ARIZONA 1851
Willie Mac was known for being unknown; an enigma of sorts. Some legends say Willie was spawned from the union of two mythical creatures yielding the stealthy quickness of a jackrabbit with a tongue as slick as a rattlesnake and just as venomous.
Whenever thunderclouds rolled down the hillside, scorching the earth with strikes of forked lightning and skies opened to rain fury across the prairies, Willie Mac was sure to be nearby. There were multiple facets and fabrications to the legend of Willie Mac, but two facts remained constant across the land; Willie Mac was born Wilhemina Macintosh, and she was deadly.
No soul dared to challenge Willie, truth was woven too deep into those campfire tales. No soul, that is, except for the woman with emerald eyes and nimble fingers, the one known simply as Pearl.
Pearl and the peacemaker hanging off her womanly hip followed Willie’s trail of cold bodies and emptied safes from town to town. It was a Tuesday and the latter side of dusk by the time Pearl caught up to Willie in a sleepy little town called Cave Creek. She tossed the reins of her trusty mount around a hitchin’ post and sauntered cautiously into Rick’s Hotel and Tavern.
The air inside was musty, filled with hazy smoke and not much cooler than the desert breezes outside. Her spurs jangled as she crossed the hardwood floor. She clanked one boot on the bar’s foot rail and nudged up the brim of her hat.
“Drink?” Squeaked the mousy, mustached barkeep.
“Whiskey.”
He placed a shot glass in front of her and poured the liquor from a greasy, clear glass bottle.
“What brings ya ‘round these parts?”
“What room’s she in?”
“We got lots’a girls to choose from, you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Don’t toy with me old timer,” Pearl slid her Colt .45 onto the bartop.
“I don’t reckon I caught yer name?” His voice was shaky.
“I don’t reckon I gave ya one.” She spun the six-shooter to reveal her signature pearl encased handle.
“Now look, we don’t want no trouble, ya hear?”
“What room?” she repeated slowly.
“Parlour three.”
Pearl glided up a curved staircase and found parlour three. She eyed a young girl at the end of the catwalk who approached carrying a hoop of keys. Pearl flipped her a ten-cent piece and directed her to unlock the door.
Inside, the air smelled sweet, like honeysuckle. She carefully scanned the room, her black-eyed susan at the ready. Off to her right, there was a soft splashing noise. She followed it.
Around the corner, Pearl encountered a white clawfoot tub running parallel to the wall, the head facing away to look out a picture window. The water inside was milky with bath salts and held one Wilhemina Macintosh. Her flaxen hair draped over the back of the tub almost touching the floor. One leg hung out, her hand paddled the water like a child. Hardly the killer from the tales.
Pearl made no effort to be silent. She strutted into view and steadily pointed her six-shooter right at Willie.
Willie greeted the threat with a grin.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again babe.”
“You thought you could fuck me, run off with my money, and I wouldn’t hunt you down?”
“I’m not like that anymore. Muh days of griftin’ are over.” Willie pointed to a side table with an open bottle of whiskey and a map. “There’s a gold rush in California. Headin’ there in a day or two.”
“Think you can find it before they do, huh?”
“No, babygirl. Only way to get rich off the gold rush is peddlin’ shovels and pickaxes. That bottle there, that’s muh pickaxe.” She rose to stand in the tub. “Honey whiskey, tastes as sweet as that lil pussy of yours.” The silky water made her slender body shine and glisten; as captivating as the myths and just as stunning as Pearl remembered.
Her pulse quickened, not from fear, from arousal.
“Come on baby,” she stepped out of the tub. “We used to have fun.” Willie dove deep into Pearl’s emerald green eyes and slipped the forty-five from her loosening grip. “Whatta ya say? For ole time's sake?” She whispered and pushed in with a penetrating kiss.
One hand still holding the gun, her other worked swiftly to unfasten Pearl’s holster and trousers. Their tongues snaked. The kiss broke and Willie lowered to the floor, pulling pants and undergarments along. Her nose found Pearl’s full bush and buried in to let the long curly hairs tickle her upper lip. She breathed in the musky scent of arousal and pungency of life on the dusty road.
Willie dragged the cool steel tip of the Colt across Pearl’s clit, pulling heat from her swollen nub. She gasped. Willie expertly spun the weapon in her palm and slid the smooth opalescent handle against the throbbing lips that hovered before her. A string of Pearl’s excitement attached to the butt of the gun as it was lowered. Willie was quick to follow the trail, pushing her tongue in its place. Pearl was quick to fire.
The two women fucked throughout the night, almost till dawn. Soft sessions of tongue lapping built into fervent face fucking rides, like bucking on a wild bronco till its spirit broke. Eventually, the road, the whiskey, and the torrent sex caught up with Pearl and she was out cold.
A cutting ray of morning sun poked through the room’s lacey window coverings and startled Pearl awake. Still groggy, still sore from the night’s animalistic sexual adventures, she lurched to the side. Willie Mac was gone. Pearl’s satchel of cash, also gone.
The bottle of honey whiskey and map to California however, still loomed tauntingly on the side table, along with a note:
Sorry babygirl, but leopards never change their spots. For what it’s worth, I spared your life once again. You’re so very lucky that pussy tastes like honey. W.
