Bull Clayton: Blood and Dust
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 4: Hazel’s Past
Western Sex Story: Chapter 4: Hazel’s Past - 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
As the night grew deeper and the saloon’s air grew thick with the scent of sweat, tobacco, and desperation, Clayton ‘Bull’ Best felt the pulse of Ell Paso’s underbelly beating in sync with his own heart. He watched Miss Naomi ‘Horse Fucker’ Duncan, her dark skin gleaming with the sheen of victory, and knew he had made the right choice in placing his bet on her. There was something about her, a fierce strength that resonated with his own.
But it was Mrs. Hazel ‘Sly Eye’ Church that drew his attention now. She sat in the corner, nursing a bruised jaw and a blackened eye, her usual smugness replaced by a rare look of defeat. Bull’s instincts told him that there was more to her than the cold, calculating exterior she presented. He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under his boots like the confessions of a tortured soul.
Her eyes narrowed at his approach, a look that said she knew better than to trust a man in a town like this. But there was something in Bull’s gaze that was different from the other patrons, something that spoke of a shared understanding of the pain that lurked beneath the surface of Ell Paso.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to calm the chaos around them.
Mrs. Church looked up at him, the fire in her eyes now reduced to a smoldering ember. She took a swig from the bottle in her hand, the amber liquid leaving a trail of fire down her throat. “Just another night in Ell Paso,” she said, her voice a mix of resentment and resignation.
Bull studied her, his mind racing with questions. “What’s with the sad face?” he asked, his tone gentle despite the harshness of his surroundings.
Mrs. Church took another swig before setting the bottle down with a thunk. She sighed, the sound a mix of exhaustion and resignation. “It’s my boy, Jimmy,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “He’s got to start school in a week, and his clothes are torn to shreds from a scuffle with some other kid. He’s too proud to tell anyone, but I can see it in his eyes.”
Bull nodded, his expression softening. “I’ve got a soft spot for the young’uns,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “What does he need?”
Mrs. Church looked up at him, the fire in her eyes now a flicker of hope. “A few coins would go a long way,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just enough to get him some new duds before school starts.”
Bull nodded, his mind racing. He had come to Ell Paso with a plan to have a night of fun and sleep in a real bed, maybe even find a little comfort in the arms of one of the town’s more reputable soiled doves. But as he looked at Mrs. Church, her bruised face a stark reminder of the town’s harsh reality, he knew that his priorities had shifted.
“I had plans to blow off some steam at the brothel tonight,” he said, his voice gruff but gentle. “But I think I’ll be spending my winnings elsewhere.” He pulled out a handful of coins from his pocket, the gold glinting in the candlelight. “Here,” he said, pressing the money into her hand. “It’s not much, but it should be enough for Jimmy’s clothes.”
Mrs. Church’s eyes grew wide, and she took the coins with trembling hands. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “You’re a good man, Clayton ‘Bull’.”
Bull nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ve seen enough of this town’s games,” he said. “Let’s get you and Jimmy out of here.”
Mrs. Church looked at him with a mix of suspicion and gratitude. “Why would you do that for me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Bull shrugged, his eyes never leaving hers. “Call it a hunch,” he said, his voice as dry as the desert outside. “I’ve seen enough of what this town does to people. I figure everyone deserves a break now and then.”
Mrs. Church studied him, her gaze sharp despite the bruises marring her features. “And what do you want in return?” she asked, her voice low and cautious.
Bull’s eyes never left hers, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “How about a night of fun?” he replied, his tone hinting at something more.
Mrs. Church’s expression grew sly, the cunning that had earned her the ‘Sly Eye’ moniker returning to her features. She knew the unspoken language of Ell Paso’s streets, the currency of desires and needs. “You want to come to my place, now?” she suggested, her voice a seductive purr that had lured many a man into her web.
Bull’s gaze remained steady, his intentions clear. “If you’re offering,” he said, his voice as calm as a still pond.
Mrs. Church took a long, hard look at him before she nodded. “This way,” she said, her voice a whisper that seemed to carry the weight of all the secrets Ell Paso had to offer. She led him through the darkened streets, the moon casting long shadows that danced and played with the dust that swirled around them.
Her house was a small, nondescript shack on the outskirts of town, the kind that blended into the night like a coyote into the desert. Inside, it was cleaner than he had expected, the furniture worn but well-maintained. There was a sense of pride in the way she moved, a hint of the woman she had been before the town had claimed her.
Mrs. Church disappeared into a back room, leaving Bull to wait in her small, dimly lit bedroom. The walls were papered with pages torn from old dime novels, the heroes and villains of yesteryear now faded and forgotten. He sat on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning beneath his weight, and listened to the sounds of her washing up. The water sluiced over her body, the soft patter of droplets echoing through the thin walls. He could almost feel the tension leaving her, the grime of the saloon washing away with the dirt and sweat.
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