Donkey Dork
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 3
Western Sex Story: Chapter 3 - 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
One evening, as they sat by the campfire, Donald turned to Dork, the question that had been burning in his mind for days finally escaping his lips. “Who are you now?” he asked, his voice filled with a mix of awe and curiosity.
Dork, the creature that was once just a donkey, met his gaze with an unmistakable sense of understanding. He bent his head, and when he looked up again, his eyes gleamed with a newfound intelligence. “I am Dork,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath them. “But I am also Weayaya, the protector of the Annawan.”
He paused, his gaze drifting to the stars above. “As a spirit, I have seen much. I have watched over the lands from the sky, witnessed the birth and death of countless battles, the rise and fall of empires, and the endless cycle of greed and bloodshed that has stained the West.”
Dork’s words were a solemn reminder of the vast tapestry of history that lay behind the simple act of survival in the frontier. His eyes grew distant, reflecting the myriad of memories that had been imprinted on his spirit. “I have seen the white man’s hunger for gold and land, the way it has torn families apart and turned brother against brother. I have watched as the innocent have suffered, their cries echoing across the plains.”
He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had a new depth to it. “But I have also seen the beauty in the human spirit, the capacity for love and sacrifice. It is this that has brought me to you, Donald. I have felt your longing, your need for companionship, for the warmth of a woman’s embrace.”
Donald’s face reddened at the creature’s bluntness, but he nodded, unable to deny the truth. It had been years since he had known the touch of a woman, and the ache of loneliness had grown deep within him. He had resigned himself to a life of solitude, but now, with Dork’s transformation, everything felt possible again.
Summoning his courage, he spoke his heart’s deepest desire. “Dork, I’ve been alone for so long, and I fear I’ve forgotten how to be with a woman. Can you, in your newfound wisdom, guide me?”
The creature looked at him, the firelight playing across his transformed features. Then, with a gentle nudge, he knelt before Donald. “Climb upon my back,” Dork said, his voice still carrying the echo of the ancient spirit. “We will find what you seek, together.”
With a mix of excitement and trepidation, Donald did as he was told. He had never ridden a donkey before, let alone one that had been imbued with the power of a legendary warrior. But as he settled into place, Dork’s broad back felt surprisingly steady and comfortable. The animal’s muscles rippled beneath him, and he could feel the power that surged through the creature’s body.
The sun had barely crested the horizon when they set out, the cool desert air kissing their faces as they rode into the vast expanse of the Wild West. Dork moved with a grace that belied his former clumsiness, his hooves barely disturbing the sand as they glided over the dunes. The journey was long and arduous, but Donald felt invigorated by the spirit of Weayaya that flowed through him.
As the sun reached its zenith, they crested a hill to find a stagecoach surrounded by a band of outlaws, their bandanas pulled up over their faces, pistols at the ready. The passengers cowered inside, their cries for mercy lost to the desert wind. Donald’s heart raced, his senses heightened by the sudden turn of events.
The outlaws had set upon the stagecoach like vultures upon carrion, their greed and malice palpable. The driver and the guard lay lifeless on the ground, their blood staining the sand a stark crimson. The bandits’ eyes fell upon the woman, their lustful gazes leaving no doubt as to her fate.
One of the men, a tall and lanky creature with a cruel sneer, approached the stagecoach door. “Get on out, darlin’,” he drawled, his voice thick with menace. “We ain’t gonna bite, unless ya make us.”
The woman’s eyes widened in terror, her hands trembling as she clutched the fabric of her dress. She stepped out slowly, her boots sinking into the soft sand. The bandit’s leered at her, their eyes raking over her body like the claws of a predator. Donald’s blood boiled at the sight, his grip tightening on the bow that had been entrusted to him by Mohewa.
But Dork, sensing his intent, nudged him firmly. “No, Donald,” he said in a low, urgent tone that only Donald could hear. “We must stay silent. We cannot fight them now.”
The old man’s eyes searched the creature’s, seeking confirmation of the unspoken words. Dork nodded, his expression unreadable but for the steel in his gaze. The spirit of Weayaya had granted him more than just strength and wisdom; it had granted him patience and strategy, traits that Donald had often lacked in his impoverished life.
Reluctantly, Donald held his tongue as the band of outlaws continued their ransacking. His fingers itched for the bow and knife at his side, yearning to unleash their power and protect the terrified woman. But Dork’s firmness was unyielding, a silent reminder of the shaman’s words: “Choose your battles wisely.”
They watched from their vantage point as the outlaws piled their stolen goods onto the stagecoach and tied the woman to one of their horses. The leader, a burly man with a greasy mustache, climbed onto the coach’s driver’s seat, cracking the whip with a sadistic grin. The horses lurched forward, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.
As the outlaws disappeared over the horizon, Dork turned to Donald. “We will follow them,” he said, his voice a low growl. “We will find their camp and strike when they least expect it.”
The two set off at a steady pace, their eyes never leaving the trail of dust that marked the outlaws’ path. The sun blazed down upon them, but Donald felt no fatigue. The spirit within Dork seemed to lend him strength, pushing him forward with a purpose that burned brighter than the midday sun.
They traveled for hours, the landscape shifting from sand to rocky outcrops, the air growing thicker with the promise of danger. Donald could feel the tension coiling in his gut, the anticipation of the confrontation to come. Yet, he remained calm, trusting in Dork’s guidance.
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the desert floor, they saw it: a small cave in the side of a hill, obscured by a tumble of rocks and cacti. A plume of smoke drifted lazily from the entrance, carrying the scent of roasting meat and unwashed men. Dork’s ears perked up, and he whispered into Donald’s mind, “This is their lair.”
They approached cautiously, keeping to the shadows. The bandits had left their horses tied up outside, the animals skittish and weary from the hard ride. The outlaws’ laughter and crude banter echoed from within the cave, mingling with the clank of spurs and the jangle of gold. Donald’s heart pounded in his chest, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of an ambush.
The tension in the air thick as molasses, Donald knew that this was his moment, his chance to prove himself to the tribe and to the spirit of Weayaya that now dwelt within Dork. The donkey-turned-protector watched him with a gaze that seemed to understand the gravity of the situation.
With a firm nod, Dork spoke into Donald’s mind, “Untie the horses, old man. Free them. We must be swift and silent.” The creature’s voice was no longer that of a simple beast, but rather a blend of wisdom and power that resonated deep within Donald’s soul. He didn’t question the command; he simply knew that it was the right thing to do.
Moving quietly, Donald approached the nervous horses, his hands shaking with anticipation. The animals seemed to sense the change in him, their eyes wide with curiosity. He began to untie the knots with practiced ease, his movements swift and sure. Each time a horse was freed, it snorted and pawed at the ground, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
“Easy, boy,” Donald murmured to each horse as he worked, his voice barely above a whisper. He knew the risk he was taking, but the bond he had formed with Dork was stronger than any fear. The creature’s instructions were clear: they needed to be swift and silent. With every animal he released, Donald felt the spirit of Weayaya pulsing through him, bolstering his courage.
Finally, all the horses were free. He stepped back, his eyes meeting Dork’s. The donkey nodded, his expression unreadable but for the glint of determination in his gaze. Together, they slipped back into the shadows, their movements as fluid as the night itself. Donald crouched beside Dork, his pulse racing as he nocked an arrow to his bow, the wood feeling almost alive in his hands.
The sound of a startled curse echoed from the cave, followed by the thunderous footsteps of a bandit emerging into the light. The man’s eyes widened in shock as he saw the horses gone, their reins trailing in the dust. Panic flashed across his face, and he let out a piercing whistle that seemed to split the air. The other outlaws swarmed from the cave like angry hornets, their cries of alarm piercing the quiet evening.
The leader, the burly man with the greasy mustache, stormed out, his pistol drawn. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he bellowed, his eyes scanning the horizon. The sight of the missing horses had sent the camp into a frenzy, the bandits milling about in confusion and fear. The woman they had taken captive watched from her makeshift bindings, hope sparking in her eyes.
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