The rickety stagecoach kicked up a small dust storm as it rattled through the dry, cracked desert of Tierra Muerta's central plains towards the run-down frontier mining town of Dreadrock Ridge. The horses whinnied and huffed, foam dripping from their mouths as they pulled the dark-wood panelled carriage, spurred on by the driver as the scorching sun set slowly on the horizon; the grey-blue sky fading to shades of deeper blue and purple, but the still, sour air was still as hot as a furnace. As the light slowly dimmed, the stagecoach pulled up to the Ridges Rest Wagon Stop and Stable, bumping to a halt. The driver lowered the filthy and sweat-soaked dust scarf from his mouth, cleared his throat and rapped on the side of the carriage with the handle of his crop.
"Last stop, Ma'am. End o' the line. Dreadrock Ridge."
With an audible creak, the stagecoach door swung open, and Vanity Hellsong stepped out onto the dusty road; a vision of beauty hotter than the still air of the Tierra Muerta wasteland. At 20 years old and standing at 5'3", she was petite but perfectly proportioned, her slender body shapely and toned; full, perfect, perky breasts pushed together, straining at the lace of her studded leather corset, thick hard nipples pushing at the leather, and the short frilly black skirt she wore barely covered her perfect toned round ass, showing off her long, slender, smooth tanned legs; her delicate petite feet slipped into tightly laced, sturdy leather boots.
Her chin-length dark red hair was slicked back with oil, her flawless olive toned skin shimmered with sweat in the fading light and oppressive heat. Her eyes, rimmed with slightly smudged dark makeup, were a sparkling, preternatural shade of blue-purple and as her long tongue licked her full lips, she tasted the salt from the sweat which dripped in rivulets down her face and neck, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone and the soft, tight cleft of her cleavage, and trickled down her inner thighs. The heat was oppressive, making the air thick and stifling. As she stepped off the coach, a gust of hot wind lifted her short skirt and the light, duster slit up the back, revealing her peachy, perfect ass and the glistening wetness of her smooth tight pussy between her thighs; and the sawn-off, double-barrelled pistol holstered on the suspender belt at her hip.
Vanity reached back into the cab of the stagecoach, pulling out a small canvas shoulder bag, and a sleek, silver-edged short sword in a leather back scabbard. She slung the sword over her shoulder and offered a handful of silver coins to the driver.
"Get your dick sucked and a good drink tonight" she smirked. The driver chuckled, removing his bowler hat and wiping the sweat from his reddened brow.
"'ppreciate it ma'am, but no charge. Not after ye saw off them damn bandits back out at Redwater Pass. This one's on me."
Vanity mock-scowled at the driver. She knew that in the morning he'd pick up more passengers and make the full day's journey back across the wastes to the next station, a dangerous, thankless task. She pushed the money into his hand.
"Then get a drink for the horses at least" she chuckled, patting the damp, muscled neck of the horse. "Maybe get 'em a blowjob too."
The coachman let out a guttural, dirty laugh and begrudgingly accepted the coins. He pushed the bowler hat back onto his head and tipped it.
"Alright, ma'am, much obliged. Pleasure bein' of service. And you need anythin' you come see me here. This is a dangerous town. You take care of yourself. "
"I intend to" she smiled back, seductively.
Vanity watched him start to hitch the horses, and then turned to survey the town. Dreadrock Ridge was a lawless but thriving little mining colony on the edge of the human frontier in Tierra Muerta; a town where no sheriff survived for long, a haven for those seeking to disappear from the eyes of the law, but most of all, a town run by the mining consortium who operated the tin and coal mines in the foothills. Any man or woman could pick up an axe or a hammer here and make enough to get by, or take their clothes off in one of the town's several seedy brothels and dance or fuck for a living. The buildings were ramshackle and dusty, none over two stories, and the people looked dangerous or desperate or both.
As Vanity strolled through the dimming streets, a few early evening drunkards watched her pass, a woman crouched in a doorway pissing wolf-whistled as she passed, her eyes fixed on Vanity's perfect damp curves. Vanity didn't mind one bit. She was tired from several days travel across the dusty hot plains, and she needed a drink, a bath, a massage and a fuck, and maybe something resembling a clean bed for the night. She wasn't here as a tourist; she was here looking for prey. As a young boy with a long candle on a stick lit the street lamps, Vanity caught sight of a two-storey saloon, the peeling facade showing a naked woman straddling an oversized pickle, with the words "The Dirty Pickle; Live Girls, Brothel and Inn" painted underneath. The raucous sound of a player piano blended with muffled shouting and whistles drifted from inside, and Vanity smiled to herself. Sounded like exactly the kind of place she was looking for.
As she pushed her way through the swinging saloon doors, the powerful smell of sweat, whiskey, and sex hit her like a fist to the face. Red paper lanterns hanging seemingly at random from the creaking wooden rafters cast a dim, red glow across the dingy, noisy taproom. A group of sweaty, grimy men hooted and hollered around a podium where two skinny, oiled nude girls Vanity couldn't place at most more than a year or two out of their teens danced in time to the jaunty player piano, sloppily kissing and fingered each other's tight holes, their bodies slick and slippery, writhing together; their small, pert breasts pressed together as they performed for the patrons' entertainment. Despite the sex show on stage, many heads turned as Vanity walked in, pushing her way through the crowded taproom with an assuredness and force that belied her size. She watched the girls fuck on the stage, the piano music becoming more erratic and frenzied seemingly in time with the girls movements and cries of pleasure. It was a clearly rehearsed show, but it was having the desired effect as silver thalers were tossed into the bowl at the front of the stage, and despite the obviously rehearsed nature of the show, Vanity couldn't help but feel a tingle of arousal between her legs as she made her way to the bar.
The bartender was a heavy-breasted older woman in a low-cut top that barely contained her ample cleavage. Attractive in a rough and tumble kind of way, she had a blonde dye-job styled up high in a black ribbon, heavy makeup and had a gold tooth that glinted in the dim light. Her arms looked like she could choke out any one of the rowdy miners in the joint, but she moved with a surprising grace to meet Vanity at the bar, leaning forward as she spoke; a hint of her large, dark areolas visible as her plump, heavy tits spilled further from her top.
"Welcome to the Dirty Pickle, sugarplum," she drawled, lasciviously staring Vanity up and down and licking her thick, painted lips. "Wet your whistle?"
"For starters" Vanity smiled. "Whiskey, good as you got. And a room, good as you got."
The barmaid whistled.
"Neither gonna be that good round these parts, honey, but I'll see what I can't rustle up. Anythin' else?"
