Claire Belle, from Old West sheriff to example

Before Quick-Shot Henry's gang rode into town, Claire Belle was the sheriff. As far as anyone knew, the first and only female sheriff in all the western frontier. She laid the law down hard, Claire and her six-shooter. Broke up bar fights, locked up drunks, settled disputes over land and goods. Her decisions were final. If anyone didn't like it, she had a bullet with their name on it.

Then Henry showed up. High noon, tumbleweed rustlin', they drew pistols... and she lost. Any ordinary duel would've ended with the sheriff flat on her back, hole in her head, ready for a casket. But she was no ordinary sheriff, and this was no ordinary duel.

His first bullet knocked Claire's gun out of her hand. The second took her badge. The third, her belt. By the time Henry emptied all his chambers, he had Claire stumbling after her hat, pulling her pants up from her ankles while her vest flapped wide open to bare her tiny tits. Her grand escape from the spectacle of her defeat ended with her lying in the street. Wet. Filthy. Covered in sand and hay, as nearby horses drank from one of the troughs she'd splashed into and rolled out of.

She lost everything that day. Her title, her horse, her gun, literally the clothes on her back. They, and Claire, belonged to Henry now.

She learned her place quickly. Quicker than she could draw at least. Sitting naked against a tree, she greeted the gang's newest members.

"Howdy, partner! The saloon's thatta way."

The two men looked to each other briefly, perplexed by the cheerful woman and her nude ways before one of them remembered what they heard half a mile back. "Ain't you that dumb bitch sheriff what lost to Quick-Shot Henry?"

"Yessum, sir! All's I'm good for now is a laugh and a fuck."

She smiled wide, hiding her goods behind crossed boots and hugged knees. Most who saw her expected a broken, battered woman trapped in her own jail cell. If only they knew the deal she made with Henry - of which silence was a must. Beneath her peppy act, Claire seethed with rage. Her heart pounded. Her trigger finger twitched. Powerless, she obeyed Henry's rules to the letter.

"Where's yer clothes?"

"Trash don't wear clothes," Claire answered. "Better off usin 'em for wipin in the outhouse than givin 'em to me."

"Yer gun?"

"Ain't allowed. Liable to blow my own tits off."

"Job?"

"If'n ya think blowin horses and diddlin myself all day is a job, then sure, I got a job. Ain't as good as bein the town drunk, but someone's gotta make an ass of herself round here."

She shifted as the men tried to take a peek. Hold a conversation, Henry told her. Make them stay long enough to see how much of a cowed piece of shit she was. Amid a litany of questions, she yanked the brim of her hat and led them on until they reached the jackpot.

"Bet ya don't have yer badge no more either, huh?"

"Naw, I still got that one right where it belongs."

To their audible groans, Claire spread her legs and revealed that shiny gold star... pierced straight through her pussy.