Author's Notes:
'LetMeTouchU4AWyle' is my entry for the
2020 Literotica Geek Pride Story Event
,
inspired by the song "
Let Me Touch You for a While
" by Alison Krauss and Union Station:
All characters engaging in sexual relationships or activities are 18 years old or older.
********
The Wagoneer's Way was a vestige of an era lost in the dust of time. Tucked too far back from the main drag, and hidden next to an old oil tank storage yard on the wrong side of town, finding the place took a good deal of luck, and more bad than good the locals said.
The western theme bar was certainly not out of place in Wyoming, but it was said to have been old when the last wagon trains passed on their way to the Oregon coast. Little had been done to upgrade the bar's interior in that time or exterior for that matter. The booze was terrible but cheap, and the lighting was subdued and soothing.
The regulars were a quiet bunch, mostly refinery workers looking to relax after a hellish shift refining ore into metal. The men kept to themselves, and the few women who regularly set foot in the place were tougher than the men. Occasionally, fools would stumble into the bar and make a nuisance of themselves, but if they persisted, they'd discover how hard the locals were. None ever made a repeat visit.
There was a jukebox leaning up against the middle of one wall. Without coins, it somehow played continuously in the background, but none of the songs were lively numbers. The music was strictly western, slow ballads of love lost and found, mostly the former, and that was good enough.
Viewing the place from the entrance, there were booths along the right side wall, a few tables directly before the front door, and an ancient and worn bar running the length of the wall to the left. The hall to the washrooms was at the far end of the bar with the jukebox directly opposite the entrance. Before the jukebox was a sadly underutilized dancefloor that maybe fit four couples, not that anyone could ever recall seeing that many people dancing at once in the bar.
The stools lining the bar were surprisingly comfortable for being so god damned old. There had to be some wicked deal with the devil afoot to give the cushions this eternal youth.
This was the Waggoneer's Way, old, worn, and unchanged, exactly how they liked it.
-=-
It was late on a Thursday night when a beam of perfect moonlight stepped inside the bar and looked around at the half dozen or so souls drowning their weary livers in foul liquor.
She was definitely not a local as her flawless pale skin was untouched by the rough abuse life this side of town inflicted upon its residents. Between the toxic soil, the fumes belched out by local factories, and the raw heat from the refinery, the place left its mark.
But not on her.
Her outfit also advertised her to be a visitor from
elsewhere
. Nowhere was there a smear of dirt, grease, nicotine, or burnt threads from getting too close to the steel ovens.
Her white cowboy hat had to be brand new as the headgear almost glowed in the bar's dim lighting. It sported a pretty badge of feathers and jewels on the front of its crown.
The woman's ice blue, off the shoulder crop top had puffy sleeves and displayed a large expanse of smooth skin above the swell of her perfect breasts and left her flat stomach bare. Another distraction was the sparkling but subtle jewelry dangling from her exposed belly button.
She walked to the bar and set her tight jean encased exquisite ass on the stool, raising a well-groomed brow in surprise at its comfort. Her red cowboy boots settled on the bar's brass rail as she leaned her elbows on the surface of the bar.
The woman removed her pristine, white cowboy hat and placed it on the bar top. She ran one long-fingered hand through her thick, platinum blonde hair and shook her head to let it settle down her back.
When her hands settled once more on the surface of the bar, the light caught her reflective silver nails. They added the bling factor to her already eye-catching outfit.
The gruff bartender approached cautiously but never lost the scowl frozen on his face. Different was dangerous, so different wasn't welcome.
"May I have a glass of white wine, please?" the woman pre-emptively asked, her voice soft, smooth, and strong. This was the voice of a woman who was used to getting what she wanted.
"Wine?" the man began to bristle, but suddenly stopped when the big man two stools over, nodded once. Glancing nervously at the silent patron, the bartender moved off to the side and soon returned with a clean wine glass with white wine in it.
"Five bucks," the bartender grumbled.
The woman glanced at the only other customer seated at the bar, but he made no offer to pay for her drink, so she peeled off a bill from a wad in her pocket and handed it to the bartender. He took it and left.
She lifted the glass to her lips to take a sip. Her pale blue eyes widened slightly as the wine was surprisingly good. That was completely unexpected.
She looked around the bar and saw a few eyes glance her way in interest, but no one made an effort to visit.
That might have been due to her only companion at the bar. Her attention returned to him. He sat two stools to her right, nursing a tumbler of whiskey while he stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar.
In profile, she saw he was handsome. Maybe a little too attractive to fit in with this crowd. His jet black hair was a little wild and looked like it needed a trim or at least a proper brushing. She thought maybe he'd been running his fingers through it roughly.
His high cheekbones, strong jaw with a dark six o'clock shadow, intriguing lips, and dark eyes made her want to see more.
He sat there, almost perfectly still, like a replica of a man cast in the steel from the local refinery. His body appeared to be healthy and muscular, but his black, blue, and gold plaid shirt hid much of his torso.
His distressed jeans, on the other hand, were as tight as hers, but that was mainly due to the size of his powerful-looking leg muscles. He wore worn black steel-toe work boots on his big feet. A black cowboy hat rested on the bar on his right side.
Glancing once more around the bar, she decided he was the one.
When she concentrated on him, she saw the fingers of his right hand were slowly twirling a wedding band he wore on his left hand. He was married?
Her eyes rose from his fingers to his face, and she was surprised once again. As he looked down at his whiskey, she caught a glance from him. She sucked in a quiet breath as the pain in his eyes sent a shiver through her.
"Hey, are you okay?" she blurted softly.
Brown eyes so dark they might have been black, focused on her for a moment. She swore she could feel his gaze on her skin. He looked back into his tumbler, nodding. He threw back the amber liquid, then tapped the rim for another shot. She watched his hands and saw scars, burns, and calluses. His were hands that had seen a lot of heavy manual work and pain.
She watched the bartender pour another drink for his customer, but not once did he look up from the surface of the bar. Soon, he was back in the corner, pretending to be invisible. Obviously, he wasn't someone to tell your troubles to. She looked back at the big man. It seemed inconceivable that anyone could hurt him, but the pain in his eyes was there for all to see. She glanced at the bartender. For those brave enough to look, that is.
Picking up her hat and drink, she moved to the stool next to the man. He took another look at her but otherwise made no objection.
"I believe the best way to deal with something troubling you is to talk it out to a sympathetic ear. I'm willing to listen," she offered.
He glanced at her again. "What if I don't want to talk?"
She watched his face and knew he needed this. He might do something dangerous to himself or worse, others, if he didn't get closure.
"I'll start. A simple introduction. I'm Belle," she said, turning her stool to face him and held out her beautifully manicured, smooth skinned hand.
He looked like he wanted to protest but found himself unable, or at least unwilling, to be rude. He looked cautiously at the mirror finish of her shiny nails then gently enveloped the offered hand in his big fist. "Cole."
She smiled at him. "You seem sad, Cole."
"There's no law against that," he grumbled and turned back to his tumbler.
She watched him for a bit then leaned just a little bit closer. She saw his eyes glance at her. So, she still had some of his attention. "Are you enjoying being sad?"
His face turned to her, a look of confusion blended with anger plain on his features. "What kind of question is that?"
"You don't seem to be doing anything about being sad, so I thought you might be enjoying it," she suggested.
His mouth worked then she saw his jaw clench in suppressed rage. Finally, a shudder went through his body. Belle noticed the bartender was no longer at his post. Looking to the tables, she saw some of the other patrons had left quickly as well.
"Have you ever been in love?"
The quiet words were spoken slowly, each one sounding like it was being ripped from his guts. He was shaking with reaction by the time he finished.
"No... I've never had the privilege. It's one of my dearest hopes and dreams," Belle said honestly.
He made a choking sound then closed his eyes to take some deep breaths. He finally nodded and looked at her.
"Being in love... is being more than you ever could be, alone."
