Fat Joe and Kathleen
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 5
Western Sex Story: Chapter 5 - In the dusty frontier town of Dreadworth, fifteen-year-old orphan Joe survives by shining shoes and carrying bags for strangers. His life changes when he encounters Mrs. Kathleen “The Sapphire Siren” McGowan, a mysterious newcomer with a past as colorful as her ambitions. Kathleen arrives with a plan to take the stage at the notorious Courage Saloon and make herself unforgettable. Drawn into her world of cabaret lights, whispered deals, and unspoken dangers, Joe becomes her trusted helper and..
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Crime Rags To Riches Western Wife Watching Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Safe Sex Sex Toys
The journey to Flossie’s was a silent one, the clop of the horse’s hooves the only sound as they navigated the outskirts of Dreadworth. The houses grew sparser, replaced by tumbleweeds and the occasional cactus, their shadows stretching long in the setting sun. The red door with the potted cactus grew closer, a beacon of hope in the desolate landscape.
As they pulled into the yard, Joe’s eyes widened at the sight of the ranch. Twenty horses, each more majestic than the last, galloped freely, their manes and tails whipping in the wind. The sound of their hooves was a symphony of freedom that filled Joe’s heart with a longing he had never felt before. He had heard of such places, where the earth was vast and opportunities were as plentiful as the stars in the sky.
The house itself looked like an oasis amidst the dusty wasteland. The laughter and the smell of fresh pies were unmistakable, wafting out from the open windows and wrapping around them like a warm embrace. The taxidermied head of a bear adorned the porch, its glass eyes seeming to wink at them as they approached.
The door swung open before they could knock, revealing an old woman with skin as tough as leather and eyes that twinkled with mischief. “Well, I’ll be,” she said, her voice a gravelly purr that could charm the devil himself. “If it isn’t the Sapphire Siren herself, come to pay a visit to old Flossie.”
Kathleen looked at Joe in shock. “How did she know?” she whispered, her grip on his arm tightening.
Joe shrugged, his own eyes wide with wonder. “I reckon word travels fast in a town like this,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “You’re the talk of the saloon, Mrs. Kathleen. They say you dance like an angel and shoot like the devil himself.”
The old woman, Flossie, cackled, a sound that was as much a part of the landscape as the howling wind. “Come in, come in,” she said, waving them inside. “Don’t just stand there gawking like a couple of greenhorns.”
The interior of the house was a surprise, a stark contrast to the barren land outside. It was a trove of memories and knick-knacks, each one telling a story of a life lived to the fullest. The walls were lined with photographs of Flossie in her younger days, dressed in flashy outfits, a gun slung over her shoulder, and a wide smile that could charm the birds from the trees. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and pie, a heady mix that spoke of danger and comfort in equal measures.
Kathleen stepped inside, her eyes wide with admiration. She had heard the whispers, the legends of Flossie ‘Long Shoot’ Johnson, and to stand in her presence was like meeting a myth come to life. “Mrs. Johnson,” she began, her voice a soft tremble, “I’ve been a fan of yours for years. Your stories ... they’re the stuff of legend in Dreadworth.”
Flossie’s wrinkled face broke into a smile, revealing teeth that had seen better days but still held a fierce spark. “Call me Flossie,” she said, her eyes raking over Kathleen.
Joe watched as the two women sized each other up, the tension in the room thickening like the dust outside. Flossie’s gaze was sharp, her eyes missing nothing. She took in Kathleen’s curves, the Colt at her hip, and the determination in her stance.
“So,” she said finally, her voice a low purr that seemed to rumble through the very floorboards, “What brings the likes of you to my door, Miss Sapphire Siren?”
Kathleen took a deep breath, her hand straying to the butt of her Colt. “Flossie,” she said, her voice steady, “I’ve come to learn. I’ve got a score to settle, and I can’t do it without knowing how to handle this,” she nodded to the gun, “like it’s an extension of myself.”
Flossie’s eyes gleamed with a fierce joy, the kind that comes from seeing a kindred spirit. “Well, well,” she said, her voice a low rumble of approval. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a pupil with the kind of fire in her belly that you’ve got.”
Kathleen felt a thrill of excitement run through her. This was it. This was the moment she had been waiting for, the moment she would take her first step towards vengeance.
Flossie’s eyes gleamed with interest as she held out a gnarled hand. “Let’s have a look at that Colt,” she said, her voice a gravelly purr. “The tool of the trade, ain’t it?”
Kathleen unsnapped the holster and handed the silver Colt to her with both hands, her eyes never leaving Flossie’s face. The older woman took the gun with a reverence that made Joe realize that this was more than just a weapon; it was a symbol of power and survival in a town where the law was as fickle as a teenage girl’s mood.
Flossie took the Colt, her eyes narrowing as she studied it. “It’s a fine piece,” she said, her voice a low growl of appreciation. “But it’s light. And dry.” She held it out to Kathleen, who took it back with a trembling hand. “You’ve got to treat a gun like a lover, darlin’. Keep it close, keep it clean, and keep it oiled.”
With a grace that belied her age, Flossie moved to a shelf lined with bottles of various shapes and sizes. She selected one with a long neck and a dark amber liquid inside. “This here’s the good stuff,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “It’ll make that gun of yours as smooth as a freshly greased wagon wheel.”
She unscrewed the cap and dipped a soft cloth into the oil, the liquid glistening in the fading sunlight. The scent of it was rich and earthy, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness of the perfume that usually clung to Kathleen’s skin. Flossie worked the cloth over the Colt’s gleaming metal, her movements sure and precise. Each stroke was a silent promise of the power that lay within, the potential to change the course of a life with a single squeeze of the trigger.
Kathleen and Joe watched, their eyes riveted on the dance of fabric and oil, the way Flossie’s hands moved with the confidence of a master craftsman. Each swipe of the cloth was a whispered incantation, a prayer to the gods of vengeance that resided in the cold steel of the weapon. The gun began to take on a life of its own, the emerald of its grip seeming to pulse with an inner fire that mirrored the passion in Kathleen’s heart.
Once the Colt gleamed with a dark sheen, Flossie looked up, her eyes gleaming with a fierce excitement. “Now, darlin’,” she said, her voice a low growl, “it’s time to show you what you’ve to do with your lover.” She plucked six bullets from a jar on the shelf and slid them into the chamber with a smoothness that spoke of years of practice. The sound was like a promise of justice, a metallic symphony that made Joe’s heart race.
They followed Flossie out the back door into the dusty yard where the horses grazed. The setting sun painted the sky with strokes of red and gold, casting long shadows over the ranch. The horses looked up, their eyes dark and curious, as if they knew that something momentous was about to happen.
Flossie marched over to a wooden fence that stretched into the horizon, her back as straight as the barrel of a rifle. She pointed to the far end. “Take these bottles,” she said, handing Joe a bag filled with empties, “and place ‘em along that fence, one every fifty paces. And don’t be shy about it, boy. Make sure they’re all standing tall and proud.”
Joe took the bag with a nod, his heart thumping in his chest. He knew what this meant. This was Kathleen’s moment, her chance to prove herself to Flossie, to show that she had the mettle to become the weapon she needed to be.
As he began to place the bottles, he felt the weight of the task. Each bottle was a stepping stone on the path to vengeance, each one a silent testament to the anger and pain that burned in Kathleen’s soul. He worked quickly, his eyes never leaving the horizon, the setting sun casting a fiery glow over the dusty ground.
“Joe!” Flossie’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp as a whip. “You’re gonna want to stand clear, boy!”
Joe took a few steps back, his eyes glued to the bottles he had just placed. He watched as Flossie be on standby, her left hand reaching out to take the Colt from her trembling grasp. With surprising gentleness, she tucked the gun into the holster at her side, her grip firm yet comforting.
“Now, darlin’,” Flossie began, her voice a soothing balm in the tense silence, “You’re gonna want to watch and learn. This ain’t no game of chance, this is the art of survival.” She sauntered over to the makeshift shooting range, her eyes never leaving the horizon, as if daring it to come closer. “You see, a gun like this,” she said, her hand caressing the Colt, “It’s not just for show. It’s for when the nights get dark and the wolves come a-howling.”
With a grace that belied her years, Flossie drew the Colt from its holster, her arm extending in a fluid motion that spoke of muscle memory honed to perfection. She took aim at the first bottle, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the target. The hammer clicked back, the sound echoing through the stillness like a death knell.
Joe watched, his heart in his throat, as Flossie’s finger tightened on the trigger. The gun bucked in her hand, a flash of silver in the fading light, and the bottle at the far end of the fence exploded into a shower of shards. The sound of the shot was like a declaration of war, a promise of what was to come.
One by one, Flossie shot the bottles, her movements a symphony of precision and grace. Each shot rang out like a bell tolling for the souls of the damned, sending a shiver down Joe’s spine. He had never seen anything so beautiful, so terrifying. The bottles fell like dominos, their glassy eyes staring up at the sky in silent protest before shattering into oblivion.
After the final shot, the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, a scent that mingled with the dust and the promise of rain that hung in the air. Flossie turned to Kathleen, her eyes gleaming with a fierce pride. “Your turn, darlin’,” she said, her voice a low purr.
Kathleen took a deep breath, her hand shaking slightly as she took the Colt from Flossie. She had seen Flossie’s power, felt the weight of the gun in her hand, and she knew that she had to become one with it. The silver Colt was her ticket to freedom, her means to end the nightmare that was Jack Randolph.
“Joe,” she called out, her voice firm despite the tremble in her hands. “Could you set up the bottles again, please?”
Joe nodded, his eyes wide with excitement. He knew that this was a moment that would shape Kathleen’s future, a moment that would forge her into the weapon she needed to be. He hurried to the fence, his hands moving with a newfound purpose as he placed each bottle with care, ensuring they were as perfect as the ones before.
With trembling hands, Kathleen took the bullets from its holster and reloading. She could feel the weight of her Colt, the cold steel a stark reminder of the task ahead. She looked to Flossie, who nodded solemnly, her eyes never leaving the horizon. The older woman’s expression was a mix of pride and wariness, a silent acknowledgment of the power that lay in the gun and in Kathleen’s grasp.
Kathleen took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the first bottle. The hammer clicked back, a sound that seemed to echo through the very fabric of the desert. Her finger tightened on the trigger, her body tense with anticipation. The shot rang out, a sharp crack that split the air. The bottle wobbled precariously on the fence, the bullet grazing its side, sending a spray of shards into the dust.
Flossie watched, her expression a mix of pride and concern. “Use your left hand to brace that right arm, darlin’,” she instructed, her voice firm but gentle. “You’ve got the power, but you’ve got to learn to control it.”
Kathleen nodded, her eyes never leaving the horizon as she took a deep breath. She raised the Colt again, her left hand now supporting her right, her arm a pillar of strength and determination. The gun felt different, more a part of her, as if the two of them were one. She took aim at the second bottle, the wind playing with the tassels on her costume, whispering secrets of the west in her ear.
“Remember,” Flossie called out, her voice a gentle nudge, “Your left hand is the foundation, the rock that holds you steady when the storm comes. Let it give you balance, let it be your anchor.”
Kathleen nodded, her eyes focused on the second bottle. She shifted her stance, placing her left hand under her right, her elbow bent at a sharp angle. The silver Colt felt heavier now, but it was a weight she could bear. She took a deep breath, feeling the strength in her left arm, the power that it could lend to her right.
“Good girl,” Flossie murmured, her eyes never leaving Kathleen’s form. “Now, let’s try again.”
Kathleen took a moment to steady herself, her heart racing in her chest. She could feel Joe’s eyes on her, his belief in her a warm presence that spurred her on. She took aim at the third bottle, her hand steady as a rock. The hammer clicked back, and the gun roared to life in her hand. The bottle shattered, the sound of victory echoing through the desert.
Flossie nodded, a rare smile gracing her weathered features. “That’s the spirit,” she said, her voice filled with approval. “Now, let’s get to the real training.”
For the next few hours, Kathleen practiced her aim, her shots growing more precise with each pull of the trigger. The air grew thick with the smell of gunpowder and the sound of shattering glass. Each time she hit her mark, a little more of the fear and doubt drained from her, replaced by a cold, hard determination.
Flossie watched her pupil with a keen eye, occasionally offering a word of advice or a gentle correction. “Remember, darlin’,” she said as Kathleen reloaded, “Men, they’ve got strength in their arms, but we women, we’ve got something else. We’ve got finesse.”
Kathleen nodded, her forehead beaded with sweat. Her hands, once soft and manicured, had calloused from her new life in Dreadworth. But they were also nimble, used to the delicate tasks of sewing and caring for herself. Flossie’s words resonated with her, reminding her that she had her own kind of power, one that could be honed into a weapon as deadly as any man’s brute force.
“Men’s hands are made for breaking things,” Flossie said, her voice carrying a hint of a smile. “They’re rough and thick, good for plowing fields and swinging hammers. But a woman’s hand,” she continued, her gaze lingering on Kathleen’s slender fingers, “a woman’s hand is made for precision. For threading a needle, for playing a piano, for holding a frying pan.”
Kathleen nodded, her eyes never leaving the horizon. She knew all too well the power in a woman’s touch, the way it could soothe a fevered brow or stir a man’s soul. But she also knew the other side of that coin, the pain and fear that could be wrought by those same hands.
Flossie stepped closer to Kathleen, her eyes locked onto hers with a fierce intensity. “Now, darlin’,” she said, her voice a low rumble, “You’ve got the power, but you need the precision. Your right hand holds the gun, but it’s your left that’ll keep you steady.”
Kathleen took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving the horizon. She knew that every shot she took, every bottle she shattered, brought her one step closer to facing Jack Randolph. Her anger simmered just beneath the surface, a molten force that fueled her every move.
“You’re doing good,” Flossie said, her voice a warm breeze in the chilly evening air.
The sun had reach the highest peak. The last bottle shattered, its remains falling to the ground like tears shed for a lost cause. Kathleen’s hand was steady now, her eyes sharp with focus.
“Good, good,” Flossie nodded, a proud smile spreading across her face. “You’ve got the makings of a fine shot, Sapphire.”
Kathleen holstered the Colt, her hand lingering on the cool metal for a brief moment. “Thank you, Flossie,” she said, her voice filled with a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. “But I need to be better.”
Flossie chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to come from the very earth beneath them. “Patience, child,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is a sharpshooter.” She clapped a hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “You’ve got the instincts, that’s for sure. But tomorrow, we’ll work on something a bit more ... challenging.”
The promise of tomorrow’s lesson hung in the air like the scent of rain on the horizon. Kathleen could feel the excitement building in her chest, a fierce anticipation that was almost palpable. She knew that this was just the beginning, that there was so much more to learn, so much more to become.
“Flossie,” she said, her voice tentative, “Could you tell me more about your ranch?”
Flossie’s eyes softened, the fierce warrior momentarily replaced by a woman with a past. She leaned against the fence, her arms crossed over her chest. “This place,” she began, her eyes scanning the horizon, “It weren’t always like this. I used to be a part of the traveling circus, you know, the kind that rolls into town with all the glitz and glamour.”
Kathleen’s curiosity piqued, she leaned in closer, eager to hear the tale behind the legend. “Ronny,” Flossie said, her voice thick with nostalgia, “he was the ringmaster. The best there ever was. We had a good life, traveling from town to town, putting on shows that’d make your eyes pop out of your head.”
Her gaze drifted to the horizon, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the desert. “But then he got sick,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Real sick. And the circus, well, it don’t stop for nobody. So, I had to make a choice.” Her eyes, now misty with unshed tears, met Kathleen’s. “I had to take care him, find a place to call home, and make enough money to pay for his care.”
The silence stretched between them, a poignant testament to the sacrifices made in the pursuit of survival. It was a language that both women understood all too well. “The horses,” Kathleen said softly, breaking the silence, “They’re beautiful. Are they from your circus days?”
Flossie’s eyes lit up with a spark of pride. “Nah, darlin’,” she said, her voice a low drawl. “These beauties are from my own stock. I breed ‘em myself, train ‘em from the moment they’re foals.” She looked over to the corral, where the horses grazed lazily, their coats glowing like embers in the fading light. “They’re not just for show, though. They’re my family, my protection, and my livelihood. In a town like Dreadworth, you’ve got to have fast hooves to outrun trouble.”
Her smile faded as she took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of sagebrush and leather. “But yes,” she sighed, “the ranch has been good to me. It’s kept me fed and clothed, and I’ve made a name for myself training horses for the folks around here.”
Kathleen nodded, understanding the unspoken words behind Flossie’s story. The ranch was more than just a piece of land; it was a bastion of independence, a symbol of the toughness and resilience that had allowed her to survive in a world that didn’t care much for widowed dancers or aging sharpshooters.
“But what about your husband?” Kathleen asked, her voice gentle. “Couldn’t he help?”
Flossie’s expression grew solemn, and she took a deep drag from her cigarillo before answering. “Ronny,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “He’s up in the house. Can’t get around much anymore.”
Joe and Kathleen exchanged a look, their eyes filled with questions that didn’t need to be spoken. Flossie’s words were a clear invitation, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between the three of them in this desolate place.
They followed her into the house, the warmth of the setting sun replaced by the cool shadows of the interior. The room was sparsely furnished but filled with the rich scent of tobacco and leather, a testament to the life Flossie had built for herself. The bedroom was at the end of a short hallway, the door open just a crack, allowing a sliver of light to spill out into the darkness.
As they entered, the sight that greeted them was one of stark contrast to the vibrant woman they had come to know. Ronny Johnson lay limp in bed, his once robust frame now a mere shadow of its former self. His grey hair almost bald, skin was pale and waxy, his eyes sunken into deep sockets, and his breathing shallow and labored. The curtains were drawn, allowing only the faintest whispers of the outside world to filter in.
Flossie’s expression tightened as she approached the bedside, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to touch his forehead. “He’s been like this for almost three years now,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The doctors say it’s some kind of wasting disease. Can’t walk, can’t eat much. Can’t do nothin’ but lay here and wait for the end.”
Joe and Kathleen exchanged a sad look, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on them. “I’m sorry, Flossie,” Kathleen said, her voice filled with genuine emotion. “He must have been a good man.”
Flossie’s eyes lit up with a fierce love as she looked at her husband. “The best,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “When I told him I wanted to be more than just a circus performer, he supported me. He said I had the looks and the guts to make it big in the circus world. And he was right. He was always right.”
The room was silent, filled with the quiet rhythm of Ronny’s struggling breaths. Suddenly, an idea sparked in Kathleen’s mind, a way to repay the kindness Flossie had shown her. “Flossie,” she said, her voice filled with purpose, “I know I’m here to learn, but maybe I can help you with Ronny.”
Flossie looked up, her eyes filled with hope. “How so, darlin’?”
Kathleen took a deep breath, her mind racing with the possibilities. “Well,” she began, her voice filled with determination, “I know I’m new to all this, but I’ve seen how much you love him, and how much he means to you. Maybe ... maybe I could help...” she said, her voice filled with determination, “Let me use my burlesque skills to entertain Ronny, to bring a little joy into his life.”
Flossie looked at her, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “You’d do that for us?” she asked, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Of course,” Kathleen said, her voice firm. “We’re all we’ve got, aren’t we?”
Flossie nodded, the weight of her years seeming to lift slightly. “Thank you, Sapphire,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, a glimmer of hope in her eyes, and turned to Joe. “Joe,” she said, her voice gruff but filled with affection. “Could you do me a favor?”
Joe looked up, his eyes searching hers. “Anything, Flossie,” he said, his voice earnest.
Flossie disappeared into the shadows of the room, returning moments later with a dusty old music box. She handed it to Joe with a gentle smile, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark. “This was my mother’s,” she said, her voice filled with a softness that was rarely heard in Dreadworth. “It’s got a little trick to it.”
Joe took the music box, feeling the weight of its significance in his hands. The wood was intricately carved, the paint faded but still vibrant with scenes of a bygone era. He turned the rotary handle with a gentle touch, and the music began to play. It was a lively tune, one that seemed to dance on the edges of their reality, a stark contrast to the solemn air in the room.
Kathleen stepped back, her heart swelling with a mix of emotions. She had come to Dreadworth with nothing but anger and a silver dollar, and now she found herself with a mission, a purpose that went beyond her own vendetta. She looked at Ronny, his eyes fluttering open at the sound of the music, a weak smile playing on his cracked lips.
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