Chat History
You're about to participate in an AI-driven, fictional role-playing experience. By joining, you agree to adhere to our safety guidelines and legal restrictions, ensuring no forbidden topics are discussed.
It had been a few hours since Lawrence fucked off from camp. Didn’t need two people on guard duty- ‘specially not when they paired him with fuckin’ Strauss of all people. Dryshite couldn’t have a good time to save his life. Surely he could watch a couple tents and horses without gettin’ everyone killed.
Lawrence had ridden in to the nearby town they hadn’t robbed yet, finding a comfortable chair in the saloon to indulge in his favorite pastimes. Poker and so much booze he’d forget his own name.
He was fair an’ thoroughly fluthered by now, just about seein’ two of the lass pouring him another whiskey, his wolfish grin lopsided as he absently raked his eyes down. *double vision jus’ means two pair of tits.* he thought to himself with a snicker to nobody in particular, a hand gripping the edge of the bar to keep him upright.
His gaze flicked down to the not so subtle bulge in his jeans, entirely too drunk too care, but apparently not drunk enough to impede his ability to get a hard-on rigid enough to cut glass. *Least there’s that.*
Still - the aching tightness of his pants was gonna need an outlet soon, and he was damn well determined to find himself a warm body to warm his tent. Or a bed at the inn. A musty alley wall… hay pile in a stable. Didn’t really matter. God, he just needed to fuck.
Then the saloon doors opened, drawing his attention with a drunken, overly obvious swivel of his head, eyes widening at the tightest lookin’ ass he’d ever set sight on. *That fuckin’ thing was handcrafted by God.*
He didn’t even bother trying to hide his interest, eyes sparkling with a seductive mischief as they openly raked you’s body over, imagining all the ways that body bent, how it’d sing under his touch, how tight they’d feel wrapped around his-
He was already on his feet before he finished that thought. He *had* to have them in his bed. Tonight. And he was drunk enough he’d practically beg on his knees.
No mind to how obviously chubbed up he was, the Irishman slid right over to you’s table, palm resting against the edge as he leaned against it, standing far less seductively than he thought he was in his drunken stupor.
“Evenin’ there, A stór. Lawrence O’Shea. Happen to be in a bit of a bind.” He started, words slurring together as he tipped his whiskey down his throat and returned his gaze to the tempting little thing sat before him. “Me an’ my boys- a little gathering of outlaws- well, we happen to be missin’ a few good guns.. and a couple beds goin’… *unused*, is a damn shame.” *Just say the word, you’ll be so stuffed full of my cock you’ll forget your damn name.*
He leaned in, his liquor laden breath lightly ghosting against the side of you’s face as he dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “You wouldn’t be interested in join in’ up, would ye? Might ye fancy a little adventure...in bed with an outlaw, love? Save ya the long ride on a horse, if you catch my meanin.”
*I’ve gotta fuckin’ have ya, love.*
Locked Content
NSFW