Old Man Billy
Copyright© 2025 by Ayra Atkinson
Chapter 7
Western Sex Story: Chapter 7 - In the dusty town of Dreadworth, sixty-five-year-old Bill—known only as Old Man Billy—walks a fine line between survival and ruin. Haunted by a lifetime of violence and regrets, he finds himself lured into a world of brutal underground fights, crooked bets, and dangerous liaisons. Every gamble carries the weight of his last chance at redemption—or his final descent into despair. With his Colt at his side and nothing left to lose, Billy wagers his soul against the darkness of a town that devours
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Slavery Fiction Crime Western Anal Sex Cat-Fighting Violence Illustrated AI Generated
The cool night air of Dreadworth did little to ease the tension that coiled around Billy and Mrs. Herring as they approached the infamous Booty Bo Brothel. The moon cast a pale glow over the ramshackle building, its lamp sign flickering erratically, as if it too was nervous about the impending events. The sound of their boots on the wooden sidewalk echoed through the quiet streets, punctuating the silence of the town that had been momentarily stunned by their victory at the Whispering Dame.
They slipped inside, the heavy door creaking shut behind them, muffling the distant sounds of drunken laughter and rowdy banter. The brothel’s interior was a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the saloon - dimly lit, thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. Billy’s eyes searched the room, finding Mrs. McConnell in a corner, her bruises standing out starkly against her pale skin. Despite her condition, she sat with a defiant posture, her eyes flashing with determination.
Mrs. Herring approached her gently, her voice low and concerned. “Bernice, are you okay?” she asked, her hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. Mrs. McConnell flinched at first, then met her gaze with a tired smile. “I’ve seen worse,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “But I’m ready for this. More than ready.”
Billy stepped forward, his expression a mix of admiration and determination. “We need you in fighting shape, Bernice,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “Can you handle it?”
Mrs. McConnell nodded, her jaw set with a fierce resolve that made Mrs. Herring’s heart swell with pride. “I’ve been ready for this since the day I got here,” she rasped, her voice stronger than her bruised body suggested.
The trio made their way through the sleepy town, the only sounds the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer and the occasional snort of a horse. They found a small, unassuming restaurant, the kind that catered to those who didn’t want to be seen in the more popular establishments. The sign above the door creaked in the breeze, reading “Ma’s Diner” in peeling paint. Inside, the smell of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee filled the air, a stark contrast to the odor of the brothel.
Ma, a stout woman with a kind face and a no-nonsense attitude, took their order with a nod, eyeing their bruises and disheveled clothes with a knowing look. She set steaming plates of food before them - eggs sunny side up, crispy bacon, and fluffy pancakes drenched in maple syrup. They ate in silence, the comforting warmth of the food seeping into their bones, filling the void left by the previous night’s events.
Billy finally broke the silence, his eyes never leaving Mrs. McConnell’s face. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “What happened last night at the Brothel ... it’s because you’re not used to being with so many men at once. That’s all.”
Mrs. McConnell looked up at him, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. “I know, Billy,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never done like that before. Souch worse.”
Mrs. Herring nodded solemnly, her hand tightening around her fork. “They’re going to pick us up afternoon,” she said, her voice firm. “We need to be ready to do our best.”
Billy took a deep breath, his eyes on their plates. “I’ve never seen Elmer’s wives fight,” he admitted, his voice tight. “But I think, They’re both formidable.”
Mrs. McConnell looked up at them, her eyes shimmering with a newfound hope. “What are we up against?” she asked, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands.
Billy took a deep breath, his eyes meeting hers. “They’re strong, no doubt,” he said, his voice grim. “But we’ve got our own strength. And we’ve got each other.”
Mrs. Herring nodded, her eyes shining with resolve. “We’ve come too far to back down now,” she said, her voice firm. “We’re fighting for more than just the purse. We’re fighting for our freedom.”
The hours ticked by with the agonizing slowness of a clock in a prison cell. They spent the time preparing, each in their own way. Mrs. Herring practiced her moves, her body a weapon honed by years of hard work and the recent taste of freedom. Mrs. McConnell tended to her bruises, her eyes never leaving the horizon, as if she could will the sun to set faster. And Billy, ever the strategist, went over the layout of Elmer’s property in his mind, searching for any advantage they could exploit.
Finally, the wagon arrived, pulled by a pair of tired-looking horses that seemed as worn down by Dreadworth’s harsh realities as its human inhabitants. The driver, a grizzled man with a mouth full of tobacco, barely spared them a glance as they climbed in. The ride to the outskirts of town was bumpy, the wagon jostling over the uneven terrain. The only sound was the jingle of the horses’ harnesses and the occasional grunt from the driver as he fought to keep the wagon on the narrow dirt path.
Elmer’s house was a sprawling ranch, surrounded by a tall wooden fence that seemed to keep the depravity of Dreadworth at bay. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the place in an orange glow that made it look almost inviting. Billy and Mrs. Herring exchanged a tense look as they approached, their hearts pounding in their chests. Mrs. McConnell sat between them, her expression stoic, her eyes focused on the prize ahead.
When they arrived at the barn, Elmer was waiting for them, his silver hair catching the last of the day’s light. He looked them over with a critical eye, his smile never reaching his eyes. “You two ready to entertain?” he asked, his voice laced with anticipation.
Mrs. Herring stepped down from the wagon, her body tight with tension. “Ready as we’ll ever be,” she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
Billy nodded, his hand resting reassuringly on Mrs. McConnell’s arm as he helped her down. “Elmer, this is Mrs. McConnell,” he said, his voice firm. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
Elmer’s eyes swept over her, a glint of appreciation in his gaze. “Well, well,” he said, stroking his mustache. “Looks like you’ve picked a real scrapper, Billy. I like that.” He turned and led them into the barn, the heavy door groaning shut behind them.
Inside, the space was vast and dimly lit by a few flickering lanterns that cast dancing shadows across the wooden beams. Hay was scattered everywhere, creating a soft, rustling carpet underfoot. Two women sat in chairs at opposite ends of the makeshift arena, separated by a sea of straw. Billy recognized them immediately as Elmer’s wives - Rose and Joana. They were both dressed in nobles’s clothing, their hair tied back in severe buns, and their eyes were cold and assessing as they took in the newcomers.
Elmer stepped forward, his boots echoing in the cavernous space. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice a low purr. “Allow me to introduce my lovely wives. This here,” he said, pointing to the one with average body and blonde hair, “is Rose. She’s got the strength of a bull and the temper to match.”
Rose looked up, her eyes narrowing as she took in Billy and Mrs. Herring. Her cheeks were flushed with a mix of anger and excitement, and her full lips were pressed into a thin line. Mrs. Herring felt a shiver run down her spine at the intensity of the woman’s gaze. “And this,” Elmer continued, gesturing to the other woman, who was tall and slightly heavier with dark hair, “is Joana. She’s got the speed of a rattlesnake and the cunning of a fox.”
Elmer snapped his fingers, and two burly men stepped forward, each holding a large, iron-framed lantern. “Take these down to the other end of the barn,” he ordered, his voice sharp. “We need plenty of light for this little ... competition.”
The men did as they were told, the sound of their boots thudding against the packed earth floor as they moved to comply. Billy and Mrs. Herring watched them go, the tension in the air thickening like a storm cloud. Mrs. McConnell remained silent, her eyes fixed on the two wives who waited for them.
Elmer leaned in, his wives on either side of him, their expressions unreadable. “Ladies,” he began, his voice carrying through the barn. “You know why we’re here. This isn’t just a match for fun, or even for the purse. This is to prove who’s the strongest, the smartest, and the most determined to stand by my side.”
Rose’s eyes narrowed, her blonde hair glinting in the flickering lantern light. Joana’s dark locks fell around her shoulders, her gaze sharp and focused. Both women knew the stakes, and the tension between them was palpable. The air grew thick with anticipation as Elmer continued, “The rules are simple. You fight until one of you can’t go on. No holds barred, no weapons. Just your wits and your strength.”
With a dramatic flourish, Elmer gestured to the large wooden tub in the center of the makeshift arena. “But first,” he said, his voice dripping with excitement, “let’s make things interesting, shall we?” He snapped his fingers again, and a burly man approached, carrying a bucket of thick, viscous oil. “Strip down to nothing,” he ordered, his eyes glinting with perverse glee. “This is going to be a wet and wild show.”
Mrs. Herring’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t hesitate. With trembling hands, she began to unbutton her blouse, her eyes never leaving Elmer’s. Billy watched, his jaw clenched, as she revealed her naked breasts, the bruises from the night before standing out like a map of her suffering. Mrs. McConnell followed suit, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes on the prize of freedom that lay just beyond the horizon of this depraved town.
The burly man approached them with the bucket of oil, his lecherous gaze lingering on their bodies. Billy felt a surge of anger but knew that this was part of the game they had to play. He nodded to Mrs. Herring, and she took a deep breath, stepping closer to the tub. The man dipped a rough cloth into the oil, and with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, he began to slather it over her body, his hands lingering on her breasts and hips. Mrs. Herring’s eyes squeezed shut, her teeth gritted, but she didn’t make a sound.
Mrs. McConnell was next, and she endured the same treatment with a stoic silence that spoke volumes of her resilience. The oil made their skin glisten in the flickering lantern light, their curves and bruises standing out in stark relief. Billy’s heart ached for them, but he knew that showing any sign of weakness would only make things worse. He watched as the other two wives were similarly oiled up, their bodies on display for the men’s perverse amusement.
Elmer’s eyes danced with excitement as he took in the sight of the four naked women. “Now, this is what I call a real fight,” he said, his voice dripping with lust. “No more hiding behind clothes and pretenses. Just raw, unbridled passion and power.” He took a sip from his flask, the whiskey warming his throat as he savored the anticipation.
Billy stepped forward, his own eyes never leaving Elmer’s. “Why don’t you hold these matches every day?” he asked, his voice steady. “Seems like you’d make a fortune off the bets.”
Elmer’s smile grew even wider, his eyes glinting with greed. “Ah, now that’s a thought,” he said, stroking his mustache. “But where’s the fun in that? Besides, I’ve got other businesses to run in this town. But,” he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you seem like a man who knows a good bet when he sees one. I’ve got a feeling you’d do well in my circles.”
Billy nodded, playing along. “Maybe,” he said, his eyes never leaving Elmer’s. “But for now, let’s stick to the task at hand.”
Elmer’s smile grew even more predatory. “Ah, yes,” he said, his eyes glittering with excitement. “The main event.” He turned to the four women, who now stood in a line, their bodies glistening with oil, each one a picture of determination and defiance. “Find your opponent,” he instructed, his voice echoing through the barn. “Let the games begin.”
Mrs. Herring stepped forward, her eyes locking onto Joana’s. The taller, dark-haired wife stood with the confidence of a seasoned fighter, her muscles rippling with power. Mrs. Herring knew she had her work cut out for her, but she also knew she had the support of her makeshift family behind her. She took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest, and approached the center of the arena. Joana’s eyes never left hers, a smirk playing on her lips as she waited for the fight to begin.
The air was electric as the two women faced each other, their bodies gleaming with oil. Mrs. Herring knew that she was the underdog here, but she also knew that she had a secret weapon: her burning desire for freedom and the love of her newfound companions. She took a defensive stance, her eyes never leaving Joana’s, watching for any sign of an attack.
Joana struck first, her hand shooting out like a whip, aiming for Mrs. Herring’s face. Mrs. Herring ducked, the air around her sizzling with the promise of a brutal battle. She countered with a swift kick to Joana’s stomach, the sound of impact resonating through the barn. Joana grunted but didn’t fall, instead using the momentum to sweep Mrs. Herring’s legs out from under her. They tumbled into the straw, limbs entangled, each fighting for dominance.
Rose and Mrs. McConnell faced off, their eyes a mix of anger and desperation. The crowd of men around them had grown, their eyes greedy as they watched the oiled-up women ready to clash. The blonde wife lunged, her muscles straining with the effort of her charge. Mrs. McConnell braced herself, her body a testament to the years of hard work and suffering she’d endured. As Rose’s body slammed into hers, she let out a grunt, but she didn’t go down. Instead, she wrapped her arms around the other woman’s waist and hoisted her into the air, her bruises from the night before screaming with pain.
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the barn as the two couples fought, their bodies moving in a blur of oil and sweat. The stench of male desire hung in the air, but it was the scent of freedom that fueled Billy and the ladies. Each blow, each grunt, each gasp was a declaration of war against the tyranny of Dreadworth and the men who sought to own them.
Mrs. Herring and Joana rolled across the makeshift battleground, their nails digging into each other’s skin, leaving trails of red against the slick oil. Joana’s smirk had vanished, replaced by a snarl of pure competitiveness. Mrs. Herring’s eyes were narrowed, her jaw set as she struggled to get the upper hand. Every move was calculated, every ounce of strength pushed to the limit as they grappled in the dirt.
Rose, now in the air, wrapped her legs around Mrs. McConnell’s neck, her powerful thighs squeezing tighter and tighter. Mrs. McConnell’s eyes bulged, but she didn’t panic. Instead, she used the leverage to slam Rose into the ground, her head bouncing off the hard-packed earth. The crowd roared, their bets flying through the air like confetti in a tornado of depravity.
The fight raged on, the barn a cacophony of grunts and cheers. Billy watched from the sidelines, his heart in his throat. He knew that the outcome of this contest would determine their futures. Win, and they could claim one of Elmer’s wives and double their earnings. Lose, and they’d be back to square one, their dreams of escape crushed under the weight of Dreadworth’s oppressive regime.
The struggle between Mrs. Herring and Joana grew more intense, their bodies moving in a dance of raw power and desperation. Joana’s superior size and strength seemed to give her the edge, but Mrs. Herring’s sheer will to win shone through. Her eyes were alight with the fire of rebellion, and she pushed herself to the brink, refusing to yield.
Mrs. McConnell and Rose rolled in the straw, each trying to gain the upper hand. Rose’s fists rained down on Mrs. McConnell’s face, her rings cutting into the soft flesh. Mrs. McConnell’s eyes watered, but she didn’t relent. Instead, she wrapped her hands around Rose’s throat, squeezing with everything she had.
The air grew thick with tension, the fate of the contest hanging in the balance. It was clear that no one was going to give up without a fight. The stakes were too high, the prize too great. The battle for freedom had never been so real, so visceral.
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