Bandidas Cula update

“I need to take a piss,” Howell announced. It’d been hours since the two bandidas, Sara and Maria, had taken him hostage. Riding in the back of his own wagon as it banged through the hardscrabble landscape brought into sharp relief what a bumpy ride it was.

Usually, his mind would be focused on the control he had over the reins, but without that, he felt every rock they rolled over, till it felt like the girls had to be driving over them deliberately. And though he’d tried to be a gentleman and not attract their ire, holding it in until they finally cut him loose, every jagged tremor running through the wagon made its tug at his full bladder.

“Don’t be so crude,” Sara snapped at him from up front.

“How crude will it be when I wet myself in the back of your vehicle?”

Tsking, Sara drew on the reins, pulling the oxen to a stop. She turned to Maria. “Take him.”

“Me?” Maria retorted. “Why do I have to do it?”

“Because I have been driving the wagon.”

“That’s not such a big thing. I wanted to drive the wagon. And you haven’t been doing a good job, bumping and rattling everywhere we go…”

“There’s no road!” Sara protested. “How flat do you expect the road to be when there is no road?”

“Ladies,” Howell interrupted. “Can you settle this after I’ve had my piss? I’ve held it in for as long as I can. Believe me, I don’t want to bring this up any more than you do.”

Sara wheeled on Maria. “Just take him out, have him do his business, and bring him back. And don’t untie him! The last thing we need is him overpowering you and taking your gun.”

“If you’re so worried about him taking my gun—“

“Please,” Howell strained, shaking a little.

“Okay, okay,” Maria said, taking her gun from its holster and going to Howell. Grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, she pulled him to his feet and led him down from the wagon, then out among the cacti and sagebrush where he could have some privacy.

As soon as they were out of earshot—Maria chanced a look back at the wagon to see that Sara wasn’t watching to criticize her performance—Maria let go of Howell’s shirt with a chastising slap on his back. She moved away to train the gun on him.

“Alright. G’wan. Do it.”

Howell’s teeth were gritted. “How?”

“What do you mean, ‘how’, you want me to explain—“

“My hands are tied!” Howell pointed out, wiggling his fingers behind his back. “The apparatus is in front. There’s nowhere for the river to go except my own pants, and assuming you’ll still want to bring me along, I’ll be mighty bad company like that.” He sighed. “Look, just cut me loose. I’ll do my business, you can hold the gun on me, then tie me back up. I won’t fight you. I just need to go.”

“No,” Maria said firmly. Sara was right—it was too big a risk.

“Lady—“

“Alright, already!” Maria interrupted. She drew back the revolver’s hammer, just to emphasize her point. “Don’t you move a muscle, senor. I will handle it.”

“Handle it, handle what—“ Howell began, only to see Maria approaching him, the gun held firmly on his chest, her free hand reaching down to his belt. She undid the buckle. Then she pulled down the zipper. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Maria told him. “Podrido Yankee, don’t—don’t do anything. This is just for relief of suffering.”

She reached into his open fly, feeling through his underclothes, never looking at what she was doing, but instead keeping her eyes trained on his face. That was almost worse. Howell didn’t look lurid, or lewd, but he was already flushed and sweating and gritting from the effort of holding his water in, which made Maria feel as though…

Then she touched it. It was big, throbbing—Maria told herself that was only the need to urinate. She’d been around enough farm animals to know how their manhoods worked. Still, without thought, she looked down—and with horrified fascination, saw what she was drawing out of his jeans.

Howell was a muscular giant, blond as a Viking, his cock as thick and meaty as the rest of him. It stretched out over two lightly haired balls, almost the same color as the curly, gold-brown hair that swept over his broad chest. Howell looked down as she had, seeing her dainty fingers wrapped around his member, and he let out a cooing sound that made Maria quiver.

She leveled the gun at his face with her other hand. “No funny business! Don’t you dare—“

“Shh.”

“Don’t shush me either, you—“

“Shhhhh,” Howell emphasized, his eyes closed, and Maria realized he was concentrating on his… work.

A moment later, in the silence, Howell’s urine flowed. Maria felt warmth flush through her hand, his cock tremble with the powerful stream moving through it, and she started to look down before her eyes jolted back up. That was not the sort of thing she wanted to see a man doing.

No, she did not wish to see el choto at all, being a virgin and unmarried and a proper lady besides, even if she didn’t have the wealth or upbringing of Sara. She still wasn’t some barnyard creature, a mare to be bred when some fine stud presented itself. Even if Howell seemed a stallion in every respect. If somehow Sara were in her possession, and Maria wished to breed her, she would most definitely call on a man like this to be mated with her.

She didn’t think that urination was much like… the other thing el choto did, but she imagined it might feel the same. Not in her hand, of course, but inside her, and she would know it was not old tequila flowing through him, sending such tremors through his masculinity, but the seed of life—her future son or daughter.

Son, Maria thought, feeling Howell’s manhood ripple with the force of his expending. Such power could only result in a son. She imagined the creation of a daughter would have to be much more gentle… as el choto felt now, the potency going out of it, no longer stiff, but soft and dwindling, as the flow ground to a halt.

“Shake it,” Howell told her.

In a haze, Maria nearly complied without thinking—then her face whipped to Howell’s, blazing with reddened affront. “You think you can tell me such a nasty thing—“

“To get the last of it out,” Howell said, looking at her innocently. “Every guy does it.”

Trying not to think of what she was doing, Maria gave it a shake. “Not horses,” she said, not thinking of what she was saying either.

“What about me reminds you of a horse?” he asked, a sly grin now spicing his innocent expression.

Maria let go of his cock. “Pig.”

“Thought I was a horse.” He coughed. “I’m going back to the wagon like this?”

“Like—“ Maria looked down, saw his flaccid member hanging from his fly. Even limp, it surprised her with its size.

“Like that,” Howell said gently. “What—you wanna show it to your ladyfriend too?”

“Don’t be perverse!” Maria barked at him. Moving fast, not dwelling on what she was doing, she took hold of him and pushed him back inside his pants.

“Easy, easy,” Howell cautioned her. “That’s an expensive piece of gear you’re handling there.”

“Expensive,” Maria sneered in imitation of his Yankee accent. “Dime a dozen, to me. More than that, in any saloon I care to walk into…”

“Well, it’s precious to me. And I could think of a few ladies who’d appreciate knowing it’s in good working order still.”

To Maria’s horror, she felt a throb go through his maleness—a stiffening tremor that had nothing to do with his bladder. Squeaking, she grabbed hold of his fly and tugged it back into place, then turned him around and pushed him back towards the wagon without bothering to do up his belt. “March!”

“Don’t know what you’re bent out of shape about,” Howell said. “I think you handled that real well…”

Back in the wagon, Maria poured out a third of a canteen to wash her hands off. They didn’t have much water, but it was worth it not to think of what had happened… not to smell her hand and think that it was his musk clinging to it.

But that didn’t mean she could get the feel of his manhood out of her mind.

***

Howell shifted his wrists, not trying to get free, simply trying to get comfortable. The bandidas had bunked down for the night, outside under the stars—used to it. Howell slept on the wagon’s hard but even wood. Or tried to.

Maria had retied his bonds tight. They’d been a little uncomfortable at first. Now, after hours with the rope around his wrists, it was unbearable. Howell had no chance of getting to sleep with his wrists burning like they were.

“Can’t sleep?”

Howell looked up. Maria had let herself into the wagon. She held a Bowie knife, but not threateningly. Howell stopped moving anyway. It didn’t matter much, but he still didn’t want to give her an excuse. If she did stick him, maybe it would weigh more on her conscience.

“You either, I guess,” he replied.

Maria shook her head. “What do you think of Sara?”

“Didn’t do much for me when I needed to piss. You rank above her.”

Maria bit her lip thoughtfully. “What about her breasts?” she asked. “You like them, don’t you? They’re bigger than mine, I know. Do you like them more than mine, because they’re so big, or would you say mine are better?”

Howell was trying not to think of the girls that way—it might just get him in trouble. But he’d had all day to do nothing but sit and think, and Sara had spent a lot of time in that tight corset, that provocative blouse. It showed a lot of cleavage… her tits heaved every time she took a breath.

“I wouldn’t… say the size or the sight have everything to do with it. I prefer… it’s more in how they feel.” Howell felt like he had said too much already, really stepped in it, but there was no backing out now and Sara had asked. He might as well die speaking his piece. “Firm but not hard. Soft but not… giving.”

To Sara, Howell looked a little nervous now, keeping his eyes straight ahead. She glanced down, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and saw the thick bulge swelling in his pants.

“But come on, Howie,” she chided excitedly. “She has such big tits. You’re telling me that doesn’t make you hot?”

“I didn’t say that,” Howell muttered distractedly.

Staring at his throbbing erection, Maria felt a familiar wetness returning to her sex. She’d never really had a man before, but that didn’t mean she was scared of them. And it didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.

“I can tell the thought of her turns you on,” Maria purred. “Or do you need to take another piss?”

Howell blushed and shifted, trying to hide his straining groin behind his thigh. “Goddamn, woman—what a thing to say!”

“I can’t just say nada. It’s really sticking out. Madre de Dios, Howie… I guess it’s good to know your cock can always get that big, not just when you have a full bladder…”

“Can you stop bringing up my piss? You’re gonna give me one of those psych-y complexes like they have in New York and such.”

“I want to make a deal with you.” Rising up from her crouch, Maria went to the back of the wagon bed and drew open the curtains of the bonnet. Through it, she could see that Sara was still asleep, or at least still lying down. “I’ll cut you loose, but don’t try anything, or my partner will fill you full of lead.”

Howell looked at her in bewilderment. “Obviously, I’m all for that—what’s in it for you?”

“You’re going to make love to me,” Maria said.

“What?”

Maria pulled down her dress. Howell gasped, seeing her slim torso, her juicy breasts—not as abundant as Sara’s cleavage, but quite ample in their own right, her stiff nipples giving proof of her arousal.

“I don’t grow them as big as Sara does, but I think mine are firm enough for you.” Giggling, Maria ran her hands down her body. Her breasts filled her small hands to overflowing. She groaned when the leather of her knife’s hilt ran over a nipple. “And they feel just fine to me…”

Howell’s eyes bulged. His prick throbbed, every pulse hurting a little inside the tight confinement of his pants, but he welcomed the pain. If he didn’t get hard for this woman, he’d be a fucking eunuch. “Goddamn, Maria… yes, of course.”

Like the fox she was, Maria couldn’t resist teasing him a bit. “You sound sure. You’re not worried that I’m tricking you? That maybe this is all some elaborate way of killing you?”

“Maybe.” Howell shrugged. “But there’s gotta be a lot worse ways to go than dying an’ thinking of you.”

Maria pushed her dress down her svelte hips, slipping them down her slender, olive-skinned legs. Her undergarments followed, in rapid, practiced succession.