Savage Urges

by Poppy Deveaux

  No, this was an innocent undertaking, a townwide square dance, and by all means, at least as far as most of these fine folks were concerned, an occasion to be enjoyed and celebrated, not frowned upon like some gloomy Gus as I was currently doing over here in my sheltered little corner of the barn. I did, at least, make an effort to show some enthusiasm. I tried to have sympathy on behalf of all those happily pirouetting cowboys and cowgirls, moving with synchronized actions that somehow, nonetheless, gave the impression of completely carefree whimsy, skipping to the lou and whatnot, as it were, as happy, I reckoned, as they would ever be.

  But it was just so damn hard, you know? I felt so far beyond the possibility of feeling what it was they were feeling, of experiencing the life in that joyous, blissful manner with which everyone seemed to approach it, their eyes glistening and their cheeks rosy and the smell of animal shit surrounding them seeming not to phase them in the least, caught up as they were in their own sweet illusion, their happiness in one another's company, their ability to socialize and feel accepted and all that feel-good community shit...

  I'd always been this way, to a large degree. That is, I mean I'd never really gelled so well in these manners of gatherings, always feeling just the least bit out of place here and unable to let my guard down in the company of what basically amounted to strangers, these fine folks and folkettes whom I saw just about every living day of creation, and yet who felt like such distant entities that I might as well have been living in some far-off and alien land. And I mean, it wasn't like they were ever cruel to me, or intentionally closed me out, nothing like that. It was just me, being the way that I tended to be, sticking out like a sore thumb and endeavoring to keep to the shadows, wallflower that I was, in order to best conceal myself from their company.

  But at the very least, at some point in time, I'd been able to think that things could improve over the course of the evening. Sometimes, I could have some hope in hell that maybe a stranger might just see fit to ask me to dance, unaware of my anxiety at the prospect, not to mention my burning desire to be asked, which was just as damn powerful of my equal and opposing fear of such an event befalling me. And sometimes, in the past, such a blue moon event as that did chance to occur. Strangers would often sweep me off my feet and pull me dizzily onto the dance floor, unaware all along how nervous I was as we spun across the floor laughing and carrying on, and gradually, when such a unique event did occur, I would manage to shed a little bit of that damned self-consciousness, that inability to let go, and I would allow myself to have a good time for a few minutes, to feel like I was part of the excitement and swept up in the whirlwind of activity until the dance ended- and then, inevitably, I would end up scampering away with my tail between my legs, terrified at the prospect of any more in-depth interaction with whatever poor bastard had thought to invite me onto the dance floor, and going home in solitude to hope that, yes, maybe some day, I would work up the nerve to be more social, there was always next time, always next time, always next time...

  But now- now I didn't really have that, even. Now, I was married, yet still here by myself in order to keep up appearances while my husband was out of town, stuck in a sort of no man's land where I could neither enjoy myself or overtly display the very fact that I was failing to have a good time.

  And I knew that I didn't have a hope in hell of being approached by some smooth talker at this point in my life, not now that I was married to the Sheriff of this dusty little town and any perceived flirtations on the part of other men would result in either jail time or a big fat noose around the neck.

  Christ, what had my life become?

  I loved my husband, I really did, but I felt as though there was some crucial lack of connection between the two of us, some fundamental rift that kept us from being what a couple should be, me forever aware of the disparity, and him seeming blissfully ignorant of the fact, which, in turn, led to myself becoming even further alienated from him internally, no matter how well he'd provided for me and did his damnedest to love me.

  Hell... Maybe it was this same rift that had led us to getting together in the first place.

  Don't get me wrong, I've always been quite the looker as far as attracting male attention was concerned, and if relationships were forged on that alone things might have turned out far different for me than the way in which they eventually unfolded. I had beautiful blonde hair, lustrous and silky, which, mind you, was quite an achievement in the skanky old days before the crucial introduction of shampoo and conditioner to the world. My face, I had it on good authority, was rather angelic in nature, with penetrating blue eyes, tight pink lips, and a smile that was reportedly dazzling on the rare occasions I deigned to show it to those around me. And then there was my body... Christ, what a figure... Even though, you know, I was generally pretty covered up by quite the form-concealing cotton outfit, any real indications of a sexual nature blocked from view by the general sensibilities of social propriety of the day, I think men could secretly tell what I had going on under there, and I could tell when they were around me that they wanted it, pretty damn badly. I had soft, flowing curves, a tight little body that was enough to knock a fellow's spurs off in passing, and such hypnotic proportions that I could often detect men's heads beginning to spin like tops on their necks any time I happened to walk past them.

  Without getting too perverse here- or hell, maybe I want to get perverse, and that's why I'm bringing it up- I had a set of tits on me that were, quite frankly, immaculate, and though I had generally, up to that point, been the only real party who got to sneak a peek at them, I knew that they were quite the asset for eventually sneaking my way into a man's good graces. They were plump and lush and firm and bursting with the radiance of youth, the sharp pink nipples so tantalizing as I stared at them in the mirror that I began to wish that I myself could somehow suckle on them, get drunk off my own nectar as it were... I had no earthly idea whether that sort of behavior was prohibited by the Bible or other moral codes or whether that somehow made me a lesbian in a sense, but often the need for self-exploration was so great when admiring myself like this that I would find any number of excuses to sneak off and go touch myself, to compensate with my own frisky fingers for that which I inevitably failed to procure from the loins of any interested males.

  Then there was my ass, my wide hips and my jiggling buttocks, just the right size and composition, so that they bounced and quivered with just the right amount of funk in my trunk, the carryings-on of my rambunctious butt cheeks obvious to those around me even beneath the thick layers of my western regalia, and perhaps one of my most obvious selling points as a sexual prospect to say the least. And then there was my pussy... Oh Christ, what a pussy... Obviously, this was the most hidden of my jewels, as concealed from sight as my innermost depths, but I could almost see men's nostrils flaring at it whenever I happened to walk by them, visages of that floral pink organ formulating in their mind, tight and wet and strong and juicy... Yet, I can also guarantee that, no matter what wonderful things they might have imagined when men fantasized about this cowgirl's cunt, it surely came nowhere near the point of genuine accuracy, because if you put my pussy alongside any other woman's in town, say in the manner you might compare and judge homemade pies and jars of pickles and such at the county fair, I can just about guaran-damn-tee you I would waddle away from that perverse proceeding with a blue ribbon fastened to my thigh, mine surely being the juiciest, freshest, and most floral among their numbers.

  But... Um... Yeah... I reckon that perverse degree of explicit detail is just a notch or two beyond the realm of the point I'm trying to make with all this...

  Anyway, just suffice it to say that I was quite the lurid little specimen as far as the looks compartment were concerned, and so by all means I should have had no problem attracting a lover given just what sort of stuff I was strutting.

  The problem, then, arose from my diffidence, the disparity between my personality and my looks that made me appear so modest and mo
usy when in reality I was as hungry for cock and as much a craver of crazy ass sex as a woman could be. I could scarcely count with all of my digits the number of occasions on which guys had approached me with clear looks of lust in their eyes, the desire for conquest transparent and evident in their devilish gazes as they came up to me, and I found myself inadvertently but inevitably shutting them down in their tracks, not meaning to be a bitch but appearing as such anyway, turning away from shyness in response to their advances, my cheeks turning as red as a newborn's freshly spanked buttocks and my suitors, frustratingly, under the impression that I was therefore not interested, an impression that was impossibly misguided, but which, in my shyness, I found myself capable of virtually nothing to correct.

  I'd thought my chance for sexual fulfillment would never come, that I would remain unwed forever and eventually just rot into a sexless old maid. That is, until the day that fresh-faced town Sheriff Wayne Westwood ambled into my life, and his obliviousness to my every reaction led him to being the only man to have ever penetrated my seemingly insurmountable boundaries of shyness. See, while a lot of other guys would take my lack of response to their advances as a signal to give up, Sheriff Westwood proved himself quite the dumb bastard, and would likely not have intuited any lack of interest on my part when he approached me had I openly told him to go to hell and splashed my drink squarely in the center of his beautiful face.

  So, it just so happened that he presented to me the long-awaited chance to hook up with someone despite my shy, anxious nature, and as far as someone's went, I thought that he was just about the most desirable man I could possibly have asked for, or at least he was initially, anyway. I mean Christ, around these parts you don't fare too much better in the courtship department than the goddamn sheriff of the town, and I had therefore, foolishly, considered most, if not all, of my problems in life solved.

  But I found myself quickly disappointed as far as this went, as well...

  See, in many ways I probably could have lived an entire life without the presence of a man had it not been for my, if you'll excuse me saying so, insatiable carnal lust, as I imagine most women could if they really gave it any amount of honest thought. But sex had been one of the most compelling reasons for me to enter into a relationship- not the only one, of course, as I really did want someone I could love as well, someone with whom I could share an emotional connection, and security, moreover, because I wasn't going to remain this young pretty peach forever, now was I?

  But, much as Wayne failed in providing me with any sort of emotional connection, he proved himself unwilling to offer me up any manner of sexual gratification as well while the two of us were still courting. See, he was of the opinion that a good Christian should remain absolutely, one hundred percent chaste until their wedding night, should not even practice self-exploration, that God-awful abomination, and so, in what I viewed as a most perverse twist of fate, I had at last managed to wrangle myself up a lover who was, in point of fact, not really a lover at all...

  I'd tried, so many times, to seduce him out of his sexual indifference, remaining subtle in my efforts, however, in fear of coming on too strong and being accused of a harlot or something like that, which I really believe he would have if he hadn't been completely dense and failed to take any notice whatsoever of my unsuccessful efforts at luring him into my honey trap.

  And so, after several long months of frustration, it had eventually taken marrying the man to get to the point where I wanted to be with him, to at last feel the sweet, sweet cleaving apart of my wet, throbbing pussy by a stiff, hard cock, riding my man off into the sunset, as it were, and screaming like a motherfucker at the top of my lungs.

  Or... Well... Sort of, anyway...

  Things, even after we were married, didn't at all go the way I had expected them to, much to my disappointment. See, although he'd never specified this particularly shitty little part of the bargain beforehand, in addition to only engaging in sexual activity after marriage, Wayne was adamant about the fact that sexual intercourse should only take place within the confines of procreative purposes, and that such lascivious activity should only be engaged in in the missionary position when that did chance to occur.

  And so, on our wedding night, I was disappointed when, despite my intense desire to go absolutely nuclear bouncing up and down on top of that long hard cock of his, he instead simply settled for climbing up on top of me, pulling his pants down just barely beyond the lower end of his butt cheeks, and pushing his ding-a-ling into my ting-a-ling, the sensation of which, in itself, was a pleasant, if painful one, with the rough stretching out of my virgin pussy, the warmth and the tightness as he crawled with his fat erect penis into my body, the heat of him enveloping me like a blanket, even if the two of us did have most of our clothes on, my own skirts bunched up around my waist and my panties simply brought down to around my knees, with no foreplay or otherwise touching of bodies whatsoever. And when he began to pump himself into me, God it was like magic, the feeling of him grinding in and out and in and out and in and out of me...

  But the thing of it was, the proceedings could scarcely be considered a full on wedding night because, quite simply my long-awaited introduction into the blissful realms of sexual intercourse were brought to their conclusion in a good ten minutes tops, long before the point when I would have come close to achieving orgasm myself, and I felt him grunting on top of me, moaning and panting as he splooged his warm baby gravy into my body, pulse after pulse after pulse of the stuff, a feeling which was pleasurable in and of itself, in fact, but still, perhaps, a bit overwhelming considering the long, passionate night of knockout sex I had so mistakenly had in mind for the two of us.

  And so it was that he pulled out of me, and I then began my quest for the next several weeks to attempt to seduce him as often as possible, as though the repetition of this short and unsatisfying act might eventually lead to a sort of accumulation of pleasure on my part, and a bunch of little, interrupted fucks might somehow amount to one good big one in the grand scheme of things. If I was really lucky, I could convince him to fuck me two times in one night, although this was something of a blue moon occurrence, and could only be achieved if I convinced him that his sperm had not successfully wriggled themselves all the way up inside me as they needed to if a baby were to eventually result, and he therefore must reload and shoot again if he had a hope in hell of managing to hit his target. In fact, I rather liked it when he made it through his refractory period and put his cock back inside me, the sensation of him grinding once more through the liquid accumulation of his own sticky cum like an extra level of lubrication, producing sensations that were sweet beyond description compared to the normal, quick, abrupt fucks, and they also lasted just a little while longer, given the fact that it became more arduous for him to arrive at climax after his initial load for the evening had been passed into me.

  Little did he know, all that time, that I had been taking a specially prescribed formula of snake oil birth control, and that, in doing so, I was granting myself access to repetitive sexual trysts while avoiding the potential reality of filling up with a baby on his behalf. Now, say what you will about this slight dishonesty, but I felt just a little bit bamboozled by the terms of this very unphysical marriage myself, if you do not recall, and I therefore felt compelled to go about getting as much damn cock from my husband as I could get to help compensate for his many inadequacies, all without popping out a slew of youngins from my uterus just yet, which, I knew, would further complicate my already-sabotaged and unfulfilling sex life.

  And so, this was how I lived for some considerable period of time, feeling as though the two of us were continually growing more disparate, and Wayne, all the while, not seeming to suspect a thing in the world was wrong with our relationship. And then, one day very recently, Sheriff Westwood announced to me that he had to tumble out of town for a few days and would be back before I knew it- he didn't give me a direct answer as to why he was going out of town, he just sa
id that it was Sheriff's Business, and that I mustn't worry my beautiful little head about such trivia, talking down to me as was his regular wont, and seeming quite the idiot to me as he galloped away from the scene, and ass riding a horse off into the sunset thinking he was going bravely on to save the day for some poor unfortunate soul somewhere.

  And before he left, he had encouraged me to put in appearance at the town square dance, given that I was the Sheriff's young wife and was therefore expected to be in attendance at such festive occasions, even despite the fact that I was absolutely forbidden to dance with or talk to anyone of the opposite sex while he was gone, as he said that any men who might approach another man's wife under such circumstances were clearly snakes in the grass simply waiting to lash out at a pretty young thing like me. Hell, I'm certain that if he'd found out about me even making eye contact with another man while I was there he would have had a few choice strong words for me upon his return home, and frankly this fact went a long way in pissing me off like hell even as I stood there acting like a perfectly good little girl.

  It should come as no surprise, then, that when I heard the call of “Hey there pretty little girl...” from somewhere in the corner beside me, I should find myself putty in the hands of this newly arrived male seducer, his eyes dark and penetrating and his face an absolutely devilish one, his body, meanwhile, matching its main visual conduit perfectly.