let her womb get fertilized by a motley swill of masculinity, red, white and brown? The ignominy of that had to burn.

At last, Yuma was ready to do his part. Even as Hetty’s frantic keening built to its raucous crescendo, the man tilted his head back and gave a deep, soulful sigh of contentment. Then his testicles throbbed and his shaft juddered where it stuck out between her buttocks, and he began filling the woman with semen.

On and on it went, his dusky penis pulsating visibly with the force of each rhythmic ejaculation. And all the while, Hetty’s body kept thrashing there, impaled on his pole, soaking up every twitch and tremor of the male’s organ with a kind of fiendish exuberance, heedless to everything else.

Jehosephat—George reckoned as the performance kept stretching out—with the licentious way this honey’s been milking us, she’s probably taken more cum today than your average slattern sops up in a week!

After it was all over, the fellows retired to a respectful distance for a while, so as to give the lady a chance to recover. Their typical banter was swallowed up in silence, as each one marinated in his own gratified reveries.

For long minutes, Hetty’s head and shoulders remained collapsed on the blanket, ginger-brown plaits spread round like a halo. The female’s backside remained up in the air though, so that her swollen, cherry-red pussy and loose, inky vagina offered a pleasant visual accent to the outlaws’ meditations.