These Happy Golden Years

Several months later, Bill was struggling to pour a measure of whiskey. Struggling both because he'd already had more than a few measures himself… and because the bar was shaking quite vigorously. The bar was shaking, of course, because his wife was leaning her naked form against it while Old Foster threw everything he had against her hips. Mr Powell supposed it was quite impressive how much stamina the wiry old bastard had, after another day of leading his troupe of rogues and bandits to ransack the local area… only to drag them all back here to make use of the Powell's hospitality.

After a few more minutes of pumping, the man bucked and grunted a few times… making it known to the world that he had just deposited yet another few spurts of off-white goop into Lucy’s depths. She sighed all-too contentedly at what was presumably an accustomed sensation by now, being as it occurred at least 7 or 8 times an evening. The ever-changing group of unwashed vagabonds seemed to have only grown more eager to take advantage since the swell in her belly had begun to show. As if they believed taking greater claim in post might somehow affect the wide potluck of who the father was.

The old man pulled free and gave her an encouraging spank to get back to serving drinks. Lucy did so without a thought, offering him a cheeky wink and a kiss on the cheek while ignoring her husband completely. Bill watched a drip of mixed juices trickle down the back of her leg as her hips swayed away. He knew she'd come to bed later too exhausted to bathe, and thus still full to leaking of other men's leavings. A nightly reminder of each day's degradation.

Meanwhile, over on the billiard table, Jane was giggling raucously between gurgling mouthfuls of penis. She had her legs spread wide and a bottle shoved in her womanhood, while several men tried to make trickshots to push it in further. You'd think such a sport might be painful and humiliating for a girl of 18 years… but the daughter of the family only seemed to revel in it. Whatever twisted debauchery they came up with, she only had extra ideas for; to a degree that occasionally raised eyebrows even among the violent men who were screwing her.

Lastly, there was Sam, firmly ensconced across the other side of the room in the lap of a man known only as ‘Big Pete’. There had been an air of nervousness that first day one of the men had dragged the newly-crossdressed heir to the Powell household into a back room. Yet, half an hour later, the same ruffian had come back out looking quite satisfied… and whispered something to the next. It seemed the rough men of the frontier didn’t much care what hole they shoved themselves into as long as the price was cheap and the pillows were soft. Now Bill could watch his only son impaling himself voluntarily upon the shaft of customer after customer, the young man’s own small and shaved genitalia flopping visible and free for all to see. Foster’s posse just loved to bring back all manner of feminine clothing and accessories they’d stolen from one stage coach or another, and get the boy to parade about in them like a doll.

The bar had become more profitable than Bill Powell could ever have dreamed. Gaining a reputation far and wide as the place for bandits, crooks and highwaymen to take the weight off their spurs and empty their balls into something warm. There was even barely ever any trouble, based on the fierce reputation of Old Foster and inclination of his otherwise violent men to enjoy a little peace in what they considered their ‘home turf’. Yet, while the piles of bloodstained dollars buried in the backyard grew and grew; day in and day out, all Bill had to look forward to was the sight of his precious family being tossed between the ravages of one ruffian after another. The sound of their gasps and moans as they earned yet another few spurts of pleasure from the bucking hips of strangers.

A stronger man might have pulled the gun from under the bar in some **** act of pride and resistance… or snuck them out in the dead of night to flee this place forever more. But Bill now knew he was not that man. He looked in the eyes of his darling wife as the heaving thrusts of that old pervert brought her to the third or fourth orgasm of the evening. Then handed the man the whiskey ‘on-the-house’.