Frontier Justice Lenore whines, shifts uncomfortably on the hard, narrow cot. Her blond hair is matted, tangled over her face, her bound hands helpless to brush it away. She stares up at the small, barred window, blue eyes rimmed red, swollen as she searches for the stars, the moon. Sighing, she leans against the cold stone wall, tears flowing. "I didn't do it, I swear I didn't." She begins to sob deeply, head shaking in numb denial. "How many?" Sheriff William "Billy to my friends" Boscoe looks up at his sweating, panting deputy. "A good couple dozen," Deputy Oran Daniels gasps, a hand running through his sweaty hair, "got a rope and everything-what we gonna do, they're gonna lynch her!" "Nah, they ain't gonna lynch her, that'd be purely stupid-judge already found her guilty, we're hangin' her tomorrow anyway." The sheriff pauses, hearing the approaching voices. "They just want a little piece of her, make her hurt for what she done." "S-so what we gonna do?" "Well, we're gonna let 'em in a few at a time, real orderly, keep the peace." "But-but we're the law, we can't do that . . . can we?" "Roy Burnside was real well loved in these parts, Oran," he pauses, pulls a cigar from his desk, "real well loved. Seems only right that folks have their chance to mourn him right, don't you think-after all, woman was convicted of killin' him, right? Her husband, for gory sake?" "But-but Lenore, she's always been right sweet, ain't she?" "Right up 'til she killed Roy and gave her favors to that stranger. Hell, she likely killed that baby of hers." "She said she never done." Oran's voice is low, unsure. "And we never did find his body or nothin'-and that baby, it died natural, that's what Doc said." "Ever know a murderin' whore who didn't say she were innocent?" The sheriff lights his cigar, strides to the door to meet the mob. "Sides, just 'cause there ain't a body don't mean there ain't been a killin'-after all, even she says her husband's dead." His voice lowers, he turns back to look pointedly at Oran. "And that Doc ain't nothin' but a drunkard-he'd say whatever she told him to if she gave him a bottle of whiskey to wash it down with." Lenore's eyes are wide, her lips trembling as she hears the crowd approaching. Whoops and hollers, the harsh voices demanding she be brought out. She begins to cry, hands caught tight behind her back, straining. Not until tomorrow morning, they promised, they promised. She scoots on her knees across the cot, cringing in the corner as she hears the big front door thrown open. Closing her eyes, she cowers, begins to pray. "Evenin', gentlemen." Sheriff William Boscoe pushes the door open, steps out into the dark, smiling. "What can I do for you boys tonight?" He laughs, spits. "Hangin' ain't 'til mornin'." "Hangin' ain't good enough for that whore," a sharp voice, angry, "send her out, lest we come in after her!" A chorus of cheers, men milling dangerously. "Why, bless my soul, is that you, preacher?" The sheriff smiles lazily, eyes scanning the crowd, resting on the town pastor. "Why, so it is. No forgiveness from God on this fine evening?" "Forgiveness after expiation, redemption after retribution!" The fat man steps forward, his too-close eyes narrow, hungry. "Well, I suppose you'd know more about that than I, preacher." He stands tall, hand resting lightly on the butt of his pistol. "But I can't bring her out, no matter what the state of her soul or how you good men propose to save her." He laughs, shakes his head at the idea of this mob giving two spits about her salvation. He raises a hand at their shouted demands, "But-BUT I don't see any reason why you fine men can't come in here a few at a time and . . . counsel her." Roy Burnside pulls his mount up, wipes the dust from his eyes. He takes a shuddering breath, broken ribs mostly healed, but still reminding him now and then of their state. Lenore must be beside herself, he knows-what with the baby dying, and now being all alone. A long drive to the next town for supplies had turned ugly just short of his destination. Drifters, deserters, stalking the road, attacking passersby, robbing them. Roy had fought hard against them, his mind fixed on keeping his wallet-money's tight, and winter's coming on. He awoke the next day, ribs broken, head bleeding-and money gone. Hours passed as he struggled to maintain his feet, his head spinning, knees weak. His horse was gone, wagon with it. He'd staggered into town, barely sure of his name. Wasn't long before he realized that, while kindly, these strangers weren't going to give him a horse, supplies. So he'd taken on work, spent the next four weeks at the mill, earning back what he'd lost. He'd sent word to Lenore with a stranger headed that way, given his watch fob and a short note as proof that the man's word was good. He kicks his horse into motion, praying that stranger fulfilled his promise. Lenore moans as the cell door bangs open, her eyes wide, fearful. "Howdy, Mrs. Burnside," the sheriff leers, standing aside, "these here gents would like to have a word with you-I'll just be stepping out, give y'all some privacy." He turns, leaves the door open as the four men push through the narrow doorway, their eyes dark, ravenous. The door slams, her voice rises, shrill, terrified screams as hands jerk her from the corner, tear at her simple dress, baring her large, firm breasts, still full, engorged with milk for a baby gone back to God. "This ain't right, sheriff." Oran lowers his head, his belly tightening at Lenore's high, terrified screams. "We're gonna hang her tomorrow, ain't right lettin' them animals at her tonight." "You're soft, Oran, you always have been." The sheriff leans back in his chair, smiles widely, puffing on his cigar. "She's a whore of the purest ray serene. You look at the evidence-Roy is gone without a trace, and there she is, howling like a catamount, taking it up her little hole right over the railing of her back porch-was scarcely a week after her husband disappeared, two weeks after her baby died! And the man told ol' Eugene he's been riding her for months now-since before she birthed that poor baby." "But we don't KNOW she killed Roy!" "But we don't know she didn't, now, do we? If she didn't, then where is he?" Lenore screams, her legs kicking frantically as she is thrown on the hard cot, belly down. Her flailing feet are caught in cruel hands, rope wound tightly around her ankles. A knee on her neck, weight crushing her face into the musty, flat mattress as her ankles are dragged back, rope looped around one leg, then the other, leaving her ankles bound to thighs. She squirms helplessly, sobbing, her screams shrill, ripping as she's flipped on her back, her hands crushed under her as the first steps between her spread, trapped legs, yanking the tattered remnants of her gingham dress aside. Pastor Randall Bingham steps heavily forward, his hands fumbling with his pants, belt tight, biting into his enormous belly. His eyes are bright, feverish as his cock springs forward into his eager hand. Groaning, he descends upon her, his fat crushing the air from her as a hand invades her bruised, sore pussy. Grasping the base of his swollen tool, he begins pushing cruelly, grinding his way into her tight, hurting hole. "Whore, whore," he mutters as his cock drives deep, eliciting sharp, pained cries, "dirty, filthy whore." He begins thrusting viciously, his ripping strokes driving agonized grunts from her as she writhes helplessly under him. His stubby hands seek out her bare breasts, squeezing, twisting, milk seeping as he heaves rabidly over her. Leaning forward, he begins sucking her nipples, drawing forth her sweet milk as she sobs, twists. She's been wet nurse for his assistant's wife, and now she's serving the same purpose for him. He looks up, grinning, milk glistening on his lips as another man steps up before her sobbing face, thumbs grinding into her jaw, forcing her mouth open. Her cries turn to muffled sobs, sharp, horrified gagging as the rigid cock rams into her mouth, pressing, then pushing past the back of her mouth, into her resisting throat. Lenore chokes, her throat working, nostrils flaring as the thick meat pushes into her tight throat. Her eyes stare, vision filled by hairy thighs, sweaty balls. She twists, writhes helplessly, pinned at both ends, her pussy and face pummeled relentlessly as she grunts, gags. Tears stream from her eyes, her soft, pink lips stretching painfully as her jaw strains, aches. The sucking of her breasts horrifies her, breaks her heart, the sweet nectar that should have nourished her babe instead being hungrily swallowed by this filthy pig calling himself a man of God. His uneven, excited thrusting into her pussy awakens old wounds, aggravates past hurts, she whines, remembers the stranger whose arrival just two weeks ago started this horrifying series of events. The knock at the door had been a surprise-late at night, rousing her from bed, her heart in her throat. Roy was days overdue, her hopeful expression fell as she pulled the door open to find a stranger on her doorstep. He nodded gravely at her, Roy's watch in his hands, and her heart fell. She stepped back, hand over her mouth, crying as he pushed into the house, closed the door behind him. She fled the kitchen at the news, out the back door, standing at the railing, sobbing. He brought her his watch, Roy's watch. News that her beloved husband had been beset, killed. She bent over the rail, her heart broken, head buried in her hands. At first the stranger's touch had been welcome, comforting, his hands massaging her shoulders as he stepped in close behind her. But then a hand grasped her sleeping gown, began sliding it up her leg, and she'd stood straight, tried to turn. Gentle massaging became an iron grip, hand clapping over her sweet mouth as he jerked her gown up, pressed her roughly over the rail. A calloused hand yanking at her knickers, then the cruel, painful prodding as his stiff cock pushed past her dry pussy lips and into her tight cunt. She'd screamed, muffled, her blue eyes huge, staring into the dark, glazed with horror, disbelief. He'd begun thrusting hard, fast, his hips slamming her against the railing-the lovely white railing Roy had made by hand for her, a reminder of the home they'd left behind, the home they would make here in this wasteland. A hand on her breast, then a sharp ripping as he'd torn her nightgown open, her large breasts falling free, swaying over the rail as he plunged into her. His free hand mauled her breasts, squeezing, kneading, pinching her nipples as his strokes became uneven, frenzied. His hand slipped from her mouth, grasped her other breast, pulling her back hard against him as he thrust up hard, tearing her, his ass cheeks clenching as his cock exploded inside her. She moaned numbly, her mouth hanging open, tongue swiping across her trembling lips. She raised her head, found herself staring into the shocked, disgusted eyes of Pastor Bingham, their next-door neighbor. She'd whined, begged, "P-please . . ." as he glared, turned with a sound of disgust to return to his house. She whimpered, sobbed as the stranger pulled out, his cum rushing down her trembling thighs as she cried. He'd stayed the night, using her again and again, binding her hands to the table leg in the kitchen, fucking her on all fours like a dog between forays through the drawers, the cabinets. His hands, mouth, and cock had gone places, done things to her body she'd never in her worst nightmares imagined. He'd untied her in the morning, his pockets fat with booty. He laughed at her, knowing her shame would prevent her from ever telling. Giving her a final, grotesque kiss, he left her sitting on the floor, naked and sobbing, her thighs slick with pink-tinged cum. Heading down the street, he'd smiled, winked at the Pastor before ducking into the saloon to quench his thirst, tell his tale of the insatiable wife and the mysteriously missing husband. Lenore groans as the Pastor's thrusts become wild, pounding. He utters a sharp cry, his sour breathe heavy on her breasts as his hips slam forward, hold, filling her battered pussy with his thick cum. Her cunt muscles clench, her eyes squeezing shut at the hot, vile liquid flooding her, trickling across her asshole. He collapses on her, biting her breasts viciously even as the tool in her throat begins to swell, twitch. She whines, then begins to sputter, choke, her throat swallowing desperately, milking sour jizz from the cruel meat, sending it down to her small belly, which tightens, rebels against the foul load. She whines, gagging, retching helplessly as the softening cock slips from her lips, a trickle of cum running from her mouth. The Pastor pulls back, his flaccid tool sliding from her raw pussy. She sobs, devastated as another man falls on her, hands roaming, hurting, mouth fixed on her milk filled breasts, huge dick driving into her. Another at her head, and she bucks, arches, her throat once again laid open, nose buried in the stink of unwashed balls. Roy looks up from his fire, stares into the distance, toward the foreboding mountains. His belly full, he's tired, his body crying for rest. He leans back, closes his eyes, head resting on his saddle bags. He sees Lenore, her wide eyes, her sweet smile, the lovely sweep of her breasts, curve of her hips. He moans, rolls on his side, eyes open again, cock hard. He could be there by morning if he rode straight through. He sighs, nods, sitting up. He needs to get home, back to his beloved, he can feel it in his bones-and his crotch. He rises, stretches, bends to lift his saddle. Oran sits outside, his ears still catching strains of Lenore's cries, her squeals and sobs. He rocks slightly, head in hands, face drawn in disgust, grief. How can Billy just sit and listen to this? How can they be letting it happen? Don't matter what the girl might have done, fact is this is wrong. A loud sputtering, gurgling, gagging, and Oran rises, leaves, begins to stride unevenly across the road to the saloon, fleeing the sounds of Lenore's destruction. Sheriff Boscoe sits behind his desk, eyes closed, a knowing grin on his face as he listens to Lenore's cries, her pathetic gagging. He barely notices, Oran leaving. His hand moves slowly on his crotch, up and down across the buttoned fly of his pants as his hips take up the rhythm of her grunts, gasps. He's always liked Lenore-liked watching her sweet, round ass twitching to and fro as she struts down the street. Liked watching her large, firm breasts jiggle with each step. Liked watching her full, pink lips, pouty, inviting as she talks, her voice lost on him. Lost on most men in town. They've all wanted her, from the moment she and Roy moved to this Godforsaken hole. He moans, his hips jerking up hard as he imagines her face impaled on his cock, her wide, innocent eyes staring up helplessly. His hips jerk again, sticky wetness spreading with the hot waves of spunk exploding from his frustrated tool. Sighing, he rises, looks down at the dark spot spreading at his crotch. With a satisfied grunt, he strides to the door, opening it to wave in more men. Lenore sobs weakly, her shoulders working helplessly as a knee drops cruelly on her throat, pinning her as eager hands wind the biting rope around her heavy breasts. Around and around, pulled up tight, forcing her breasts up and away from her body in tight, milk-weeping globes. She's dragged from the cot, pushed to her knees, rough, strong hands shoving her, positioning her. A sharp prodding, relentless pressure against her asshole and she begins screaming miserably, her ass clenching as the thick cock drives into her bowels, tearing her cruelly. Another on his knees before her, tool in hand, laughing, leering, his face distorted with lust. Her red eyes widen-Jake? She whimpers, "J-Jake, p-please no . . ." His hand flies, palm connecting with her cheek in a stinging blow. "Don't you talk to me you whore." She sobs sickly as her sister's husband buries his rigid cock in her bleeding pussy. His head dips, lips fixing on her seeping tit, sucking deeply as his hips begin to thrust hard, hateful. Lenore squirms, trapped, helpless as her hair is grabbed, head jerked to the side. She whines, high, animal-like as another cock shoves past her swelling lips, into her resisting throat. Oran sits at the bar, eyes bleary, bloodshot. He tips his glass back, drains the last, then taps it on the bar. The bartender steps up, eyes Oran sympathetically. "Think maybe you've had enough there, Oran?" "N-no," Oran's voice is thick, words slurred, "I kin shtill think, so I muss need more." "You pinin' over Lenore?" "I don' think shhe done it." "Well, I think she's a right sweet girl, but the Pastor, he done saw her fuckin' that stranger, brazen as all get-out." He takes Oran's glass, rinses it, fills it with water. "'Sides, that man come in here, all full of stories about what he done with her." "B-but we don' know him from Adam," Oran shakes his head, eyes glazed, "and that Pastor ain't never bin one o'my fav-favor . . . I ain't never liked him anyhow. Somethin' piggy, sneaky about him." His wet eyes lock on the bartender's face. "'Sides, din't that Pastor say she were cryin'? What'd he say? Tears o'joy or somethin' like that? How do we know they wasn't tears of pain or fear? Maybe that stranger were rapin' her or somethin'." "Don't much matter either way, does it?" The bartender shakes his head, shrugs his burly shoulders. "She's gonna hang in just a few hours, no sense in gettin' all worked up about it now." Oran nods sadly, takes the water uncomplaining. Lenore sobs hoarsely, humiliation, pain, and terror blended in her pale face. Her head is pinned on the cot with a cruel knee, her legs scraping the rough stone floor as calloused hands work her bound breasts, milking her like a dairy animal. Another cock, long, thick, drives cruelly into her bleeding ass as her darkening tits are squeezed, stretched, milk shooting in small jets into a bucket beneath her. The men laugh, make lowing sounds, imitating the cow they're making her. Her blue eyes are dark, dilated, staring up at the small barred window. She grunts with every shredding stroke into her torn rectum, her swollen, bruised lips moving wordlessly as she catches the moon in her gaze. The sky is paling slightly. She whines, knowing that soon it will be over. She closes her eyes, thanks God. Roy rides over the rise, smiles in tired relief at the sight of the small mining town spread out before him. He never thought he'd be so happy to see it. He gigs his horse forward, suddenly awake, energetic again. He pats his pocket, horse trotting down the gentle slope, feeling for the small box there. Butterscotch hard candies, Lenore's favorite. An extravagance, for sure, but worth it just for the joy he knows it will bring her. Trotting into town, he looks up at the lightening sky-she'll still be asleep, he'll surprise her. Smiling eagerly, he rides on, oblivious to the stunned stares of the few folks up and about. Doc Mulroney goggles, his eyes blinking hard. He may be drunk, but he's not THAT drunk-that's Roy Burnside, no doubt about it! He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, watching as Roy rides up to his house, dismounts, tying his horse at the post before bounding up the steps. Doc shakes his head, paralysis broken. He dashes unsteadily back toward the saloon, shouting Oran's name. Lenore whines, struggles weakly to turn her head as the hot gobs of cum shoot on her face, splattering, hanging in thick, horrible loops from her cheeks, lips. The man in her ass thrusts deeply, jerking her up off the floor with each torturing stroke. Her sore breasts jounce against the tight ropes, the flesh dark, angry, pain from them shooting through her. The milk still weeping from them is pinkish, streaming over the swollen globes, soaking into the rope below. The sky grows lighter, she hears the cocks crow, dogs barking as the man in her ass shouts, his rod jerking, spewing cum into her cramping bowels. Pulling out, he pushes her forward, her face scraping painfully across the rough floor. He laughs, rises, makes way for the last of them. Doc staggers into the saloon, his bloodshot eyes darting about, then resting on Oran. "Oran! Oran!" He rushes unevenly toward the bar, barely able to form words. "R-Roy, Roy B-Burnside, he's-" he pauses, panting. "Calm down, Doc, what is it?" Oran's heart falls, sure that Roy's body has been found. "He-he-" Doc groans in frustration at his clumsy tongue, "HE'S ALIVE, he just rode in-into town!" "W-WHAT?" Oran leaps to his feet, sways slightly. "I saw him, I swear it, he's-he's at home!" Oran pushes past Doc, bursts out of the saloon, the bartender rushing out behind him. "Mmmm, like a cow to slaughter." the man heaves violently over Lenore, his stiff tool grinding in and out of her red, angry pussy as the Pastor winds the rope cruelly around her sweat matted head, through her mouth, fashioning a crude bridle. Lenore whines, dog-like, her swollen tongue working the rough rope, her eyes dull, agonized. "Hobble the cow up," he laughs, fingers digging into her bruised hips, "hobble her like a breeder." He crows at his own joke, hips slamming forward hard, his ass cheeks spasming as his cock lets loose its stream of thick cum into her aching, raw hole. He reaches forward, grabs her dark, tortured breasts, begins squeezing sadistically, fingers disappearing into the firm, trapped flesh. He thrills to her hoarse, tortured cries, his palms slick with her milk. Sheriff Boscoe looks at the clock, nods, rising stiffly from his chair. "Where the hell is Oran?" He shakes his head, walks toward the jail, cock stirring at the sounds of the gathering crowd outside. "Time's up, boys," he calls, pushing the door open, "hope you got all your counselin' done." He laughs as he spies her on all fours, hands hobbled before her, ankles still bound tightly to thighs. "Why don't she look pretty?" He steps in, closes the door behind him. "Don't mind if I give her a little word or two my own self before the hangin', do you?" He drops to his knees behind her, hand scrabbling with his buttons. Moaning, he yanks his cock free, slams it hard into her gaping pussy, begins thrusting hatefully as she lets out a pathetic, barking cry. Oran pounds on the door, his voice hoarse, desperate. The door swings open, revealing Roy's confused, worried face. "Oh, dear Jesus, Roy, where you been?" "I-it's a long story. Has-has something happened to Lenore, where is she?" "Come on, hurry," Oran grabs Roy's arm, pulls him onto the porch, "please, God, don't let it be too late!" Lenore sobs sickly, whining, her bound hands inching along the rough floor, trapped legs scraping forward on bloody knees as she's half led, half dragged through the door, into the morning light. An appreciative sigh rises through the crowd as her dark, leaking breasts sway under her, her thighs awash in cum and blood. Sheriff Boscoe hands the lead to the Pastor, smiling as the evil man nods, moans low, grasping the rope and giving it a hard jerk. Lenore whimpers, her head dragged up by the cruel rope, eyes moving jerkily from face to face, searching for sympathy, pity, but finding only tight, eager hunger in their eyes. "Don't look to them for help, whore," the Pastor drags her forward, the rope digging deep in her pale, drawn cheeks, "you're meat, just an animal, a stupid, mean beast." Lenore whines, sobbing hoarsely, her hobbled wrists unable to keep the pace, sending her face first into the dirt. Her dark purple breasts grind across the sharp gravel as he pants, dragging her through the dirt toward the gallows. Lenore squeals weakly as the first rock is pelted, glancing off her bruised ribs. Another, larger, harder, connecting painfully with her straining ass. Another, then another, she whines helplessly, hands clawing at the hard ground, trying to pull herself back up even as her battered knees scrabble desperately across the distance. Oran elbows into the crowd around the gallows, shouting, panting as the crowd closes in, then steps back, a stunned gasp rising. "Make way, make way, STOP THE HANGIN'!" Whispers turned to cries as Roy pushes through, his eyes wide, terrified at what he might find. The crowd parts, revealing a horrifying scene. Lenore's trapped mouth moves in soft, whimpered prayers, her bruised, purplish-brown breasts heaving as she struggles to catch her breath. Her bound legs spread wide as she balances on her torn knees, her slick, coated thighs trembling with the strain. Her head is jerked up by the mouth, she stares dumbly into the crowd, head shaking weakly, uncomprehending as the crowd gives way, revealing-she begins to whine pathetically, then scream, ripping, raw. The Pastor stares, then glares, his shaking hands lowering the noose over her head, yanking it tight around her working throat even as Roy approaches. "We came here for a hangin', and by Jesus a hangin' there'll be!" The Pastor jerks the noose hard, then turns, reaching for the lever. A loud report, the shot echoing through the mountains as Oran takes aim, pulls the trigger, the Pastor's white shirt blooming red as a small hole appears dead center. The back of his shirt billows, flesh and blood blasting from the exit wound. Lenore squeals, shaking, shivering, her eyes huge, unbelieving. Roy approaches slowly, trembling, his face unreadable as his eyes travel over her used, broken body. She moans as he kneels in front of her, her eyes brimming, shame, relief, agony all washing over her features. She sobs, devastated as the crowd backs slowly away, the men who took her averting their eyes, turning to make their escape. "Dang, Roy, ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" Sheriff Boscoe steps forward, eyes darting, head spinning. A sharp, bloody cough explodes from his mouth as his eyes bug, the deafening roar of Oran's gun the last sound he hears. Oran turns, gun raised, tears streaming from his eyes. "If you used her, if you touched her, you'd best be packin' right quick, 'cause I'll hunt every last one of you down." The crowd disperses quickly, not wanting to further inspire the wrath of the young deputy. He turns back, cringing at the sight of Lenore's bruised, ruined body. He takes off his jacket, bends, places it lovingly around her shoulders. "It's okay now, missy, it's all gonna be okay now, you're safe." He bites back a sob as her eyes roll up towards him, gratitude, exhausted horror, shame lighting them unnaturally. "Leave us, Oran." Roy's voice is gravelly, thick. "Let me help you get her back to the house, Doc can-" "I said leave us! We don't need no help, no more pryin' eyes, just go, leave us alone, I can tend to my wife." "I-I'll find them that done this, Roy, I will." "It don't matter, Oran, it's done-now go." Oran moves away, shuffling sadly, crying softly as he enters the Sheriff's Office, closes the door behind him. He sits heavily, sobbing. All his fantasies about Lenore, all his desire to somehow have her, own her swirl wildly in his head. He's always known that nothing could come from them, but he can't deny that some small part of him wishes he'd taken part in her defilement. Roy runs a finger softly across Lenore's cheek, his expression distant, considering. "My love," his voice is soft, hushed, "my love, I'm so sorry you suffered like this, so sorry it has to end this way." He stands, tests the noose, shaking his head at her renewed cries, her pathetic struggles. "Hush how, hush-we can't live like this, can we? I can't even hardly look at you, and I sure can't live knowing my wife has been fucked, used, her holes all filled up by near every man in this town, can I? Can you expect that of me?" He bends, kisses her sweat-matted hair tenderly, then grasps the lever. "I loved you, Lenore, I did. With all my heart, gonna be a long time before I can love another." Nodding, he jerks the lever down, opening the trap door below her. Lenore's screams are cut short, her blue eyes wide, full of horror, terror, sick pleading. Her lips tremble, her trapped legs jerking frantically, bound hands flying to her throat. Her shaking fingers grab helplessly at the rough hewn rope digging cruelly into her flesh, slowly crushing her windpipe. Her body sways at the end of the rope, her knees pedaling, seeking some purchase as her face begins to darken, her eyes bugging, nostrils flaring. Her chest heaves, hitches, belly tightening as her lungs burn for air. Her tongue pushes sickly at the right rope trapping her mouth, a deep, horrible gurgling rising from her throat. Oran watches through the window, vision blurring with tears. He can't stop this, he knows-she's Roy's wife, and he has been heartily injured. It's his right to deal with her however he will, even if that means this. He shakes his head, his heart nearly bursting in pity for her, desire. Poor Lenore, she never done nothin' wrong, never hurt a fly. Always a kind word, a sweet smile. He watches as her lips work frantically around the rope, dark, swollen, trembling as her body jerks violently, hands scrabbling up the rope, pulling helplessly, then sliding back, struggling to catch under the noose. Oran moans, sick at the tingling starting at the base of his cock. With a hoarse cry he unbuttons his pants, grabs his stiffening cock, begins stroking it furiously. Roy watches, crying, as Lenore's struggles begin to weaken. He crouches before her, hand stroking her mussed hair, eyes locked on hers as she begs voicelessly, her arms trembling, failing, hands falling before her. He looks down at her stretching, pleading digits, takes them in his, moaning as her small fingers curl desperately around his large, calloused ones. He sobs, remembers walking hand in hand when they were courting, her sweet innocence, her full, ripe body his alone. He looks back into her eyes, sees the dull glassiness starting, her struggles becoming weak, uneven. "Shhhh, it's almost over, little girl," he murmurs, his voice thick with tears, "almost over, stop fighting, just let go, baby, just let go." He leans, his lips caressing her raw nipples, then closing over them, tongue lapping at the milk flowing. He sucks hard, one hand releasing hers, unbuttoning his fly. He pulls his stiff cock out, leans forward, pulling her hips toward him as he pushes firmly into her clenching pussy. He groans as the sore, swollen flesh clasps around his cock snugly, his mouth drawing the milk from her ruined breasts as she writhes weakly. Lenore's vision begins to tunnel, her ears roaring, Roy's cock driving into her, sliding roughly over torn flesh. She begins to tremble violently, her body convulsing helplessly. Tears flow from her bugging eyes, her face a dark, angry red as Roy begins to thrust up hard, lifting her. Each thrust loosens the noose momentarily, and Lenore finds that she can drag in a short, tortured breath with each thrust. A sick, breathy whine sets up as he fucks her furiously, oblivious to all but her struggles, her pussy tight around his tool, her sweet milk in his mouth. "Mine," Roy mumbles, mouth full of firm, dark breast, "mine, the last inside you will be me, the last you feel will be mine." His hands roam her flesh, curving around her ass cheeks, massaging, kneading as he pumps her raw pussy. Oran takes a deep, shuddering breath. He can't. He can't. Goddamn it, if Roy don't want her, he does! Grabbing the shotgun, he strides across the room, throws the door open, stepping into the morning light. Roy moans, pulls his head back, shouting as his cock explodes, flooding Lenore with his thick cum. He sighs, leaning into her, his cock still convulsing inside her, spitting another wave. "Four weeks I waited, Lenore, four weeks I saved it for you." He sobs, pulling her down by the shoulders, tightening the noose, nodding at the grinding, raspy sound she makes. "Four weeks, and I come home to find that near every man in town has covered you, like a loose bitch in heat." He pulls down harder, sobbing deeply, "Why'd you let 'em do that, Lenore? Why?" His eyes fly wide, blood filling his mouth as the shot rings out. Swaying, he falls back, crashing lifelessly from the gallows. "Will-will she be okay, Doc?" Oran's voice is low, pained. "Physically? Well, I suppose she'll recover well enough, her-well, you know, the blood seems to be coming back to them." "But?" "Well, Oran, her mind I'm not so sure about. Might be better if she was someplace else, 'cause I can't imagine how she's gonna live knowin' half the men here-well, you know, and plus how everybody saw her." Oran nods, runs a shaking hand through his hair. "Then we'll leave. We'll just pack up, and move on someplace down the road, get a fresh start." "You'd give it up for her? You're Sheriff now, you know." "Doc, I done loved her since I first set eyes on her-yeah, I'd do anything for her." Doc smiles, nods, patting Oran on the shoulder. "You're a fine man, Oran. A fine man." Doc takes his coat, his bag, heads out the door, closing it softly behind him. Oran walks into the bedroom, considers her small form under the crisp sheets. He moves to her side, his hands shaking as he pulls the sheet down, stares at her bruised body. Her eyes open, blinking weakly, then fixing on him. She whines, begins to cry. "I saved you, Lenore-I saved you, and now I own you." His voice is smooth, low. She moans, nods, her eyes bright with sick gratitude. "And do you love me, Lenore?" He smiles as she nods weakly, expression confused. "And you owe me, don't you?" She nods, he smiles wider, eyes hungry, hand pulling at his pants buttons. "Show me-suck me like you did all them men, swallow my seed like you did theirs. Lenore gasps, tears brimming as she moves weakly, her bruised, scraped breasts swaying as she moans scratchily, "Mmmnoo, p-please, p-please . . .". "I could take you back out there, leave you naked in the middle of Main Street, let them all see you, take you again." He frowns as Lenore whines, shaking her head miserably. "I own you now, you better understand that." He grasps her face, jerks it toward him. "You don't please me, you don't obey me, service me the way you did them, I might just stop loving you, and then where'd you be?" Lenore whimpers, her torn, swollen lips dropping open as he climbs on the bed, legs straddling her shoulders as he pushes his huge tool into her crying face, her aching throat. "Now suck me-show me how much you appreciate my savin' you, make me happy I did. Show me I didn't make a mistake." His expression is dark, eyes shining in the dim room as his fantasies are realized, her sweet mouth wrapped around his tool. He sighs, gives over to the sadistic streak inside him, that secret part of him that always wanted not just to love Lenore, but to dominate her completely. Lenore's head bobs weakly, her breath coming in short, devastated gasps as Oran thrusts his hips, lays her throat open for his pleasure. He pats her head as he pumps her face, imagining all the things he'll make her do once her body has healed. He pictures her on her knees, naked, a rope around her neck like a leash. His own whore, his slave, obeying his every command, pussy, ass, and mouth always open, yielding. He moans, thrusts faster, knows that she'll be just like a dog, loyal, stupid, and adoring even with the occasional necessary kick. He slams forward hard, burying his meat in her throat, waves of sour cum filling her crying face. He withdraws slowly, bends, hands gently petting her head, his lips gently touching her cheeks, her forehead. Doc sits at the bar, shaking his head as he downs another drink. "That Oran, he's something else, ain't he? Savin' that poor girl, takin' her home, nursin' her?" "Yep, sure is somethin'," the bartender smiles, "but I always knew he was soft-maybe that ain't such a bad thing sometimes." "Well, no matter what, she sure got lucky." "Yep, that she did-ain't nobody kinder than Oran."
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