Mean Walt looked every inch a gunslinger, as he pushed the saloon door open and clicked his spurs. Nell sashayed over, her breasts plump and firm, like peaches ripe for the picking, she looked just as she should.
“Howdy gunslinger, you after a shot of Rye aged until it burns the nubs from your tongue? Followed by a sweet gal who can still show a real man a thing or two?”
Walt fired a crack in to the spittoon, pushed back his Stetson, and with eyes as tight as peas in a pod; he looked her up and down. “Honey, it’s been a while” he said in a gravelly voice as the snow thawed on his whiskers.
He swaggered across to the bar slamming his palm down with a thud. “Sarsaparilla tender”.
Nell let out a laugh, “Maybe tis a girl wet behind the ears he’d prefer, one that won’t notice a pussy when she sees one”. Nell curled her lip looking him up and down.
“Honey, the frostbite took me in Dakota, even a fine thing like you can’t make this old poke grow a pecker”. Slamming his glass on the bar he turned on a dime and left.
© 2016, Ellen Best. All rights reserved.
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