Hell-Bound Firebrand

by Wolf and Boar

Old West Adult, First Time fic (Chris/un-named prostitute)

Summary: Teenager Chris Larabee just knows his destiny has to be something quite different from the life he leads on the family farm. Taking off to find adventure, he runs into a few snags on the way.

Christopher Larabee threw the axe and it thunked into the side of the barn. "Hell with that!" he yelled, then grabbed his coat, nearly ripping the fabric as he angrily shoved his arms in his sleeves. "You split that damned wood yourself!"

"Watch your language, boy!" Rarely raising his voice, Elijah Larabee had had enough with this firebrand he'd somehow sired and was constantly bewildered by each and every day. "And you get back to work."

Ignoring his father, the hellion stomped past the sputtering man and into the barn. Saddling Old Hoss wasn't easy as the boy's agitation transferred to the horse who kept trying to dance away, knowing he'd be ridden hard by his sometimes heedless master. "Damn it, Old Hoss, stay still!"

Elijah had said a small prayer before following his eldest child into the barn. "You are not to mistreat one of God's good animals because you have a foul temper, Christopher Larabee."

"That's what animals are for. To serve us."

Frustrated, Elijah wondered how on earth he and his gentle wife had been "gifted" with this boy who seemed too loud and bright and beautiful for this life. He had no idea how it had come to be. "Some day, you will learn a little humility."

"Well, it won't be today!" smirked his son before swinging up into the saddle and riding seemingly hell-bent for leather.

Standing in the middle of the yard shaking his head, Elijah felt his heart grow heavy. "Please, Lord. Watch over my boy no matter how heathen and undeserving he is. Some day grant him peace to find his place in this world."


Chris had had enough. Farm life was not for him. There was nothing in it. Kicking up dirt to plant seeds was for animals, not men. Raising stupid, ugly livestock was boring and stank and just wasn't in his blood. His lessons had taught him there was more to life than the dusty acres in the Indiana nothingness. He wanted to see the world. The Holy Land, Greece, China. All those places he'd read about were more interesting than this dull prison of a place.

Sometimes he had to just get out. Ride until he could tame the wild impulses which tore through him all the time. Leave the plowing and planting and chopping and slopping to his parents and brothers and sisters and just be alive. Surely there were other people in the world who felt the same way he did but if there were, he had never met them.

He had dreams. Dreams of glory and being lauded as a hero and women wanting to be with him.

But nothing would ever happen here. There was no glory to be won slopping hogs or milking cows. He'd never be a hero chopping wood or scattering seed for chickens. Beautiful women did not decorate the arms or slink into the beds of dirt stirrers. Men didn't fear fast-drawing pitchforks and shovels.

He had to leave.

At that moment, he knew he had to have a different destiny. One that would matter. One that would be remembered. One that would be full of life and laughter and adventure. One that would be his own and no one else's.

Dragging Old Hoss to a halt, he laughed, loudly and joyfully. This was his life. His destiny. His way. And it was going to be great!



His whole life was going to be shit.

This was all he could think about as he slogged his way home through the mud as God apparently was pissing down on him in great torrents of rain. He might as well just hang himself and get it the hell over with right now.

His trip into the largest near-by town had started out all right. It hadn't stayed that way.

Now, he looked back on it as one of the worst disasters of his life. Where had it gone so wrong?


After riding a little bit, Chris had entered town excited and ready to begin his grand adventure. He felt around in his pocket to make sure the money he'd saved along with what he'd won from Jack Smithson after church last Sunday was still there. It was.

Hitching Old Hoss to the post outside the saloon, he clomped inside and ordered a whiskey. The bartender laughed at him, saying, "Go back to your Mama, little boy."

So he punched the bastard.

Which got him literally thrown into the street by men who made sure elbows and knees found some places to make him a bit uncomfortable. Not only was it humiliating, it was downright painful. Never having lost a fight with boys his own age, this started a little rage burning within him and a strong desire for revenge. He picked up a rock and heaved it through the window then ran like the hounds of hell were chasing him...which, as it turned out, they were.

Two snarling dogs began chasing him as he ran for his life, then had to double back to jump on Old Hoss's back to make his escape. The dogs followed, barking and trying to nip at Old Hoss clear to the edge of town and Chris could have sworn a few bullets sang past his head as he laid himself low down on Old Hoss's back.

That had not gone so well even though it had, technically, been an adventure indeed.

Oh, well, chalk that up to experience, he thought, as he rode to the next town. "Better luck on the second try."

Even though his mother would be shocked, Chris knew about Houses of Fallen Women and he thought it was about time he visited one. Loud laugher and tinkly non-hymn type piano carried on the wind from a place called Talia's so he reined in and settled Old Hoss there.

Smoke made a blue haze in the room and he grinned as he stepped inside. Ah, one of the dens of iniquity he'd been taught to avoid. It was better than he'd ever imagined.

Women strutted around wonderfully indecently garbed, rouged tits clearly visible under sheer tops, matching rouged cheeks and garish lips. If this wasn't heaven, then he was glad to have gone to hell. About thirty seconds into his staring around, an older woman with perhaps the most paint on her face approached him.

"Hello, honey. Looking for someone?"

A little afraid of her long, lacquered nails which reminded him of pictures of the devil, he found that his voice had developed an annoying squeak he thought he'd lost months ago. "Maybe."

She took his hand and placed it on her enormous tit, squeezing her hand over his so that he got a real handful. "Maybe you were looking for me?"

Both terror and excitement warred within him, with the latter quickly overcoming the former. Boldly, he grinned at her. "Could be."

"You got money, sweetheart?"

He clanked the coins in his pocket and she grinned back at him. Her hand reached down and he thought she was heading for the coins but she grabbed his cock and gave it a little pinch, causing him to suck in air desperately. A lungful of smoke set him coughing and she giggled.

"Come with me, sugar." Taking his hand, she pulled him through the crowd, leaving him to knock into people in her wake and he left a trail of "sorry-s" and "pardon me-s" behind him all the way up the stairs.

They entered a room which was dimly lit and smelled a little funny but he didn't care at this point. All he knew was that he was about to have his first woman and, frankly, the head on his shoulders was no longer capable of much leading by now. All the leading was being done by this cloyingly sweetly perfumed painted woman and he was perfectly willing to be led.

"This your first time at our establishment, honey?" she asked, taking off his coat in a manner which put cleavage in his face and her long nails, which he could feel through both shirt and undershirt, scraping up his chest. His pants had gotten unbearably tight.

"Yes," he muttered, barely able to remember the question.

She dropped his coat, then her little sheer wrap onto a nearby chair, then her thin skirt fell in a puddle at her feet. He was no expert on ladies' underthings but had thought ladies wore something besides those garters to hold up stockings. This one didn't.

A red-tipped finger arrowed down her belly to stroke the curly- haired apex between her thighs. "Why don't you get a little more comfortable? I know I'd like to."

As he stood frozen in the doorway, she leaned back on the bed, spreading her legs and running one hand back and forth over her ample bosom, the other hand sliding up one thigh, over the center of her, and on to the other. The motions were hypnotic.

"Don't stand there all night."

The slight hardness in her voice finally broke through and he ripped at his trousers to free himself.


It hadn't lasted as long as he'd thought it would and sleepiness struck him right away but when he tried to snuggle into the woman's warm bosom, she sat up, briskly collected her money, and shooed him out.

Dazedly staring at the door which had slammed in his face, Chris wondered what to do next. He had to admit, the whole act had been a bit disappointing after the exciting buildup. Definitely not worth going to hell for but damn it, maybe it would get better. It had better get better!

This time he had no problem getting whiskey and then he played some cards, then he had more whiskey and then...


He woke up in a filthy alley. No money. No horse. No coat.

What he did have was a lot of bruises he had no memory of earning and a splitting headache along with a furiously dry mouth and nether parts that itched.

And a very long walk home.


When he had finally staggered into the yard, his mother had come running and caught him in her arms. "Christopher!" She was crying.

His father followed, looking behind him. "Where is Old Hoss?"

All his brothers and sisters were staring at him in wide-eyed fascination mixed with a little resentment.

"I lost him."

"What?" cried his father.

"Now, 'lijah," scolded his mother. "Leave the boy alone. Clearly something bad has happened to him. You can find out about it later, after he's rested."

"Is he hurt?"

"I'm all right," Chris muttered.

"Not you. Old Hoss."

"Was all right when I last saw him."

After that, his father backed off and his mother shooed him right into bed because he looked so exhausted. Once in bed, she brought him soup and then, after he'd finished that and some warm bread, he slept the sleep of the righteous.

He couldn't wait to do it all again.