A Dead Man In The Desert
(Incest , Nonconsenual, Western , MxF , Historic , Anal)
A puddle of blood and precipitation pool on the normally arid Arizona floor. It's raining. A rare occurrence in the harsh unforgiving desert of the west. The three people standing in the dimly light Tuscon night know all about how unforgiving the desert can be. Even if they had forgotten in the the tense mood of the situation they were in , they were reminded of it by the sound of a dying horse a mere few feet away.
The horse had been shoot in the rear by a colt walker and dropped to the dusty earth beneath in excruciating agony. As a result , it's rider was thrown off into the brush. Shattering his nose in the process. He was the reason that blood stained the ground and mixed with the night's downpour. After the accident , A man and a woman rushed over to the injured rider and bound his hands together with hemp rope. His hands were tied together so tightly that the cord cut gashes into his leathery skin.
The man's name was Jonathon St.Crux. A former ranch hand for the third richest cattle farmer in the territory That was until him and his coworkers slaughtered the ranch owner and tortured his family. The survivors of that massacre were the ones who stood before him in the copper state's early morning darkness. Marcus and Martha Wesson. Twins in their early twenties. Maratha's holding her father's prized Colt Dragoon tightly in her lithe right hand while her brother's colt walker has been placed back in it's holster.
They're both staring at the last of their parents killers but their expressions are different. Marcus is calm and collected. His posture is relaxed and he's staring at his father's former employee with indifferent disdain. His sister on the other hand is staring daggers into Johnathon's soul. A twisted sadistic smile crossing her pale sunken feature. She wasn't always so cold. She use to be a normal country girl in the eighteen hundreds. Enjoyed horses and cooking. That was until the night her father's employees dragged her out of her bed and raped her mother in front of her and her brother. On certain nights when she would close her eyes she could still here her mouth's pained breathing and sordid groaning. Those weren't the worst nights though.
The worst nights were the nights when she remembered her own slow agonizing rape. Those horrid nights where the taste of him. came back into her throat. Not them , him. One man. One man who she could still feel piercing her untouched loins one brutal night two years ago. He was like a nightmare , only real. She couldn't remember his voice or his face. She never saw it. But she could remember the way he felt inside her. The way he made her squirm and struggle. The way his warm voice tickled the nape of her neck with each cruel moan. She tried to forget. Tried everything. Drinking , Gambling , Hunting. The only thing that ever let her forget was killing. Killing the men who had allowed him to hurt her.
The pained cries of the horse slowly faded away as the hard pounding of the rain on the crusty terrain beneath their boot's continued. It had been five minutes now. Five minutes of pure silence. All three of them were deep in thought. Each one was focused on something else. Marcus thought about if the sibling's hunt was worth it. If vengeance was worth watching his sister turn from a sweet farm girl to a cold blooded murder. He thought about how he was at least partially responsible. He was the one who taught her to shoot after the incident. The one taught her the difference between single-action and double-action. The one who taught her what it was like to take a man's life in cold blood as he keeled before you. But who could blame him? Who could blame them? After what they had both been through.
Johnathon on the other hand thought about the only weapon he had now. He might have been unarmed but he was the most dangerous of the three. His weapon was the truth. The truth about that night. He drew a small amount of blood from his broken nose and spit at the feet of the armed cowgirl before him before forcing his onyx eyes to meet her blue pupils.
When John's eyes met her's , The revolver in Maratha's hand shook for the first time in two years. Looking a man in the eyes before you killed him wasn't anything new but this was different. She had looked twelve other men in the eyes before killing them and what she saw in each of them was their conscious boiling up from their wretched souls and filling their last few minutes on this earth with existential dread. The problem was that the man who raped her had no conscious. He was cruel beyond reason. She knew this. She knew this because she knew him. Felt him. Felt him every day of her wretched life. In the pit of her stomach , she knew what John was about to. They all did and it shook each one of them to the core.
Ha. Ha. Ha. John cackled as one last smiled crossed his withered face. That laugh caught Marcus off guard and caused a look of anxious confusion to cross his face.
"When I first heard about how you two were killing the Don , Julio , Hector , Victor and the rest of the gang I was curious about something. The way you did it. You didn't ambush them while they were drunk gambling in some saloon with their back turned to the door. You didn't slit their throats while they slept in the night. You looked all of them in the eye. At first , I wondered why but now I know. I know the truth. You looked them in the eyes so you could figure out which one was the one who raped you that night. Well look me in the eyes , bitch and tell me what you see?" John ordered with the confidence that only a dead man could exude.
For the first time in years , tears rolled down Maratha's face as she gazed into the former ranch hands eyes. Sympathy. That was what his eyes showed. Sympathy and it hurt her. Hurt her worse then that man had hurt all those years ago.
"Unlike the man who raped you , I'll tell you the truth. Yes , we raped your mother. We all did. Your father wouldn't tell us the combination to his safe so we took turns going at her until he did. That was when things went wrong. We were still feeling a bit frisky after the robbery and your mother was no shape to perform. We might have been rapist and thieves but we weren't necrophiliacs. So we decided we'd try something a bit younger but there was a problem. We had worked for your family for years. Saw you grow up. We couldn't get hard with shit like that on our mind So we decided to try the last man of the house. As I said before we couldn't do it and your dear old father was long dead by this point. We thought he'd refuse even with Julio's revolver jammed into the back of your neck. You were family after all but that didn't stop him. He choose his own life over your innocence. Most of us couldn't even watch him and by the time he was in your as.... "
And that is where our story begins with a dead man in the desert. All of thirteen of Maratha's and Marcus's father's employees are dead yet Maratha's rapist stands just a few feet away from her. Alive and breathing. What do they do now that the truth has been reveled? Can Martha forgive her only living relative for his actions that night? Do they simply forget about it? Bury it in the past? Can they do that with how much they went through that night? What do they do next? Who Knows? Contact me to work out the rest of Dead Man In The Desert.
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