Going West E-Book

Nicola Nichols

• Herausgeber: Boruma Publishing
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Going West

Leseprobe

GOING WEST

Little Jill: A Western Whore

BOOK ONE

Nicola Nichols

Copyright © 2021 Nichola Nichols

All Rights Reserved

1

As the stagecoach bounced along the rough trail, heading westward from the only home I’d ever known, I stared out the window blankly. I rode in a stupor, juggling mixed emotions over the days it took to travel from West Virginia to Indianapolis. For the few weeks it would take for me to reach the New Mexico Territory, I was on an adventure.

“Ever been to Indianapolis?” the man sitting across from me asked.

I turned to look at him, noting that the man, who had joined the stage at one of the stops the stage made in a medium-sized town, struck me as pleasing—reasonably attractive, well-dressed, with pleasant features. I guessed him to be in his late thirties.

“No. I’ve never been this far west before,” I said, turning to look at him. I left out the part about this being my first time away from home. I smiled at him, wanting him to know I appreciated the distraction from my dreary thoughts. We were the only passengers on this part of the journey, and he seemed pleasant enough. “I’m Warren Lewis,” he said.

As he waited for me to reply, I made the odd decision to lie. I can’t say why I lied, but when I saw him expecting me to tell him my name, that’s exactly what I did. It wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference to anyone if he knew my name was Alice Rogers. He’d have no idea who Alice Rogers was, in fact she was a nobody and perhaps that’s why I lied. Anyway, I said, “I’m Jill Landers.” Landers was my maiden name and Jill was just a name I like a lot better than Alice.

“Are you off on an adventure, Miss Landers?”

He’d assumed I was single, probably because I didn’t say “Missus Landers.” A proper woman would immediately correct such a mistake. I didn’t, again unsure of my motives, but seeing the flirtatious look in his eyes, I was glad I hadn’t.

Warren told me he was a banker. From Chicago, he said. Once he had my attention, I found his attempts to engage me in conversation both charming and flattering. My downcast mood could soak up all the charm and flattery that came my way.

So, I said a few words to encourage him, but listening more than talking. I worried that if I told him about myself, the truth, he’d quickly realize that I was little more than a woman whose life was out of whack. I was young, recently married, and headed west, leaving home for the first time in my life.

Thinking about my life, especially my marriage, summoned up the all-too familiar agony that surrounded everything to do with my marriage, and with Dave Rogers, my husband. I didn’t love the man. According to my mother, that didn’t matter in the least. He was what she called ‘a good man.’

My parents ran a feed store in the same town where Dave’s father farmed a scrubby plot of land, eking out a subsistence living. Dave was seven years older than me and I barely knew him. We had nothing in common. He seemed to love farming and I was a town girl. I had fallen madly in love with a boy named Billy Briggs. He loved me too. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had rugged good looks. His father was a gunsmith. Both of his parents were incredible people, and Billy courted me with a fever that excited me.

Suddenly my future held promise.

The night he proposed to me (and I accepted immediately) was the first time I let him (or any boy) lift my skirts and, as my mother put it, have his way with me. We were both nervous, excited, and lovemaking was new, awkward, and wonderful. I’d seen animals mate many times, naturally, but touching a man’s cock for the first time was thrilling. And when he spread my legs and moved between them, taking me, filling me with it, well, everything about it was so good and I couldn’t understand why my mother referred to sex with words that made it sound like an unsavory but unfortunately necessary duty a woman performed for her husband.

We planned our wedding for the summer, before Daddy’s store would be overwhelmed with orders from farmers getting ready for planting. I was floating on a cloud, dreaming of living with him. Billy was learning his father’s trade and we would both help at the gun shop. The family lived in the back and we would have our own room.

One night, a gang of robbers came through town. Pursued by a posse, they went to Billy’s family’s house to steal guns and ammo. When one of them slapped his mother, then tore her clothes off, intending to rape her, Billy jumped to her defense. Another one shot him dead. Then they all raped his mother.

Just like that, my life had ended too.

I went numb. I barely remember the funeral. I barely remembered anything for a week. Billy’s parents shut the shop and moved back east.

When I finally emerging out of my haze, Dave was there. At first it was to offer condolences, to be helpful. But soon he began paying court to me. My parents invited him to dinner. I found him unappealing, but I was nice to him because he was nice to us all. Dull, but nice.

I didn’t pay it all much attention. Dave was agreeable company and nothing more. Then, one day my mother told me that Daddy was arranging for me to marry him. When she saw the look on my face, she patted my arm. “Time you got over Billy and got yourself hitched. Mooning around will make you nothing but a spinster. Young Dave is a hard worker,” Mom said. That was the highest praise she ever could give a man besides saying he was god fearing. Not much else mattered to her.

There weren’t a lot of marriageable men around, and it wasn’t like a ‘soiled’ woman had any other future. “You are lucky the man wants to marry you, considering,” Pa said, meaning that he was sure I wasn’t a virgin.

Swept along by it all, with little future and no hope, I married him.

After the ceremony, Dave took me to the hayloft on his parent’s farm. “My wife,” he said as if it that was amazing. Then he put me on some hay, hiked up my skirts, and pulled down my knickers. With me lying there, looking up at him, he dropped his pants and grabbed his hard cock. His eyes blazed as he kneeled between my legs and worked it into me. Then he grabbed my ass and drove it in deep. Wildly aroused, Dave fucked me until he came, shooting his seed inside me.

All that had gotten me somewhat aroused, but it had been too fast, and I was still far from satisfied. I looked at him, hoping he would lie down beside me. I wanted him to use his hand, run them over me and either make me come that way or play with me until his prick grew hard again and he could take me another time. But, to my dismay, he stood and put his cock in his pants again. “We best get to work. Chores won’t wait.”

I was in a fog again as he headed for the fields and I went into the kitchen to help his mother. When she saw the look on my face, she nodded. “Most men are just like the bulls in the meadow — they take their pleasure and figure the cow got what she needed.”

Finally, I understood why my mother felt as she did. These god-fearing men had no interest in enjoying sex with a woman. It was just spending his seed in her. She did it to have babies.

Over the next weeks, life settled into a dismal routine. Every other day or so, as we went to bed, I could expect Dave to grab me, yank up my nightdress, stick his cock in me and thrust wordlessly until he came. Then we were done. He planted his seed in my cunt with the same dull sense of duty that he showed planting seed in the ground.

It had been so different with Billy. He’d whispered endearments and loved touching me. Sex with him had involved romance and a real visceral lust that was exciting all by itself. He’d loved staring into my eyes when he had his cock inside me, and we’d share the excitement of that coupling.

At the end of that first week, Dave went to town with his Pa. When they came back, they were all excited about the Homestead Act of 1862. “The government says a person can apply for land — 160 acres per person. And it’s free. You just got to be willing to work it for five years.”

That announcement gave me a chill. The life of a farm wife was hard and lonely. And unfulfilling. I looked at his mother and saw a hollowed-out shell of a woman, bitter and hard.

The hard truth was that I had liked living in town and being around people. This farm was bad enough. If we were homesteading, we’d have no neighbors.

As my mother was eager to remind me when I told her what Dave had in mind, a woman went where her husband led. For me, isolated acreage out west had the allure of a five-year prison sentence. It would be a hardscrabble existence at best.