Bull Clayton: Blood and Dust
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 6: The Showdown
Western Sex Story: Chapter 6: The Showdown - 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 he approached the small, weather-beaten house, he saw Mrs. Church standing on the porch, her eyes scanning the horizon with a mix of hope and fear. She looked up as he approached, her face a canvas of emotion. The sight of Bull, unscathed and the gold glinting in the sun, brought a tear to her eye. “Where you got it, hon?” she murmured, her voice a mix of awe and relief.
Bull dismounted, his legs feeling like lead as he handed her the envelope. “It’s all there,” he said, his voice gruff. “The bounty for Manzanedo.”
Mrs. Church took the envelope with trembling hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. She pulled out the thick wad of cash, the green bills fluttering in the breeze like a mockery of the dusty town that had been their prison. “And what’s this?” she asked pointing to the sack, her voice barely above a whisper.
Bull’s face softened into a smile that was almost foreign to his usually stern features. “It’s the bonus,” he said, his voice gentle. “Half sack of what I found in his nest. It’s ours, for me, for you and Jimmy.”
Mrs. Church looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with hope and gratitude. She clutched the envelope to her chest, feeling the weight of their future within. “We go tommorow?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
Bull nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon as if he could already see the dust of their departure. “In the morning,” he confirmed. “We’ll need to leave before all the outlaws in this town notice me as a bounty hunter.”
Mrs. Church nodded, her mind racing with the implications of their newfound wealth. “We’ll be ready,” she said firmly, her voice strong and determined.
Bull reached out and took her hand, pulling her into a tight embrace. The warmth of her body was a stark contrast to the coldness of the gun still in his holster, a reminder of the harsh world they lived in. He felt her breath hitch as he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a gentle kiss that spoke of more than just gratitude or friendship. It was a declaration of something deeper, a promise of a future together beyond the chaos of Ell Paso.
Her eyes searched his, questioning and hopeful. He leaned in again, this time more urgently, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer. The kiss grew in intensity, their bodies melding together as if seeking refuge from the harsh world outside. For a brief moment, they were the only two people in existence, lost in a passion that had been building since their first shared glance across the crowded saloon.
The sun had set by the time they pulled away, the stars beginning to emerge in the inky sky. Mrs. Church looked up at him, her expression a mix of love and determination. “This is the last night we’ll spend in this hellhole,” she whispered, her voice filled with a fierce resolve. “Tomorrow, we leave for good.”
With a nod, Bull dismounted and helped her down, the gold-laden sack thumping against his leg. He handed it to her gently, the weight of their future in her grasp. The three of them entered the house, the warm light spilling out into the cool evening air like a beacon of hope amidst the dust and despair.
Night had come to Ell Paso, and with it, the final preparations for the chicken fight. Hazel Church, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, moved about the small, dimly lit room with a sense of urgency. Her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, counting down the hours to the fight that would be her last. Her heart was heavy with the knowledge that she was about to face the brutal spectacle for the final time, but it was a burden she bore willingly for the promise of a better life.
Jimmy, his own blonde hair shimmering in the candlelight, watched her from the corner, his wide eyes reflecting the fear and excitement that thrummed through him. At twelve, he was too young to fully understand the gravity of the situation, but he knew that something momentous was afoot. His mother had been distant, her mind preoccupied with the coming event, and he had picked up on the tension like a sponge.
With a deep breath, she turned to her son, her expression softening. “Jimmy,” she called, her voice a gentle caress. He stepped forward, his footsteps echoing in the small space. “I need you to come with me tonight.”
Jimmy’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Ok, mom, I’ll support you, I want you win tonight.”
The air was thick with anticipation as they approached the saloon where the chicken fight was to take place. The rough wooden walls seemed to vibrate with the murmur of the townsfolk gathered inside, the scent of sweat, tobacco, and whiskey wafting out onto the street. Mrs. Church took a deep breath, steeling herself for the challenge ahead.
Inside, the room was packed with eager spectators, their faces a mix of leering grins and tense concentration. The makeshift arena was a square of dirt in the center of the room, surrounded by a sea of male faces, all hungry for the violence and degradation that was about to unfold. The first match had been announced: Mrs. Amelia Palau versus Miss Carmen Arias.
The two women stepped into the arena, their eyes locked in a fiery stare that spoke volumes of their mutual disdain. Mrs. Palau, a statuesque brunette with a fiery temper to match her hair, was known for her sharp tongue and even sharper claws. Miss Arias, on the other hand, was a petite blonde with a deceptive smile that could charm the snakes out of their nests—or so the rumors went.
The crowd grew rowdy as the women began to strip, their clothes peeling away to reveal the taut muscles and curvy figures that had earned them infamy. Mrs. Palau, her dark hair cascading down her back, stepped into the arena with a swagger that belied her nerves. Miss Arias, her blonde locks bobbing with each step, offered a coy smile that did nothing to hide the steel in her gaze.
As they circled each other, the tension was palpable, the air thick with the scent of danger and excitement. The two combatants were a study in contrasts: Palau, tall and voluptuous, her skin a rich caramel from days spent under the unforgiving sun, and Arias, petite and lithe, her skin pale and unblemished, a stark contrast to the rough and tumble men who watched with rapt attention.
The first blow came swiftly, a sharp slap that echoed through the saloon. Palau’s hand connected with Arias’ cheek, the sound like a crack of a whip. The crowd roared, a beast come to life. Arias staggered back, a hand flying to her face, her eyes flashing with rage. She lunged forward, her nails digging into Palau’s arm, drawing blood.
The fight grew fiercer, the two women rolling in the dirt, their bodies entwined in a dance of anger and desperation. Each punch, each scratch, each bite was met with an equal and opposite force. The men around them shouted and jeered, their voices a cacophony that seemed to fuel the women’s fury.
The saloon’s patrons had placed their bets, their eyes glued to the naked, writhing forms in the dirt. Dollars exchanged hands with every grunt and gasp, the smell of money and sweat mixing with the dust that coated the room.
In the shadows, Bull and Mrs. Church watched, their expressions unreadable. The violence of the scene was a stark reminder of the town they were fighting to leave behind. The sight of Mrs. Palau and Miss Arias, two strong, independent women reduced to fighting like animals for the entertainment of men, filled them with a mix of disgust and pity.
Jimmy, his face a mask of shock and confusion, remained silent, his eyes glued to the fight. He had never seen anything like this before, and the raw, primal nature of it stirred something within him, a cocktail of fear and fascination.
The battle raged on, the women’s bodies slick with sweat and grime, their nails raking and tearing at each other’s flesh. It was clear that neither was willing to give up, their desire for victory—and the prize that came with it—overriding any sense of self-preservation.
The fight was a microcosm of Ell Paso itself: a brutal, unforgiving place where survival was a daily struggle, and the line between right and wrong was as blurred as the edges of the arena. As Mrs. Church watched, she knew that this was the last time she would ever set foot in such a place. The gold in her pocket burned like a hot ember, a constant reminder of the price they had paid for their freedom.
Finally, Palau managed to pin Arias to the ground, her hands around the other woman’s throat. Arias’ eyes bulged, her fingers clawing at the air, desperately seeking purchase. For a moment, it seemed as though the fight was over, but then she bucked and rolled, reversing their positions. Now it was Palau who gasped for air, her eyes wide with fear.
The crowd was on the edge of their seats, the tension in the room almost tangible. The fight could go either way, and the stakes had never been higher. This was more than just a brawl; it was a battle for respect, for survival, for the very essence of their existence in this harsh, unforgiving world.
The minutes stretched on, the fight a blur of limbs and snarls. The air was charged with electricity, the anticipation of the final blow. And then, with a suddenness that took everyone by surprise, Arias tapped out, her hand slapping the dirt in a silent admission of defeat.
The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers, the sound like a thunderstorm that had been building all evening. Palau stood, her body bruised and bleeding, but her spirit unbroken. She raised her arms in victory, her chest heaving with exhaustion and triumph. Arias, on the other hand, lay in the dust, her eyes closed, defeated but not broken.
The next match was announced, and Mrs. Margravine Baker and Miss Tia Alcabú stepped into the arena. Mrs. Baker, a red-haired woman with a fiery temper to match, was known throughout Ell Paso for her sharp wit and even sharper knives. Miss Alcabú, a raven-haired beauty with a figure that could make a saint swear, had a reputation for her cunning and seductive ways.
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