As the blood-red sunrise cast a crimson hue across Dreadrock Ridge and the temperature of the day began to rise, Vanity lay in the bed of her room at The Dirty Pickle; the thin, stained sheet kicked off and crumpled on the bare wood floor, the sweat glistening on her naked body as she languidly rubbed her slick, smooth pussy with one hand and gently tugged at her erect nipples with the other, squeezing and rolling them as she traced circles on her clit. She felt herself reaching the plateau of climax, the warmth in her body and the swelling of her dark nipples, the quickening of her pulse and she breathed more heavily. The memory of the previous night's sex with the two girls was still fresh in her mind, and the heat in her cunt was hotter than the rising sun outside as she slid three fingers inside herself; her fingertips caressing the sweet spot inside her pussy, her juices running down her ass and inner thighs and dripping onto the stained straw mattress. The room smelled of the delicious cocktail of sweat and sex, sour and sweet, and Vanity bit her lip, tensing as her body began to shudder...
Just as she was about to reach orgasm, there was a knock at the door. "Fuck!" she hissed, frustrated at being interrupted. She rolled off the bed, naked and slick, her thick nipples standing at attention, pushed her messy red hair back from her eyes, and pulled the door open. As she opened the door, she was met by the sight of the busty barmaid from the previous night, dressed in extremely revealing lingerie which barely covered her massive breasts or her plump, firm ass; her own nipples visibly hard through the black satin and lace negligee. The barmaid's eyes looked tired like she'd pulled an all-nighter, but they lit up as they roamed hungrily over Vanity's naked form, taking in every curve and contour of her tits, her dripping, hairless tight pussy, her supple thighs and shapely legs.
"Mornin' sugarplum" she drawled, her gold tooth glinting in the red morning light streaming through the wooden shutters of the bedroom window "Hate to disturb your beauty sleep but some men from the mining company're downstairs and want to meet with you. They heard there's a monster hunter in town, 'pparently they got a monster needing hunted."
Vanity's heart leaped as she considered the potential job. A monster in some backwater tin mine didn't sound like Zoran, but she was always prepared to kill a monster and make a few Thalers on the side. She eyed the barmaids thick, curvaceous body and strong arms, biting her lip again as she imagined being relentlessly fucked by this strong woman, being tossed around effortlessly and used in every way imaginable by her; smothering herself in those huge tits while the barmaids rough fingers fucked her cunt and asshole. Her pussy throbbed, the wetness dripping from her into the floor and the sweet scent of her fresh arousal filling the small room. Plenty of time for that later, she thought; her other great passion needed tending to first.
"Tell them I'll be right down" she said, her voice low and sultry. The barmaid nodded.
"Sure thing, sugarplum." Her eyes trailed down Vanitys body one more time, catching sight of a solitary clear drop of juice hanging delicately by a sliver from her pussy. She reached down and caught it gently on her fingertip, her eyes locked on Vanity's as she lifted it to her lips and sucked her finger, long and wetly, savouring the taste of it. "Well I'll be damned, baby" she grinned. "Sweet as a sugarplum after all." She winked at Vanity, and headed down the rickety wooden stairs to the taproom. Vanity watched her go, aching with need, but she pushed her arousal to the back of her mind as she slipped a barely-there silk robe over her naked form, and a pair of soft hide boots over her petite feet, and made her way down to the smoky taproom.
The reddish morning light shone through the shutters, illuminating the bar. It was still early, and the Dirty Pickle only had a few customers, most nursing coffee or whiskey as the smell of cooking eggs and oats wafted through the room. Sitting at the bar, drinking beer from thick black glass bottles, were three rough looking men, not one of them below six feet tall; arms muscled like knotted rope from years of work and faces leathery from the sun. The eldest was a man looking to be in his late 50's, thick salt and pepper hair oiled back from a broad, not unattractive face lined with age and the sun, several days stubble growth on his chin and circles under his eyes made it look like he didn't get much sleep. He wore a leather vest over a slightly stained shirt, open to nearly the navel revealing a powerful, hairy barrel chest, sleeves rolled up showing off thick muscled forearms dappled with dense black hair and several tattoos; one prominently showing a tally mark of three vertical lines, the third line still relatively freshly scarred. At his belt he wore a large hunting knife and a holstered pistol, and one of his compatriots carried a large, mean-looking long-barreled rifle.
Vanity approached the men, hips swaying as she strode slowly but confidently, the thin, almost sheer silk of her robe barely covering her ass and sticking to her curves with the moisture of her sweat; the red morning light reflecting off her smooth legs as she walked to the bar. The three men gazed at her lasciviously as she leaned against the bar and reached for one of their beers, taking a swig of the meady, dark ale.
"Heard you boys need a monster taken care of" she smiled.
The elder looked incredulously at his companions, and the three of them laughed uproariously; a cruel, sneering, ugly laugh.
"The fuck is this?" he scoffed. "I come here to hire a monster hunter, not to get my dick sucked."
"I got a monster you can take care of, girl" the man with the rifle snickered, grabbing at the bulge in his crotch visible through his woollen pants. "Real big one too, be a real treat for a whore like you."
All three men laughed again. Vanity's expression didn't change; she kept the confident smile on her full lips as fast as lightning, she reached for the elders belt and pulled his knife out. In one swift motion, she spun it in her hand and threw it at the man holding his crotch. The knife embedded deep into the barstool between his legs, less than half an inch under his balled up fist, a mere hair's breadth from his balls. He froze in shock, going instantly pale. The quiet murmur of conversation from the few morning patrons stopped, an uneasy silence suddenly filling the taproom as the knife impaled the wood of the barstool with an audible 'thunk'. The elder reacted fast, face twisted in surprise as he reached for the black iron six-shooter at his hip; but Vanity had already pulled it from his holster in a blur of preternatural speed, and the sound of the hammer cocking echoed through the now silent taproom as she pressed the barrell hard under his chin. Her smile dropped a little as her eyes burned into his, which were now wide with fear and shock.
"Listen up, motherfucker. I'm Vanity Fucking Hellsong. Whether or not Vanity means jack to you ain't neither here nor there to me, but I bet sure as the sun rises red that the name Hellsong means something to a mean old shitkicker like you."
She pressed the gun harder under his chin, and the man nodded slowly but surely.
Everyone knew the name Hellsong. Vanity's father Rudolf Hellsong was the most famous monster hunter in all of Tierra Muerta; a true living legend. The Lich-King Ossisoul of Necropolis and the Vampire Lords of Carnifale were even said to fear him. He may have been retired, but his name still carried a weight to it, even out here on the frontier. Vanity smirked at the glimmer of recognition on the elders face as she pressed the gun harder under his chin. "And I'm gonna need for you to put some fucking respect on my name, motherfucker. Just because I'm pretty, doesn't mean I can't handle whatever kinda problem you got. You feel me?"
The man nodded slowly again, perspiration dappling his upper lip. Vanity released the hammer slowly and deliberately, and moved the gun away from the man's chin, spun it on her finger and offered it back to him, black-pearl handle-first. He swallowed hard and took it, hastily re-holstering the weapon. The other two men sat in stunned silence; the one with the knife between his legs fumbled the rifle and it clattered to the wooden floor, breaking the silence in the room.
"Apologies ma'am if I come across disrespectful" the elder said, voice hoarse as he rubbed his chin where the gun had pushed against the stubble covered skin. "My mistake."
Vanity smiled again and slid onto a barstool, motioning to the server, a nervous looking, shirtless young man in tight leather pants who stood frozen behind the bar. Despite his tight, toned physique his youthful good looks belied his youth, eighteen or maybe nineteen at a push she guessed; younger than her. Vanity bet herself this kid got good tips from the women of the town.
"Coffee and eggs, kid. Throw a little whiskey in the coffee." She turned her attention back to the men. "Don't believe I have the pleasure of your names, gents, nor what sorta trouble you'd like me to deal with."
The elder spoke up.
"Rickard Cole. I'm the foreman o' the tin mine, and 'bout as close as you'll find to somebody bein' in charge of the company. These here are Jack and Francis." Jack, who was pulling the knife carefully from between his legs, and Francis, both nodded respectfully. "Trouble is somethin' in the mine that oughtn't be there. Now, we ain't exactly seen it, but we've heard it, and we've seen what it's done to two o' my boys."
