Episode 01 - Sands of Sin

Foxy - Wild West's Bounty Hunter

Episode 1 - Sands of Sin

Author: boniau

The desert sprawled endless and merciless under a sky ablaze with the sun's dying fury, a crimson smear bleeding into the horizon over Crimson Sands. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the tang of dust and sagebrush, as a faint wind stirred the parched earth, whispering secrets of forgotten outlaws and buried bones. In the distance, the silhouette of The Rusty Spur saloon loomed--a squat, weathered husk of warped wood and peeling paint, its crooked sign swaying like a hanged man in the breeze, creaking a lonesome dirge. The town itself was a scatter of shacks and lean-tos, clinging to life amidst the dunes, its handful of souls--miners, drifters, and broken dreamers--huddled in the saloon's shadow, seeking solace in cheap whiskey and cheaper lies. A dust devil spun lazily across the cracked street, scattering tumbleweeds that rolled like ghosts, while a lone vulture circled high above, its shadow slicing the sand--a harbinger of the chaos about to descend.

From the ridge, a rider emerged, her chestnut mare--Dusty Rose--prancing with a wild, untamed grace that matched her mistress. Foxy--23, a vision of sin and defiance, her 34C-24-34 frame poured into a tight white western shirt (top three buttons undone, fabric stretched taut over her chest, hems frayed from wear) and her skintight pale sky-blue low-rise slightly ripped worn-out boot cut jeans, knees frayed into jagged tears, thighs faded to a pale whisper, hugging her curves like a lover's grip--reined in her mount with a theatrical sweep of her arm. Dusty Rose snorted, tossing her mane, her hooves pawing the air as Foxy spurred her into a gallop down the slope, dust exploding in golden plumes that caught the sunset's glow. Her shirt billowed with the wind, the cotton tugging tighter across her breasts, the open front teasing a glimpse of sweat-slicked skin beneath, while her jeans stretched over her thighs, the denim creaking faintly, the rips widening a fraction with each bounce in the saddle. She laughed--a low, reckless sound that echoed across the dunes--her white hat tipped back, chestnut hair streaming free in a shimmering cascade, catching the light like molten copper.

She yanked the reins hard as they neared the saloon, sending Dusty Rose rearing skyward with a piercing whinny, hooves slashing the air in a display of raw power. The mare's shadow stretched long and fierce, a mirror to Foxy's own untamed spirit, and every eye in Crimson Sands snapped to her--old Clem "Hollow" Judd, peering from his shack with rheumy eyes; Billy "Soot" Tanner, a soot-streaked blacksmith pausing mid-hammer; and the saloon's porch loiterers, Jess "Crook" Malone and Tom "Peg" Larson, their jaws dropping mid-chew of tobacco. Foxy leaped from the saddle mid-pose, landing with a booming thud that rattled the porch boards, her boots kicking up a puff of dust, her shirt settling with a soft rustle against her damp skin, her jeans creaking as she cocked her hips, the low waistband dipping to flash a taut strip of tanned midriff. She tugged her shirt wider, the fabric straining against her curves, buttons teetering on the edge of surrender, and adjusted her hat with a flick, her grin bold and wicked, green eyes glinting with mischief. "Time to light up these sorry bastards," she murmured, her voice a husky growl, thick with swagger, "and have 'em kissing the dirt I walk on."

Foxy strutted toward the saloon, her boots striking a deliberate, commanding beat on the cracked earth, her jeans flexing with each sway of her hips, the frayed knees stretching wider, the denim whispering against her thighs. Her shirt swayed with her arms, the open front teasing more skin with every step, the cotton brushing her ribs like a lover's touch. She paused at the doors, casting a taunting glance back at Jess and Tom--both gaping, tobacco dribbling from their lips--and shoved the saloon doors open with both hands, hinges wailing in protest as the wood banged against the walls. She swept inside like a queen claiming her dominion, her shirt flapping briefly from the force, her jeans tightening as she planted her stance, one hand on her hip, the other brushing the Colt at her side--loaded, warm from the ride, a promise of violence nestled against her thigh.

The saloon was a festering pit of vice and despair, its air heavy with the sour reek of spilled beer, stale tobacco, and unwashed bodies. Lanterns swung lazily from the rafters, casting flickering shadows over warped tables littered with empty bottles, greasy cards, and the stubs of hand-rolled cigars. The floorboards groaned underfoot, stained with years of spit and blood, while a cracked mirror behind the bar reflected the grim faces of its denizens--thirty men, hardened by the desert, their eyes bloodshot and hungry, their clothes patched and faded. Hank "Patch" Wheeler, the wiry barkeep with a patchy beard and nervous hands, froze mid-wipe of a glass, his rag dangling limp. Jed "Buck" Tanner, a grizzled cowhand with a scarred lip and a chipped front tooth, paused mid-sip, whiskey dribbling down his chin. Cal "Twitch" Morgan, a twitchy drifter with sunken cheeks and a bottle clutched like a lifeline, blinked rapidly, his twitch worsening as he stared. The room fell silent, save for the creak of a chair and the faint drip of a leaking barrel, every gaze locking onto Foxy as she stood framed in the doorway--her shirt gaping to hint at cleavage, her jeans outlining every curve, her presence a thunderbolt in the stillness.

She drank it in--their awe, their lust, their dumbstruck hunger--her chest swelling with a pride so fierce it could ignite the dunes. Kneel, you wretched curs, she thought, her pulse pounding with exhilaration, a smirk tugging at her lips as she felt their eyes crawl over her. I'm the flame you'll burn your hands reaching for. She tilted her head, letting her hair shift across her shoulders, and called out, her voice slicing the hush like a razor, rich and taunting, "Evenin', boys--don't tell me you're too scared to give a lady a proper hello?" A ripple of nervous laughter broke the tension, Jed coughing into his whiskey, Cal twitching harder, but no one moved--too mesmerized, too afraid, too eager.

Foxy sashayed to the bar, her hips rolling with shameless intent, her jeans stretching tight over her ass, the rips at her knees widening a touch as she strode, the denim rasping faintly against itself. Her shirt swayed with each step, the open front fluttering to bare more sweat-slicked skin, the cotton brushing her ribs and clinging faintly where perspiration beaded from the ride. She leaned over the counter, her chest pressing against the scarred wood, the shirt's hem riding up to expose her lower back, buttons straining as her breasts pushed forward. Hank fumbled his rag, dropping it with a soft thud as he stared, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Whiskey, Hank," she ordered, her tone a silken lash, having caught his name from a slurred shout outside, "and if it's watered-down piss, I'll carve your name on a bullet and shove it where the sun don't shine." He nodded too fast, his hands trembling as he sloshed amber into a chipped glass, splashing a drop onto the bar. She snatched it, tossing it back in one fierce gulp, the burn clawing down her throat, igniting her veins with a sharp, welcome sting. Her shirt shifted as she tilted her head back, the fabric tugging tighter, her jeans creaking as she braced one boot against the bar's footrail. She slammed the glass down--crack--the sound a gunshot in the hush, and spun to face the room, arms flung wide, her shirt flaring open to reveal a generous swath of glistening skin, her jeans hugging her stance like armor. "Who's man enough to keep my fire roaring?" she challenged, her voice booming through the saloon, her grin a spark that set the crowd ablaze.

A hulking thug--Rusty "Bull" McGraw--lurched from a corner table, his crooked grin missing half its teeth, a bottle swinging in his meaty fist, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. His stained vest hung open, revealing a hairy chest matted with sweat, and his trousers sagged under a gut earned from too many nights like this. "I'll roar ya up, sweetheart," he slurred, staggering toward her, his boots scuffing the floor, his breath a rancid cloud of whiskey and decay. His pals--Lyle "Stump" Grady, a squat man with a stump-like left arm ending at the elbow, and Toby "Whistle" Kane, a wiry runt with a whistle-gap in his teeth--hooted, pounding the table, their fists sending empty glasses clattering. Foxy's eyes flashed--my stage, my meat--and she stepped into him, her jeans flexing with the stride, the denim stretching tighter over her thighs, her shirt swaying faintly, teasing more skin as it brushed his vest. His stench slammed into her--sweat, liquor, rot--but she thrived on it, her pride soaring with every leering gaze, her skin prickling with anticipation. "Roar me up?" she purred, her breath hot against his ear, close enough to make him tremble, her shirt grazing his chest, the cotton catching faintly on his coarse hair. "I'll give you a blaze that'll melt your bones."

She seized his collar with both hands, her shirt tugging tighter across her shoulders, and yanked him hard against her, her jeans creasing at the thighs as their bodies collided. She slammed her lips onto his--a fierce, bruising kiss, all teeth and heat, tasting of whiskey, tobacco, and the sour edge of his ruin. Her tongue flicked against his, a taunting dance, and she groaned softly--"Mmm"--the sound rumbling low in her throat as the crowd roared--Jed whooping, Cal whistling, Lyle smashing another glass. Her mind stayed sharp, a predator's edge beneath the lust. Lure 'em in, then rip 'em open. She shoved Rusty back against the bar, her knee wedging between his legs, pinning him as she straddled his thick thigh--her jeans stretching tight, the rips at her knees widening a hair, the denim creaking audibly, her shirt gaping wide, buttons groaning as she arched her back, her hair spilling over her shoulders like a wildfire.

Her body pressed into his, a shiver of heat racing through her, her skin flushing with the thrill of control, her breath hitching as she felt the crowd's eyes devour her. "Like what you see, Bull?" she taunted, her voice a low, sultry tease, grinding her hips slow and deliberate against his thigh, her jeans rasping against his trousers, her shirt slipping off one shoulder to bare a sweat-slicked curve. Her pulse quickened, a wicked rush sparking in her chest, and she let out a throaty "Hnn" as his hands pawed at her, clumsy and ravenous, groping her hips, squeezing her ass through the denim with a grip that made her skin tingle. "Goddamn, woman," Rusty grunted, his breath ragged, his voice thick with need, "you're a fuckin' blaze--gimme more, gimme every fuckin' inch of ya!" She smirked, her body alive with the heat of it, her nipples stiffening against the damp cotton, a soft "Ohh" escaping her lips as she guided his hands higher, letting him paw at her waist, her shirt riding up to bare her taut midriff, the edge brushing his knuckles.

"Ya want me bad, don't ya?" she whispered, leaning in close, her lips brushing his ear, her breath hot and quick, her body trembling faintly with the rising tide of pleasure, a low groan--"Mmmh"--rumbling as his rough fingers dug into her sides. Her hand slid down his chest, nails scraping through his vest's grime, and popped his fly with a deft flick, teasing him with a slow, firm stroke--her breath catching, a sharp "Ahh" slipping out as the contact sent a jolt through her, her thighs tensing in her jeans, the denim creaking louder. "Shit, Foxy," Rusty groaned, his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut, his gut heaving with each ragged breath, "you're killin' me--don't stop, don't you fuckin' stop, ya hear?" Her heart pounded, a wild mix of pride and raw desire, sweat beading on her neck, trickling down her spine, her shirt clinging damply as she rocked against him harder, her jeans straining, the friction sparking a deep "Unnh" from her throat. "Keep beggin', Bull," she rasped, her voice thick with lust, her skin buzzing, her chest flushing red as she savored the power, her hips grinding with intent.

The crowd howled--Lyle bellowed, "Rip him apart, girl!" while Toby jeered, "Ride that fat bull 'til he breaks!"--and Foxy fed off it, her pride a roaring inferno, her body trembling with the rush as she pressed her chest against his, a husky "Ohh, yeah" vibrating in her throat as he felt her heat through the thin fabric. "Tell me I'm your queen," she demanded, her grip tightening below, her breath quickening, her jeans digging into her thighs, a flush racing up her neck as another groan--"Hnnn"--burst free, her excitement climbing. "You're my fuckin' queen," Rusty gasped, his hips bucking, sweat pouring down his ruddy face, his voice cracking with desperation, "best damn thing I ever touched--please, Foxy, keep goin', I'm beggin' ya!" She laughed--a wild, jagged cackle that echoed through the saloon--and leaned in, her lips grazing his sweaty neck, tasting salt and whiskey, her body thrumming with electric heat, her jeans creaking louder as she shifted, straddling him fully.

"Fuckin' right I am," she growled, her voice rough with triumph, her skin ablaze as she rocked her hips slow and suggestive--her shirt gaping wider, the damp cotton sticking to her curves, her jeans straining against her thighs, the rips stretching taut. Her hand worked him with a steady rhythm, her breath hot against his skin, her own pleasure surging--a deep, guttural "Unnnh" rumbling out as the sensation coiled tight within her, her thighs quivering, her chest heaving. The crowd's cheers faded to a distant roar as she pushed harder, her body tensing, her eyes flashing wide with feral delight. The wave hit--a shattering burst of ecstasy, her nerves igniting, her head snapping back as a loud, victorious "Hell, yeah!" tore from her lips, her voice raw and exultant, her grin splitting her face like a blade. Her chest heaved, her shirt clinging wetly, her jeans creaking with the final grind as she rode the high, her skin flushed crimson, sweat dripping down her cleavage, a triumphant "Mmmh" purring from her throat as the aftershocks pulsed through her.

Rusty broke beneath her, his moans peaking--"Oh fuck--oh fuck--" his voice a ragged plea as he shuddered, climaxing hard, spilling onto the saloon floor in a messy arc that splattered the warped boards, a dark puddle forming as he slumped against the bar, panting and dazed, his gut quivering. Foxy pulled back, her chest still heaving, her shirt soaked with sweat, her jeans faintly stained with his sweat where she'd pressed against him, her body humming with the thrill, a smug "Hnn" slipping out as she wiped her hand on her jeans, leaving a faint smear. "Worth the fire, Bull?" she asked, her voice loud and mocking, still husky with the rush, her skin tingling as she stepped away, basking in the crowd's uproar--Jed slapping his thigh, Toby whistling, Lyle roaring with laughter.

Rusty's eyes were glassy, his grin sloppy, his breath wheezing as he mumbled, "Best damn blaze ever, Foxy..."--too lost to see her other hand slip to her boot, drawing a slim knife that gleamed like a serpent's tooth. Her mind shifted--time to douse the flame. "Show's over, you sorry sack," she snarled, lunging with the blade flashing in the lantern light, plunging it into his gut--once, twice, then a third time for good measure, a wet crunch echoing as blood erupted, spraying across her shirt in a crimson tide, the fabric soaking through, clinging heavily to her skin. Her jeans flexed as she braced her stance, the denim creaking, her grin turning savage as she twisted the knife deeper, blood welling around her knuckles. Rusty gasped, his hands clawing at her arm, his eyes wide with shock, but she yanked the blade free with a slick pop, blood dripping onto the floor, and wiped it on her jeans, adding a dark, glistening streak to the pale blue. He crumpled, choking on a gurgle, his bulk thudding against the bar, toppling a stool as he went down, blood pooling beneath him in a sticky mess.

Chaos erupted--men leaped from their seats, chairs crashed, bottles rolled--but Foxy was a whirlwind of motion, her wet shirt slapping against her as she spun, her jeans creaking with each pivot. Cal "Twitch" Morgan charged from the left, his sunken cheeks flushed with rage, a bottle raised high in his trembling hand, his snarl exposing yellowed teeth. "You fuckin' whore!" he spat, his voice a high-pitched rasp, his bottle gleaming as he swung it toward her head. She sidestepped with a dancer's grace, her hat tilting rakishly, her shirt flaring wetly, blood dripping onto the floorboards as she drew her Colt in a lightning arc. The shot cracked, deafening, splitting the air like thunder, and Cal's forehead burst red, a spray of blood and bone painting the wall behind him. His body lurched forward, momentum carrying him into a table that splintered under his weight with a groan, bottles and cards scattering as he hit the floor, twitching once before going still.

Foxy whirled, her gun leveled at the room, her chest heaving, blood and sweat mingling on her shirt, her jeans creased and stained, her hair wild around her face. "Anyone else wanna dance with my fire?" she roared, her voice a tempest that shook the rafters, her eyes blazing with defiance, her breath ragged but steady. The saloon shrank back--Jed froze mid-whoop, his scarred lip trembling; Lyle ducked behind his table, his stump arm flailing; Hank whimpered behind the bar, a puddle forming at his feet as he clutched a bottle like a shield. No one dared move, their courage drowned in the whiskey and the blood now staining the floor. Foxy smirked, holstering her gun with a slow, deliberate motion, the leather creaking against her hip, and sauntered to Rusty's corpse, kneeling beside him--her jeans creaking as she bent, her shirt sticking wetly to her chest. She rifled his pockets with grubby fingers, snagging a crumpled $5 bill, damp with sweat and blood, its edges torn. "Cheap, dead bastard," she muttered, pocketing it with a sneer, her pride still burning bright despite the mess.

She rose and turned to the poker table in the back, where four roughnecks sat stunned amidst scattered cards and spilled drinks: Silas "Scar" Boone, the gaunt dealer with a jagged scar slashing his cheek, his fingers twitching over the deck; Wade "Red" Carter, a redheaded cowhand with a patchy beard and a leer that hadn't faded; Eli "Grub" Dawson, a grubby drifter with stained teeth and a nervous tic; and Pete "Slim" Hayes, a lanky gambler with a long face and shifty eyes. "Deal me in, Silas," she commanded, kicking a chair aside with a clatter and dropping into it, her jeans stretching tight over her thighs, the denim creaking, her wet shirt clinging to her curves, a faint drip of blood hitting the table as she leaned forward. Silas fumbled the deck, cards slipping from his sweaty hands, his scar twitching as he avoided her gaze. "Five-card draw," he rasped, his voice thin and shaky, "five bucks to play." Foxy tossed Rusty's crumpled bill onto the pile, her smirk razor-sharp, her fingers drumming the table, leaving faint smears of blood and sweat. "Let's see if fate's got the guts to match me," she said, her tone a taunt, her eyes locking onto Silas until he flinched.

He dealt with trembling hands--two threes, a jack, a six, a king sliding her way across the scarred wood. She flicked the six and king back with a snap of her wrist, her shirt shifting, the damp fabric brushing her arms, her jeans creaking as she shifted her weight. "Gimme somethin' good, Scar," she drawled, her voice low and dangerous, watching his twitch worsen as he dealt again--another three landing in her hand. Got 'em cold, she thought, her pride flaring, keeping her face a mask of stone as she raised $5 more from her stash--coins stolen from a dead mark days ago, clinking ominously as they hit the pile. Eli folded quick, muttering under his breath, his grubby fingers retreating; Pete followed, his shifty eyes darting to the blood on her shirt, his long face paling. Wade stayed in, his red hair glinting in the lantern light, his leer slick as he raised $10, tossing a crumpled bill into the pot. "Think you're hot shit, huh?" he sneered, his voice rough with bravado, his fingers tightening on his cards. "Hotter than you'll ever handle, Red," she shot back, her grin widening, her chest still buzzing from the earlier rush as she flipped her three of a kind--threes staring up like a death sentence. Wade cursed, slamming a pair of eights onto the table, the wood rattling, and Foxy raked in $20, her laugh a wild, victorious howl that bounced off the walls. "Fate's my bitch tonight, boys--deal with it!"

She stood, coins jangling in her pocket, and tipped her hat with a flourish--blood crusting her shirt into a stiff, crimson mess, dust and blood streaking her jeans, whiskey and triumph coursing through her veins. The saloon was her kingdom now, conquered with sex, steel, and sheer audacity, and she felt it in her bones--every stare, every whisper, every tremble in the air. They'll carve my name in their nightmares, she thought, her heart pounding with exultation as she strutted toward the doors, her boots clicking a steady rhythm, her jeans creaking with each step, her shirt slapping wetly against her skin. The crowd parted like a sea--Jed clutching his drink, Lyle peeking from his table, Hank still cowering--murmurs rippling in her wake: "Who the hell is she?" "Some kinda devil..." "Ain't never seen nothin' like that..." She smirked, letting their awe wash over her, her pride a roaring beast as she pushed through the doors, the hinges groaning one last time.

Dusk had swallowed Crimson Sands, the sky deepening to a bruised purple, stars piercing through like cold, distant eyes. Dusty Rose whinnied softly as Foxy approached, her mane glinting in the fading light, her hooves pawing the dirt with impatience. Foxy untied the reins, her shirt rustling faintly, her jeans flexing as she swung into the saddle with a fluid grace, the denim creaking as she settled, the blood-stiffened fabric of her shirt crackling slightly. She took a deep breath, the desert air sharp and cool against her flushed skin, and cast a final glance at the saloon--its lanterns glowing like embers, the silhouettes of men peering out, still reeling from her storm. "Crimson Sands just met its queen," she muttered, her voice a low, fierce promise to the night, reins tight in her grip, her body still thrumming with the night's chaos. "I'll burn this whole damn desert to cinders--and they'll crawl through the ashes for more."

She spurred Dusty Rose forward, the mare leaping into a gallop with a snort, hooves pounding the earth, kicking up a trail of dust that shimmered in the starlight like a comet's tail. The saloon's din faded behind her--the clink of glasses, the mutter of stunned voices, the creak of the sign--swallowed by the vast, silent expanse of the wilds. Foxy leaned low, her hair whipping in the wind, her shirt flapping against her bloodied chest, her jeans gripping her thighs as she rode, the rips fluttering faintly. She laughed again--a raw, untamed sound that carried across the dunes, a declaration of her reign, her legend igniting in the dark. The vulture circled once more overhead, a silent witness to her ascent, as she vanished into the night, leaving Crimson Sands trembling in her wake--a town forever marked by the flame of Foxy.

(to be continued)

(comments are welcome :) )