Chapter 9

The room was still, the only sound the harsh breaths of the participants. Lady McPherson’s face was a mask of fury, but she knew she had underestimated Donald and Matilda. The widows looked on, their expressions a mix of awe and fear at what they had just witnessed.

“Mrs. Hickman,” Lady McPherson’s voice was a whip crack, demanding obedience. “You’re next.” Mrs. Hickman, a tall, stoic woman with a scar across her cheek, stepped forward, her eyes burning with a fierce resolve. She knew what was coming, but she had seen the change in Donald, the fierce protection he had offered Mrs. Park. Perhaps this was her chance to fight back, to claim a piece of her own dignity.

Matilda stepped up, her voice firm. “No,” she said, her hand resting on the butt of the pistol she had stolen from Lady McPherson’s thug. “Not like this.” Lady McPherson sneered, but something in Matilda’s gaze made her hesitate. “You want to use them?” Matilda continued, gesturing to Donald and his newfound gift. “Fine. But it’ll be on their terms.”

Mrs. Hickman took a step back, the fiery determination in her eyes unwavering. She looked at Donald, then at Lady McPherson, and then back to Donald. The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with the scent of sweat and the acrid taste of fear. Donald nodded at her, his expression grim. He knew what he had to do—not just to claim the widows as his own, but to show Lady McPherson that he would not tolerate her brand of cruelty.

With a grace that belied her size, Mrs. Hickman lay back on the plush carpet, her legs spread wide in a silent challenge to the woman who had held her in bondage for so long. Her body was a map of hardship, each scar and line a testament to her strength. The room was hushed, the only sound the distant wail of a coyote echoing through the mansion’s halls.

Matilda watched as Donald positioned himself over Mrs. Hickman, his transformed member pulsing with the power of the shaman’s gift. He met the widow’s gaze, his eyes filled with a fierce tenderness that belied the violence of their situation. The air was charged with anticipation, the power dynamics in the room shifting like the sands of a desert dune.

Mrs. Hickman took a deep breath, bracing herself for the pain she knew was to come. But Donald moved differently now. He took his time, guiding his cock into her with a gentle touch that spoke of respect and care. The widow’s eyes never left his, the unspoken communication between them a silent revolution against the tyranny of the world they found themselves in.

As he began to thrust, it was clear that the power of the shaman had not just transformed his body, but his very soul. Each movement was a declaration of freedom, a rejection of the pain and degradation that had become the norm in this twisted place. The widows watched, their eyes reflecting a mix of hope and horror, as Mrs. Hickman’s face contorted with each penetration. But there was something different in her now—a spark of defiance that seemed to grow with every inch Donald claimed.

The room was a battleground of emotions, each participant locked in their own silent struggle. Lady McPherson’s rage was a tangible force, her eyes flicking between Donald and the widows as if trying to find a chink in their armor. But Donald’s every move was calculated, a dance of dominance and protection that she could not match.

And then, it was over. Donald pulled out, his cock still engorged with power, and Mrs. Hickman lay there, panting and trembling. But she did not look broken. Instead, she looked reborn, her eyes alight with a fire that had not been there before. Lady McPherson, unable to hide her shock, took a step back, her hand going to her throat as if to protect herself from the invisible threat that Donald had become.

Meda, however, had not given up her twisted sense of amusement. She grabbed Mrs. Foreman, the third widow, and roughly bent her over, pushing her down until her face was against the cold, hard floor. “Show us what you’ve got,” she jeered at Donald, her voice dripping with malice. Mrs. Foreman’s eyes were wide with fear, but she did not struggle. She had seen what had happened to Mrs. Park and Mrs. Hickman, and she knew that resistance was futile.

With a fierce determination that surprised even himself, Donald stepped up to Mrs. Foreman. He placed a gentle hand on her back, feeling the tension in her muscles, the years of abuse etched into her very being. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You don’t have to do this.” But she nodded, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “Do it,” she murmured, “but do it with respect.”

He took his position behind her, his heart heavy with the weight of the moment. He knew that this was not just about the physical act; it was about redemption and the promise of a better life. He took a deep breath and whispered a silent prayer to the spirit of the donkey, asking for guidance and strength. And with that, he began to enter Mrs. Foreman, his enhanced member parting her with a tenderness that was starkly at odds with the brutality of the situation.

Her body tensed with every inch, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Each time he pushed deeper, it was as if he could feel the pain she had endured, the scars on her soul laid bare before him. He watched as her eyes squeezed shut, her knuckles white as she gripped the floorboards. But with every thrust, she grew more still, her breaths evening out. It was as if she were drawing strength from his gentle dominance, finding solace in the very act that had been used to break her for so long.

Mrs. Foreman’s whimpers grew quieter, replaced by a soft moan that seemed to resonate through the very walls of the room. Donald’s strokes grew more deliberate, each one a declaration of his intention to cherish and protect her, to honor her strength and resilience. The room had become a sanctum, a place where the horrors of the outside world could not touch them.

Matilda watched, her heart swelling with a mix of anger and admiration. Anger at the world that had led these widows to this place, to endure such degradation. And admiration for Donald, who had found a way to transform his own suffering into a weapon of hope and love. She knew then that their partnership was not just about building a saloon and brothel; it was about creating a beacon of light in the darkest corner of the Wild West.

Ignoring Mrs. Foreman’s muffled cries, Donald continued to claim her with a fierce tenderness that seemed to strip away the layers of pain and fear that had been forced upon her. His strokes grew harder, his cock plunging into her with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. The widow’s body shuddered with each impact, her sobs becoming less desperate and more like the cries of someone slowly letting go of a burden too heavy to bear alone.