If there's one truth in sellin' liquor to hard workin' folks, it's that bartenders with big bosoms mean two things: healthy tips and thirsty patrons. That draw held, even at a recently refurbished saloon, outside of Dallas, Texas.
Where more money than you could shake a stick at was spent to make old new again. And with every nail driven, and coat of paint applied, there was a keen eye paid to makin' sure the property's iconically western heritage, mystique, and style, was kept intact.
Yes, it was a risk, spendin' that kind of money, and devotin' that kind of time to a project that could buck its rider so easy. But in Texas, you go big, or you go home; and so chances be damned, the project was undertaken. It took a spell longer than most expected, and cost more than the bean counters presumed, but within a year or two, the Waggoner Ranch reopened, under a new name. Rival's Ranch, they called it. Chosen because double R's looked good on t-shirts, caps, or some other such marketin' nonsense.
But regardless of what hung over the door and the entry, within days of the ranch's re-openin', and the saloon doors swingin' wide for the first time in decades, the people came; desperate for a taste of what Texas had been, before these days of modernity, political correctness, and fights about which bathrooms to use.
Those escapees were greeted by a crew of smilin', warm, and frisky young girls, of many different shapes and sizes. Each of 'em ready to provide drinks to thirsty cowboys, cowgirls, and those just lookin' for a slice of what they missed about the great State of Texas. But of all those that worked the bar and the customers before it, there was two who made the most money and found the most success. A big-chested brunette named Brie, and an equally endowed blonde named Kylie.
The two buxom, wide-hipped, thick-thighed girls were sweet as a pair of honeysuckles, at least to those they served. Customers who saw 'em as two views of the same sunset. Two billows of smoke from the same fire.
That view brought the same patrons back, time and time again, some decidin' to share the two tip-hungry servers, and others decidin' to choose their favorite of the two, either by their own interest, or the girls'. It was that corrallin' of customers and their tips that led to a spirit of competition between Brie and Kylie.
Now, some competitions are friendly, civil affairs, where those in it let the challenge drive 'em to ride their horse faster, further, and cross that finish line just a little bit faster than they might'a. But, Brie and Kylie did no such thing. Instead, from the first moment they laid eyes on each other, they went silent - cold, fumin' that they had to share the same air as the other. Each of the two late twenty-somethings bein' used to the role of top hand, or chest anyway.
That silliness led each of the girls to avoid everythin' they could with the other. Neither willin' to work together, speak to each other, or even look at each other. Not unless they had to. Not 'less they was left no other choice.
But when distance didn't fix a darn thing, the two Texan girls sought to set themselves even further apart, by showin' how much of a woman they really were. Each of the pair wearin' less and less cover when they came to the saloon. Both hopin' to not only draw more and more of the patrons' attention and tips, but also, to show the other up.
That sultry war of bare skin, sly winks, and corner-eyed glances continued without a hiccup for months, until one fateful night when the saloon closed. When its entrance was sealed, windows shuttered, and all had gone home for the night but our two ladies of competin' intentions: Kylie and Brie.
Now it was as rare as a spittin' ribbit for the two of them to be the last ones on shift together. In fact, before that warm Texas night, it had never happened before. Yes, they had each closed and cleaned the bar with others, but never on the same night, and certainly never with it bein' just the two of 'em.
But there they was, each wearin' the shortest daisy dukes allowed by law, leavin' their derrière's a prairie dog's a blink away from breakin' free, and their healthy thighs beggin' for a soft squeeze and a hungry visit.
Above that glory, rested matchin' short-sleeve plaid button ups, pulled up and knotted just under their ample, and some might say identical e-cup breasts, neither with a bra to keep their girls under control. Outfits they matched with cowgirl boots, Brie's red and Kylie's brown.
Dressed like that though they was. Each of the two meanin' to let their patrons enjoy their deep cleavage, soft tummies, and peach-sweet thighs, at that particular tick of the clock, the bar's herd was made up of only two.
Now, one might conjure that the two, despite their issues, would try to work together and co-exist. To just make it through the night and to the dawn.
And Brie did, bless her heart. She thought she was hotter than a greased pig on a spittle, yes she did, but she was a sweet girl. Kylie, on the other hand, was what some in Texas call "a bitch".
And bein' as she was, just the sight of Brie and her body, and dollars it had stolen from Kylie, made the blonde mad. An anger that had grown like an addiction to whiskey, not just on that day and night, but on every other. Each such passin' of sun poisoning the blonde's mind.
In that spell of jealousy, Kylie began to conceive and imagine, hopin' that one day, she would have Brie alone. And that when she did, she could end her unspoken feud with her brunette rival. Not by raisin' a white flag, or by extended a hand or branch, lookin' for some kind of truce. But instead by settlin' things...
For, you see, behind Kylie's pretty blue eyes, lurked a sexual confidence earned from years of bein' the thickest, hottest, juiciest steak on the grill. And that confidence wouldn't abide some other girl challengin' her for that title. Not in her social life with nothin' more than pride on the line, and certainly not here, where every second of that challenge took a few more pennies from her over-tight pockets.
Brie, on the other hand, was soft, kind, and as innocent as she was naive. And though maybe she could have been, she was no alpha, not on the ranch, or in the saloon. That softness didn't sneak by Kylie's view neither. In fact, it was exactly that, which made the mold for the blonde's idea. A confrontation. A Duel, if you will.
A duel that Kylie was certain Brie would back down from, in her mind picturin' the brunette slidin' away from her like butter on a pancake. For in Kylie's mind, Brie just wasn't woman enough to stand tall and fight back. And when she ran, or in the contrary found herself beaten, as Kylie knew she would, the blonde would give chase, trap the pathetic little brunette, and humiliate her. Runnin' Brie off the ranch for good, or at least shame her until she'd never dare show off her body in the blonde's presence again.
On that idea, Kylie found herself roped - seein' it in her mind, and bitin' her lip at the image, as she leaned against the bar that night. No longer workin'. No longer cleanin'. Instead just watchin' Brie, and her body move.
Before that night, each 'em had been so careful not to let the other catch 'em starin', but with her plan in mind, Kylie let that drift. Wantin' Brie to see it. Wantin' her to know that somethin' was gonna happen. The blonde lookin' to get inside her rival's head before she even laid a finger on her.
As so she watched Brie keenly, a ferocious desire to dominate her growin' in her mind. The sexy thick blonde wantin' to show the upstart, prissy little brunette exactly how foolish she had been to show skin next to a woman like her.
Out of the corner of her amber-colored eye, Brie watched too. But nervously, as she wiped one counter after another with an innocent, and yet forcibly held smile. She could see Kylie watchin', and sense that somethin' had changed, at least on the blonde's end.
But regardless of that understandin', when Brie finished her scrubin', she still turned to walk to the only exit from the bar to the seatin' area. A trip that would require her to squeeze her own thick frame by and behind Kylie's.
