Bull Clayton: Blood and Dust
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 5: A Night of Truth
Western Sex Story: Chapter 5: A Night of Truth - 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 night grew late, the candles burning low and casting long shadows across the room. Mrs. Church looked up at Bull, her eyes filled with a newfound respect. “You’re not like the others,” she said, her voice a soft whisper.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was as gentle as the touch of a butterfly’s wings. “No?” he murmured, his voice a rumble that seemed to resonate through her very soul. “What others doing to you?”
Mrs. Church took a shuddering breath, the words spilling out of her like a confession long held. “They treat me like I’m nothing,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “They take what they want, and they leave me with nothing but bruises and a handful of coins.”
Bull’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with a rage that was as quiet as it was fierce. “Your body, your face,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “They’re a map of the men who’ve tried to break you.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, his touch gentle despite the anger that simmered just beneath the surface. “But they don’t see you, not really. They see what they want to see.”
Mrs. Church looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “What do you see?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Bull studied her, his gaze lingering on the bruises that marred her once-perfect skin. “I see a woman who’s been through hell,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion. “But I also see beauty, a beauty that’s more than just skin deep.”
Mrs. Church’s eyes searched his, looking for the lie that she was so used to hearing. But all she found was truth, a raw and unfiltered honesty that seemed to strip away the layers of armor she had built around herself. “My body’s been used and abused,” she said, her voice a mix of anger and resignation. “It’s what keeps a roof over Jimmy’s head.”
Bull nodded, his expression solemn. “You’re a fighter,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering. “And not just in that ring. You’re fighting for your son, for your life.” He paused, his eyes holding hers. “You’re not a whore. You’re a warrior.”
Mrs. Church’s eyes searched his, the weight of his words sinking in. “My husband,” she began, her voice a mere thread of sound. “If he was still alive, I wouldn’t be doing this.” The words hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken pain of loss and desperation. “He was a good man, a blacksmith. He was killed in a duel.”
Bull’s eyes narrowed, his curiosity piqued. “Why was he in a duel?” he asked, his voice gentle but firm. He knew that in Ell Paso, duels were as common as the dust storms that swept through the streets, but there was something about Mrs. Church’s story that didn’t sit right with him.
Mrs. Church took a deep breath, the pain of the past rising up to choke her like a noose tightening around her neck. “It was an outlaw gang,” she began, her voice a low murmur that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “They came through town, looking for trouble. They found it in me.”
Her eyes searched Bull’s, looking for the judgment that she had come to expect from the men of Ell Paso. But all she found was a silent, unwavering support that seemed to hold her up as surely as his arms had moments before. “They took me,” she continued, her voice a tremble that seemed to resonate through the very air. “The leader, he ... he took what he wanted, and when my husband found out, he challenged him to a duel.”
The words hung in the air like a curse, the silence between them a living thing that grew heavier with each passing second. Bull’s jaw tightened, his hand tightening around hers as if he could somehow take away the pain of her memories. “Your husband was a brave man,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the shack.
Mrs. Church nodded, the tears finally spilling over her lashes to trace a path down her cheeks. “He was,” she said, her voice a broken whisper. “He was the only one who ever treated me like I was worth something.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort of holding back the sobs that threatened to consume her.
Bull’s gaze never wavered from hers, his hand squeezing hers in a silent promise of support. “Where’s the leader of that gang now?” he asked, his voice low and filled with a quiet menace that made the air in the room crackle with tension.
“The sheriff hanged him,” Mrs. Church whispered, her eyes faraway with the pain of the memory. “But it was too late for my husband. He was already gone, and I was left with nothing but debts and a mouth to feed.”
Bull’s hand tightened around hers, his grip a silent promise of vengeance. “What was the gang’s name?” he asked, his voice as cold and hard as the steel of his missing Colt.
Mrs. Church looked at him, her eyes wide with a mix of hope and fear. “The Black Masks,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’ve got a new leader now, Jack ‘Ringer’ Lucas, but they’re still as dangerous as ever.”
Bull’s expression darkened, his mind racing with thoughts of retribution. “I’ll take care of them,” he said, his voice a promise that was as solid as the earth beneath them. “You and Jimmy don’t have to live like this anymore.”
Mrs. Church searched his eyes, looking for any trace of doubt or deceit. “How can you be so sure?” she asked, her voice trembling with hope.
Bull met her gaze, his eyes the color of a stormy sky. “Because I know what it’s like to lose everything,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet conviction that seemed to echo through the room. “I’ve been fighting my whole life, and I’ve learned that sometimes you have to be the one who brings the storm.”
He took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of their mingled sweat and the lingering hint of smoke from the saloon. “I’m a traveler, Mrs. Church,” he began, his voice a smooth drawl that seemed to carry the vastness of the west with it. “I’ve been from the Mississippi to the Pacific, and I’ve seen more than most men could stomach.”
Her gaze never left his, the candlelight playing across the planes of his face, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw and the determination in his eyes. “What’s your name, really?” she asked, her voice a soft caress that seemed to dance across the shadows.
“Clayton Best,” he replied, the name rolling off his tongue with a sense of finality. “But the ‘Bull’ part, that was given to me by Chief Wanageeska.”
Mrs. Church raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Chief Wanageeska? Who’s he?”
Bull’s gaze grew distant, the candlelight playing across his face as he spoke of his past. “He was the leader of the Sioux, the most feared and respected tribe in these parts. We met when I was a young man, lost and looking for a fight. He saw something in me, took me in, taught me the ways of the land, the language of the wind and the whispers of the spirits.”
Mrs. Church leaned in, captivated by the story of a man who had been adopted by a Native American Chief. “Why did he call you ‘Bull’?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Bull’s eyes took on a faraway look, lost in the memories of his past. “When I was young, I was reckless, always looking for a fight,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of pride. “Chief Wanageeska, he saw that in me. Said I charged into battle like a bull, with no thought for my own safety, only the aim to protect and conquer.”
Mrs. Church leaned closer, her curiosity piqued. “How did you come to be with the Sioux?” she asked, her voice hushed as if she were afraid to disturb the delicate fabric of his memories.
Bull’s gaze grew distant, lost in the mists of time. “I was just a kid, maybe fifteen,” he said, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. “My family, we were traveling west, looking for a new start. We’d heard the stories of gold in the hills, of land that was ripe for the taking.” He paused, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “But the west isn’t always kind to those who come looking for easy riches.”
Mrs. Church leaned in closer, the warmth of their bodies mingling in the cool night air. “What happened?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Bull took a deep breath, the weight of his past pressing down on him like a heavy cloak. “The Sioux found me after a raid,” he said, his voice tight with the remembered pain. “My family, they were killed, our wagon burned to ashes. The bandits took everything we had, left me for dead.” His eyes grew cold, the flame of anger burning within them. “But I didn’t die. I lived, and I learned.”
Mrs. Church reached out, her hand tentative on his arm. “What did you learn?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper that seemed to soothe the beast within him.
Bull took a deep breath, the memories of his past battles flashing before his eyes. “I learned to survive,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “To fight for what’s mine, and to never back down.” He paused, his gaze locking onto hers. “And I learned that sometimes, the biggest battles aren’t the ones you fight with your fists.”
Mrs. Church leaned into him, the warmth of their bodies creating a cocoon of safety in the cold, unforgiving world of Ell Paso. “What battles do you fight now?” she asked, her voice a gentle caress that seemed to ease the tension in his broad shoulders.
Bull took a moment to consider her question, his eyes scanning the flickering candles as if searching for answers in their dance. “The battles I fight now,” he said slowly, “are for those who can’t fight for themselves.” He turned to look at her, his gaze intense. “For people like you and Jimmy.”
Mrs. Church studied him, the candlelight casting a soft glow across his features. “Why?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “What’s it to you?”
Bull took a deep breath, the scent of her skin and the lingering smell of gunpowder from the saloon a stark reminder of the life he had left behind. “It’s the way of the world,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the air. “We’re all just passing through, leaving our marks on each other.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers. “When I was with the Sioux, Chief Wanageeska taught me that life is a circle, a delicate balance of taking and giving. I’ve had more than my fair share of takings, but it’s time I started giving back.”
Mrs. Church searched his face, the lines of his features etched with the tales of battles won and lost. “What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice filled with a mix of hope and wariness.
Bull took a moment to gather his thoughts, his eyes never leaving hers. “I want to help you,” he said, his voice earnest. “I want to make sure that you and Jimmy have a future that doesn’t include fighting in the saloon or scraping by on the scraps thrown by the likes of those Black Masks.”
Mrs. Church’s gaze searched his, looking for any sign of deceit. “What makes you think you can do that?” she asked, her voice a mix of skepticism and hope.
Bull’s expression grew solemn, his eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Because my life’s been saved by others,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the shack. “The Sioux, they took me in when I had nothing, taught me how to live, how to survive. And now, it’s my turn to pay that debt back.”
Mrs. Church’s eyes searched his, the weight of his words sinking in. “How do you know when you’ve paid it back?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper.
Bull’s gaze grew thoughtful, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. “You never really do,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “It’s a debt that keeps growing, every time you help someone, every time you stand up for what’s right.” He paused, his eyes holding hers. “But that’s the point, isn’t it? To keep fighting, to keep making a difference.”
Mrs. Church took a deep breath, the air thick with the promise of something more than the fleeting comfort of the moment. “How old are you, Clayton?” she asked, her voice a soft caress in the quiet room.
Bull looked down at her, the candlelight playing across his weathered features. “Twenty-four,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to carry the weight of his years. “How about you, Mrs. Hazel?”
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