Donkey Dork
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 10
Western Sex Story: Chapter 10 - In the fading town of Dreadworth, old drifter Donald “No Horse” Crawford stumbles into an unlikely second chance when a stubborn donkey named Dork becomes his companion. Together, they navigate the perils of Fort Killhills, hostile frontiers, and the looming clash between settlers and the native Annawan tribe. In a world of betrayal, redemption, and fragile hope, Donald discovers that courage and loyalty can come from the most unexpected places.
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual NonConsensual Slavery Fiction Crime Western Anal Sex AI Generated
The journey was tense, their eyes peeled for any sign of the wagon. The air was thick with the scent of greed and desperation, the kind that clung to the clothes of those who had seen the darker side of the Wild West. They knew they had to move quickly; every minute that passed brought them closer to the fate they sought to avoid.
“We’ve got to find that wagon,” Donald murmured, his eyes scanning the horizon. “The lives of those poor girls depend on it.”
Dork nodded, his ears twitching as he picked up on the urgency in Donald’s voice. “We must be cautious,” he said. “The traders are not kind men. They will not give up their cargo without a fight.”
They approached the edge of Tuckercreeck, the air thick with tension and the distant murmur of a town that had seen too much suffering. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of red and orange, casting long shadows that danced across the dusty ground. Donald squinted, his eyes searching for any sign of movement that could lead them to the wagon.
“We’ve got to find that wagon,” Donald repeated, his voice low and urgent. “It’s gotta be big, heavily guarded. Those girls can’t fall into McPherson’s hands.” His hand rested on the butt of his gun, the cold metal a comforting weight against his thigh.
Dork nodded, his hooves plodding steadily through the sand. “The traders are crafty,” he warned. “They’ll be expecting trouble. We need to be ready for anything.”
After hours of riding, they stumbled upon Gustav’s brewery, a beacon of hope in the desert’s embrace. The smell of fermenting hops and barley hung in the air, a stark contrast to the desolate surroundings. Gustav, a burly man with a face weathered by years of hard living, looked up from his work as they entered.
“Ah, Donald!” Gustav boomed, a wide smile splitting his face as he wiped his hands on his stained apron. “How’s the saloon comin’ along?” His eyes danced with mischief as he asked, “And what’s this I hear about a certain ten-drum shipment of my finest ale?”
Donald couldn’t help but chuckle at Gustav’s directness. “It’s been a helluva ride,” he said, slapping the man on the back. “But the beer’s been a hit. The customers can’t get enough of it.”
Gustav’s smile grew wider. “And what brings you out here?”
Donald stepped forward, his eyes blazing with purpose. “We’ve come for information,” he said, his voice unwavering. “We need to know when the next shipment of ... entertainment arrives.”
Gustav’s smile faded, understanding dawning in his eyes. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The traders come and go like shadows. But I’ve heard murmurs of a delivery due soon. They’ll be coming at midnight from the east, through the river. Just find a small port whit the deck and keep your ears to the ground, and you might just find ‘em.”
“We’ll need a carriage,” Donald said, his gaze unwavering. “Can we borrow yours?”
Gustav’s expression grew thoughtful. He knew the kind of fight Donald was heading into, and the stakes were high. With a heavy sigh, he nodded. “Aye, take it,” he said, tossing Donald the keys. “But be careful. It’s not just the traders you’ve got to watch out for.”
They thanked Gustav for his help and made their way to the carriage, the urgency of their mission pressing down on them like the hot desert sun. As they rode out of the brewery, the sky had deepened to a rich purple, the stars beginning to poke through the twilight like shy debutantes at a masquerade ball. The air grew cooler, carrying whispers of the coming night and the danger it held.
Following Gustav’s instructions, they arrived at the small port on the river’s side. It was indeed as quiet as a graveyard, the only sounds the gentle lapping of the water against the wooden dock and the occasional crackle of torches that lined the perimeter. The torches cast flickering shadows across the area, their flames dancing in the light breeze like restless spirits eager to share their secrets.
The port was a lonely outpost, a place where the river whispered stories of distant lands and the desperate dreams of those who sought refuge or riches. It was a reminder of the town’s isolation and the lengths to which people would go to escape the clutches of human trraficking.
They tied Dork to a nearby post, ensuring he was well hidden in the shadows. Donald checked his gun, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavily on his shoulders. This wasn’t just about gold or power; it was about saving lives.
They waited, the tension palpable as the minutes ticked by. The air grew colder, the stars winking at them like conspirators in the vast expanse of the night sky.
Suddenly, they heard the distant chug of an engine, a sound that didn’t quite belong in the era of horse-drawn carriages and dusty trails. A large boat appeared around the bend, two massive paddle wheels churning the water between its sides. The contraption was a marvel of industrial might, an anachronism in the otherwise timeless desert landscape. The vessel’s lights cut through the darkness, casting an eerie glow on the river’s surface, revealing the treacherous currents beneath.
As the boat approached the dock, the shadowy figures of two armed guards came into view, their silhouettes stark against the warm glow of a hanging lantern. The men looked tough, their eyes cold and unyielding, a testament to the grim lives they led. They were dressed in the garb of mercenaries, with bandanas hiding their faces and a motley assortment of weapons at their hips. Their very presence sent a shiver down Donald’s spine, a stark reminder of the perilous world they were about to dive into.
The paddle wheels sighed to a halt, the river’s flow the only sound that filled the void of the night. The guards jumped onto the dock, their boots thudding against the wooden planks like the beating of a funeral drum. With a swift efficiency born of practice, they secured the boat to the post, the ropes straining as the vessel tugged at its leash.
One by one, ten trembling figures emerged from the boat’s shadowy belly, their nakedness stark against the dimly lit dock. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and their necks were tethered together with a thick rope, forming a human chain of despair. Each step they took was a silent cry for help, their eyes downcast in defeat.
The two armed guards who had secured the boat to the dock post were unfazed by their human cargo’s plight. They moved with the cold efficiency of men who had long ago abandoned any semblance of compassion. Their faces were obscured by bandanas, but the glint in their eyes spoke of a hardened cruelty that was as much a part of them as the weapons they carried.
As the last of the girls stumbled onto the dock, Donald felt his anger rise. He couldn’t bear to see them treated like livestock, stripped of their dignity and hope. The time for action had come. With a deep breath, he stepped out of the shadows, his hand resting on the grip of his gun.
Mrs. Harriet ‘Whiplash’ Bruce emerged from the cabin, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Donald. She was a formidable woman, tall and lean with a sharp jawline that spoke of a life lived hard and unforgiving. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and a whip coiled at her side like a sleeping snake.
“What do you want?” she demanded, her voice as sharp as the knife she held in her hand.
“Just passing through,” Donald lied, his voice steady despite the rage that bubbled within him. “Looking to purchase supplies.”
“We don’t deal with strangers,” Mrs. Bruce spat, eyeing him suspiciously. “And certainly not with the likes of you.”
“Oh, but I’m not just any traveler,” Donald said, flashing a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m Donald ‘No Horse’ Crawford, a trader from Dreadworth. Heard of me?”
Mrs. Bruce’s gaze lingered on him, and for a moment, Donald thought he’d be caught in her sharp gaze. But then she barked a laugh, the sound as dry as the desert they stood in. “Dreadworth’s a shithole,” she said, spitting a wad of tobacco into the river. “What could you possibly have that I’d want?”
Without missing a beat, Donald reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold coins, the metal glinting in the torchlight. “How about a fair price for all ten of ‘em?” he asked, his voice like velvet over steel. “You’ll make a hefty profit, and I’ll take ‘em off your hands.”
Mrs. Bruce’s eyes lit up at the sight of the gold, her greed overshadowing any suspicion. “Two thousand a piece,” she said, her voice as cold as the steel of her knife. “That’s twenty thousand dollars, all told.”
“Agreed,” Donald said without hesitation, dropping the coins into her outstretched hand. His heart pounded in his chest as he stepped closer to the trembling line of captive women. “But first, I’d like to inspect the merchandise.”
Mrs. Bruce smirked, her teeth glinting in the flickering light. She gestured to the girls with a flick of her wrist. “They’re yours to look at,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “But remember, they’re worth more to me unblemished.”
The guards stepped aside, and Donald approached the line of trembling figures, his heart heavy with the weight of their suffering. As he pretended to inspect them, he whispered words of comfort, his hand lingering on their shivering shoulders. Each girl looked up at him with eyes filled with hope and fear, their bodies bruised and their spirits broken.
“Why don’t you give them something to wear?” Donald asked, feigning nonchalance as he addressed Mrs. Bruce. “It’s a chilly night, and I wouldn’t want my investment to catch a cold before I’ve had a chance to ... inspect them properly.”
Mrs. Bruce’s smirk grew wider, as if she enjoyed the thought of their discomfort. “They don’t need clothes,” she said, her voice a mix of amusement and disdain. “They’re just goods, after all.”
But Donald saw beyond her words. He knew the true value of these women, and it wasn’t the price tag Lady McPherson had slapped on them. He nodded curtly, playing along with the facade. “Fine,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “But I’ll need them untied. I need to make sure they can move properly before I take them to their new home.”
Mrs. Bruce studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. Then she shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said, jerking her head at the guards. “But don’t get any ideas.”
The guards untied the rope that bound the women’s wrists, and they immediately wrapped their arms around themselves, trying to preserve what little dignity they had left. Donald’s heart ached at the sight, but he knew he had to play the part. He couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him, not when so much was at stake.
He handed the gold coins to Mrs. Bruce, who greedily counted them before stuffing them into her pocket. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” she said, her voice dripping with malice.
“But remember,” she added, her eyes glinting in the torchlight, “If any of ‘em give you trouble, you bring ‘em back here. I’ll be waiting. Same date, next month.”
The words hung in the air like a noose, a grim reminder of the cycle of exploitation that had to be broken. Donald nodded, his jaw clenched tight. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Without another word, he turned to the shivering line of women. “Come with me,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re safe now.”
The girls looked at him with a mix of fear and hope, unsure if this was another cruel trick. But something in his eyes, something kind and honest, made them take a tentative step forward. They followed him to the carriage, their bare feet silent on the wooden dock. Dork, sensing the urgency of the situation, remained still and quiet, his eyes watching over them like a silent sentinel.
Once they were all safely inside, Donald took his place at the reins, his hand trembling slightly as he urged the horses into a steady trot. The carriage lurched forward, the sound of its wheels echoing through the desert night like a promise of freedom. Dork fell in line behind them, his shadowy form a symbol of the protection and loyalty they had found in the most unlikely of places.
They traveled in silence, the only sounds the creaking of the carriage and the occasional sniffle from the rescued women. Donald’s eyes darted to the side mirrors, ensuring no one followed their escape. The night wrapped around them like a cloak, shielding them from prying eyes as they sped away from the grim port.
The desert night was alive with whispers of the past and warnings of the present. Each dust cloud kicked up by the carriage’s wheels seemed to carry a tale of struggle and hope, a silent testament to the countless souls who had traveled these lands seeking refuge from the cruel hand of fate. The moon cast a silver path before them, guiding them through the shadowy landscape like a ghostly hand.
With each mile that stretched behind them, Donald felt the burden of their escape grow heavier. The naked women huddled together in the back of the carriage, their trembling forms a stark reminder of the depravity they had escaped. He dared not look back, fearing that the sight of pursuit would shatter the fragile illusion of their freedom. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, searching for the welcoming lights of Crazecanyon, where they could begin to heal and rebuild their lives.
The carriage’s wheels churned the dust into a cloud that swirled in their wake, a silent declaration of their rebellious spirit. The night air was cool against their bare skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of their shared humanity that now filled the small, enclosed space. The wind whispered secrets of the desert, carrying the faint scent of sagebrush and the distant howl of a lone coyote, reminding them that the world was vast and full of both danger and possibility.
Matilda had prepared the saloon for their unexpected guests, lighting candles and laying out warm blankets. When they arrived, the widows rushed out to greet them, their eyes widening in shock at the sight of the naked, trembling girls. Without a word, they began to help them out of the carriage, wrapping them in soft fabric that whispered comfort and the promise of safety. The widows’ own experiences had taught them that sometimes the kindest gesture was the simplest: to cover someone’s nakedness and treat them with dignity.
The air inside the saloon was thick with the scent of hope and determination. The widows moved with quiet efficiency, tending to the girls’ bruises and offering them warm mugs of tea. The room was a soft symphony of whispers and comforting murmurs, the sound of broken souls finding refuge in the warm embrace of sisterhood.
Matilda looked at Donald with a mix of admiration and concern. She knew the risks he’d taken and the battles he’d fought. They shared a silent understanding, a bond forged in the fires of adversity. She stepped closer, her hand brushing against his. “We’ll get them ready,” she said, her voice steady. “You go ahead and spread the word.”
With a nod, Donald turned to the carriage, his hand lingering on the door handle. He knew the road ahead was fraught with danger, but the thought of Lady McPherson’s cruel smile only strengthened his resolve. He climbed in, the leather creaking beneath him, and took up the reins. The horses, sensing his urgency, broke into a gallop, their hooves echoing through the quiet streets of Crazecanyon like the drumbeat of a rebellion.
Dork, ever loyal, fell into step behind the carriage, his hooves making a softer, more rhythmic sound against the hard-packed earth. His eyes, gleaming with a newfound intelligence, searched the shadows for any sign of pursuit. The bond between Donald and the donkey had grown stronger, an unspoken language of trust and protection that had seen them through many a harrowing experience.
The sun was at its apex, a fiery orb in the middle of the sky, when they approached the outskirts of Tuckercreeck. The town looked much the same as it had before, with its false facade of civilization and the ever-present scent of crimes that clung to it like the stench of a rotting carcass. The buildings leaned into the dusty streets, their windows shuttered against the midday heat, hiding the secrets that lay within.
As they pulled up to Gustav’s brewery, the burly man stepped out of the shadowy doorway, his face a mask of concern. “You’ve returned,” he said, his eyes flicking to the empty seats of the carriage. “Where are the girls?”
“Safe,” Donald assured him, his voice firm. “Matilda’s got ‘em.”
Gustav’s eyes searched Donald’s, looking for the truth behind the words. After a moment, he nodded, his expression one of relief and admiration. “You did it,” he said, his gruff voice cracking slightly. “You truly are a man of your word, Donald ‘No Horse’ Crawford.”
Stepping forward, Gustav clapped Donald on the back, the force of his congratulations sending a jolt of pain through the old man’s body. Despite the ache, Donald couldn’t help but smile. It was the first time in a long while that he’d felt truly appreciated, the first time someone had recognized the change within him.
“But,” Gustav added, his voice dropping to a whisper, “this isn’t the end of it. Lady McPherson won’t take this lightly. She’s got other ways of getting what she wants, and she’s realy know about all the villager men characters.”
“What do you mean?” Donald asked, his hand still on the reins, the leather warm and comforting under his grip.
“It’s like this,” Gustav began, his face darkening as he spoke. “Lady McPherson, she ain’t just buying from traders like Whiplash Bruce. She’s got her hooks in the local men too. The drunks, the gamblers, the ones who’ve lost all hope and sense of worth. They sell their wives for a bottle of whiskey or a handful of gold.”
The revelation hit Donald like a sledgehammer. The thought of men selling their wives into slavery for a fleeting moment of pleasure or relief was almost too much to bear.
“You’re saying that before these poor souls end up in Lady McPherson’s clutches, they go through the hands of their own husbands?” Donald’s voice was tight with barely contained anger.
Gustav nodded solemnly, his eyes never leaving Donald’s. “Yeah, I’m afraid so. These men, they’re at the end of their rope. They come to her with their tails between their legs, begging for a way out of their debts or their addictions. And she gives it to ‘em, all right. But the price is their wives, their daughters, anyone they can hand over to her.”
The gravity of Gustav’s words weighed heavily on Donald’s shoulders. Before he could even begin to fathom the depth of Lady McPherson’s reach, he had to tackle the root of the problem: the desperate men of Tuckercreeck. “We have to stop this,” he said, his voice a low growl. “We can’t let it go on.”
Gustav nodded gravely. “We have to be smart, Donald. We can’t just barge in and take ‘em all out. That’d be signing our own death warrants.” He paused, stroking his thick mustache thoughtfully. “You need to walk the line, blend in. Find out who’s next on the chopping block.”
So, with Dork at his side, Donald donned a dusty old hat and set out into the sun-baked streets of Tuckercreeck. The donkey’s ears flicked back and forth as they strolled, his keen senses tuned to any sign of trouble. The townsfolk eyed them warily, recognizing the homeless old man from their last visit. The whispers grew louder as they approached the local watering hole, where desperation clung to the air like the stench of stale beer.
Inside, the saloon was a cacophony of drunken laughter and desperate pleas. Donald’s eyes scanned the room, looking for the telltale signs of a man about to sell his soul—and his wife—for a shot of whiskey. The faces he saw were a mottled tapestry of despair, each one a potential informant or victim of Lady McPherson’s vile trade. He leaned against the bar, the wood sticky with the residue of a thousand lost dreams, and signaled for a drink.
The bartender, a man named Sam, slammed a shot glass down with the practiced ease of someone who’d seen too much of the world’s ugliness. His eyes were bloodshot, but his gaze was sharp as he studied Donald. “What brings you back to Tuckercreeck, old-timer?” he asked, his voice a blend of curiosity and suspicion.
“Just passing through,” Donald replied, his eyes scanning the room. “Looking for a bit of company and maybe some information.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he filled the shot glass with a murky liquid that promised a quick escape from reality. “Information’s a rare commodity around here,” he said, sliding the glass across the bar. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Let’s just say I’m a man who values a good deed,” Donald replied, his voice as smooth as the whiskey that sat untouched before him.
The bartender’s expression softened slightly, a hint of respect in his gaze. “I might know a thing or two,” he said, leaning in closer. “But I’ll need something in return.”
“Fair enough,” Donald said, taking a sip of the harsh liquid, letting it burn a path down his throat. “What do you want?”
Sam glanced around the saloon, ensuring no one was close enough to overhear. “I want out,” he whispered. “But I can’t just leave. Not with Lady McPherson’s eyes everywhere.”