Pissed off

McCoy blinked at the reflection. Then realization hit. Looking down, two humongous tits pushed out with a bit of nipple peeking out.

“Dammit! That owl hoot of an Indian shaman did this to me. He cursed me when I brought his daughter to the sheriff,” said McCoy in a breathy feminine voice,

Ducking the blonde head of hair in the trough, the hope was this was a dream. But it wasn’t. Water dripped onto the tits bursting out of the brown leather vest.

“Hey, sweetie. Want to fuck?”

McCoy turned to the voice and reached for the gun. Timing was slow. Reaction was sluggish.

The man grabbed McCoy before the trigger was pulled. He easily overpowered the sexy woman.

McCoy realized no strength or gun skill lay within this feminine, but muscular body. The muscles were overdeveloped from sex. The thighs could handle a bucking bronco rider. The hands could grip cocks tighter than a noose. The mouth could swallow a bottle of whiskey with jaws that could snap a rattlesnake in half. The realization that something about this man stirred some sexual arousal in the crotch.

McCoy was getting wet at being manhandled.