Badlands Bloodsport

Fargo gave her a puzzle-headed look. His eyes, direct as gun muzzles, scanned over her shapely body and the impressive swell of alabaster breasts rising out of her bodice. There was enough weak sunlight now to appreciate the mass of auburn curls and the huge, wing-shaped, emerald-green eyes.

“I don’t expect to be,” he assured her. “Unless you mean this is all a tease?”

“Oh, English girls don’t tease. We are very practical and businesslike in erotic matters. But that is just my point. I expect, of course, that you’ve never been with a British woman?”

Fargo fought to keep a straight face. As a matter of fact, several English fillies had romped in Skye Fargo’s stable of international conquests. However, he saw no reason to disappoint Jessica’s belief that she was the first.

“Never,” he lied.

“By disappointed,” she explained like an earnest schoolteacher, “I mean that the English woman is not as . . . demonstrative in the act of love.”

“Hmm,” Fargo said, feigning rapt attention to his lessons. “That word’s a bit far north for me.”

“Well, it means that, unlike, say, French or American women, we do not cry out in ecstasy or urge the man on, that sort of thing. We consider it unseemly to be wanton and lewd. And with so many thin walls in England, we certainly don’t wish to be loud. We just quietly enjoy the act—if, of course, it is enjoyable.”

“Are English men the same way?”

“Oh yes, as a rule. Quiet and determined, they are. I was with a man once who made a noise when he banged off—but he apologized after.”

“Banged off?”

“Yes, you know—when he finished.”

“Ah.” By now Fargo needed every ounce of willpower to keep from laughing outright.

“Just so you’ll understand,” she concluded. “You are used to these unrestrained American women. I shall probably be enjoying it even if it doesn’t seem so.”

“Well, we’ll both do our best,” Fargo said. “Try not to fall asleep before I bang off.”

She punched his arm. “La! Is that you or an iron bar in that sleeve?”

The iron bar, however, was in Fargo’s trousers, forcing him to limp slightly.

“By the way,” he said, “do English women allow themselves to bang off?”

“Well, yes, but always quietly. Now, again, don’t take this personally, but I’ve had very little success in that regard. A few times when I’m by myself, but never with a man. Still, the act can be quite diverting—you know, a change of pace from the humdrum of the wake-a-day world.”

“Sure,” Fargo said, wondering if a knothole in a fence might do just as well.

They reached a hollow between two sand hills and Fargo saw a pocket of grass. “Why don’t we change the pace right here?”

“I’ll put down my chemise to lie on,” she said. “Help me with the stays of my dress?”

Fargo moved behind her to loosen them, then lifted the wool dress over her head. She folded it neatly, then shimmied out of her chemise and stood before him naked. Fargo realized instantly why she required no corset—she had barely a double handful of waist. The gently rounded stomach tapered into a silky bush of mons hair only a shade darker than the hair on her head.

But her tits especially galvanized Fargo’s attention. He had seen too many fine pairs to ever rate them, but these definitely belonged on the top shelf. Despite their impressive size, they rode high and came directly at him like artillery shells. He swirled his thumbs against the perky nipples, feeling them stiffen.

“Yes, that’s rather nice,” she said demurely.

Fargo, however, wasn’t about to stop there. He wrapped both hands around one breast and lowered his mouth onto the nipple. He had learned long ago that most women liked a bit of nipping, and while sucking them he made fast, tiny bites.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, taken by surprise. “I see! Yes, well, that’s quite nice!”

Fargo had already grounded his Henry. Now, as Jessica lay atop her chemise and opened her legs for him, he dropped his gun belt. She watched with curiosity as he opened his fly and dropped his trousers in a puddle around his ankles. Her curiosity was transformed into utter astonishment as she stared at his blue-veined erection.

“Why, the magnificent beast!”

“Oh, I like to think of him more in the way of a friendly pet,” Fargo assured her as he lowered himself into the saddle. He spread her chamois petals open and pushed into her slick tunnel, parting the elastic walls with his large staff.

She caught her breath on a hissing intake. “Oh, Skye, it feels like you’re up to my navel! I’ve never been filled like this! Yes, yes, oh, it’s so big it’s rubbing my pearl!”

Her voice rose several octaves as she did exactly what she said she wouldn’t: cry out and egg him on. Fargo was delighted to find out that his English muffin was a pumper, thrusting up hard each time he came down. And a squeezer: The strong muscles of her cunny kept squeezing him as if his man gland were a child’s ball, thrust and squeeze, thrust and squeeze, until he felt the familiar tingling in his groin that meant imminent eruption.