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.]
The Fair Belle [pt 8/??]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 00:58:30 UTC
The woman perches in the curve of a silver hoop suspended high above the stage on a length of twisted silken rope. She swings slowly back and forth, crooning softly in French, and Alfred squints up into the smoky darkness at her. Far below the sweet melancholy notes, lonely men carouse to their heart’s content, the serving girls keeping their cups filled while the whores keep their laps warm.
His heart falls when he realizes that the singer is not Frances, too small and curvy by far, with hazel eyes instead of blue. Because he hasn’t actually paid for anyone’s company tonight, Alfred is forced to duck out of sight when the sharp-eyed owner glances in his direction. Crawling under a series of tables and sneaking behind some curtains before climbing out a window, he makes it out of the brothel with no one (probably) the wiser.
Including himself, he admits as he mutters ‘giddyap’ to his obliging horse and heads out. Three towns in the past two weeks - White Oaks, Cripple Creek, Loneview - investigating and interrogating with the determination of a man on a God-given mission, and Alfred is no closer to finding Frances or the Count than before. It’s like she never existed, and not even asking about the Count reveals any new information, for no one seems to remember meeting him, and the belles conveniently forget how to speak English when he presses them further for answers.
A dream woman, a shadow man, and dreams and shadows do not survive too long out here in the relentless sun of the western frontiers.
Only Tombstone remains, where this started. Maybe Frances had gone for good, but maybe she received his message after all, and is waiting for him where they first met. With nothing else in mind, Alfred decides he might as well head back.
The rough and tumble town had apparently grown wilder in his absence, and though Alfred keeps an easy, oblivious smile, the men in the streets regard him with flinty, suspicious eyes, their hands hovering near their holsters. It sounds like the bar and saloon has suffered no lack of business, as rollicking piano music and laughter and curses spill out of the windows, though across the way the sheriff and his cronies grimly keep watch for any disruption to the uneasy peace.
Whistling a jaunty tune under his breath, Alfred turns off the main street and heads toward the quieter outskirts of town, where the parlor house is tucked out of sight of the more moral-minded citizens. He rounds the corner expectantly, then stops in disbelief, staring thunderstruck ahead of him.
The building is still there, elegant as ever, but the windows are dark and dusty and the painted front door boarded shut. Judging by the dirt piling up on the doorstep and the tough scraggly weeds sprouting from the dry ground, no one has lived here for weeks, maybe even months. Alfred’s first thought is that everyone had died, been dead for years, that this town had lived up to its name, and he shivers despite the heat, certain that he had been taken in by some freakish brothel of the undead. Just when he starts frantically unknotting his bandanna to make sure he did not sustain any vampire bites, someone perfectly normal and alive steps out of a side door and onto the porch to smoke a cigarette.
Relieved, albeit cautiously so, in case vampires were able to light cigarettes without setting themselves on fire, Alfred dismounts, nearly tangling his boots in the stirrups but recovering instantly, and he bounds over to the person to catch them before they disappeared as well. “Hey! Hold up!” he calls out, and the person looks up at the sound of his voice.
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.]
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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?
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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.]
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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.
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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.
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'green arachnid'. ReCaptcha is totally somewhere elseXD
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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.
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“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.]
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ReCatchpa: Circumstances locats (...huh?)
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This is very original !
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I hope they meet again soon!
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His heart falls when he realizes that the singer is not Frances, too small and curvy by far, with hazel eyes instead of blue. Because he hasn’t actually paid for anyone’s company tonight, Alfred is forced to duck out of sight when the sharp-eyed owner glances in his direction. Crawling under a series of tables and sneaking behind some curtains before climbing out a window, he makes it out of the brothel with no one (probably) the wiser.
Including himself, he admits as he mutters ‘giddyap’ to his obliging horse and heads out. Three towns in the past two weeks - White Oaks, Cripple Creek, Loneview - investigating and interrogating with the determination of a man on a God-given mission, and Alfred is no closer to finding Frances or the Count than before. It’s like she never existed, and not even asking about the Count reveals any new information, for no one seems to remember meeting him, and the belles conveniently forget how to speak English when he presses them further for answers.
A dream woman, a shadow man, and dreams and shadows do not survive too long out here in the relentless sun of the western frontiers.
Only Tombstone remains, where this started. Maybe Frances had gone for good, but maybe she received his message after all, and is waiting for him where they first met. With nothing else in mind, Alfred decides he might as well head back.
The rough and tumble town had apparently grown wilder in his absence, and though Alfred keeps an easy, oblivious smile, the men in the streets regard him with flinty, suspicious eyes, their hands hovering near their holsters. It sounds like the bar and saloon has suffered no lack of business, as rollicking piano music and laughter and curses spill out of the windows, though across the way the sheriff and his cronies grimly keep watch for any disruption to the uneasy peace.
Whistling a jaunty tune under his breath, Alfred turns off the main street and heads toward the quieter outskirts of town, where the parlor house is tucked out of sight of the more moral-minded citizens. He rounds the corner expectantly, then stops in disbelief, staring thunderstruck ahead of him.
The building is still there, elegant as ever, but the windows are dark and dusty and the painted front door boarded shut. Judging by the dirt piling up on the doorstep and the tough scraggly weeds sprouting from the dry ground, no one has lived here for weeks, maybe even months. Alfred’s first thought is that everyone had died, been dead for years, that this town had lived up to its name, and he shivers despite the heat, certain that he had been taken in by some freakish brothel of the undead. Just when he starts frantically unknotting his bandanna to make sure he did not sustain any vampire bites, someone perfectly normal and alive steps out of a side door and onto the porch to smoke a cigarette.
Relieved, albeit cautiously so, in case vampires were able to light cigarettes without setting themselves on fire, Alfred dismounts, nearly tangling his boots in the stirrups but recovering instantly, and he bounds over to the person to catch them before they disappeared as well. “Hey! Hold up!” he calls out, and the person looks up at the sound of his voice.
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