Donkey Dork
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 5
Western Sex Story: Chapter 5 - 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 Hotel de la Muerte had borne witness to their union, and as they slowly pulled away from each other, the ghosts of the past seemed to dissipate into the dusty air. In their place was a bond that was unbreakable, a promise of a future filled with love and protection.
Matilda looked into Donald’s eyes, the pain fading into a warm glow that suffused her entire being. “I’m yours,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
He kissed her gently, his thumb wiping away a tear that had escaped her eye. “We’re in this together,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Whatever comes next, we’ll face it as one.”
The sun rose higher in the sky, casting long shadows across the floor. The Hotel de la Muerte had seen the birth of a new chapter in their lives, a chapter filled with the promise of redemption and love.
And as they lay there, their bodies still entwined, the spirit of Weayaya whispered to them of the trials that lay ahead. But for now, in the quiet of the morning, all that mattered was the beat of their hearts, the warmth of their skin, and the promise of a new dawn.
Exhausted by their lovemaking and the tumultuous events of the night, Donald and Mrs. Matilda drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. The Hotel de la Muerte held its breath, its ghosts retreating to the shadows as the lovers found refuge in each other’s arms. The sun climbed higher in the sky, its warmth seeping into the room, painting a picture of peace on the dusty floorboards.
The bed, once a stage for their passionate redemption, now cradled them in its embrace, the worn-out springs groaning in protest under their combined weight. Dork, the ever-watchful donkey, stood guard by the door, his eyes closed but his senses sharp, his newfound ability to speak a silent sentinel of the trio’s unity and purpose.
As the sun climbed higher, the light grew stronger, spilling through the shattered window and across their naked forms. The dust motes danced in the air, caught in the beams of light, as if celebrating the rebirth of hope that had taken root in the Hotel de la Muerte. The town outside remained eerily still, as if holding its breath, waiting for the lovers to wake and continue their journey.
Their slumber was deep and untroubled, the kind that comes after the storm has passed and the soul is at peace. But the Wild West was a fickle mistress, and the quiet of the deserted town was a deceptive cloak for the dangers that lay hidden in its streets.
As the sun reached its zenith, casting a golden hue over the Hotel de la Muerte, Donald and Matilda stirred in their embrace. The heat of the day had crept into the room, wrapping around them like a warm blanket, a stark contrast to the cold embrace of the night that had passed.
They rose from the bed, their bodies sticky with sweat and the remnants of their passion. Donald looked down at the gold and jewels scattered across the dusty lobby floor, a stark reminder of the violent encounter that had led them to this moment.
Matilda stepped into the room, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders, her eyes still hazy with the aftermath of their union. “We should count it,” she said, her voice still thick with sleep.
Donald nodded, his body feeling both sated and weary. He bent down, his old joints creaking as he gathered the gold and jewels into a pile on the counter. The lobby of Hotel de la Muerte was a stark contrast to the passionate sanctuary of their room. The dusty floorboards bore the marks of a thousand forgotten boots, the cobwebs in the corners swayed in the faint breeze that slipped through the shattered window.
Matilda joined him, her eyes sparkling with a newfound light as she picked through the glittering treasure. The gold coins clinked together, a metallic symphony of their newfound fortune. The jewels, a rainbow of colors, cast kaleidoscope patterns on the walls as they caught the sun’s rays.
Dork, ever the pragmatic one, broke the silence. “With all this gold, we can buy ourselves a little piece of the West,” he said, his voice a gentle nudge. “A farm or a ranch, somewhere quiet, away from the guns and the greed.”
Matilda looked up from the pile of gold, her eyes widening at the donkey’s words. Donald’s gaze followed hers, and he felt a twinge of hope in his chest. The thought of a home, a place to call their own, was like a cool drink of water after a lifetime in the desert.
“What would you buy with the money, Matilda?” he asked, his voice gentle as he placed a warm hand on her arm.
Her eyes met his, a spark of mischief in their depths. “A brothel,” she said, her voice clear and firm. “I know how they work, I’ve seen the inside of enough of them. With my experience, I could run one that’s fair to the girls, safer than any of the places I’ve ever known.”
The words hung in the air, a revelation of her past that she had kept hidden. Donald felt a pang of regret for the pain she must have endured, but he also saw the determination in her gaze, the strength that had carried her through the years.
“A saloon,” he murmured, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “With a brothel,” he added, understanding the unspoken need behind her words. It wasn’t just a place of business; it was a sanctuary, a place where she could help others find refuge from the same hardships she had faced.
Dork’s ears perked up at the mention of bandits. He had sensed their approach, the vibrations of their greed and malice echoing through the very ground beneath their feet. “They’re coming,” he warned, his voice low and urgent. “The ones who took the gold from the stagecoach. They’ve picked up our trail, and they’re headed this way.”
Matilda’s eyes snapped to Donald, the mirth in her gaze replaced by a steely resolve. She had lived a life of survival, and the thought of facing danger again brought a familiar tightness to her chest. But this time, she had something she had never had before: a protector, a lover, and a partner in this dance of fate.
With a nod, Donald handed her the gun he had taken from the bandit leader. The cold metal felt foreign in her hand, a weapon of power that she had never wielded before. She studied it, feeling the weight of the decision that lay before them. The gun was a symbol of the violence they had left behind, yet it was also a tool of protection, a means to carve out a future in this unforgiving land.
They made their way to the balcony, the wood groaning under their combined weight. The Hotel de la Muerte had seen better days, but it had also seen worse. It was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a monument to the enduring hope that clung to the edges of despair.
The night descended upon Crow’s Tusk like a cloak of ink, swallowing the town whole. The buildings grew tall and foreboding, their shadows stretching out like the grasping fingers of the damned. The stars above twinkled coldly, indifferent to the plight of those who sought refuge below. The wind picked up, whispering secrets through the deserted streets, carrying with it the scent of dust and decay.
The trio watched as the light of day bled into the dark embrace of the night. Matilda felt a thrill of excitement and fear. The Wild West was a place where the line between life and death was drawn in shifting sands, where every sunset promised a night filled with danger and uncertainty. Yet here she was, standing beside the two beings who had become her world, her heart beating in time with theirs.
Dork, ever the observant, noticed the first signs of trouble. The distant sound of hooves, the jingle of spurs, and the low murmur of malevolent voices. The bandits were approaching, drawn by the scent of the gold that had once been theirs. The air grew tense, the very fabric of the Hotel de la Muerte seeming to hum with the anticipation of the coming storm.
The first stars had barely begun to appear when the first shadows emerged from the dark. Donald’s hand tightened around the grip of his rifle, his eyes scanning the horizon with the practiced ease of a man who had spent a lifetime in the saddle. The spirit of Weayaya stirred within him, a silent sentinel that whispered of the battles to come.
Matilda’s hand found hers on the balcony railing, her grip firm and reassuring. In the face of the approaching darkness, she was a beacon of light, a reminder that even in the bleakest of moments, there was something worth fighting for.
As the torches grew closer, their flickering light casting an eerie glow across the deserted streets of Crow’s Tusk, the tension grew palpable. The bandits were here, their greed a living, breathing entity that seemed to fill the air with a thick, suffocating miasma.
“Matilda,” Donald whispered urgently, his eyes never leaving the shadows, “you need to hide. Get somewhere safe. I’ll hold them off from here.”
With a nod, she disappeared into the hotel, her heart racing. The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, the jingle of spurs sharper. Donald knew that if they were going to survive, he needed the high ground. He climbed onto the counter, his legs protesting with every movement, and then pulled himself onto the half-wall that surrounded the balcony. The wood groaned under his weight, but held firm.
The world outside grew louder, the distant sounds of the bandits’ approach echoing through the deserted streets. He took a deep breath, his hand steady on the rifle. The Hotel de la Muerte was their fortress now, and he would defend it with his life.
The ancient wooden stairs creaked beneath his boots as he ascended to the rooftop, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was cooler up here, the wind whispering secrets of the coming confrontation. The half-wall that surrounded the rooftop offered a precarious perch, but Donald knew it was their best chance.
Dork, the clever donkey, had come up with a plan. He would position himself in front of the abandoned saloon across the street, his braying echoing through the night like a siren’s call. The bandits, greedy for their lost gold, would be drawn to the sound, believing it to be a taunt from the very person they sought.
Matilda watched from the shadows of the Hotel de la Muerte, her heart in her throat as she saw Dork standing proudly before the saloon’s broken doors. His eyes gleamed with a newfound cunning, a silent promise that he would do his part to protect them. She knew the risk he was taking, but she also knew that the bond they shared under Weayaya’s protection was stronger than any fear.
The sound of hooves grew closer, the crunch of gravel underfoot heralding the arrival of the bandits. They emerged from the gloom like specters, their faces twisted in malicious grins as they saw the donkey standing guard over their treasure. Five of them, all armed to the teeth, their eyes glinting with greed and malice.
Matilda’s heart raced as she watched from the shadows of the Hotel de la Muerte, her hand tight around the pistol that felt so foreign to her. She knew that this was the moment she had to trust Donald, to believe in the strength of their bond and the power of Weayaya that had brought them together.
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