The Fair Belle [pt 1/??]
anonymous
July 22 2010, 05:09:27 UTC
The first thing he notices is her height. He isn’t short by any means, but she doesn’t need to crane her neck to look him in the eye, and that even without the added lift of her heeled boots. Maybe she is not pretty, more striking, foreign, with heavy-lidded blue eyes and golden hair elaborately arranged with feathers and silk flowers, a strong profile marked by a long straight nose and angled jawline. She reminds him of a catamount, beautiful, unknowable, dangerous, and he is a fool for falling in love with a whore.
He feels out of place here, surrounded by wealthy gentleman and elegant courtesans, only a humble cowboy who managed to save up a bit of extra cash, but he sweeps off his hat as she approaches, sketching a quick bow.
“Bonsoir, monsieur Jones,” she murmurs huskily from behind a lace fan, curtsying slightly. “How may I be of service?”
He grins at her and says, “Well, I ain’t no monsieur, miss. You can just call me Alfred or Al, I sure as heck won’t mind.”
She lowers the fan, and her smile is enigmatic. “Certainly, Al. My name is Frances, and I am honored to be your companion for the night.”
Holding out a gloved hand for him to take, she then steers him towards a private nook, where they may drink and converse before getting around to their intended transaction. The conversation usually only lasts a few minutes, Blonde Marie’s girls are ever in high demand, but time somehow slips away as the young man regales her with his adventures on the cattle trails. It sounds like Alfred F. Jones has done just about everything there is to do in the wilds of the West, trying his hand at herding longhorns and taming broncos, traveling from the Texas hills to the Kansas plains, and what he has lived through would fill up more than one lifetime, and he is just eighteen years old. Frances knows only the brothel in Paris, the ship that brought her to America, the endless series of trains that abandoned her here in the parlor house, but for him, she laughs and gasps and sighs and occasionally asks him for the meaning of a word she does not know. Her smiles are almost not faked, and he feels like a king.
Or maybe it’s the champagne talking, but he doesn’t give a damn about that, either.
They make it up to her room eventually, prompted by a meaningful glare from the madame. Alfred gallantly scoops her into his arms, grunting a little at her weight and the way her petticoats fluff into his face. Frances plants a kiss on his cheek, causing him to blush and stumble, and they collapse onto the bed in a shower of laughter.
Alfred tells her she's beautiful and smothers her face with kisses because he just can’t get enough of how she smells and tastes and feels underneath him. He had been thinking of her since he first arrived into town and saw her tossing stale cake crumbs to the doves in the grey light of dawn, had loved her since then, with all the wild heedless passion his heart possessed.
Her eyes glitter wickedly in the candlelight as she runs her hands down his sides, and that soft, sensual chuckle hums through his skin and bones like wildfire. Suddenly, Frances curls up and wrestles him onto his back with surprising strength, and though he blinks in confusion to see her smiling down at him, he thinks that he’s gonna like this. He’s never even met a French person before, at most a Creole or two from the bayous, but he is impressed, and interested. Real interested…
The Fair Belle [pt 2/??]
anonymous
July 23 2010, 05:14:44 UTC
“Is this your first time here, Al?” Frances asks as she slips the headdress out of her hair, letting the wheat-blonde waves cascade over white shoulders. She peels her gloves off with slow deliberate movements while Alfred stares and stares and tries to make his mouth work again.
“Y-yeah,” he admits, trying to look nonchalant, but the weight of her body centered on his groin is making this difficult, and he barely hears her reassuring him that she is a professional over the sound of his thudding heart. Still a little giddy from the champagne, Alfred goes nearly cross-eyed watching her untie the black ribbon around his collar and then slide it free.
“Please, hold your hands up,” she whispers, dangling the ribbon in between her fingers.
“Huh? Err… Oh. Oh.”
He reluctantly moves his hands from where they are resting at her corseted waist, and gracefully, Frances binds his wrists to the iron railing of the bedstead, knotting the tie just loose enough to let the blood circulate. If Alfred hadn’t been blushing before, he sure is now, and he wonders if it’s not too late to say this is actually his first time with a woman, ever. But despite the nervous fluttering in his stomach, he is still grinning, and Frances smiles encouragingly at him in return.
With her knees on either side of his waist, she arches over him and brushes her lips against his, just the lightest hint of a kiss, and Alfred can’t help himself from straining at his bonds, needing to take her into his arms. Murmuring something in French, she places a hand on his chest to hold him down, causing him to pout a little as he falls back onto the pillows. Such adorable excitability from her handsome customer does not go unnoticed, and for the first time in a long time, Frances decides to indulge herself. To hell with Marie. For now, she will be his lover and no one else’s.
Even though he could probably break free of the tie at any time, Alfred is much too busy watching Frances as she kisses a line down his chest. He shudders each time her warm lips press against his skin, he groans aloud each time her teeth nip at his flesh, and when she finally reaches the trail of blond hair at the hem of his jeans, his cock is straining painfully hard against the denim.
She glances up and catches his wide-eyed gaze, then rubs the palm of her hand hard against his groin, and Alfred swears frantically under his breath because that felt too damn good to be real.
“G-god, Frances…” he mumbles, bucking his hips.
Saying nothing in reply, Frances starts to unbuckle his belt and unfastening his jeans, sliding the material away just enough to free his erection from its confines. The cool air brushing against his cock makes Alfred hiss a little, and Frances’ next move makes him react even more violently.
“H-hey, what are you doing?!” he chokes out, and she blinks at him, fingers still wrapped around his length.
“What you are paying me to do, darling.” He may be just a boy, but sweet Alfred is definitely a man where it counts most, Frances thinks, and moves her hand admiringly up his cock, imagining how it would feel deep inside her.
The Fair Belle [pt 3/??]
anonymous
July 24 2010, 03:34:04 UTC
Alfred tries to keep the embarrassing whiny noises from tumbling out of his mouth, but the way Frances is stroking and pumping away, her fingers squeezing a tight loop around his erection, it’s so much better than his own hand, and he’s afraid he’s going to come right now. At last, Frances lets go, that gorgeous smile still lingering on her cherry red lips, and he doesn’t get to finish breathing a sigh of relief before she goes down on him in a creak of whalebone and rustle of petticoats. She plies her tongue against his straining cock, lapping up the precum dripping down the underside, and when she hums in enjoyment of this task, Alfred gasps and curses again as he yanks again at the piece of cloth keeping his arms trussed up. He can’t even get out the words to beg for more, but he doesn’t need to, because Frances senses he is close, and she obliges him by wrapping her lips around the head of his cock and sucking as she takes more and more of him into her mouth. She moves her head back a little for every time she inches forward, hollowing her cheeks and pressing hard against the salty flesh with her tongue, looking up to catch a glimpse of his flushed pretty face, his sky-blue eyes now squeezed shut, his mouth in the shape of an “oh” as he groans in pleasure.
Then Alfred comes, yelling Frances’ name hoarsely as he jerks and shudders and spills into her hot, welcoming throat, and she swallows around his cock as she drinks him down. He is panting so hard for breath as he collapses onto the mattress, his vision still full of stars, his bones turned into molasses.
“Well… fuck, that was… that was amazing, Frances,” he says breathlessly, laughing a little.
Frances does not answer, she instead finishes licking him clean, kisses his softening cock one last time and allows herself a few seconds to compose herself. Tucking her hair back behind her ear, she runs her tongue over her teeth and lips, and Alfred has to bite back another whimper at such a natural, sensual gesture.
“It was my pleasure, cher Alfred,” she finally murmurs, regarding him through long pale lashes, and just the way she says his name is like another orgasm in itself.
Though he struggles against sleep, Alfred can not keep his eyes from closing, his tense muscles relaxing, and the last thing he remembers is Frances untying his arms and rubbing the feeling back into his hands, and he drowsily wonders how she got to become a whore in the first place with such a flat chest.
[Haha, this is so embarrassing to write. I promise there's a tiny bit of plot to this porn, not much, but I tried.]
The Fair Belle [pt 4/??]
anonymous
July 25 2010, 16:31:47 UTC
He dreams of making love to Frances, who is straddled in his lap, moving deliciously slow upon his erect cock amidst the drifts of petticoats, uttering quiet breathy gasps as she lifts herself up and then pushes back down hard. Alfred is not quite so poised, and he squeezes her thin body close to his chest, growling as she clenches around him, savoring the strange and incredible feeling of being inside her like this. Thankfully, it isn’t long before her breaths become more shallow and erratic, movements growing more unrestrained once she frees herself from the last bit of self-possession that had marked her actions this night.
A beautiful thing when he rocks his hips, pushing deep into her one last time, crying out as he releases, when her eyes snap open upon reaching climax, and their breaths intermingle in each other’s desperate open-mouthed kisses as they float back down to reality.
Perhaps stupidly, he confesses that he loves her in the silence afterwards, but Frances simply smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine happiness. She nods and says something in French that he hopes means “I love you, too,” but more likely means “You are an idiot.”
He’ll take either one.
The dream ends abruptly as Frances shakes him awake, hair flawlessly rearranged, face again powdered white, lips a stunning scarlet. She tells him he must leave now, she expects another whore and her patron will be wanting to use this room soon. His brain can barely function as he fumbles in his vest and hands her a small pouch full of gold dust, which she tucks away into her bodice with a whispered thanks. Unable to resist the temptation, Alfred leans forward to kiss her, and even though her eyes widen slightly, she lets him press his lips against her own soft mouth. Then she breaks the kiss and turns away abruptly, leaving him stumbling after her.
Downstairs in the main parlor, Frances concludes their business in a low, crisp tone, and though she invites him to come back anytime, her guarded expression does not show much hope of that occurring. Still in a daze, Alfred bids her farewell, and zombie-like, shuffles off to his own room at the inn, to sleep the rest of the night hours alone.
He remembers when he wakes up late the next morning, when his belly growls loudly for sustenance and his groin feels like it’s been pounded into shreds by a hammer. It’s a good pain, he tells himself, because it means he is now a man, thanks to the attentions of the sweetest belle in the entire West.
The other cowboys from the trail nod and wink at Alfred when they see him, occasionally slapping him on the back and making him wince, which in turn makes them laugh. They rib him mercilessly about his good luck, to have the balls to get into Blonde Marie’s and leave with them as well, but for once he only grins and does not boast, out of some need to keep that night to himself.
“Hah, well, as long as you didn’t make the mistake of fallin’ in love with her.”
“Better to kick a rattlesnake than to fall for a whore. At least the rattlesnake won’t rob ya blind!”
Still laughing amongst themselves, the cowboys leave him to his meal, but the sausage and cornbread sit in his stomach like a lump of rock. Alfred doesn’t disbelieve them, he hasn’t survived this long by being that stupid, yet whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Frances with him, in a home they’ve made for themselves, happy and free and loved.
It’s only a dream, maybe, but why shouldn’t he try to make it come true?
The Fair Belle [pt 5/??]
anonymous
July 26 2010, 01:15:30 UTC
The plan might have worked if Frances apparently existed. Alfred never sees her again after that night, and the only one who goes out to feed the doves at dawn is a stubbly-bearded man he thinks might be the cook. Not that he has been watching the parlor house that religiously, he just happens to ride by it after running early morning errands.
The cook waves to him once or twice during these encounters, and he waves back politely, but the man is not Frances.
Then it occurs to Alfred that he ought to ask the belles if they knew where their sister disappeared to. He catches two of them as they walk through town in their fashionable Parisian dresses and parasols, but they do not know a tall twenty-something prostitute with blond hair and blue eyes by the name of Frances. Je ne sais pas, they murmur, and giggling, they ask if he would like to have their company instead. Alfred makes a noncommittal answer, but he escorts them back to the parlor house anyway.
He slips into the main room, looking eagerly at the crowd of pretty faces for Frances. Not seeing her anywhere, Alfred bounds up the stairs to find the room she had taken him to, the one at the end of the hall, he recalls, but the lights are off and the door is locked. He asks a passing servant girl about the owner of the room, where she might be, but the girl shrugs.
“None of the ladies use that room, sir. It is reserved for the Count, and what company he keeps.”
This is making less and less sense, and he wonders if he had paid a month’s worth of salary for a fantasy. “The Count?” he repeats dumbly.
“Oui, the Count.” It is the madame, and Alfred is hard put to not shrink under the coldness of her glare. She says, “Sir, if you do not have the money to hire one of my girls tonight, then please remove yourself. You are disrupting my business with your foolishness.”
He frowns, but is not deterred from his mission. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I have to find Frances, and no one is telling me anything! Please, is there any way you can help me?”
Blonde Marie snaps her fan shut in disapproval. “That I can not do,” she declares firmly. “Did it not occur to you that the women here have their secrets to keep? Leave, or I shall call my men to throw you out.”
But Alfred notices the madame does not say that Frances doesn’t exist, and that right there makes him break out into a grin. “All right, but can I at least give you a message to give to her, if she returns?” He presses a small envelope into the madame’s gloved hands and thanks her before dashing off.
Frances never really leaves his mind, and he keeps asking about her even when he has to leave town for another job. He knows that they will meet again in the future, which is why he buys a golden ring for that day and tucks it into the pocket of his vest, so that it will lie over his heart.
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 5/??]
anonymous
July 26 2010, 01:37:11 UTC
Okay, the end of the last update, when Al is thinking about Frances's flat chest - I grinned all over my stupid face. Because I like a genderbend, and normally more than I like crossdressing, but for some reason it really works well here....I dunno. I just really like the twist, and I love your writing style, and cowboy!Al is ADORABLE. Adorable I tell you.
I have so many guesses I want to ask you about Like is Frances/Francis the cook? AND the Count? Was the dream something that really happened? I'm totally going to go and re-read the beginning now to see if there was something I missed, LOL.
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 5/??]
anonymous
July 26 2010, 02:40:03 UTC
Lol, I'm glad you are entertained by this so far! As for your other questions, I'm gonna say you honestly haven't missed any secret clues. I write pretty straightforwardly, no tricks, so it shouldn't be a huge surprise out of nowhere.
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 5/??]
anonymous
July 26 2010, 04:37:09 UTC
Hahaha, more than entertained, I'm enthralled. And I'm a very dense reader, often missing on what authors intended and then going d'oh and feeling very stupid afterwards, so I am extra-stoked I'm actually correct here. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeee~ :DDDD
The Fair Belle [pt 6/??]
anonymous
July 30 2010, 03:11:16 UTC
The other cowboys notice that he is a little quieter than before, though not by much. He is still earnest and hard-working, and he laughs and jokes as much as ever, but the dreamy look in his eyes shows the world that he is deeply in love. They shake their heads in sympathy sometimes, wondering why a good kid like him should fall for a soiled dove like her. But if anyone could make it work, why, it would be Alfred F. Jones.
The cattle drive ends a month later in southern Colorado, and the cowboys part ways in the town, most of them heading for the saloon, looking forward to cool beer and flirty dancers. Instead of joining them, Alfred drops off a letter to his folks back home in St. Louis and another one to his twin brother in college. He doesn’t tell them about the woman he has met, not yet, though he expects to someday. His parents would not approve, and Matthew would tell him he’s crazy, but they said the same things when he first told them he was going to Texas to work on the trails. But he is certain they will come to love her as he does, and he thinks about it no more.
It is too late in the day to start his journey back to Arizona, and with no other choice left, Alfred pays for a room at the inn with his newly earned cash. Luckily, he doesn’t have to share his room with another guest, so he goes ahead and takes full advantage of the privacy. Stripping off his dusty work clothes and hanging his hat on the rickety chair, he blows out the candle and hops into the rather dingy bed. Alfred takes a few minutes to relax, bringing up the precious few memories he has of Frances, recalling her musky fragrance, the creamy luster of her skin, the glossy curl of her hair. Above all he remembers her beautiful half-smile, and her eyes, so dazzling blue and so, so sad. What he would do to make her happy and chase away whatever haunted her thoughts, he thinks, and in his dreams, Frances turns to him, and the fragile, yearning look on her face dashes his poor heart into pieces.
Tonight, she is not dressed like a whore, in corsets and satin and lace, she instead wears a white nightgown made of cotton too light and sheer to truly cover her nude body, and he can see the hints of her nipples through her dress, the shadow between her legs as she glides towards his bed. Just imagining her like that is enough to make him hard, although some of the details of her form look hazy in his inexperienced mind. His callused hands make a poor substitute for her soft and slender ones dancing over his skin, but he pretends that her tender mouth presses against his, while in reality, he takes his cock in hand and begins stroking firmly.
Now Alfred sees himself pressing her into the sheets, and she smiles up at him, guiding his hands over her lean body with her own, leading them down, down to where her long legs meet and God, she is so hot and wet and ready for him. Frances helps him press his fingers into her, teaches him how to touch the spots that make her gasp, and his mouth bone-dry, he watches in fascination as she moans his name and begs her pretty cowboy to fuck her. Faster and faster he pumps his throbbing cock, imagining himself kneeling between her spread legs, entering her, pushing into her surprisingly tight body. He whispers her name over and over, a mantra, a prayer, as he fucks her into the mattress, and she is writhing and keening and clutching at the headboard with one hand, her dress clinging close to her sweaty skin, her nipples outlined clearly through the material. Somehow Alfred is able to hold out for another few minutes as he furiously pumps away, and then finally he comes, white-hot semen splashing over his hand and stomach, even as he fills the panting Frances to the brim. He tries to keep her there with him for just a little longer, so they could embrace and kiss and do what lovers do, but already she is fading away like a ghost, and soon he is alone again.
Re: The Fair Belle [pt 6/??]
anonymous
August 4 2010, 13:59:16 UTC
This is excellent. Sexy and sweet, the descriptions work perfectly setting the mood, and the bittersweet feeling is perfect for the story. Al is absolutely adorable, and Frances fascinating! I wonder what's going on. maybe the Duke, a la Moulin Rouge, has got an special interest in her. I hope it's ArthurXD
'green arachnid'. ReCaptcha is totally somewhere elseXD
The Fair Belle [pt 7/??]
anonymous
August 8 2010, 04:44:59 UTC
Alfred slumps exhausted onto the soiled sheets, stretching out his cramped legs, blinking back the tears of frustration. He reaches groggily for a handkerchief and wipes the cum off of his skin with a disappointed sigh.
God, he misses her, and dreams of making love to her don’t satisfy his need as much as just seeing her in truth would. She could accept or reject his love, but he vows to not rest until he can find her and be with her one more time.
The next morning, he leaves town with a saddlebag of supplies, his tall bay horse prancing and eager to go. He prays that Frances had received the message, that she is safe, that she is waiting for him, but he knows from experience that praying doesn’t get anything done. He sets off towards Arizona without looking back, his heart so full it hurts, and yet he is smiling.
The first town he stops at is a small mining settlement in the hills, Drywood Gulch, barely big enough to be called a town. Alfred has been through here before and figures it wouldn’t hurt to ask around, just in case.
“The girl steal your money or something?” the sheriff asks gruffly around a wad of chewing tobacco.
“Not exactly,” Alfred answers with a laugh. “I just thought if anyone would know, it’d be you, sir.”
“We-ell, can’t say that I’d know for sure. The French girls mostly keep to themselves, when they’re not keeping to themselves, if ya know what I mean.” The sheriff spits out his tobacco as Alfred nods, and he continues, “And I sure as hell ain’t about to go poking my nose in the Count’s affairs.”
Again, that mysterious man. Alfred has to ask, “Who is this Count? What does he have to do with anything?”
“He’s in charge of the girls who come here from France, so I’m told. We see his carriage come through town maybe a couple times a year. He never causes any trouble, strangely enough, and well, I don’t want to start none if I can help it.”
“I see,” Alfred says, looking thoughtful. “Well, thanks for the information, sheriff, I appreciate it.”
The sheriff claps a hand on his back and wishes him luck, though his tone sounded frankly skeptical. Alfred just grins and thumbs his hat as he makes his way back to his horse. He hasn’t really learned much that’s useful, but the Count… it sounds like he should keep an ear out for him as well, because surely he must have known Frances.
Ever hopeful, Alfred hesitates in front of the Drywood Gulch’s parlor house. He dismounts, spurs jangling, but before he could make up his mind on whether or not to go inside, the door crashes open and a burly drunk miner sails out into the street. Alfred stares at the man slumped unconscious on the ground and then at the shabby yet bustling brothel, not certain if he would find someone like Frances here, but determined to make sure.
Once he enters the parlor house, he doffs his hat to the painted ladies playing cards in the sitting room and says, “Excuse me, I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge here.”
“Aww, that don’t sound like any fun,” one of the whores teases, looking at him up and down boldly. “C’mere, boy, you can play with me. I’ll make you a man!”
The women, painted and corseted and crass, laugh uproariously as he turns red and tries to come up with a reply. At last they take pity on him and a freckle-faced girl points to where the madame is eyeing him suspiciously. Alfred hurries over to her, thinking this was probably not one of his better plans.
The Fair Belle [pt 7b/??]
anonymous
August 8 2010, 04:47:06 UTC
Though it turns out this madame no longer had any French girls in her pay, she grudgingly names two nearby brothels that the Count had visited in the past, places where he could find someone of Frances’ description. She asks if Alfred would like to stay here in the company of one of her girls - for a price, of course - but he declines the offer, stating that he must leave.
“You’re a queer one,” she says, shaking her head exasperatedly, probably irritated that he didn’t want to part with his money. “A whore isn’t worth being faithful to, no matter how pretty she may look in a dark room. You’ll break your heart over her, and even if you do find her, she won’t remember you out of the countless men she’s slept with. I’m telling you, boy, do yourself a favor and forget about her.”
Alfred clenches his fists, feeling the weight of the golden ring warm against his chest, the sum of his hopes and dreams. She may be right, but he believes in Frances, and most of all, he believes in them.
“I thank you for the concern, ma’am, but I got to find this out for myself.”
[Notes: There was indeed a French madam named Blonde Marie who worked in Tombstone, Arizona. The Count, the man who oversaw the French madams, apparently existed as well, although I'm keeping his identity unknown, you're free to guess. Thanks for reading, everyone, and I apologize for the dangerous amounts of sappiness in these latest chapters, the next chapters should be less… bad. Maybe.]
He feels out of place here, surrounded by wealthy gentleman and elegant courtesans, only a humble cowboy who managed to save up a bit of extra cash, but he sweeps off his hat as she approaches, sketching a quick bow.
“Bonsoir, monsieur Jones,” she murmurs huskily from behind a lace fan, curtsying slightly. “How may I be of service?”
He grins at her and says, “Well, I ain’t no monsieur, miss. You can just call me Alfred or Al, I sure as heck won’t mind.”
She lowers the fan, and her smile is enigmatic. “Certainly, Al. My name is Frances, and I am honored to be your companion for the night.”
Holding out a gloved hand for him to take, she then steers him towards a private nook, where they may drink and converse before getting around to their intended transaction. The conversation usually only lasts a few minutes, Blonde Marie’s girls are ever in high demand, but time somehow slips away as the young man regales her with his adventures on the cattle trails. It sounds like Alfred F. Jones has done just about everything there is to do in the wilds of the West, trying his hand at herding longhorns and taming broncos, traveling from the Texas hills to the Kansas plains, and what he has lived through would fill up more than one lifetime, and he is just eighteen years old. Frances knows only the brothel in Paris, the ship that brought her to America, the endless series of trains that abandoned her here in the parlor house, but for him, she laughs and gasps and sighs and occasionally asks him for the meaning of a word she does not know. Her smiles are almost not faked, and he feels like a king.
Or maybe it’s the champagne talking, but he doesn’t give a damn about that, either.
They make it up to her room eventually, prompted by a meaningful glare from the madame. Alfred gallantly scoops her into his arms, grunting a little at her weight and the way her petticoats fluff into his face. Frances plants a kiss on his cheek, causing him to blush and stumble, and they collapse onto the bed in a shower of laughter.
Alfred tells her she's beautiful and smothers her face with kisses because he just can’t get enough of how she smells and tastes and feels underneath him. He had been thinking of her since he first arrived into town and saw her tossing stale cake crumbs to the doves in the grey light of dawn, had loved her since then, with all the wild heedless passion his heart possessed.
Her eyes glitter wickedly in the candlelight as she runs her hands down his sides, and that soft, sensual chuckle hums through his skin and bones like wildfire. Suddenly, Frances curls up and wrestles him onto his back with surprising strength, and though he blinks in confusion to see her smiling down at him, he thinks that he’s gonna like this. He’s never even met a French person before, at most a Creole or two from the bayous, but he is impressed, and interested. Real interested…
[to be continued...]
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
“Y-yeah,” he admits, trying to look nonchalant, but the weight of her body centered on his groin is making this difficult, and he barely hears her reassuring him that she is a professional over the sound of his thudding heart. Still a little giddy from the champagne, Alfred goes nearly cross-eyed watching her untie the black ribbon around his collar and then slide it free.
“Please, hold your hands up,” she whispers, dangling the ribbon in between her fingers.
“Huh? Err… Oh. Oh.”
He reluctantly moves his hands from where they are resting at her corseted waist, and gracefully, Frances binds his wrists to the iron railing of the bedstead, knotting the tie just loose enough to let the blood circulate. If Alfred hadn’t been blushing before, he sure is now, and he wonders if it’s not too late to say this is actually his first time with a woman, ever. But despite the nervous fluttering in his stomach, he is still grinning, and Frances smiles encouragingly at him in return.
With her knees on either side of his waist, she arches over him and brushes her lips against his, just the lightest hint of a kiss, and Alfred can’t help himself from straining at his bonds, needing to take her into his arms. Murmuring something in French, she places a hand on his chest to hold him down, causing him to pout a little as he falls back onto the pillows. Such adorable excitability from her handsome customer does not go unnoticed, and for the first time in a long time, Frances decides to indulge herself. To hell with Marie. For now, she will be his lover and no one else’s.
Even though he could probably break free of the tie at any time, Alfred is much too busy watching Frances as she kisses a line down his chest. He shudders each time her warm lips press against his skin, he groans aloud each time her teeth nip at his flesh, and when she finally reaches the trail of blond hair at the hem of his jeans, his cock is straining painfully hard against the denim.
She glances up and catches his wide-eyed gaze, then rubs the palm of her hand hard against his groin, and Alfred swears frantically under his breath because that felt too damn good to be real.
“G-god, Frances…” he mumbles, bucking his hips.
Saying nothing in reply, Frances starts to unbuckle his belt and unfastening his jeans, sliding the material away just enough to free his erection from its confines. The cool air brushing against his cock makes Alfred hiss a little, and Frances’ next move makes him react even more violently.
“H-hey, what are you doing?!” he chokes out, and she blinks at him, fingers still wrapped around his length.
“What you are paying me to do, darling.” He may be just a boy, but sweet Alfred is definitely a man where it counts most, Frances thinks, and moves her hand admiringly up his cock, imagining how it would feel deep inside her.
[to be continued... later...]
Reply
ReCatchpa:zombie Jacob. (an abandoned Twilight subplot?)
Reply
Then Alfred comes, yelling Frances’ name hoarsely as he jerks and shudders and spills into her hot, welcoming throat, and she swallows around his cock as she drinks him down. He is panting so hard for breath as he collapses onto the mattress, his vision still full of stars, his bones turned into molasses.
“Well… fuck, that was… that was amazing, Frances,” he says breathlessly, laughing a little.
Frances does not answer, she instead finishes licking him clean, kisses his softening cock one last time and allows herself a few seconds to compose herself. Tucking her hair back behind her ear, she runs her tongue over her teeth and lips, and Alfred has to bite back another whimper at such a natural, sensual gesture.
“It was my pleasure, cher Alfred,” she finally murmurs, regarding him through long pale lashes, and just the way she says his name is like another orgasm in itself.
Though he struggles against sleep, Alfred can not keep his eyes from closing, his tense muscles relaxing, and the last thing he remembers is Frances untying his arms and rubbing the feeling back into his hands, and he drowsily wonders how she got to become a whore in the first place with such a flat chest.
[Haha, this is so embarrassing to write. I promise there's a tiny bit of plot to this porn, not much, but I tried.]
Reply
A beautiful thing when he rocks his hips, pushing deep into her one last time, crying out as he releases, when her eyes snap open upon reaching climax, and their breaths intermingle in each other’s desperate open-mouthed kisses as they float back down to reality.
Perhaps stupidly, he confesses that he loves her in the silence afterwards, but Frances simply smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine happiness. She nods and says something in French that he hopes means “I love you, too,” but more likely means “You are an idiot.”
He’ll take either one.
The dream ends abruptly as Frances shakes him awake, hair flawlessly rearranged, face again powdered white, lips a stunning scarlet. She tells him he must leave now, she expects another whore and her patron will be wanting to use this room soon. His brain can barely function as he fumbles in his vest and hands her a small pouch full of gold dust, which she tucks away into her bodice with a whispered thanks. Unable to resist the temptation, Alfred leans forward to kiss her, and even though her eyes widen slightly, she lets him press his lips against her own soft mouth. Then she breaks the kiss and turns away abruptly, leaving him stumbling after her.
Downstairs in the main parlor, Frances concludes their business in a low, crisp tone, and though she invites him to come back anytime, her guarded expression does not show much hope of that occurring. Still in a daze, Alfred bids her farewell, and zombie-like, shuffles off to his own room at the inn, to sleep the rest of the night hours alone.
He remembers when he wakes up late the next morning, when his belly growls loudly for sustenance and his groin feels like it’s been pounded into shreds by a hammer. It’s a good pain, he tells himself, because it means he is now a man, thanks to the attentions of the sweetest belle in the entire West.
The other cowboys from the trail nod and wink at Alfred when they see him, occasionally slapping him on the back and making him wince, which in turn makes them laugh. They rib him mercilessly about his good luck, to have the balls to get into Blonde Marie’s and leave with them as well, but for once he only grins and does not boast, out of some need to keep that night to himself.
“Hah, well, as long as you didn’t make the mistake of fallin’ in love with her.”
“Better to kick a rattlesnake than to fall for a whore. At least the rattlesnake won’t rob ya blind!”
Still laughing amongst themselves, the cowboys leave him to his meal, but the sausage and cornbread sit in his stomach like a lump of rock. Alfred doesn’t disbelieve them, he hasn’t survived this long by being that stupid, yet whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Frances with him, in a home they’ve made for themselves, happy and free and loved.
It’s only a dream, maybe, but why shouldn’t he try to make it come true?
Reply
The cook waves to him once or twice during these encounters, and he waves back politely, but the man is not Frances.
Then it occurs to Alfred that he ought to ask the belles if they knew where their sister disappeared to. He catches two of them as they walk through town in their fashionable Parisian dresses and parasols, but they do not know a tall twenty-something prostitute with blond hair and blue eyes by the name of Frances. Je ne sais pas, they murmur, and giggling, they ask if he would like to have their company instead. Alfred makes a noncommittal answer, but he escorts them back to the parlor house anyway.
He slips into the main room, looking eagerly at the crowd of pretty faces for Frances. Not seeing her anywhere, Alfred bounds up the stairs to find the room she had taken him to, the one at the end of the hall, he recalls, but the lights are off and the door is locked. He asks a passing servant girl about the owner of the room, where she might be, but the girl shrugs.
“None of the ladies use that room, sir. It is reserved for the Count, and what company he keeps.”
This is making less and less sense, and he wonders if he had paid a month’s worth of salary for a fantasy. “The Count?” he repeats dumbly.
“Oui, the Count.” It is the madame, and Alfred is hard put to not shrink under the coldness of her glare. She says, “Sir, if you do not have the money to hire one of my girls tonight, then please remove yourself. You are disrupting my business with your foolishness.”
He frowns, but is not deterred from his mission. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I have to find Frances, and no one is telling me anything! Please, is there any way you can help me?”
Blonde Marie snaps her fan shut in disapproval. “That I can not do,” she declares firmly. “Did it not occur to you that the women here have their secrets to keep? Leave, or I shall call my men to throw you out.”
But Alfred notices the madame does not say that Frances doesn’t exist, and that right there makes him break out into a grin. “All right, but can I at least give you a message to give to her, if she returns?” He presses a small envelope into the madame’s gloved hands and thanks her before dashing off.
Frances never really leaves his mind, and he keeps asking about her even when he has to leave town for another job. He knows that they will meet again in the future, which is why he buys a golden ring for that day and tucks it into the pocket of his vest, so that it will lie over his heart.
[suddenly, it's a mystery.]
Reply
I have so many guesses I want to ask you about Like is Frances/Francis the cook? AND the Count? Was the dream something that really happened? I'm totally going to go and re-read the beginning now to see if there was something I missed, LOL.
Reply
Reply
Reply
The cattle drive ends a month later in southern Colorado, and the cowboys part ways in the town, most of them heading for the saloon, looking forward to cool beer and flirty dancers. Instead of joining them, Alfred drops off a letter to his folks back home in St. Louis and another one to his twin brother in college. He doesn’t tell them about the woman he has met, not yet, though he expects to someday. His parents would not approve, and Matthew would tell him he’s crazy, but they said the same things when he first told them he was going to Texas to work on the trails. But he is certain they will come to love her as he does, and he thinks about it no more.
It is too late in the day to start his journey back to Arizona, and with no other choice left, Alfred pays for a room at the inn with his newly earned cash. Luckily, he doesn’t have to share his room with another guest, so he goes ahead and takes full advantage of the privacy. Stripping off his dusty work clothes and hanging his hat on the rickety chair, he blows out the candle and hops into the rather dingy bed. Alfred takes a few minutes to relax, bringing up the precious few memories he has of Frances, recalling her musky fragrance, the creamy luster of her skin, the glossy curl of her hair. Above all he remembers her beautiful half-smile, and her eyes, so dazzling blue and so, so sad. What he would do to make her happy and chase away whatever haunted her thoughts, he thinks, and in his dreams, Frances turns to him, and the fragile, yearning look on her face dashes his poor heart into pieces.
Tonight, she is not dressed like a whore, in corsets and satin and lace, she instead wears a white nightgown made of cotton too light and sheer to truly cover her nude body, and he can see the hints of her nipples through her dress, the shadow between her legs as she glides towards his bed. Just imagining her like that is enough to make him hard, although some of the details of her form look hazy in his inexperienced mind. His callused hands make a poor substitute for her soft and slender ones dancing over his skin, but he pretends that her tender mouth presses against his, while in reality, he takes his cock in hand and begins stroking firmly.
Now Alfred sees himself pressing her into the sheets, and she smiles up at him, guiding his hands over her lean body with her own, leading them down, down to where her long legs meet and God, she is so hot and wet and ready for him. Frances helps him press his fingers into her, teaches him how to touch the spots that make her gasp, and his mouth bone-dry, he watches in fascination as she moans his name and begs her pretty cowboy to fuck her. Faster and faster he pumps his throbbing cock, imagining himself kneeling between her spread legs, entering her, pushing into her surprisingly tight body. He whispers her name over and over, a mantra, a prayer, as he fucks her into the mattress, and she is writhing and keening and clutching at the headboard with one hand, her dress clinging close to her sweaty skin, her nipples outlined clearly through the material. Somehow Alfred is able to hold out for another few minutes as he furiously pumps away, and then finally he comes, white-hot semen splashing over his hand and stomach, even as he fills the panting Frances to the brim. He tries to keep her there with him for just a little longer, so they could embrace and kiss and do what lovers do, but already she is fading away like a ghost, and soon he is alone again.
Reply
'green arachnid'. ReCaptcha is totally somewhere elseXD
Reply
God, he misses her, and dreams of making love to her don’t satisfy his need as much as just seeing her in truth would. She could accept or reject his love, but he vows to not rest until he can find her and be with her one more time.
The next morning, he leaves town with a saddlebag of supplies, his tall bay horse prancing and eager to go. He prays that Frances had received the message, that she is safe, that she is waiting for him, but he knows from experience that praying doesn’t get anything done. He sets off towards Arizona without looking back, his heart so full it hurts, and yet he is smiling.
The first town he stops at is a small mining settlement in the hills, Drywood Gulch, barely big enough to be called a town. Alfred has been through here before and figures it wouldn’t hurt to ask around, just in case.
“The girl steal your money or something?” the sheriff asks gruffly around a wad of chewing tobacco.
“Not exactly,” Alfred answers with a laugh. “I just thought if anyone would know, it’d be you, sir.”
“We-ell, can’t say that I’d know for sure. The French girls mostly keep to themselves, when they’re not keeping to themselves, if ya know what I mean.” The sheriff spits out his tobacco as Alfred nods, and he continues, “And I sure as hell ain’t about to go poking my nose in the Count’s affairs.”
Again, that mysterious man. Alfred has to ask, “Who is this Count? What does he have to do with anything?”
“He’s in charge of the girls who come here from France, so I’m told. We see his carriage come through town maybe a couple times a year. He never causes any trouble, strangely enough, and well, I don’t want to start none if I can help it.”
“I see,” Alfred says, looking thoughtful. “Well, thanks for the information, sheriff, I appreciate it.”
The sheriff claps a hand on his back and wishes him luck, though his tone sounded frankly skeptical. Alfred just grins and thumbs his hat as he makes his way back to his horse. He hasn’t really learned much that’s useful, but the Count… it sounds like he should keep an ear out for him as well, because surely he must have known Frances.
Ever hopeful, Alfred hesitates in front of the Drywood Gulch’s parlor house. He dismounts, spurs jangling, but before he could make up his mind on whether or not to go inside, the door crashes open and a burly drunk miner sails out into the street. Alfred stares at the man slumped unconscious on the ground and then at the shabby yet bustling brothel, not certain if he would find someone like Frances here, but determined to make sure.
Once he enters the parlor house, he doffs his hat to the painted ladies playing cards in the sitting room and says, “Excuse me, I’d like to speak to whoever’s in charge here.”
“Aww, that don’t sound like any fun,” one of the whores teases, looking at him up and down boldly. “C’mere, boy, you can play with me. I’ll make you a man!”
The women, painted and corseted and crass, laugh uproariously as he turns red and tries to come up with a reply. At last they take pity on him and a freckle-faced girl points to where the madame is eyeing him suspiciously. Alfred hurries over to her, thinking this was probably not one of his better plans.
Reply
“You’re a queer one,” she says, shaking her head exasperatedly, probably irritated that he didn’t want to part with his money. “A whore isn’t worth being faithful to, no matter how pretty she may look in a dark room. You’ll break your heart over her, and even if you do find her, she won’t remember you out of the countless men she’s slept with. I’m telling you, boy, do yourself a favor and forget about her.”
Alfred clenches his fists, feeling the weight of the golden ring warm against his chest, the sum of his hopes and dreams. She may be right, but he believes in Frances, and most of all, he believes in them.
“I thank you for the concern, ma’am, but I got to find this out for myself.”
[Notes: There was indeed a French madam named Blonde Marie who worked in Tombstone, Arizona. The Count, the man who oversaw the French madams, apparently existed as well, although I'm keeping his identity unknown, you're free to guess. Thanks for reading, everyone, and I apologize for the dangerous amounts of sappiness in these latest chapters, the next chapters should be less… bad. Maybe.]
Reply
Leave a comment