Lesbian Cowboy: Erotic Historical

Posted on 1:45 pm in Cowboy, Erotic, Historical, Queer, Story | 0 comments

Wherein Mr. Charlie Bluff Captures a Murderer in Rawlins and Earns the Favors of Miss Pretty Delaney. Copyright © 2008 Teresa Wymore. All rights reserved. “Lesbian Cowboy” is a fictional work of speculative fiction.

On the wall of the stable hung coal shovels, a hayfork, and rakes. A large drill with a broken bit had a thick cobweb holding it to the wall. The breeching of a harness hung in disuse, its leather cracked and peeling. Sticks and considerable stones littered the ground near the door. My mind tried to fashion everything I saw as if I were a cobbler for feminine pleasure. Nothing seemed right. Not until I noticed the tip of a dusty milk bottle peeking from under a horse stall.

I snatched up the empty quart of Whiteman’s Cream Line and wiped the open end across my shirt. The tin bail-top lid had been snapped off and the wide glass neck was smooth.

Miss Jinny had been craning her neck to watch me, her arms braced against the stall, her cotton drawers bunched at her ankles and her bare ass high in the air. “What do you plan to do with that, Mr. Cortland?”

After pushing her dress farther back, I rolled the bottle’s texture of embossed words and rings around her skin. “I aim to screw you with it, Miss Jinny.”

Her eyes roamed down my body to my trousers. “Why not use what God Almighty has given you?”

I rubbed the bulge and smiled, reluctant to confess that the Good Lord had blessed me with ambition and a steady gun hand such as proper society allows no woman. The sausage that I had planned to eat for lunch slipped down my trouser leg, so I leaned forward to distract Miss Jinny.

“Or maybe you need a lickin’.”

When her eyes widened, I dropped to my knees and tongued her furry slit until she was so spent of pleasure that she lay breathless in the hay. With panting words, she asked, “How long will you be staying, Mr. Cortland?”

I set my hat on my head and adjusted the sausage. “A day. Two.”

“Why then, I’d be pleased to see you again when you saddle up your horse.” I stayed mum, so she added, “I’m sure I could convince Daddy to discount you a quarter for the help you gave fixing the busted stall.”

I glanced at the stall she had finished nailing before I arrived. Then I winked and left.

Five years ago in Kansas City, Sealy McGuill killed my horse and used her as bait to poison wolves. But that wasn’t why I was in Rawlins, although finding McGuill here and the unexpected benefit of tasting his randy daughter went a long way to paying the debt for Skinny Gin. No, I was in Rawlins because the machinists of the Union Pacific railway went to strike, and the unionists took every chance to beat the devil out of the immigrant scabs hired to replace them. Such beatings required men of low character, which is why I knew I’d find my man, Bill “Jackjaw” Bivens, in Rawlins.

The panic of ‘83 had scared the railway into bankruptcy, so now the high officials had to fight towns looking to make favorable contracts, corrupt politicians looking for votes, and unionists looking to start a war over contracts. The town marshal was in with the union, looking the other way whenever the anarchists took to killing scabs. Bodies had been washing up along the river for months.

That’s where I came in. My name of late is “Charlie Bluff” and I work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency…

Available From Cleis Press.