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."
