Vanity stepped down from the stagecoach into the dry, hot afternoon air of Blackwood Creek's sweaty, smoky lower town. Her sheer blouse was soaked with sweat, sticking to her body like a needy lover at every curve and crevice. She pushed her hair back from her face and slung her bags over her shoulder as the stagecoach's other three passengers; a well-dressed middle-aged couple, both sweating in their finery, and a beautiful, swarthy young woman a couple of years younger than Vanity in a cropped shirt and skirt, stepped off behind her.
The journey to Blackwood Creek had taken six days, but for Vanity it had felt like an eternity; for the first four days of the journey Vanity had been the only passenger, and as the coach had rumbled across the hot dry plains, she had masturbated almost constantly in the six-person berth, still trying desperately in vain to exorcise the aggressive carnal desire of the lust demon from her body, until every inch of the wood and worn-leather seats were soaked in her juices and sweat, and the cabin smelled of the sweet perfume of her cunt. Each night the coach would pull into one of the designated stop points; sometimes little more than a watering hole with a four room motel and a supply store, sometimes a small town; a mining or farming community with a little more to offer in terms of refreshment and lodgings; and Vanity spent each night lost in her own ecstasy, alone in an anonymous bed, fucking herself over and over again; and when sleep took her, she dreamt of fucking in faceless masked orgies, tongues, fingers and cocks filling every hole, suffocating her, drenching her... Yet she could not find herself again in that place she met the demon Andras, that liminal space of unbridled heat and pleasure; the place she had sucked her father's cock and felt him cum inside her. She longed to see Andras again, to feel his rigid cock thick and warm rubbing against her clit one more time, to feel him enter her, and the thought of him drove her further into her delicious, delirious passions.
The days journey would resume, the horses fed and rested, the coach resupplied, and she would spend the day of the journey alone in the coach cabin once more, desperately, endlessly caressing her throbbing clit, sliding fingers in and out of her slick dripping pussy, tweaking her nipples, slipping a finger into her tight, quivering asshole, biting and licking her own shoulders, wave after wave of preternatural desire crashing through her, orgasm after orgasm wracking her in sweet agony, and by the end of the third night she was physically exhausted, but still felt no tempering of the need which burned in her soul and in her cunt like wildfire...
The couple had boarded on the fourth day, at a small town named 'Rest and be Thankful'. Vanity's scent of sex and aura of desire made for an uncomfortable journey for the couple in their fine clothes; the man, a prospector who'd struck rich on a gold-vein twenty years earlier, had the leathery features of an outdoorsman even now, tempered somewhat by years of living rich. A once-taut muscular frame gone soft, hidden beneath the finery he wore; but there was nothing soft about the erection visible through his trousers for the entire journey. His wife, an attractive lady, plump of frame in the way only those of means were out here in the wastes, was flushed and needful in Vanitys presence, her long skirts flicking and lifting now and again, her heavy breasts heaving with desire.
But Vanity swallowed her desire down, feeling it burn within her, aching for release, instead settling for small talk, glances out of the window at the passing landscape, and the occasional clandestine touch of her cunt under her skirt, the feel of it electric. She would not let it control her. She would master it, even as she burned to fuck this middle-aged couple across from her in the warm, stale air of the coach berth. Sometimes she would drift into fitful sleep with the warmth and the rocking of the carriage, and in her dreams she was once again the centre of orgies, cock after cock inside her, her mouth filled with them, wet warm and willing pussies grinding on her, their scent suffocating her, her body soaked in cum, piss, sweat... Each time she awoke she felt the thrumming of her pussy, a fresh orgasm cooling between her legs, pooling in the cracked leather, and the couple across from her aroused further, flushed, the man's cock bursting at his britches.
Finally, at a coach stop a day out from a Blackwood Creek, the girl had boarded; barely eighteen, with dark hair and a swarthy complexion, large dark eyes and proud nose set in a slim, pretty facy. Her petite frame seemed impossibly slender for her large, round pert breasts. She wore a one piece shift of light, sheer fabric which barely covered her thighs, tied at the waist with a dark ribbon in a makeshift belt. The fabric was so light that the dark areolas of her breasts and the smooth mound of her sex were visible, and the light through the window of the coach caught every contour of her soft, slender body through it.
Vanity thought she was going to explode.
Unlike the substantial luggage the couple carried, secured to the roof of the stagecoach by thick rope and sturdy buckles, or the bag and scabbard Vanity carried, the girl carried only a small shoulder bag. From it, throughout the day, she took a small water canteen to take brief bird-like sips of water, and a small tatty parchment notebook and a cheap but functional pen, making occasional notes as she looked out the window and stealing glances at her fellow passengers; glances which seemed to focus mostly on Vanity. She barely spoke, and when she did her voice had a soft, lilting quality to it.
By the time the coach pulled into Blackwood Creek in the late afternoon sun, Vanity was going out of her mind with desire. She had spent the previous night face down on a mattress that seemed like it hadn't been washed in months, the smell of old sweat, breath and sex filling her nostrils as her back arched, ass in the air, knees supported by the thin mattress as her left hand relentlessly rubbed her smooth, wet pussy, fingers slipping easily inside her slick wet cunt, so sensitive from the cascade of orgasms which rocked her body, while she slid two fingers of her right hand in and out of her anus, the tightness of her asshole practically crushing her fingers as she gasped and moaned into the mattress, sweat pouring from every pore of her body as if her soul itself was drenched. She had passed out an hour before dawn, allowed only the slightest moments of blissful slumber before the short, stacatto blast of the coachman's horn signalled that the stage was ready to roll.
She had barely slept, and she was hungry; a deep rooted, needful hunger which food could not sate. She had to deal with this carnal ache; she was here to find Zoran the Damned, and she needed to focus. Biting her lip, Vanity surveyed what she could of the town, heart pounding beneath her breasts.
The coach stop was on the outskirts of Blackwood Creek, next to the Iron Horse stable. From here, Max Blackwood's Iron Horse railroad crisscrossed the western frontier from the dangerous borders between Carnifale and Nostovar to the north, all the way south through Sabina's Pass to the southern coast of Trysteza, calling at every major settlement west of the Whispering Eye Valley.
Max Blackwood's forebears had been amongst the first and bravest pilgrims to reach Tierra Muerta, fleeing the arcane cataclysm back east, and they had reached farther west than most when they struck rich. As his grandfather had established Blackwood Creek and watched it grow into the unofficial Capital of the West, Max Blackwood had turned his family's fortune into the newest technologies of steam and coal, dreaming of a network of railroads that crossed all over Tierra Muerta, linking every township, village and city from the Peaks of Ecstasy to the east to the Carnifale border in the west. "Safer, faster travel for mankind across the dangerous frontier".
Of course, in truth, Max Blackwood saw an enormous opportunity for profit in the railroad. He charged every town and township a small fortune for the privilege of the rail stopping there, and took major cuts from any trader, farmer or prospector using his Iron Horses to transport goods. In addition, it was a well known fact that Blackwood used hired mercenaries to intimidate those few towns who resisted the cost of his progress; hired bandits to harass and trouble the old Stagecoach routes; and in some circles, it was whispered he even made deals with the Vampire Lords of Carnifale. How else could it be explained, folk whispered, that Blackwoods Iron Horse could run so close to the Realm of Blood without trouble?
All of which was to say, as Vanity, heart pounding, eyes narrowed in the late afternoon sun, surveyed the town, she saw a far larger and wealthier settlement than she had seen in memory. But like all large and wealthy towns in the frontier, the wealth was divided unevenly.
The eponymous creek, flowing clear and fresh from the marshes to the west which bordered Carnifale, split the town down the middle into the upper and lower town. The two halves of the town were connected by a well maintained wood and stone footbridge, and a recently finished stone rail bridge named for Max Blackwoods grandfather Cornell. The upper town was opulence incarnate, unlike anywhere Vanity had seen before. Buildings of locally mined marble and white sandstone reached three, four storeys high; opulent manor houses with large gardens, rows of townhouses on well cobbled streets; a gleaming clock spire split the blue sky; elaborate architecture made for gleaming, intricate facades on the face of the town hall, the bank, theatres; the Blackwood Saloon in the centre of Upper Town was a three storey marble fronted hotel, and the streets of the Upper Town were lined with market stalls selling finery and trinkets. It was this lush, inviting upper town where the grand, gothic Blackwood Stable, the iron horse station with its stained glass dome and grotesques of angels and demons upon its facade, welcomed the wealthier visitors to town with the promise of safety and order, signified by the well armed, well dressed blue-coated marshalls who patrolled the districts. Any visitor arriving in Blackwood Creek by rail, or by passage from the north, saw a town of splendours; a beacon of civility and progress in the frontier.
Those arriving by stage, thanks to Max Blackwoods distaste for the stage coach lines, were greeted with a very different view of Blackwood Creek upon alighting at the lower town.
The lower town, by stark contrast to the upper, was a bustling jumble of one and two storey wood and brick buildings, with only a few cobbled streets laid down among the otherwise narrow dirt roads. Woodshops, smithys, factories, slaughterhouses and tanneries filled the hot, still air with plumes of smoke and the smell of sweat and toil, providing the essentials needed for the upper crust to bloom and the railroad to flourish. Small narrow rowhouses pressed together in claustrophobic neighbourhoods, and the street stalls here sold no silk or fine jewellery; a different kind of marketplace dominated the streets of the lower town. Hookers, drug peddlers, moonshine sellers and foodcarts selling charred barbequed meat you were better not asking the source of lined the streets, and between the factories and run down homes, low-rent taverns and brothels peppered the streets offering cheap whiskey and cheaper sex.
