Bull Clayton: Blood and Dust
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 2: Behind the Curtain
Western Sex Story: Chapter 2: Behind the Curtain - Some men run from violence. Others wear it like a second skin. Clayton “Bull” Best never went looking for blood. But it always seemed to find him—splattered across dusty barroom floors, burning in gunpowder air, or smeared on the knuckles of desperate men.
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fiction Crime Western Cat-Fighting
The room was packed with men, their faces a blur of greed and lust. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of sweat, a heady mix that seemed to make the blood run hotter. In the center of the room was a makeshift ring, surrounded by a sea of eager, leering faces.
Bull took a seat at the back, his eyes scanning the crowd. He had heard of places like this, whispers on the wind of secret dens where the desperate and the depraved came to satiate their hunger for risk and violence. The benches were hard and unforgiving, the wood stained with the history of a hundred hasty exits.
“This is where the real fun starts,” a voice said beside him, the owner of the voice a man with a grin that was more gap than teeth. The man’s eyes were bloodshot, a testament to his own indulgences in the saloon’s vices. “The best place in town for betting on a good ol’ fashioned catfight. Nothing quite like it, I reckon.”
Clayton ‘Bull’ Best nodded, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. His instincts were on high alert, noticing the subtle shifts in the room’s energy. It was a place where the line between spectator and participant was as thin as the cigarette smoke that curled around the ceiling beams.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Bull spotted a trio of young boys, no older than twelve, huddled together in the corner, their eyes glued to the impending spectacle. Each of them had a hand buried in their pants, their faces flushed with excitement and confusion, their youthful curiosity giving way to an early taste of the town’s harsh realities. The sight was both jarring and tragic, a stark reminder of how Ell Paso could corrupt even the most innocent souls.
The crowd grew restless, the anticipation hanging in the air like the scent of fresh gunpowder. The air grew thick with tension, a silent crescendo that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. Then, with the dramatic flair of a showman, the saloon owner, a portly man with a greasy smile, stepped into the makeshift ring, a megaphone in one hand and a chicken in the other.
“Gentlemen!” he bellowed, his voice booming through the room. “Welcome to the main event of the evening! We’ve got three matches lined up for your viewing pleasure, so get ready to place your bets!” The chicken squawked in protest, flapping its wings as the owner held it aloft, displaying it to the eager patrons like a trophy. The crowd murmured, the whispers of bets and strategies mingling with the clinking of coins.
The first match was announced with a flourish, the saloon owner’s voice a whip crack in the tense silence. “In the red corner, we have Miss Amy ‘Bushgraber’ Sykes!” The crowd roared as a young woman with fiery red hair and a figure that could make a saint swear stepped into the ring, her eyes flashing with a fierce determination. She wore nothing but a pair of leather gloves and a snarl, her body a canvas of bruises and scars that told a story of battles won and lost.
Her opponent, Mrs. Jennie ‘Low Belly Puncher’ McFarland, emerged from the shadows in the blue corner, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun that accentuated her sharp features. Her eyes were cold and calculating, a stark contrast to the heat that radiated from her body. Her reputation as a fighter was legendary, her fists as deadly as the venom of the rattlesnakes that slithered through the desert sands. The crowd’s excitement grew palpable, their whispers turning to cheers as they placed their bets, the coins clinking together like a chorus of eager serpents.
Bull watched as the two women faced each other, their bare skin glistening with sweat in the flickering light. Mrs. McFarland’s body was surprisingly hairless, the stark contrast to Miss Sykes’ more natural state a clear sign of her experience in this unusual arena. The men around him leaned in, their eyes glued to the spectacle before them. Bull felt a twinge of disgust, not at the sight of the women, but at the thought of what kind of life had led them to this place, fighting for the amusement of the town’s degenerates.
The saloon owner dropped the chicken into the center of the ring with a dramatic flourish, the poor creature squawking in terror. The crowd roared as Miss Sykes and Mrs. McFarland circled each other, the tension in the room as tight as a coiled rattlesnake. Miss Sykes’ eyes narrowed, and she lunged, her gloved fists flying. Mrs. McFarland was ready, her movements as swift and precise as a coyote on the hunt. The first blow landed with a sickening thud, sending Miss Sykes staggering backward, her breasts bouncing with the impact. The crowd cheered, their excitement growing as the two women grappled, each trying to gain the upper hand.
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