The man stirred groggily, his head clouded and heavy. The crackling of burning wood was hot and loud, with the billowing smoke enveloping him, making his eyes tear up as they fluttered open. The cabin was on fire!
Less than an hour earlier, the cottage had been filled with Lorraine’s throaty moans. On her knees she suckled greedily at the penis in front of her, using her hands to cup the testicles and stroke the shaft. If there was one thing she was good at, it was making men happy, and Voyle was a very happy man right then. He stood there in just his undershirt, pants thrown off to one side and gun belt slung around the bedpost as she worked her magic.
Urgently, he pulled her up and flung her onto the flimsy bed. He groped around trying to get under her petticoats before hoisting the whole kit and caboodle up and over her waist, her face buried in the moth-eaten blanket that covered the threadbare sheets. Voyle was impatient, and with little ceremony spat into his rough palm which he then proceeded to moisten her vulva with. She encouraged him, grunting like she was in heat until he finally found her opening and rammed into her. They were exactly in that position, with his hands on her waist and his rod deep inside Lorraine, when the rickety door swung open.
Jedd stood framed in the doorway, not believing what he was seeing. Lorraine. His Lorraine. Fornicating with another man. Everything he had heard whispered about her now came flooding back to him.
Lorraine was what the men at the saloon liked to call a minx. Cute, petite and willing to try anything at least once, she had made Madam Bessie a fortune in the three years she’d been there since moving out west. She’d been taken by Jedd’s quiet and unassuming nature, who in turn was bemused as to why a worldly, pretty girl like her would want anything to do with a drifting cowpoke like himself. Together they’d planned her escape from the whorehouse, eluding Madam Bessie’s hired guns for weeks until they’d landed up on the far side of the Rockies in this little unassuming town.
She moved first, grabbing Voyle’s pistol from where it hung and shooting straight at the dark mass backlit by the cold winter sun. Jedd fell face-first, landing inches away from the fireplace. The last thing his betrayed mind remembered was Lorraine stooping by the embers, blowing him a kiss and nonchalantly tossing a glowing log onto the bed.
“Damn that harlot,” cursed Jedd as he stumbled towards the half-empty horse trough, holding his lower abdomen where he was still slowly bleeding out. Three whole years Lorraine had been with him living in sin as he worked his fingers to the bone to build a home for them. And now it was gone, as was Lorraine, with whatever little gold he had scraped from the very bowels of the unforgiving earth.
The cows had stampeded and she’d taken the horses, likely to sell. The log walls of the cottage crashed down in a flare of sparks and sheets of flame as Jedd limped away sluggishly, with only a broken heart and the shirt on his back to show for his thirty-four years of existence.
An abridged and edited version of this was submitted for Round 5 of this year’s Smut Marathon. This was the first finished draft before cutting down to fit the 400 word limit.