Betrayal
Careful who you trust
The man stirred groggily, his head clouded and heavy. The crackling of burning wood was hot and loud, with the billowing smoke enveloping him, making his eyes tear up as they fluttered open. The cabin was on fire!
Less than an hour earlier, the cottage had been filled with Lorraine’s throaty moans. On her knees she had suckled greedily at the penis in front of her, using her hands to cup the testicles and stroke the shaft. If there was one thing she was good at, it was making men happy, and Voyle was a very happy man right then. He stood there in just his undershirt, pants thrown off to one side and gun belt slung around the bedpost as she worked her magic.
Urgently, he had pulled her up and flung her onto the flimsy bed. He’d groped around trying to get under her petticoats before hoisting the whole kit and caboodle up and over her waist, burying her face in the moth-eaten blanket that covered the threadbare sheets. Voyle was impatient, so with little ceremony spat into his rough palm with which he proceeded to moisten her vulva. She’d encouraged him, grunting like she was in heat until he finally nudged against her opening and rammed into her. They were in exactly that position, Voyle’s hands on her waist and his rod deep inside her, when the rickety door had swung open.
Jedd stood framed in the doorway, unable to believe what he was seeing. Lorraine. His Lorraine. Fornicating with another man. Everything he had previously heard whispered about her came flooding back to him now.
Lorraine was what the men at the saloon called a minx. Cute, petite and willing to try anything at least once, she had made Madam Bessie a fortune in the three years she’d been working at the cat house since moving out west. She’d been attracted to Jedd’s quiet and unassuming nature. He, in turn was bemused as to why a worldly, pretty girl like Lorraine would want anything to do with a drifting cowpoke like himself. Together they’d planned her escape from the whorehouse, eluding Madam Bessie’s hired guns for weeks until they’d landed up on the far side of the Rockies in this unassuming little town.
Lorraine moved first, grabbing Voyle’s pistol from where it hung and shooting straight at the dark mass backlit by the cold winter sun. Jedd fell face-first, landing inches away from the fireplace. The last thing he remembered was Lorraine stooping by the embers, blowing him a kiss before nonchalantly tossing a glowing log onto the bed.
“Damn that harlot,” cursed Jedd as he stumbled towards the half-empty horse trough, holding his lower abdomen where he was still slowly bleeding out. For three years Lorraine had lived with him, in sin, as he worked his fingers to the bone building a home for them. Now it was all gone, as was Lorraine, with what was left of the little gold he had scraped from the very bowels of the unforgiving earth, allowing him to buy the ranch. The cows had stampeded and she’d taken the horses, most likely to sell.
The log walls of the cottage crashed down in a flare of sparks and sheets of flame as Jedd limped sluggishly away, with only a broken heart and the shirt on his back to show for his thirty-four years of existence.
This is an abridged version of what was submitted for Round 5 of last year’s Smut Marathon. Thanks to Posy for her help in editing this.
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