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It was another day of sipping coffee and working in her favorite café for Clara Whitfield. "The Last Brew" was the only café in the small town, but that wasn’t the only reason it was her favorite. Clara already did her work and writing at the café regularly, but ever since the new barista, called Shadowheart, started working there, she couldn’t imagine skipping a day.
Clara had been curious about the new arrival. She herself had moved to town only a year earlier and was interested in befriending someone her age who might be in a similar situation. Those notions had quickly flown out the window when Clara first locked eyes with the green-eyed, dark-haired goddess.
It wasn’t just her beauty—there was a mystery Clara wanted to unravel, a story behind the snarky comments and cool attitude. Clara was sure of it; she had seen glimpses as she'd gotten to know her a little bit. There was also the barista’s softer side, which had peeked through once or twice.
Maybe Clara would have forgotten all that in a week or two, or perhaps they would have become regular friends with time but there was something else there. A connection between them. Their interactions were charged, flirting barely disguised as banter. The barista was hard to read, but Clara was fairly certain she wasn’t imagining it.
Almost certain.
She sighed.
Usually, Clara was able to tune out the quiet music playing in the café, but this time it didn’t work at all. It felt like the lyrics were taunting her, speaking about falling in love in October. Clara’s gaze drifted to the café window and the fall scenery spread before her eyes. She still couldn’t believe how pretty it was in Willowcreek this time of year. Then her gaze returned to Shadowheart, busy cleaning the counter, moving with hurried steps. Somehow, the scenery inside the café managed to be even prettier.
The song went on, now speaking of admiring someone from afar. It was truly taunting her. Clara groaned softly. She didn’t possess the kind of courage needed to tell someone she found them attractive, ask for their number, or invite them on a date. So here she was, stealing glances at the woman while trying to write her novel.
Shadowheart seemed so efficient as she moved behind the counter. There was discipline there, a work ethic she must have picked up in a high pressure environment. While she'd fumbled a bit on her first day, it was clear this wasn’t her first barista job.
It was captivating to watch her work; the methodical movements, the little frown on her forehead as she concentrated. The way her hands moved when she poured milk or created elegant foam patterns in drinks.
Those fingers were so long, and the way they handled the equipment was spellbinding. Clara couldn’t help but wonder how far inside her those fingers could reach, what places they could explore. She bet the barista would be very skilled at finding all the spots that would make her moan and whimper Shadowheart’s name until she saw stars.
“Gods…” Clara muttered, burying her face in her hands. She desperately needed a distraction. With a determined sigh, she closed the document containing the manuscript of her novel and opened a new one titled "I’m Going Out of My Mind."
Usually, at this point, she'd stare at a blank page and go nowhere or write something down only to delete it seconds later. But this time, something seemed to take over. Her fingers flew across the keys as words spilled out:
Once upon a time, there was a little town in the high plains called… Dustwood. The town was a cluster of weatherworn buildings sitting huddled together against the vastness of the golden prairie. The dry autumn wind rustled the brittle grass at the town's edges.
Dustwood bore the scars of countless scorching summers. When the skies withheld their rain, the streets hardened and churned into fine powder. Even now, with summer just a memory and the land blessed by cooler winds and patches of tawny wildflowers, the dust remained. It clung stubbornly to the wood-planked boardwalks and settled between the cracks of wagon tracks.
Clara blinked, reading what she had written. A smile tugged at her lips. She could almost see it all—a little weathered, beaten-up Wild West town in the 19th century. And what would a town like this need? A sheriff, of course.
The town’s sheriff, Sheriff Whitfield
“What? No. Scratch that,” Clara muttered, pounding the delete button like her life depended on it.
The town sheriff, Sheriff Tav, had no time to wax poetic about the fall as she was on a mission. A mission to catch the infamous, armed, and dangerous outlaw called Shadowheart.
Clara blinked, then groaned and smashed the delete button fiercely.
The town sheriff, Sheriff Tav, had no time to wax poetic about the fall as she was on a mission. A mission to catch the infamous, armed, and dangerous outlaw called Umbralspeen…
“No, scratch that too!”
A mission to catch the infamous, armed, and dangerous outlaw called Shadow…scar. Outlaw Shadowscar.
Clara stared at the name for a good while. It had nothing to do with Shadowheart—the use of the word "shadow" was a mere coincidence. It was a rather common word, after all. There was nothing more to it.
Outlaw Shadowscar had recently hit the quiet town of Dustwood. First, she had robbed the bank, but what was even more scandalous and unforgivable was that she had stolen the virtue of a local farmer’s wife. The wife had told Sheriff Whi—Sheriff Tav that she had invited the infamous outlaw into her home, knowing full well who she was. She swore the outlaw had not held her at gunpoint; on the contrary, she had offered Shadowscar a cup of tea after seeing up close just how beautiful she was.
The more questions the sheriff asked, the clearer the picture became: the farmer’s wife hadn’t just invited the outlaw into her house—she had invited Shadowscar into her bed and between her legs!
Between her legs was exactly where the outlaw had been buried, knuckles deep, when the husband arrived home, forcing Shadowscar to make a daring escape through the bedroom window. The unsavory acts had all happened with the enthusiastic consent of the farmer’s wife, she later swore to Sheriff Tav.
Who would believe the whimsy of a silly woman? It was clear, the husband insisted, that this dangerous criminal had to be detained at any cost—a consensus quickly shared by the town's populace.
“A dash of period-typical casual misogyny…who doesn’t just love that?” Clara muttered with distaste, but a grin crept onto her face as she thought about outlaw Shadowheart…Shadowscar finger-blasting the farmer’s wife while the woman no doubt experienced the hardest, most mind-blowing orgasm of her life.
“Sheriff, you gotta catch this woman—she must be hanged!” the farmer demanded as Sheriff Tav was fitting the tack onto her horse.
“Good sir, I know you are agitated after witnessing your wife in the midst of true passion at another’s hand. But I will merely bring this outlaw in; the judge and jury will decide the rest,” Sheriff Tav said with a decisive nod before mounting her horse. She swiped her shoulder-length dark brown hair away from her face, her light brown eyes regarding the man from beneath the brim of her hat.
“It’s pure coincidence that Sheriff Tav happens to look like me, okay?!” Clara muttered, unsure who she was trying to convince other than herself. And rather unsuccessfully at that. With an annoyed huff, her fingers flew over the keyboard.
“I must go now. Destiny and Justice await,” Sheriff Tav declared, gazing into the distance. She looked magnificent and commanding atop her horse. She knew that for a fact, as she had spent a good amount of time that morning before the mirror choosing her outfit. She wanted to look as good as possible for this special day and the heroic act that awaited her.
“Wait, what kind of clothing did people wear in the 19th century?” Clara mumbled, launching an internet search. She got lost in the rabbit hole of ye olde clothing for a good while before returning to her actual writing.
Sheriff Tav had chosen a dark-colored frock coat tailored to fit her frame. Beneath it, she wore a button-up dress shirt, deep indigo in color. Over it, a deep burgundy vest hugged her torso, the fine brocade pattern catching the autumn light. Her dark, slim-fitting trousers were tucked neatly into knee-high boots polished to a mirror shine.
At her belt hung her biggest and most important tool: a .45 Colt single-action revolver, a.k.a. the Peacemaker. Its familiar weight brought order to the town and peace of mind to the sheriff who wielded it. A silver star was pinned to the chest of her jacket, reminding her of her role and the fact that the law was only as strong around here as the person upholding it.
A blushing bar wench looked up at her, light blue eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, Sheriff, please be careful,” she whimpered. “I would hate for something to happen to our brave, beautiful sheriff. Oh, what would we do?”
Sheriff Whit—Sheriff Tav’s lips pulled into a lopsided, cocky smirk. “Worry not, pretty girl. I can handle this,” she said, patting the gun holster bulging at her hip. “And I definitely know how to handle dime-a-dozen wannabe criminals.” Her smugness and self-confidence oozed, dripping from her lips like honey.
The wench almost fainted from the sheer force of her charisma. Sheriff Tav touched the brim of her wide-brimmed Stetson, earning a gasp from the wench. Then she rode out of the town, ignoring the worried looks the rest of the townsfolk gave her.
Clara hummed to herself and took a sip of coffee, which immediately turned into a frown. She had been so focused on her story that the coffee had gone cold and was now an insult to her taste buds.
“What’s the matter, Ms. Author?” an amused voice called from beside her.
A sound very much resembling an "eep!" escaped Clara as she scrambled to slam her laptop shut.
Shadowheart looked at her in confusion.
“Ah, sorry, you startled me,” Clara said, turning beet red with embarrassment. “The c-coffee went cold, and I was lost in my thoughts.”
Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. “I can see that. Seems you’re in need of another cup if you’re this jumpy.” Without waiting for a response, she took Clara’s cup before she could protest. Moments later, she returned with a fresh cup of steaming coffee.
“It’s on the house,” Shadowheart winked.
Clara looked at the coffee and then back at Shadowheart. “You shouldn’t have…”
“Relax. It was just what was left in the pot. Better in your cup than down the drain, right?”
“Well, I… thank you. That was very kind of you,” Clara managed to say with a smile.
As Shadowheart returned behind the counter, Clara felt a wave of embarrassment and guilt. She sighed, swearing to herself that she would at least leave a generous tip.
She sipped her coffee, thinking about her story. She knew she should abandon the... whatever it was she was writing.
But she couldn’t.
It was like an itch she couldn’t scratch.
As soon as she finished the coffee, she opened her laptop and resumed writing.
Sheriff Tav had ridden most of the day, tracking the outlaw and following her trail. She knew the area well, all the hidden places that attracted outlaws like honey attracted flies. It seemed the outlaw was headed to a particular spot the sheriff knew: a natural cave carved into weathered limestone cliffs. The entrance was well masked by wild sage and juniper stubbornly clinging to the rocky terrain. It was large enough for a horse to pass through but low enough to remain concealed during dusk and dawn.
With her mount secured to a scrawny tree some distance away, Sheriff Tav approached the cave with her trusty Peacemaker in hand. She moved with caution, silent as the shadows themselves.
Inside the cave, she didn’t find Outlaw Shadowscar, but she did find a horse and a makeshift camp. The criminal couldn’t be far—that much Sheriff Tav was sure of. She remembered there was a stream nearby. Perhaps that’s where the notorious outlaw had gone for a drink.
Sheriff Tav approached the stream cautiously, and lo and behold, there was the infamous outlaw. It seemed she had just finished washing up. Shadowscar had left her clothes and gun belt under a cottonwood tree, certain no one would bother her there.
“Hands up, Shadowscar! Your outlaw days are over,” Sheriff Tav barked.
Shadowscar froze and slowly turned around. But instead of looking embarrassed by her nakedness, her lips curled into a smirk as she saw the sheriff of Dustwood standing before her.
It was Sheriff Tav who was embarrassed as her gaze swept over the naked expanse of Shadowscar’s skin, from the swell of her perfect-sized breasts to her rosy-colored nipples, now hardening under her gaze. Sheriff Tav quickly averted her eyes before her gaze wandered to even more dangerous territory.
“Well, well, well. Seems the sheriff is just a common pervert, here to ogle innocent people trying to take a bath,” Shadowscar drawled.
“What? N-no such thing,” Sheriff Tav protested. “And you are far from innocent!”
“Then turn around and let me make myself presentable, at least,” Shadowscar challenged. “Unless you truly are a pervert…”
If Sheriff Tav hadn’t been so flustered, she would have noticed there was no shame or modesty in the outlaw’s eyes. On the contrary, Shadowscar seemed to enjoy flaunting her body and making the sheriff squirm.
Alas, all the blood in the sheriff’s brain had moved southward. The insistent throbbing in her nether regions made it difficult to think. She lowered her gun and whipped around, embarrassed, giving the outlaw a chance to make herself decent. She heard the rustle of clothes and the sound of a belt being buckled.
As the worst of her embarrassment passed and some blood returned to her brain, she remembered a tiny, but hugely important detail: the outlaw’s trusty Schofield Model 3 revolver lying in the clothing pile she saw earlier.
Before she even had the chance to react, the outlaw was suddenly upon her—one hand circling her waist, the other pressing the revolver against her head, her body pressed against Tav's as firmly as the barrel against her temple.
“Don’t move,” Shadowscar commanded, her voice low and amused. The arm around Tav tightened. “Seems you’re dumber than a bag of rocks, Sheriff.” Tav could hear the smirk in her voice.
“I could shoot you right now and make my escape,” the gun traced her jaw, “but then again, where’s the fun in that?” Shadowscar suddenly spun Sheriff Tav around.
“Tell me, Sheriff, do you wish to duel with me until one of us lies dead on the ground,” the gun traced lower, over her throat, “or would you rather show me the long arm of the law—or should I say the long fingers of the law—in a much, much more pleasant way?”
The gun stopped, the barrel resting over Sheriff Tav’s heart.
Tav gulped and took a good look at the outlaw, now back in full clothing. Shadowscar wore a black leather duster, frayed at the hem and creased from countless nights spent under open skies. Beneath the duster, she wore a dark vest that hugged her frame over a simple gray shirt with the collar left rakishly open. Her trousers were sturdy dark canvas, tucked into scuffed boots that had long since lost their shine.
Shadowscar’s hair was dark as sin, side bangs framing her face. Her otherwise long hair had been left loose after the bath, unlike in her wanted posters where it was always worn in a braid. A long horizontal scar beneath her right eye marked the origin of her infamous name. Her green eyes, vivid and sharp, peeked from beneath the brim of her hat—not filled with malice, but curiosity and amusement.
The gun pointed at Tav, its blued steel barrel sleek and deadly. The white grip was worn smooth, notches carved into it suggesting a grim tally of past kills. It made Sheriff Tav swallow hard, fear entering her heart for the first time during this encounter, her overconfidence shrinking away.
“I suppose… I would prefer living another day,” Sheriff Tav admitted, squeezing her gun, unsure if she was fast enough to lift it and shoot the outlaw. She probably wasn’t, not with Shadowscar’s gun resting directly over her furiously beating heart.
If she was fully honest, her heart wasn’t pounding only from fear—it was also pounding from something else. The sort of thing where Sheriff Tav found herself lost in Shadowscar’s eyes, those brilliant green depths holding her captive with an even more brilliant golden rim gleaming in the center.
When the outlaw saw the longing in Tav’s gaze, her expression darkened, her pupils dilated with desire.
And desire was reflected back in the sheriff's eyes.
Forbidden.
Unbidden.
But nevertheless, it was there, undeniable.
“Then you know what to do—toss your gun away. Far away.”
Sheriff Tav swallowed hard. What she was about to do was insanity. Pure insanity. She should lift the gun and take her chances. Instead, she did as the outlaw commanded and tossed her gun as far away as she could. It landed with a thud.
“That’s a good girl.” It was a purr, filled with the promise of sin and pleasure. Sheriff Tav’s channel clenched, and she felt herself getting wetter.
To her great relief, this didn’t turn out to be a trap, as Shadowscar followed suit and tossed her own gun in the same direction, where it landed with a similar sound.
“Now that the playing field is even,” Shadowscar’s warm fingers had taken the place of the barrel of her gun, tracing over Tav’s jaw and throat, “we can have some fun. Just us two women in the wilderness—nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Many voices and thoughts in the sheriff's head protested such an idea, but her head shook.
“That’s what I thought.” Shadowscar smiled wickedly, and her fingers withdrew from the sheriff’s throat, instead grasping her hand. With a quick motion, Shadowscar brought Tav’s hand to her mouth. Locking eyes with her, she took her index and middle fingers into her mouth and sucked them.
Sheriff Tav’s whole face flushed, but even more so, the throbbing between her legs became more insistent, impossible to ignore.
“Now, show me the long fingers of the law, hmm?” Shadowscar mumbled around her fingers, her other hand going to her pants, unbuttoning them.
The little rational part left in Sheriff Tav’s brain tried to command her to take advantage of this situation, this distraction. Now that there wasn't a gun pointed at her head or heart, she should try to wrestle the outlaw, tie her up, and do her job.
Instead, she stood still and let the outlaw guide her hand from her hot, deliciously wet mouth to the edge of her pants. From there, Shadowscar let go of Sheriff Tav’s hand, and she found herself moving it willingly, eagerly, on her own.
This was no outlaw woman at all! She was a succubus, a temptation incarnate, Sheriff Tav realized—and then didn’t care about any of it as she stared into Shadowscar’s eyes. Her hands slid over her smooth stomach, and Tav could feel the way Shadowscar’s muscles fluttered under her touch, becoming taut. A barely audible gasp escaped the outlaw’s lips, and Sheriff Tav found herself rather enjoying the effect she was having on the dangerous criminal.
The hand slid lower and lower until it reached coarse curls. Shadowscar suddenly pulled Tav closer, their torsos pressing together, Tav’s hand now trapped between their bodies, both of them hot with want and need. Shadowscar gripped the nape of Tav’s neck and pulled her closer, her mouth crashing into hers in a heated, desperate kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and swallowed moans.
With each passing moment, the Sheriff seemed to slip further and further from her original mission as her more base instincts, her primal desires, took over. But so did the outlaw, who let out a moan and a curse as the sheriff’s fingers finally slipped between her legs, sliding through the soaked folds. Shadowscar’s free hand gripped Tav’s shoulder for support as she took a wider stance, giving Tav easier access.
And the Sheriff found herself obliging, her fingers exploring the outlaw’s hidden folds boldly, even dipping inside her soaked entrance before quickly retreating.
“You’re a tease…”
“Shut up and take your punishment, outlaw,” the sheriff said.
“If punishments are this good around here, I’m obliged to rob some more banks and steal some more virtues.”
Sheriff Tav squinted and moved her fingers away from her entrance, pulling them away from the outlaw’s soaking folds, earning a disappointed groan from the woman. But then they were back with a vengeance, suddenly sliding over the excited, swollen nub, standing and begging for attention. Shadowscar threw her head back and moaned deeply. Then again and again as Tav’s fingers moved roughly over the nub.
“Fuck, that’s… fuck,” the outlaw panted, eyes closed. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”
Tav rubbed her nub a while longer before slowing her fingers and dipping inside the outlaw properly this time, knuckles deep.
“Fuck yes!”
She quickly added another finger, and soon the outlaw was groaning, moaning, cursing, and grinding herself against Tav. Tav angled her hand so that her palm ground against Shadowscar’s hard nub, which earned another string of curses and moans from her.
Shadowscar’s grip on Tav tightened as she fucked herself on Tav’s fingers, her hips working and bucking. The outlaw was surprisingly strong, making Tav really work to keep up.
The slick walls around Tav’s fingers were fluttering—a telltale sign of an approaching orgasm. Tav’s free hand tore at the outlaw’s sexy shirt, desperately trying to open it up more. Shadowscar hissed as Tav’s tongue licked across her collarbones and then up her throat. Her hips worked harder and harder now, the rhythm faltering, becoming more erratic.
Tav grew bolder still, now sucking and nibbling at the outlaw’s throat. That seemed to do it. She felt the outlaw’s walls clamping down around her fingers, milking them, gripping them like her pussy never wanted to let go.
A deep, broken cry burst from Shadowheart’s lips as she screamed Clara’s na—
Clara slammed the laptop shut, her breathing quickened, her heart racing. She felt her nether regions hot, stirred, and begging for attention. She barely dared to move, fearing any friction would feel too good at the moment. How foolish of her to write this… this smut in the middle of a café, with the object of her daydreams just a few feet away. What was wrong with her?
Who am I trying to fool by changing the names? Stop fooling yourself, Whitfield. It was clearly Shadowheart and me.
Clara quickly got up and hurried to the café’s restroom, trying to avoid looking in Shadowheart’s direction. She slammed the door shut behind her, breathing heavily. She went to the sink and turned it on, making it give her the coldest water possible. She splashed her burning-hot face with water, muttering incoherent things to herself. When she finally felt like she was calming down a little, she turned off the faucet and took a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror.
The person looking back at her was a mess. She sighed and hung her head. She didn’t know what it was about the barista, but she had a hold on her like no one had in a long time, maybe ever. After quickly drying off, she returned to her seat, deleted the file she had been working on, and went back to her manuscript.
Once Clara was home later that day, thoughts about a certain dark-haired barista wouldn’t leave her alone. She lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, just thinking about her—that confident smile, those brilliant green eyes sparkling with amusement, those arms going taut as she carried a heavy tray full of dishes, nimble fingers grinding beans… Clara cursed, realizing just how pent-up she actually was.
When was the last time she had been with anyone? She had that one rebound after her ex, but that was months and months ago.
She unfastened her pants and slipped her fingers under her panties. Her own hands had to do it once again, but the itch was getting too big to ignore. She wasn’t sure how long this would suffice. She lazily draped her leg over the back of the couch, spreading herself wide and giving herself room to work.
Unbidden, the story she had written earlier wormed its way back into Clara’s mind. However, there was no more pretense about what it had really been about.
She bit her lip, contemplating the story. What she had written was very typical of her: Clara giving pleasure to someone else. There was nothing wrong with that. She liked to give and to receive equally. But she had often found she wasn’t able to receive unless she gave first. She was unable to go first, or else she couldn’t relax. But in her fantasy, she could get what she needed.
And what she needed was to get railed—hard.
She closed her eyes and returned to the scene from before.
There was a pleasure-drunk expression on Outlaw Shadowheart’s face as she regarded Sheriff Whitfield through half-lidded eyes, a satisfied smile playing at her lips. There was nothing satisfied about Sheriff Whitfield, on the other hand. She was brimming with nervous energy and need, the evidence of it soaking her undergarments.
Suddenly, Sheriff Whitfield pulled Shadowheart into a kiss. She kissed her like she was a dying woman and Shadowheart was her last breath. It seemed to pull the outlaw out of her stupor, and she sensed what the Sheriff truly needed. Shadowheart took hold of the sheriff’s hair and pulled her off her, fierce eyes locking onto hers.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” she growled.
The low, primal sound of the growl made Sheriff Whitfield shiver, her arousal skyrocketing. Before she had time to register what was happening, the outlaw gripped her arm and pulled her behind her. Soon, she found herself bent over a boulder that was just the perfect height for what was about to happen.
Shadowheart pressed against the sheriff’s back, and with strong hands, the outlaw ripped the sheriff's shirt open, exposing her bare breasts. Rough hands started to squeeze and knead them. The outlaw’s touch was so unashamed, so unapologetic, it took Sheriff Whitfield by surprise, but soon she was moaning and pushing her chest against Shadowheart’s hands.
The moans turned into a keening cry when the outlaw’s fingers found her nipples, pinching and pulling at them.
“Gods,” Clara mumbled, twisting her own nipple and then tugging it lightly, the pleasurable sensation stoking her arousal further.
“Seems someone enjoys this—a lot,” a husky voice whispered into her ear. Shadowheart gave her no time to answer as one of her hands kept tormenting her nipple sweetly while the other unbuckled her belt.
Soon, Clara could feel the breeze on her bare skin as her pants and undergarments were pulled down in one swift motion. The hand withdrew from her breasts and came down on her buttock, the sound of the slap echoing in the air. Clara gasped, not from pain, but from the suddenness of it.
“Tell me, Sheriff, do you enjoy getting spanked by a dirty outlaw?”
Clara whined in response, too embarrassed to answer.
Clara moaned at the mental image and bit her lip. She slid her hand between her legs, running her fingers along her slit, gathering up some of her wetness, and spreading a generous amount over her hard nub. She started to slowly circle it, imagining it was Shadowheart’s fingers instead of her own.
“Then how about fucked?”
Suddenly, a finger slid through her sodden folds, the sensation jolting Clara, making her breasts rub against the rough boulder in a delicious way. The outlaw swirled her fingers around Clara’s swollen nub, eliciting tingles of pleasure. Clara pushed herself shamelessly against the hand, then whined as it withdrew. To her relief, not for long. Soon, one finger, then two, were pushing into her.
“Fuck, you’re absolutely drenched,” Shadowheart commented, sliding her fingers in and out of Clara with long strokes. “Seems you really do need this.”
“I do,” Clara finally admitted, moving her hips to meet the thrust of Shadowheart’s fingers.
“Well, let me give you what you need,” Shadowheart whispered, and the fingers withdrew again. A lot of shuffling ensued, and Clara had to turn to look at what was happening, only to find Shadowheart attaching a strap-on. The long dildo attached to it pointed directly at Clara.
“Wait, were there strap-ons in the Wild West?” Clara muttered, already reaching for her phone to check. But then she groaned, realizing it didn’t matter—it was her fantasy. Her fingers resumed their movements, and she closed her eyes again.
Her fingers moved in tighter and tighter circles until she decided it wasn't enough and slid one inside herself. Her channel felt hot and slick, and she considered fetching her vibrator, but there was no time for that. She would do it with her hands.
Clara fingered herself with one finger for a while before sliding another in, wishing it was Shadowheart filling her with either fingers or a toy.
The sounds of Shadowheart humming as she coated the dildo with Clara’s slick were outright sinful and oh so sexy. Soon, the outlaw was kicking Clara’s legs wide and setting the head of the dick against Clara’s entrance. Clara could do nothing but lean on the boulder and stick her ass up in anticipation.
“Relax,” Shadowheart commanded, and then, with one gentle thrust, she slid inside, bottoming Clara out.
Clara let out a deep moan, her walls struggling to accommodate the girth. Shadowheart paused for a second to let her adjust, but soon she was moving—shallow thrusts quickly turning into harder, deeper ones. Clara saw stars when Shadowheart pulled all the way out and then slammed back in, incoherent sounds falling from her lips.
Shadowheart reached to twist Clara’s hair into a bundle and then used it as a handle, pulling her head back. It forced Clara’s whole back to arch, pushing her chest out. She blushed as her breasts bounced and swayed in time with the thrusts, but all embarrassment was soon forgotten as the angle shifted and the shaft dragged against that special spot inside her, making all unnecessary thought leave her head.
Again, it dragged over the spot, sending electric pulses of pleasure radiating from deep inside Clara. Something inside her tightened, wound up. She pushed back into the thrusts, seeking more.
“That’s a good sheriff,” Shadowheart rasped, and her free hand snaked around Clara to rub her nub in tight circles. “Seems you were made for this.”
Clara let out a breathless moan, the pleasure doubling. How was it even possible for it to feel this good?
Clara panted, one hand on her soft breast, kneading, squeezing, teasing her own nipples. The other worked furiously between her legs. Her fingers sawed in and out of her channel, chasing that rough patch that made her shiver with pleasure. All the while, her hips bucked as she ground herself against the palm of her hand, trying to stimulate her swollen nub as much as she could.
The sensations combined were driving her closer and closer to the edge. She just needed a bit more.
“H-harder.”
“What’s that?”
“Please, harder!”
Clara could almost feel the outlaw grinning as she picked up the pace, thrusting harder and deeper inside her. The slapping of their skin and the wet noises of Clara’s sodden sex echoed across the prairie—a symphony of debauchery, of Clara’s moans and cries of pleasure, and Shadowheart’s occasional grunts as she fulfilled Clara’s desire to be absolutely railed.
“Close, I’m, I’m so—” Clara mumbled breathlessly.
With a couple of deep thrusts and a skillful swirl of her fingers over Clara’s nub, Shadowheart sent her over the edge. She felt like she was falling endlessly, pure bliss coursing through her veins, until she finally landed over the boulder, her whole body limp and sated as she lay there, the outlaw still deep inside her.
Clara breathed heavily, the movement of her fingers slowing as she tried to prolong her pleasure. Once it turned into overstimulation, she stopped and draped her arm over her eyes.
The carnal need might have been satisfied for a moment, but her emotional need was far from it. She yearned to cuddle up to Shadowheart, breathe in her scent, and shower small kisses along her jaw as she held her close.
“You okay there, Sheriff?” Shadowheart asked, her voice much softer than before. Her fingers moved over Clara’s back in a soothing motion.
Clara lifted her head to look back at her. “More than okay. That was… exactly… what I needed.”
A low hum of approval left Shadowheart as she continued caressing Clara’s back, her hand slowly moving higher to tangle in her hair. Clara sighed in satisfaction before turning around, shifting to sit at the edge of the boulder. She pulled Shadowheart to stand between her legs.
With gentle hands, Shadowheart cupped Clara’s cheeks and bent down to press a kiss to her forehead. Clara closed her eyes and let out a soft, contented moan. A wave of satisfaction washed over her as she was pulled close, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other held her tightly.
All the while, Shadowheart whispered sweet nothings into her ear.
Clara stared at the ceiling of her apartment and groaned, unable to shake these thoughts from her mind. She could almost imagine Shadowheart’s hands on her hair, caressing her.
She was well and truly a goner for the hot new barista.