Clifton Smoke
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 6
Western Sex Story: Chapter 6 - In the dusty, lawless town of Dreadworth, Clifton “Smokes” Peña is a washed-up beggar and voyeur, drifting through life in a haze of heat, whiskey, and peeping through saloon and brothel windows. His only talent is going unnoticed—until one night he witnesses the suffering of Sue, a tattooed prostitute at the Red Lantern, and feels something he hasn’t known in years: empathy.When Smokes confronts the brothel’s cold-eyed madam about Sue’s treatment, it sparks a fragile bond between him
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Fiction Crime Farming Rags To Riches Western Polygamy/Polyamory Cat-Fighting AI Generated
As the first whispers of dawn began to seep through the cracks in the walls, Smokes stirred from his slumber. The scent of smoke from the dying embers of their fire mingled with something else, something more tantalizing—the aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon. His eyes flickered open, and he found himself staring at the ceiling, the candle’s final dance of light etched into the wood like the fading memory of a forgotten dream.
The saloon kitchen, once a bustling hub of activity, now lay in shadow, but the sounds of clanging pans and the soft murmur of voices grew clearer with each passing moment. He sat up with a groan, his body protesting the sudden movement. The chill of the desert night had settled into his bones, but the promise of warm food and companionship beckoned him forth.
Mrs. Stephens had taken it upon herself to prepare breakfast, a gesture of thanks for their protection and guidance. The smell of coffee grew stronger as he approached the kitchen, a dark liquid heaven that promised to chase away the last vestiges of sleep. He took a cup from the counter, the porcelain warm and comforting in his grip. The first sip sent a jolt of energy through him, a stark contrast to the lukewarm whiskey that had been his usual morning fare back in Dreadworth.
Sue emerged from the back room, her hair still damp from their shared washbasin, a soft glow to her skin that seemed to defy the harshness of the desert. She looked at him, her eyes warm with affection. “You’re up early,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep.
Smokes took a sip of his coffee, the heat spreading through his chest like a warm embrace.
The dawn painted the saloon in a soft, pale light, the dust motes in the air glittering like scattered jewels. Smokes walked over to the saloon’s entrance, his bare feet making no sound on the gritty floorboards. He sat down in a chair that had seen better days, the wood groaning under his weight. The chair creaked, but held firm, a silent sentinel to the stories it had witnessed.
He took a long draw from his pipe, the sweet, pungent smoke swirling around him like a comforting cloud. The aroma of the tobacco mixed with the lingering scent of their candle’s ghost, a scent that seemed to cling to everything in the saloon. He held the pipe in his teeth as he reached for the coffee cup, the warmth of the liquid a stark contrast to the chilly metal of his Colt 45, resting on the windowsill.
As he sipped, his gaze wandered out to the dusty street, and that’s when he saw it—an old man with a donkey and a little carriage. The animal’s hooves echoed with a slow, plodding rhythm, a metronome keeping time with the man’s weary steps. The carriage was laden with goods, the canvas cover bulging with the weight of supplies and secrets. The man looked to be in his late seventies, his face a road map of wrinkles, each line telling a story of a life lived hard and fast. His eyes were a piercing blue, stark against the leathery landscape of his face, and they seemed to bore into Smokes’ soul as he approached.
Smokes took a step closer, the floorboards groaning a complaint under his weight. “Who’s there?” he called out, his voice a raspy echo in the quiet morning. The man stopped, his hand resting on the donkey’s reins, and turned to face the saloon. His eyes searched the shadows before settling on the silhouette of the old beggar in the doorway.
“Howdy, buddy, I’m Leo French,” the man said, his voice crackling like the fire in the saloon’s hearth. “I’ve got a small farm on the outskirts of Kilkenny. I come to these parts to collect what I can from the abandoned buildings. Firewood’s scarce out here, and a body’s gotta keep warm.”
Smokes nodded, his curiosity piqued. “You know anything ‘bout this town’s past?”
Leo spat a wad of tobacco onto the ground, his eyes never leaving the old beggar. “Ain’t much to tell,” he said, his voice a gravelly drawl. “Kilkenny was once a gold miner’s heaven, back when the lust for gold was stronger than a man’s need for clean air and good company. The whole place was crawling with ‘em—miners, owners, and all the folks who made their livin’ off ‘em.”
He paused, stroking his grizzled beard as he thought back. “One day, they found a nugget unlike any other. It was said to be cursed, whispered that it held the very essence of the earth’s anger. They were told to return it to the earth from which it came, to ease the land’s torment. But the mine owner, a man named Callahan, was blinded by his lust for gold. He kept it, thinking he could harness its power, not realizing the horror he’d unleash.”
Sue joined Smokes at the door, her curiosity piqued by the old man’s tale. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, the fabric as warm as the promise of the sun rising over the horizon. “What happened?” she asked, her voice barely a murmur.
Leo’s gaze flicked to her, his eyes appraising. “The curse grew, spreading through the town like a disease. The miners began to fall ill, their bodies withering away before our very eyes. We called it the Dry Rot, for it seemed to consume them from the inside out.” Her gaze grew distant, lost in the haze of the past. “The town doctor, a good man named Higgins, worked tirelessly, but he could not fight the unknown. The townspeople grew desperate, turning on each other in fear and despair.”
Sue shivered, her hand unconsciously moving to her own neck, feeling the coolness of her skin beneath the shawl. “What did they do?”
Leo’s story grew darker as he recounted the fate of Callahan and his family. The man who had hoarded the cursed gold had watched as his loved ones succumbed to the Dry Rot, their once robust forms reduced to mere husks of despair. The town had suffered alongside them, their numbers dwindling as fear and sickness spread. The saloon had become a morgue, the laughter and cheer replaced by the rattling of death’s final breaths.
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