Soldaderas 3 (Patreon)

Bea could tell she wasn’t going to come.

There was nothing wrong with her lover—not much right with him either. But he had a well-sized dick and knew something about what to do with it. He had even begun with some foreplay: petting her, tickling her, kissing her long and sensuously. Taking full advantage of being able to touch her luscious body and doing about as well as Bea would, if she were forced to pleasure herself.

She had put up a playful fight, slapping him and scratching him to tell him she wanted to be fucked like an animal, not like a woman. And he had obliged, almost. She would’ve liked him to have ripped her corduroy pants off her instead of simply pulling them down around her knees. His thick, powerful fingers had twined in the lace of her frilly pink bloomers and Bea knew he was thinking of what a lady she was, how feminine she was, as if her cunt wasn’t right there proving exactly what he’d gotten his hands on.

Then her bloomers had gone down too and there’d been her black-thatched womanhood. A wild gleam animated his eyes at the sight; it felt good to be appreciated. But not too good. He had licked her down there and although he apparently liked the taste enough to keep tasting it, Bea kept wondering when he would do something with the hardness in his pants.

Be careful what you wish for—he was on her soon after, flinging his solid prick inside her. Bea tore into his back with her fingernails, wanting it harder, wanting him to at least try to break her instead of acting like she was some dandy or greenhorn just on account of the sheath he’d found between her legs. She’d bitten his ear and pulled his hair, but it was clear nothing she could do could dissuade his vision of her as some fragile flower to be sniffed, not an equal partner or worthy opponent.

Still, she tried to enjoy herself. He went into her like an ingot into a forge, getting hotter and hotter the more time he spent inside, and she cried out as each of his inches probed into her. Searing waves of sensation lit up her body and she rose a little ways towards her peak, but Bea knew she wouldn’t make it there before—

He grunted, finally achieving some admirable savagery now that his end was in sight. He dropped his face between her bare breasts to be cushioned on their fullness and Bea felt flickers of false hope she tried not to invest herself in.

Maybe if there were another man to take her, right after this one had staked his claim. Like bank robbers, each taking his share from her treasure vault… the thought was intoxicating, even if she doubted she could find more than one eligible mate in any town she’d been to North of the Border, or South for that matter.

A pounding fist shook the door in its frame. He turned his head to see who it was, stilling his loins, but Bea hammered him in the kidney.

“Don’t stop, you fool!” she cursed. “I’m not starting over again! Finish this thing!”

He continued rutting her, though he winced with pain as the motion aggravated the injury she’d just done him. Still, he got to keep enjoying her pussy and the bed kept rattling against floor and wall. Bea didn’t know what else he could want from her.

The door pounded again. “Jake, you in there?” roared a voice from the other side.

Jake? Bea looked down at the man on top of her.

She supposed that was his name.

“Answer him before he breaks the door down, cabron!”

Jake bit his lip and summoned his wits while just managing to continue the pleasurable rhythm Bea was savoring. “Yeah, yeah I’m in here! What do you fucking want, Charles?”

“Not what I want, ya damn sycher! It’s Curry! He’s at the doc’s; got shot up! Open up, will ya? What is it, afraid I’ll see yer titties?”

Bea rattled Jake’s ribs with her fist. “Say something!”

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Jake promised. “Tell me why in shit I should bother first!”

“Hot-shit gambler mucked him out! Took Havisham’s diamonds right off him, if you can believe that!”

Jake stopped. Bea felt his erection wilt inside her. Her shuddering, responsive folds given less than nothing to grip as Jake came out of her.

“Someone robbed Havisham?”

“I don’t know. The sawbones gave him some laudanum to do away with the pain. He ain’t making much no sense. But if we find this gambler, there’ll be a choice finder’s fee from someone.”

Jake piled out of bed to throw his clothes on. Bea could only lay there, considering shaming him by pleasuring herself to completion, but it didn’t seem like there’d be any point. It wouldn’t feel as good as real sex and he didn’t seem liable to notice.

It also occurred to her that any scoundrel worth his salt should be thinking of stealing the stolen for himself, not returning it, but the idea didn’t even seem to cross Jake’s mind.

“Puta madre,” she snarled under her breath, not that Jake heard even that. She pulled the sheets over her fine breasts so as not to distract Jake. So long as he’d forgotten all about her, he might say something that would prove profitable.

“What’s this gambler’s name?” Jake asked.

***

“Conner Kent,” Bea said.

She stood provocatively in the doorway leading from the bedroom, her shapely body gleaming in the sparse lamplight of the curtained inn. Any man’s eye, no matter how faithful to God or matrimony, would get one look at her and be unleashed to freely roam her sensual frame, from her plump breasts down her lean stomach to her round hips and firm buttocks.

The only thing that could possibly pull a man’s gaze away was her gorgeous oval face, framed by long silky hair that exotically touched her delicate shoulders with the green flash of a sunset at sea. But whether it was her pretty oval face or luscious body that was observed, the response could only be tumescence—which was exactly as Bea wanted it.

Tora picked her face up from her pillow. She’d gone to bed early, but still wasn’t a morning person. The Spaniard was almost pure Anglo, with white skin paler than the sheets she slept on and hair so blonde it could’ve been spider-silk.

“Que?” Tora asked, picking herself up from the sweat-sticky sheets. She seemed congenially incapable of adapting to the desert heat and could be counted on to wear rebozo, camisa, y enagua from head to foot, while Bea wore a more workmanlike traje de manta.

“He’s a gambler,” Bea explained, quickly throwing on her outerwear while tossing Tora’s clothes onto the bed for her to dress in. “He won money—a lot of money—from Havisham.”

“Havisham!?” Tora cried.

Bea frowned. She knew the name rung a bell. It made her feel estupido that Tora remembered the man and she didn’t. She breezed on. “Yes. Men are going to kill him to take the money back. But, if we were to save him, that money could instead go to la Revolución.” Bea snapped to attention to do honor to the name of her brotherhood, even if she were a sister. “Viva la Revolución!”

Tora too went rigid with patriotic fervor. “Viva la Revolución!” she roared, though it sent her covers skinning off her sweat-soaked slip, which was already too insubstantial to color her body anything but the buttermilk it naturally was…

Flushing, Tora changed into her street clothes, as if there were anyone there other than Bea to see her.

Bea wondered if Tora’s timidity wasn’t rubbing off on her. Now that she thought about it, she could not recall having a single orgasm since she’d partnered up with Tora, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. There was something about Tora’s delicacy, her disapproval, her oh-so-ladylike gentility…

No matter. The war was more important. So long as Tora did her job and backed her up, Bea couldn’t care less whether she ever came again.

After all, at least mousy little Tora wasn’t enjoying herself any more than Bea was…

As Tora dressed, an eye came away from a knothole in the wooden wall. There might be nothing more to see, but there was plenty to hear. And now that Bea and Tora could offer him no more viewing pleasure, the innkeeper looked forward to seeing the Sheriff…