The Preacher’s Daughter is ‘’

“Give me your money and the girl, and I’ll let you both live,” you say to the two horse-back travelers in the woods. One of them is a man of the cloth. Protestant. The other is a beautiful woman half his age. She wears a short dress with a linen underskirt, along with a red cloak, a straw hat, and white gloves. Both have black hair and brown eyes. They have a similar nose too, though the woman has fuller lips and better eyebrows—she must be the good man’s daughter or cousin.

You’re a bad man for doing this. You lost nearly everything moving West, except the clothes on your back and your trusty revolver. You say the jobs available didn’t suit you, others say you’re lazy, but whatever the case, you’re impoverished. You have neither the money or girls you were promised. And perhaps it’s the hunger for both that changed you, but you’re willing to steal them from others.

You’re now an Outlaw.

The fight goes out of the other man immediately. “I’ve kept you safe for two decades, Melissa. But the Lord has seen fit to put this obstacle before us. I can only beg forgiveness for how I must have angered Him.” He dismounts from his horse. The good man opens one of the packs and retrieves a bag of coins. He gives them to the girl, who also dismounts. “I’m so sorry.” He sounds close to tears.

“Did Job do anything wrong?” Melissa says, before walking forward. There’s a splotch of red on her cheeks, must be from anger.

You blink at how smooth everything is going. Melissa stops several feet from your gun, and cocks her head. A moment passes before you realize she’s waiting on you to lead. Another moment passes before you can name this feeling coursing through you. Exhilaration. No one’s shot you dead. You have coins and a woman to hump.

You lower your revolver. There’s a sharp smile on your face. You turn to the preacher. “Is she your daughter?”

His eyes are downcast. “Yes. Please don’t…please don’t take her from me.”

“Father.” Melissa’s voice is high. “Don’t provoke him further. As long as we live, we can recover from anything, Lord willing.” Her eyes meet yours. Earnest and something else. What a faithful girl.

“Don’t worry Father. I’ll only take her once. Then she’s yours again. Aren’t I mighty kind?” You chuckle.

“Yes,” Melissa says. She shoots a look at her father.

“Yes,” the preacher says. He takes strength from his daughter’s resolve. He says to her, “You won’t be gone long. Be brave. Keep your mind on the Lord.”

The preacher needs the Lord’s presence more than the girl, with how confidently she follows you deeper into the woods. “This is a good spot,” you finally say. The preacher could watch with a short walk, but you doubt he wants to see his daughter’s defilement. He might still hear it if either of you are loud.

Melissa sets down the coins along with her hat.

The need surges. You push her into a tree, and her face rests on her hands against the bark. She doesn’t move as you grind your crotch against her backside. When you stop, she almost seems to wiggle to give you better access. One of your hands holds her steady, while the other gropes her wantonly. Your fingers squeeze and pinch her modest breasts. Plunging into her neckline, you touch nubile flesh. Her dress becomes disheveled, like her underskirt as you keep groping away. Your roughness shakes the tree. Wood chips and dirt fall onto Melissa’s red cheeks. She squeaks when you pull her neck back and kiss it hard enough to leave a mark.

You pull back. She breathes deeply. “Undress yourself,” you say, pushing down your trousers. Your gun and holster are safely set aside.

Melissa turns around, wide brown eyes falling on your seven-inch cock. “Yes sir,” she says. It takes too long. Your patience is tested. The corset over her dress is unlaced from the front, then her dress. Her underskirt is untied from her waist and so is the narrow crinoline keeping its poofy shape. Part of you is surprised it isn’t damaged from grinding while the rest focuses on what the pulled off chemise reveals.

You see her uncovered chest. Even in the shade, the breasts captivate you like the sunrise. Or like a moth to a flame. Before she can take off her boots and knee-high stockings, let alone her bloomers, you’re biting Melissa’s nipples. She moans when you push her ass against the tree. Her arms stay against the bark, giving you complete freedom over her. Your fingers don’t know where to touch in this treasure of flesh. This is your first girl, and you want all of her. Your cock pushes into her stomach, before it’s **** down from your close bodies. You grab Melissa’s ass hard.

You turn her around. You see her black hair falling down her bare back, and your eyes keep tracing downwards as your fingers hook her bloomers low. They rest over her stockings, and it's not too dark to notice the wet spot. You revel palming her beautiful pale ass for a second, before you line up your cock.

“It’s good you're wet, girl. It’ll hurt less for you. You might even like it.” The smile is clear in your voice. You’ve heard stories from other men how a wet brothel girl means she’s enjoying it. You listened in envy then. You can find out now.

Melissa doesn’t say anything.

You say, “I don’t care either way.” You take Melissa’s virginity. Accomplishment fills you.

She gasps. Her hole is tight and inviting. You hump her. Your strokes are long and hard, requiring Melissa to brace herself against the tree. She emits a series of short, pained noises that transition into silence with the odd moan the longer you hump. You groan as well. Her pussy has a vice grip; it holds onto your tip with pleasure whenever your cock pulls back. You always push til the balls, and the grip on the rest of your length is no less exquisite.

You feel like a strong man. You feel good. Good enough to be generous. So despite your animalistic humping, you act with some civilization. Not all men cared to make the whores feel good too, but from those who took pride in it, they spoke about the rhythm. If you’re to have a wife someday, you want her to feel good about her carnal duties. The girl you’re taking now serves as practice. To an extent. You’re **** her. You listen to her body as much as it pleases you. You administer gropes and prods. You spank her ass. You kiss the side of her breasts, then her neck again. And you hump to the rhythm of both of your hearts.

“You’re so fucking good,” you say. “Should’ve been a whore with this pussy and body. You could buy your father another church.” She shudders. “I want to hump you again some day.” She shudders harder. You feel your peak arriving.

Not once has Melissa fought you. Not even when you announce where you will release. “I’m going to spill my seed inside you, and if you end up with my bastards, you better have a family’s farm to visit for a year. You do, don't you?” Your strokes become fast and insistent.

“Yes. Yes sir.” It’s all she can say. You see her eyes close and feel her body shake again - but it’s greater this time. She’s groaning in bliss. Does she enjoy the thought of carrying your child? Her ****’s?

Who knows what women like. “Good. Leave them there. I’d like my bastards to be raised by a proper, modest woman.” You push hard. You release inside her. There’s that feeling again: accomplishment. Several shots spurt out like you’re emptying your revolver. You wonder if your balls have better accuracy than a pistol.

Melissa screams quietly. You don’t know if she’s despairing or feeling something else. You hump several more times to get everything out. You love how good the fucking felt. You love the coin you got. You don’t think you can be anything other than an Outlaw.

You finally soften and pull out. White seed drips down her thigh. Her body is cleaner than her pile of clothes on the forest floor. Not your problem.

The bag of coins in hand, you say, smiling, “Go back to your father.”

“Yes sir.” Melissa slumps against the tree, slowly pulling up her bloomers. She watches you leave with red cheeks. You don’t see her smile at your back.