#from us

Here's a little bit from the post

Bully Graves who makes you beg and plea for the wedgie to finally be over, especially after hooking your panties to the hooks beside his desk. Enough to keep you on your tiptoes, but not enough to hang you up and tear those pretty panties too soon. He loves to watch you suffer, to shift back and forth in pain. Loves watching that desperate little face that contrasts perfectly with the front of your soaked panties.

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New Fortune My Ass! Pt. 1

This very small town of Nueva Fortuna was not as bustling as Clarence anticipated it would be, but considering the fact that they’d built the damn railroad off the main stretch meant that hardly any activity would pass through. He looked around at what little patrons sat around the tables and grumbled to himself.

He would be proud of the whole buying this saloon thing if it hadn’t been for that fact. He’d thought about writing to his sister, Rosemary, but… he knew she wouldn’t be impressed. Too many outlaws and raving drunkards were around too.

He glanced sideways at the parchment and feather hidden under the bar near some alcohol bottles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he’d never write it. Or maybe he hoped the letters he does write never make it to her.

Besides, Clarence was also not fond of the night sky under the roof of a saloon. This time in the evening tended to bring in more of the wanteds, bandits, outlaws, and whatever was out there to cause trouble for common folk.

Even though he’d been foolish in his younger years in identifying as one of them, he found maturity and a more peaceful way to live life. His days were numbered and his old barking mercenary bones needed a long rest. It didn’t help that he now stood behind the counter of one of his more unkind endeavors. Apparently he could not entirely escape the ways of the untamed west.

That was when he opted to close the doors and burn out the lights when a quiet creaking of the swinging door caught his attention.

“Saloon’s closed for the night.”

He was finishing up cleaning and shining glasses for the next day, when a younger male came stumbling in, tripping over his own feet as his determined legs ached to keep moving.

Clarence was agitated, tired from the long day.

‘This damn day just won’t end, will it?’

“I said, the saloon is closed for the night I’m not in the mood for any antics from lowlife—“

He’d turned around to threaten them out, when all he saw was a young boy slumped heavily over a leaning chair. He was unresponsive and looked entirely exhausted, trembling from the cold and coughing weakly as his dry lips failed to move.

“Well I’ll be the devil’s bargain, where did you come from?”

Clarence approached cautiously, but upon more interested inspection, the boy was terribly dehydrated and malnourished, entire body almost caked in dust. He was wrapped in an odd looking poncho.

‘When did they get hoods?’

Clarence had never seen that before.

He didn’t waste any time filling the last of his daily water supply into several cups, then fixed a shot of whiskey on the side.

“Drink up, now… easy does it.”

Still with his jaw tilted to rest on the back of the chair, Clarence helped get a few slow and gentle sips of the water into his parched mouth.

This seemed to perk him up a bit, eyes widening, realizing the taste of water was quenching his needs. It ran down his throat smoothly, and he leaned forwards for more.

He’d finished two glasses before Clarence waved the whiskey glass in front of his nose. The black-haired boy was awake now, gladly accepting the glass with a shaking hand, but Clarence pulled the glass away and put it on the bar. He hadn’t intended for him to drink it.

This kid’s been through hell and back.

“That do it, lad? You must have been stranded out there, no horse, no ride? What’s your name, boy?”

Although his voice was still scratchy and hoarse from the dust, the boy slowly straighten his head and met Clarence’s gaze with eyes riddled with suffering beyond those gleaming emeralds and the dull, buffed shine that glazed them.