The Barmaid

The barmaid strutted out from behind the bar, a tray balanced on her dainty hand. Four stout glasses of whiskey were strategically placed on it, forming a diamond. Her breasts, pushed up a ridiculous amount by her corset bounced hypnotically in tandem with her footsteps on the hard saloon floor. More than one eye hungrily devoured her shapely frame as she jiggled to a table with four gunslingers sitting at it. The men blatantly stared at the soft curve of her breasts under her dress, and admired the way her dress flowed across her ample hips and well toned thighs. She paid no mind though. She was used to being the object of many a lonely trail-hand's affection. She relished it, making all these men ridiculously hard, knowing they would not see a woman of her caliber again in a very long while, if ever. She agitated their condition further by using her feminine wiles to goad them on, and then drift away, leaving them with a throbbing hard-on, and her with an apron full of bills. She expertly distributed the drinks to the cowboys, smiling curtly as they undressed her with their greedy eyes. She deliberately leaned forward, further than a modest woman should, delivering them more than a fair eyeful of her creamy bosom. Her smile widened further upon appraising their awe-fulled lusty expressions.

"Here's your drinks, boys." She cooed as she clinked the glasses down upon the old worn table. The smoke from their cigars danced about her, heightening her mysticism, her curves, her femininity. The gunslingers threw their bills upon her tray, a fair tip included. One of them, a particularly foul smelling one, grasped her arm. She could smell the syrupy reek of strong whiskey

on his breath.

"How's about you and me go somewhere private to...talk?" The man said, revealing a checkerboard grin. His grip tightened and he waved a modest fistful of bills in front of her nose. She shot him a cynical look, one eyebrow cocked.

"I'm no common whore sir..." The barmaid said haughtily, breaking the cowboy's grip and folding her arms across her chest, accentuating her breasts even more. She pursed her lips and shot him a teasing look. The cowhand leapt from his seat, grabbing her around the waist and drawing her close. He gazed into her emerald green eyes, and attempted to rub a clumsy drunken hand through her curly hair, which was tied up in a no-nonsense manner. It framed her face wonderfully, the cowboy thought, although not as eloquently as it was written here. She slapped his hand away.

"You never had a man like me before!" He drawled, continuing his advances, pawing her breasts. He began to pull up her skirt, in front of all the patrons of the saloon, possibly hoping to rub her sweet thighs, possibly to lay his fumbling hands upon her sweet mound. In a flash, the firey barmaid acted. She slammed her forehead into the cowboy's crooked nose. A sickening crunch sounded above the saloon's white noise. Her curls bobbed crazily as the cowboy's head snapped back, a suprised, pained look in his eyes. Droplets of blood arced through the air, scintillating hypnotically in the dim saloon's light. She drew back and delivered a hook punch that a prize fighter would have been proud of. It connected soundly with his cheek. Her entire dainty arm vibrated from the impact, and the cowboy spiraled to the dusty wooden floor. The cowboy's friends stared, mouths agape, not knowing what to think or how to react. A few nearby patrons began to laugh and clap at her antics. A few regulars smiled, knowing that laying their hands on Mickey the barmaid led to disasterous results. Some even bore scars from her reactions to their advances.

"You...bitch!" He gurgled through the hand covering his face, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood that oozed through his dirty fingers.

"If two hits sends you to the floor, I'm not even going to show you what I can do with this!"

She said as she flirtly lifted her skirts for a brief moment, revealing her frilly undergarments to whoever may be looking. She turned, her smile reaching towards her ears as she gave a polite curtsy to the hooting and hollering patrons of the Diamondback Saloon. The injured man jerkily rose to his feet, his friends still staring blankly at the scene, their minds just grasping the occurances.

"Damn whore! I'll teach you to mess with Porter!" In the blink of an eye, the gunslinger's trained hand darted towards his gun. She whipped around, too late to react. She closed her eyes, waiting for the red-hot burning lead to enter her deliciously shaped body. The roar of a .45 filled the tavern, lighting the dim atmosphere with it's destructive power. The saloon fell silent. She expected to open her eyes to a vision of the afterlife, but instead, she saw the same dirty cowboy, staring at the corner, his gunbelt on the floor, his hand grasping numbly at where his gun should have been holstered. His mouth opened and closed as a fish pulled out of a lake would have been.

"How the...?" The dirty cowboy whispered as he stared blankly at a man, sitting by himself at a table in the back of the saloon.

All eyes were on the rugged stranger in the corner, being that he was clearly the one that performed the deed. The stranger sat, his pistol held in front of him, plumes of smoke lazily dancing from its barrel to the ceiling of the saloon. The stranger's hat was pulled down across his eyes, looking as if he's shot blind...but that was impossible right? There's no way this man could have shot this cowboy's belt off from 30 paces, even taking great care in aiming! Impossible.

"Oh!" The stranger in the corner spouted in a mockingly condescending tone. "I meant to shoot you in your yellow heart! Pulling leather on a woman, with her back turned. Tsk tsk tsk.." The stranger tipped his hat back with the barrel of his smoking .45, revealing a set of piercing, ice blue eyes. The eyes of a killer. Those eyes were cold, but she could see the sparks mirthfully dancing behind them, the eyes of a man who knows he is a superior specimen. "Must be all the whisky, setting my aim off." He mused as he cocked the hammer of his big pistol back. It clicked loudly as it set, echoing through the silent tavern seemingly as loudly as the gunshots he fired themselves. He smiled wanly.

"I've got 4 shots left." The stranger said, with a keen smile upon his rugged, trail-worn face. "That's one for you, and each of your friends' foreheads." Mickey the barmaid marvelled at how soft this killer's voice was. He said each word with a punctual finality, the phrasing of a man who expected to die at any moment. Outwardly, she attempted to keep her tough-girl facade going, but inside, especially on the parts that counted, she longed for this handsome, honorable stranger. "If you cowards do anything but tuck your tails between your legs and ride out of town, the coffin maker is gonna have some work to do. You hear me?" The stranger asked, his voice still retaining that neutral, 'nice weather we're having!' tone. Worldessly, the dirty cowboy and his posse of three gathered their things and silently plodded out of the tavern. The dirty cowboy attempted to retain some of his manhood by shooting the stranger a dirty look, but the dirty cowboy's eyes unconsciously found the floor very quickly. A moment or two passed, then all that could be heard was the muffled 'clip-clop' sound of the quartet leaving town. Whispered coversation broke out, then rose into the normal rabble. The stranger slowly pulled the empty shell casings out of his pistol, reloaded them with fresh cartridges and dropped his weapon back into it's holster. Mickey the barmaid was none too pleased with this turn of events. She did not like being protected. She was tough, she was rough, she survived this frontier life without relying on some incredibly sexy gunslinger. She stomped up to him, red faced and flustered. The stranger sipped his bourbon, paying her no mind.

"Excuse me!" She hissed, her brow lowered and her tone menacing.

"You're welcome." The handsome stranger said, a smirk creeping up the corners of his mouth.

"Ex-c-cuse me?" She stammered. She was taken aback by his cool gaze, and the confidence with which he composed himself.

"I said that you're welcome. For saving your life." He swirled the whiskey around his rock glass absentmindedly. His smirk threatened to break into a toothy grin. The barmaid composed herself, and shot him daggers.

"I can take care of myself, sir." She almost pouted.

"You can dodge bullets, ma'am?" He asked, his piercing gaze finding hers. The blue of his eyes looked about the same as the feeling of jumping into a lake in late September.

"What?"

"I asked if you were quick enough to dodge bullets. I can see that you are a bonafide cocktease, but can you dodge slugs?" The stranger asked, his gaze never wavering. Her eyes widened.

"I am not a cocktease! I am--"

"Ma'am, with all due respect, you know how beautiful you are, you know how well shaped you are. You flaunt it in front of these lonely boys and are just tickled pink by shooting them down." His eyes drifted from her eyes to the drastic roundess of her breasts, down even further to her toned legs. It took her a moment, stunned by the fact that this gunslinger called her game so easily.

"It's not my fault--" She began.

"I know I may be interrupting a bit, but you aren't answering my question. Can you dodge slugs?" He asked again, softly. She glared at him hotly, defeated.

"I reckon not."

"Well then I suppose I saved your life then, right?" He tiled his head, his smirk widening into a sly smile.

"I don't need your help mister. I've taken care of myself for a long time now, and I don't need your assistance!" She growled the last word, making it sound like an insult. She tried to turn, but he held her with his cold gaze, the same smile still pasted on his weathered, lined face. He gave her an interrogative look. His overwhelming confidence seemed to whirl within her abdomen, alighting a fire within. "Ok. Fine." She said, her proud shoulders slumping. "You win. You saved my life. That cowboy would've shot me in my pretty back if you didn't come along and save the damsel in distress! Is that what you wanted me to say?"

"No."

"What then?"

"When do you get off of work?"

"Fifteen minutes." She said, attempting to put on an indignant face.

"Have a drink with me." The handsome stranger rumbled said, his cool, smiling eyes never leaving hers.

"After I get off, fine. I'll be right over." She found herself smiling, despite her tough act. The handsome stranger grinned at this, seeming satisfied. "What's your name, stranger?" He looked into his glass of boubon, it's contents nearly gone. He looked up again, his shooter's eyes boring into hers, sending yet another chill down her spine.

"Call me Dean." He smiled.

"Well Dean, I'm Mickey. Pleased to make your acquaintance." She was horrified that her tough girl act was slipping away, but at the same time, she loved it. She strutted away, waggling her firm rear in a practiced manner as she made her way back to the bar to finish her shift. Dean drained his glass, rolled a cigarette with his leathery hands, and waited.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The barmaid absentmindedly continued on with her shift, stealing glances at Dean every chance she got. She marvelled at how fluidly he moved. Everything he did, he did with the utmost grace and precision. The man did not waste a single motion. She couldn't help but daydream about how he would use that agility between the covers! She watched as he rolled a cigarette, his fingers dancing across the paper, rolling it into a tight tube, with a flap of paper exposed. He dragged his tongue across the paper, in an excruciatingly slow manner, using his saliva as a makeshift adhesive. She was blatantly staring at him now, either not noticing or not caring about the wetness blooming under her skirt. To her horror, she realized that his captivating eyes were aimed directly at hers. A hot feeling crept into her cheeks as Dean popped his cigarette into his mouth. Only a slight grin graced his strong lips, but his eyes smiled warmly and widely. He nodded towards her hands. She furrowed her brow and cocked her head, showing her misunderstand. His grin split open, revealing a roguish crooked smile. He gestured again, and she finally looked down. She let down a girlish squeal to see that the beer mug she was filling had been overflowing for some time now. She flipped the tap, and cleaned it up, her face as red as a beet. The man laughed heartily. It was a good, soulful sound.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Mickey walked towards Dean's table, a rock glass in each hand. He grabbed the brim of his hat with two weathered fingers and gave her a gentlemanly nod, his eyes gleaming mirthfully. She slid him one of the glasses. He accepted it with a nod, then leaned back and threw his legs up, propping his spurred boots on the table.

"Thank you kindly ma'am." He said, repeating the gesture he'd given her a moment earlier.

"Well, it's the least I could do for the man that saved my life." She said, attempting to edge her words with venom, but they came out a bit too breathy and sultry for her tastes. Dean took a long pull off of his drink, exhaling his satisfaction as he set the glass down.

"I couldn't let some mangy cowpoke like that shoot such a pretty little thing such as yourself, now could I?" He said. She opened her mouth, ready to spout some more tough-girl rhetoric, but his cocked eyebrow made her reconsider. She smiled prettily. Mickey felt like such a lady around this handsome stranger, around this true man. She had been with a few men, and rejected the advances of hundreds more, but this one was a MAN, in every sense of the word...well, she could only speculate on a few facets of his manliness, but if things progressed as they were at this rate, she would be well acquainted with them before the night was through.

"No, you couldn't." She finally purred. He smiled at this, his gaze never leaving hers. He took the rest of his drink down in one mighty gulp. She responded in kind, draining hers in one gulp, winking slyly at him. His eyebrows raised at this.

"Well. Looks like you can handle your liquor." He leaned forward. "I wonder if you'll be able to handle a tall drink of what I have to offer." He stared at her in a matter-of-fact manner. It was Mickey that raised her eyebrows this time. Without missing a beat, she leaned forward, her thin dress slipping low, revealing more than an eyeful of her milky skin to Dean.

"I can handle more than any one man can dish out, honey." She crooned, her face beaming with pride. The smile persisted on his face, not at all shaken. She loved how much his brilliant, quick eyes contrasted his lined, dusty face.

"That sounds like a challenge to me ma'am, and if there's one thing I absolutely love, it's a good challenge. Enough talk. I have a room across the street, let's go."

He reached in the pocket of his duster and drew out a wad of bills, and tossed it on the table. "Well?" He asked, standing up. She didn't even stop to think twice. She stood just as quickly, her breasts following a second behind, giving a hearty jiggle that caught his eye.

"Let's." She said. He walked out of the Diamondback, Mickey following closely behind.

* * * * * * * * * * *

They walked onto the dusty road side by side. Most of the shops were in the midst of closing for the day. The sun was taking its agonizingly slow nightly dip into that space just past the horizon, basking the frontier town in a hot orange-red hue. People tottered this way and that, wearily finishing their daily grind. The gunslinger abruptly wrapped a lean muscled arm around her thing shoulders, drawing her close. She didn't resist. They walked, and she took in his scent. It was an intoxicating blend of scents. Leather, sweat, the dust of the trail, gunpowder...but the smell of death was most prevalent. This man made his dime killing people, that she could tell. She broke the comfortable silence between them.

"So what do you do...for a living?" She asked. He paused, most likely considering how to answer Mickey's question.

"You could say...that I'm a freelance law-man." He said finally, satisfied with his response.

"A bounty hunter?" Her eyes widened.

"That's one way to say it. I ride into town, take care of the local law's biggest problems, take my money, and ride on." He said casually.

"So basically, what you're saying, is that you come into town, kill notorious bandits and their gangs singlehandedly, collect your money and ride off into the sunset?" She asked in an incredulous manner.

"Kill or capture. Most of 'em don't take kindly to the idea of surrender. Most of the time I convince them with lead." He said this blankly, in the tone of a man who killed for a people for a living, because that is, in fact, what he did. For some odd reason, she found herself incredibly turned on by this. This assassin, this murderer, this MAN, who travelled the dusty roads from town to town killing people, wanted to bed her. Again, the familiar wetness crept down her thighs. Her undergarmets were horribly soaked. The travelling killer, known as Dean, must've picked up on this, as he turned to her, and stared deep into her eyes. Grabbing her shoulders, he kissed her deeply and soundlessly. She closed her eyes, and savored his taste, relished in the way their tongues danced and intermingled on the border where their lips connected. She felt so small, so protected under his strong grasp. She was lost in the moment, he was not. His hunter's instinct and reflexes saved both of their lives. Out of nowhere, his strong gentle hands became iron as he shoved her onto the rough wooden planks of a storefront.

"DOWN!" Dean screamed. Gunfire roared from across the road, and Dean grunted. She felt a few hot droplets of blood fall upon her face. Dean dove, tucking his legs into a roll and drawing his widowmaker. More gunfire barked its deadly song, splintering the wood of the storefront behind them. Townsfolk ran for cover, some screamed. Mickey was one of them. She couldn't help it, the hornet's buzz of the slugs flying above her head broke her resolve. She spotted the dirty cowboy from earlier, and his three friends, all of their guns blazing in her and Dean's direction. The dirty cowboy known as Porter had a triumphantly maniacal look plastered upon his ugly face. Dean completed his roll, mindless of the death being thrown at him. She looked upon Dean then, and is was a sight she would never forget. He drew his revolver, and moved as rapidly as a rattler's strike as he brought it to bear. His face retained this peaceful expression, this calm, 'ho-hum' expression as he threw lead back at them.

POPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOP! His gun roared, and just as suddenly as it had started, the gunfire from across the street stopped. Without a word, Dean stood, opening the drum of his revolver and dumping the spent cartridges on the dusty wooden planks that made up the porch of the town's general store. He walked toward Porter and his posse's still bodies, his spurs jingling as he made his way. Mickey drew herself to a sitting position, her jaw bobbing up and down, attempting to find something to say. Nothing came. He reloaded his death-dealer, and stood above Porter. Porter was grasping his gut. He was the only one left alive.

"Please...mister....." She heard Porter wheeze. Dean leveled his revolved at Porter's head. Mickey closed her eyes. Dean's revolved roared once more, and Porter was no more. After a few moments, she felt Dean's strong hands under her arm.

"C'mon now ma'am...I'm not letting you back down from your little...challenge..." Dean said, smiling. Her eyes were drew to the gunshot wound which had torn through the meat of his upper arm.