Marshal Sam Tilman leaned against the rough wooden post of the town’s main thoroughfare, his eyes scanning the restless crowd. The whispers grew to a murmur, then a crescendo, as folks spilled out of the saloon like ants from a kicked-over anthill. Dust danced in the air, stirred by the flurry of booted feet and the occasional horse’s snort. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting elongated shadows that stretched down the unpaved street, hinting at the chaos to come.

Above the din, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer grew more insistent, echoing the town’s palpable tension. Shopkeepers hastily rolled down their awnings, exchanging furtive glances. They had heard the rumors too—the kind that spread faster than a prairie fire in a dry summer. The saloon, known as “The Painted Lady,” had always been a place of refuge for the rougher elements, but this was something new, something that could change the very fabric of their town.

The saloon itself was a stark contrast to the rest of the town—painted a vivid red that seemed almost to pulse with the anticipation of the night’s events. Its swinging doors creaked with every gust of wind, beckoning the curious and the brave. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, whiskey, and the faint undercurrent of something darker—the scent of the forbidden. The bar was packed, and the faces that looked back were a tapestry of excitement, fear, and a hunger for something that lay just beyond the confines of their everyday lives.

Marshal Tilman stepped into the saloon, his hand hovering near his holster. The chatter hushed momentarily as the weight of his presence settled on the room. He approached the bar, where the owner, an old woman named Myra ‘Tracker’ Pollard, was busy polishing a shot glass with a dirty rag. She looked up, a sly smile playing at the corner of her red mouth.

“Marshal,” she greeted, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You ain’t here to tell me to call off the show, are ya?”

Sam’s gaze swept the room, taking in the makeshift stage at the far end, the velvet curtains drawn tight, concealing the evening’s main attraction. “Myra, you know as well as I do that this isn’t the kind of entertainment our town’s used to.”

Myra’s smile widened, revealing a set of teeth that had seen better days. “Times are changing, Sam. People need a little spice in their lives.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Besides, Mrs. May ‘Faith’ Freeman’s a willing participant. I bought her fair and square from the auction house. She’s got a spirit for performance that’d put any of those highfalutin’ theater folks to shame.”

The marshal’s jaw tightened. He knew all too well the stories of the auction house—how it dealt in more than just livestock and property. The thought of a woman being bought and sold like chattel was enough to make his blood boil. But the law was the law, and if she’d signed her life away willingly, there wasn’t much he could do.

Myra, sensing his discomfort, slid a piece of parchment across the bar. “Look for yourself,” she said, her tone smug. “It’s all aboveboard.”

Marshal Tilman picked up the paper, his eyes scanning the neatly scripted lines. The document was stamped with the town seal and signed by the government official in charge of the local auction house. It stated that Mrs. May ‘Faith’ Freeman had been legally purchased by Myra Pollard for the purpose of entertainment. His stomach twisted at the cold, impersonal words that stripped away the dignity of the woman in question. It was a stark reminder of the harsh realities that existed in the Wild West, where the law often turned a blind eye to the suffering of the vulnerable.

He met Myra’s gaze, the room’s raucous energy momentarily forgotten. “This doesn’t give you the right to exploit her,” he said firmly.

Myra’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m just giving the people what they want, Sam. You can’t blame a businesswoman for that. Beside of that, I’ve pay the tax for her trading and the tax become your salary,”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, and he knew she had a point. He’d seen townsfolk with a thirst for the macabre, for the thrill of the forbidden, and this was just another notch on that belt. But still, something about it all didn’t sit right with him. He folded the paper and slid it back towards her. “Just remember, Myra,” he said, his voice low and warning, “I’ll be watching. If things get out of hand, or if anyone gets hurt, it’ll be on your head.”

Myra’s smile grew a little more forced. “Sam, darling,” she said, her voice like a caress, “You know as well as anyone that this is just entertainment. Pure and simple. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Marshal Tilman didn’t answer right away, his eyes still on the saloon owner. “But is it right?” he asked finally.

Myra’s smile faded into a scoff. “You’re sounding like a preacher now, Sam. This is the West. We don’t bother with right or wrong, just what keeps us alive.” She leaned back, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “And let’s not forget, the law’s on my side. If the government says I own her, I can do as I please. She’s my property.”

The marshal’s hand tightened around his glass. “The law may say you own her, but it doesn’t give you the right to treat her like an animal.” His voice was firm, a rare hint of anger seeping through.

Myra’s eyes glinted with something close to amusement. “Sam, you’ve always had a soft spot for the damsels in distress,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “But you know as well as I do that the government doesn’t care about feelings or rights. It’s all about the gold in our pockets and who’s got the most of it.”

Marshal Tilman took a slow sip of his whiskey, the liquid burning a path down his throat. “The law might be on your side, Myra, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find other ways to make sure Miss Freeman’s treated decently.”

Her laugh was like a bark. “You’re a lawman, not a knight in shining armor. You stick to your guns, and I’ll stick to my business.”

Sam pushed off the bar, the room’s noise crashing back around him. His eyes fell on a young girl, no more than fifteen, serving drinks to the patrons. Her cheeks were flushed, and she kept her gaze down, avoiding eye contact. He knew her, the daughter of a widowed ranch hand, forced to work here to keep food on the table. He made a mental note to check in on her later.

Walking back outside, he felt the heat of the day dissipate as the sun dipped further below the horizon. The townsfolk had gathered in tight-knit groups, their voices a mix of excitement and apprehension. The saloon’s doors swung open again, and a man with a megaphone stepped out onto the wooden boardwalk.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he bellowed, his voice carrying down the street. “Get ready for the show of the century! The Painted Lady’s got a real treat for you tonight!” The crowd stirred, a mix of anticipation and unease rippling through their ranks. The man with the megaphone continued, “Feast your eyes on the beauty and the beasts! The untamed spirit of the West, live and in the flesh!”

Mrs. May ‘Faith’ Freeman emerged from the stage background, flanked by two black men who looked more like they belonged in a wrestling ring than on a saloon stage. They were muscular and tall, dressed in nothing but loincloths that barely contained their excitement. The townsfolk gawked, some in awe, others in horror. Faith herself was a stark contrast—pale and slender, with a fiery red mane of hair that fell to her waist. She wore a scandalously short dress that left little to the imagination, her green eyes flashing defiantly as she scanned the audience.

Myra Pollard trailed behind, her steps measured and confident. She wore a black corset that pushed her ample breasts up to eye level, and a skirt that swished around her ankles with every step. A gold necklace with a large diamond pendant gleamed in the dim saloon light, a stark reminder of the wealth that had allowed her to purchase her human entertainment. She clapped her hands together, drawing the audience’s attention to the stage.

“Welcome, one and all, to a night you’ll never forget!” she announced, her voice a mix of Southern drawl and the hardened edge of a woman who’d seen too much. “Tonight, we’re going to show you something that’ll make your blood sing and your heart race! The kind of show that’ll make you feel alive!”

The crowd murmured among themselves, a mix of excitement and disbelief. Faith took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the effort. Her eyes searched the room, looking for a friendly face, but all she found was a sea of leering stares and whispers. She knew what was expected of her—what she had agreed to. But as the reality of her situation settled in, her heart raced, and she felt a trickle of fear slide down her spine.

Myra strutted up to her, a wicked glint in her eye. “Take it all off, sweetheart,” she instructed, her voice like a whip crack in the stillness of the saloon. Faith’s hands trembled as she began to unbutton her dress, one by one. Each button released was met with a crescendo of cheers and catcalls from the audience. With a final tug, the dress fell to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her chemise and bloomers. Myra stepped forward, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she reached behind Faith and untied the laces. The chemise fell away, revealing her full, creamy breasts and the fiery red hair that matched the saloon’s name.

The crowd roared, a mix of lust and shock resonating through the room. Faith felt a rush of heat flood her cheeks as the cool air kissed her bare skin. The two black men on stage looked on with hunger in their eyes, their muscles rippling in the dim light. Myra sauntered around her newest acquisition, her eyes raking over Faith’s body as if she owned every inch of it—which, technically, she did.

“Look at this fine piece of property,” Myra drawled, her voice thick with satisfaction as she stepped closer to Faith. She reached out, her fingernails sharp as she pinched and squeezed Faith’s nipples, eliciting a gasp from the young woman. “Ain’t she a sight for sore eyes?”

The crowd hollered, a mix of lewd comments and cheers that made Faith’s stomach churn. She felt like a piece of meat on display at a market, her body being poked and prodded by strangers. Myra’s hand traveled down to the apex of her thighs, sliding under the fabric of her bloomers. Faith’s breath hitched as a cold finger invaded her most private place, a finger that didn’t belong to her. The room was a blur of faces, all watching, all eager for the main event.

With a dramatic flair, Myra withdrew her hand, a smear of wetness glinting on her fingertip. “Looks like she’s ready for the real show!” she shouted, holding up her hand for all to see. The crowd howled, and Faith’s face burned with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She clenched her fists, trying to ignore the unwelcome intrusion.

“Now, now,” Myra chuckled, “don’t be shy, Miss Freeman. You signed the contract. You knew what was coming.” She leaned in close to Faith, whispering in her ear, “And remember, the more you fight, the more they’ll enjoy it.”

The crowd grew more rabid, their eyes glued to the stage as Myra announced, “This here show, it ain’t gonna end until Mrs. May ‘Faith’ Freeman’s sweet little pussy is wrecked for the night!” Her words were met with a roar of approval, and Faith felt a knot of dread coil in her stomach. This wasn’t just a performance; it was a declaration of her utter degradation.

Myra beckoned to the eager women in the audience, their faces a mix of curiosity and depravity. “You fine ladies, come on up! Get a taste of the forbidden before the main course!” A few of them stumbled over benches and chairs, their eyes gleaming with excitement. They surrounded Faith, who was now standing in nothing but her bloomers, her legs trembling with fear and humiliation.

The first woman to step forward had a greedy look in her eye. She was a regular at The Painted Lady, known for her insatiable appetite for gossip and scandal. She reached out, her hand shaking with anticipation, and cupped Faith’s mound. The room grew quieter as the woman’s finger dipped into the fabric, eliciting a whimper from the bound woman. Faith felt a tear slip down her cheek as the woman’s rough touch invaded her most intimate place.

Another woman, younger and prettier, followed suit, her curiosity piqued by the sight before her. She was new to the town, a widow seeking refuge from a life of hardship. Her touch was softer, almost tender, but no less invasive. Faith’s breath hitched as the woman’s finger slid along her slit, coating it in her own wetness. The crowd watched with bated breath, a few men leaning in closer to get a better view.

A burly man at the bar shouted, “Get on with it! We didn’t come here to watch a bunch of old hens peck at her!” His words were met with laughter and agreement. Myra winked at him, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She knew exactly how to keep her patrons on the edge of their seats.

With a dramatic flourish, Myra stepped in front of Faith, blocking the other women’s advances. She leaned in, her breath hot against Faith’s ear. “You’re going to lie down now,” she murmured, her voice a seductive command. “And you’re going to let them see just how much of a whore you really are.”

The crowd’s excitement grew tangible as Myra pushed Faith towards the stage. She could feel their eyes on her, stripping away any last vestige of dignity she had left. The wood was cool against her skin as she lay down, her legs trembling with the effort to stay closed. Myra’s hand was unyielding, pressing down on her stomach until she could feel the woman’s fingers slip into her bloomers, touching her wetness.

“Open up,” Myra murmured, her voice a dark caress. Faith’s legs parted with a reluctance that was met with jeers and laughter from the audience. She felt the fabric of her underwear being torn away, the sound of the ripping fabric echoing in her ears like a gunshot. The cool air of the saloon hit her exposed sex, and she bit back a scream of humiliation.

Myra’s hand remained between her legs, her fingers teasing and probing. “You see, folks?” she called out, her voice a mix of pride and possession. “Already wet and eager for it.” The crowd roared their approval, and Faith’s cheeks burned with a mix of anger and embarrassment. She tried to clamp her legs shut, but Myra was too strong. The woman’s other hand pressed down on her stomach, forcing her back onto the stage with a thump.

The two black men on stage stepped closer, their eyes ravenous as they took in the sight of Faith’s exposed body. They were both well-endowed, and the sight of them made her feel even more vulnerable. They circled her, stroking their own erections as the crowd’s chant grew louder: “Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her!” It was a primal sound, a demand for the ultimate spectacle.