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It had been one of those weeks.
One of those long, drawn-out stretches where the days blurred into each other, where Abigail felt like her whole life was just scrubbing floors, hanging laundry, and running after Jack while John threw himself into fence posts and cattle until he dropped. By the time supper came around, he was too tired to talk much, let alone…well.
She sighed to herself as she balanced a basket of groceries against her hip, weaving through the bustle of Blackwater’s main street.
She wasn’t mad at him, not really. She knew the ranch was eating him alive with work, same way the household did her, and she knew he loved her in his own stubborn, wordless way. But lately it felt like they were both living side-by-side instead of together. Sometimes she’d catch herself looking at him across the supper table and wonder when the last time he’d even touched her hand was, let alone kissed her without Jack running in the middle of it.
That thought had her huffing as she adjusted her shawl against the afternoon sun, her boots scuffing down the boardwalk. She was half-way to the dry goods store when a sing-song voice broke through the crowd:
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! The miracle of the age! Tired marriages, wilting romances, gone in a blink! Rekindle the spark, restore the flame, with my tried-and-true formula!”
Abigail slowed without meaning to, turning her head. On the corner, a slick-haired fellow in a bright red vest stood atop a crate, waving a bottle that glittered pink in the sunlight. Around him a handful of townsfolk lingered, some rolling their eyes, others curious.
Normally she would’ve kept walking. Lord knew she’d heard enough snake oil promises to last a lifetime, and she wasn’t fool enough to fall for every traveling quack that passed through. But the man’s words stuck, lodged somewhere between her ribs.
Rekindle the spark. Restore the flame.
She hugged the basket closer and tilted her head, frowning. It wasn’t like she needed a miracle cure to fix her marriage, but…well. Maybe a little something to jolt John out of his work-worn haze wouldn’t hurt.
The vendor caught her eye, brightening. “Ah! You, madam—you know what I speak of, don’t you? A husband so worn with toil he forgets the pretty wife waiting at home? Fear not! One sip, and his heart will beat for you like the day you first wed.” He winked, shaking the bottle so the fizzy liquid inside shimmered a deeper rose.
Abigail’s lips pressed tight, though she felt her cheeks warm. “That right?” she muttered, mostly to herself.
Her purse was light, but she’d managed the week’s shopping already. A few coins jangled at the bottom, just enough for something foolish. And really, wasn’t she entitled to one foolish thing, just for herself?
Sighing through her nose, she stepped forward, exchanged the coins, and tucked the small flask into her basket between the flour and coffee. She glanced at it once more, the pink liquid fizzing faintly against the glass, before setting her jaw and turning back toward the dry goods store.
She wasn’t about to drink it here, in broad daylight with half of Blackwater watching. No—she’d save it for later.
For when John came home tired, too tired for anything but bed. For when she wanted to see if this ridiculous promise could make him look at her like he used to.
Two days later, Abigail had just about forgotten the ridiculous bottle.
Life on the ranch had a way of grinding novelty into dust—there was always too much to clean, too much to mend, too much to cook. But when Uncle announced, quite out of the blue, that he was taking Jack into town for the evening to watch a picture show and buy him some new clothes and books, Abigail couldn’t help but narrow her eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Uncle muttered, fumbling for his hat. “Boy needs some spoilin’, don’t he? Besides, you an’ Johnny-boy deserve a quiet evening. Lord knows I can’t stand listenin’ to you two bicker every hour of the day.”
She arched a brow, but there was a softness in his eyes under the bluster. She knew what he was really saying—I’ll give you two some space. It made something warm twist in her chest, though she rolled her eyes and waved him out the door.
When the wagon finally rattled off down the road with Jack hollering about candy and picture houses, Abigail leaned against the doorframe and exhaled. The house was quiet, almost too quiet, and for once she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.
That was when her gaze fell on the pantry shelf. On the back, tucked behind a sack of flour, sat the small glass flask. The pink liquid shimmered faintly in the dim light.
Her first instinct was to scoff, same as always. Silly thing, wasting money on some snake oil charlatan’s promises. But then she thought of John, out there pounding fence posts until his shoulders knotted, coming in too tired to do much more than grunt. She thought of the way her own body hummed with restlessness, like something caged.
And…well. If there was ever a night to be foolish, maybe it was this one.
With a quick glance around, as if someone might catch her in her own kitchen, she pulled the flask free, twisted the cork, and sniffed. It smelled faintly of roses and sugar. Tentative, she took a sip.
Sweet. Fizzy. Almost like champagne, though with a strange little kick that tingled across her tongue. Surprised, she let herself drink more—half the bottle gone before she realized.
When she finally set it down, she smacked her lips. “Well…damn thing ain’t bad.” She gave a little laugh at herself and tucked the flask away again, shaking her head. No sudden magic, no strange heat flooding her body, nothing. Just a silly, sweet drink. With a shrug, she rolled up her sleeves and got back to work.
Hours later, John finally set down the last of his tools.
The sun had dipped behind the ridge, the air gone cool and heavy. His muscles screamed from another long day, but tonight he decided he’d treat himself. For once, he’d take a proper bath.
By the time he pulled himself from the tub, toweling off and tugging on clean drawers, he felt halfway human again. But as he padded barefoot down the hall, he paused. The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He frowned. Abigail hadn’t fussed at him about supper, hadn’t appeared with her usual, “Did you wash up proper?” She hadn’t been anywhere all evening, come to think of it.
“Abi?” he called, voice echoing low through the rooms. No answer. His frown deepened. He checked the kitchen. The sitting room. Even peeked out the back door in case she’d slipped outside. Nothing.
Finally, he nudged open their bedroom door.
The bed looked mussed, sheets drawn high. At first he thought she’d just gone to sleep early—until he caught the faintest sound. A muffled whine.
John’s chest tightened. He crossed quick to the bedside. “...Abi?” He crouched, laying a hand on the bundle under the quilt. “Abi, what’s wrong?”
Another muffled groan.
John’s heart lurched. “Hey, you’re worryin’ me now. What happened? You sick?”
A pause, then a small, pitiful voice: “Promise you won’t get mad. Or kick me out. Or…or shoot me.”
John blinked. His brain tripped over itself. “...What?”
“Promise!” she demanded, voice shaky.
“O-okay! I promise! Course I ain’t gonna do none of that, Abi. Now what’s-what’s happenin’?”
There was one more pitiful whine before the sheets peeled back.
John’s eyes nearly fell out of his skull.
Because there was Abigail, flushed to the roots of her hair, her nightdress bunched up around her thighs—and jutting hard and heavy against the fabric was…a massive erection straining up like it belonged there.
John made a noise halfway between a choke and a shout, stumbling back on his heels. His face went redder than hers.
“...Sweet merciful Christ.”
Abigail clutched the sheets back up to her chin, groaning.
John just kept standing there, half leaned on the doorframe, half frozen in place like he’d just seen a rattler strike right in front of him. He thinks she’s explaining what happened, something about snake oil salesmen,, about ‘rejuvenating the marriage’, about feeling lonely, but he was only half listening. His mouth kept opening and closing, though no words managed to come out until Abigail’s shrill “will you stop staring at it?!” finally snapped him back into his body.
He dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Christ almighty…” but even as he tried to look away, his eyes crept back like they had a will of their own. The sight of Abigail—his wife—red-faced, squirming under the quilt with something very obviously straining against it, was… something his brain just couldn’t square away.
“I ain’t— I mean, hell, Abi, what d’you expect me to do?” He gestured helplessly toward her lap. “That’s… that’s somethin’ you don’t just unsee!”
She buried her face in the pillow with a groan, muffled words spilling out. “I didn’t expect you to SEE it, you were supposed to be still outside with the damn horses!”
John stepped a little closer despite himself, scrubbing the back of his neck. “You mean to tell me you been hidin’ like this for hours?”
“Yes!” she shot back, her eyes flashing as she peeked up at him. “Because I don’t know what else to do! You ever think maybe it’s not exactly easy when it—when it hurts and it feels all wrong and I don’t wanna just…” She made a vague, mortified gesture with her hands. “Handle it.”
John swallowed, hard, torn between horror, confusion, and… something else curling low in his stomach that he refused to name. “Well… yeah, I mean, usually you gotta— y’know. Relieve it somehow. Otherwise you’re liable to lose your mind.”
Abigail’s scowl deepened. “You think I don’t know that? But it’s not the same when it’s this!” She glanced down at herself again and gave a miserable little whimper. “Feels… I dunno… Different.”
There was a beat of silence, just the sound of her shallow breathing, before John muttered, almost against his will, “…different don’t mean bad.”
Abigail’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
John coughed, ears going red. “I’m just sayin’… it’s, uh. Above average. Looks like it, anyway.”
Her jaw dropped. “Above average? That’s all you’ve got to say to me?”
John finally sat down at the edge of the bed, close enough that Abigail instinctively tugged the blanket higher. He tilted his head, trying to catch her gaze while still clearly struggling not to just keep staring. “…Ain’t every day your wife surprises you like this”
Abigail groaned and flopped back down. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“You love me,” John said automatically, though his voice was softer, more uncertain than usual. His hand hovered awkwardly near her shoulder, as if he wasn’t sure whether to comfort her or keep his distance from this utterly bizarre turn of events.
“…So what the hell we supposed to do now?” she asked into the ceiling, voice small.
And John didn’t have an answer—only the sound of his heart hammering and the strange, heady awareness that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind the sight as much as he should’ve. He sat there like a man staring down a loaded gun, only this time the danger was under his own blanket. He rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to will his brain into something resembling sense.
“…Alright,” he said at last, “maybe if you… uh, y’know. Took a walk. Distracted yourself. Could help?”
Abigail shot him a look like he’d just suggested she ride a bucking bronco bare-assed. “A walk? With this thing swinging around? I can hardly stand up, John!”
“…Right. Okay, maybe not a walk.” He frowned, thinking harder. “What if we… I dunno. Ice it? Cold water?”
She glared daggers at him. “You want me to freeze it off?”
John threw up his hands. “I’m tryin’ here, woman! Hell, maybe just… grit your teeth and wait it out? Maybe it wears off by mornin’.”
Abigail let out a strangled noise and thumped her head back into the pillow. “I’ve been waiting it out for hours! It’s not going anywhere! Hurts like the devil, too!”
John chewed his lip, watching her squirm and clutch at the blanket. He didn’t like seeing her like this—red-faced, miserable, her usual sharpness drowned out by desperation. For once, he wanted to ease her load instead of making it heavier.
Finally, he cleared his throat and said, quieter: “…What if I helped you?”
Abigail blinked, peeking at him through her fingers. “…Helped?”
“Well… you don’t wanna touch it yourself, right? And sittin’ here watchin’ you suffer don’t feel right either. So…” He gestured vaguely, his cheeks pink. “…I could take care of it for you.”
For a moment she just gawked at him, her mouth working uselessly. “Y-you mean—you’d… you’d do that?”
John shrugged, though the tips of his ears were burning. “Wouldn’t be the first rodeo.”
That sent her into stunned silence, her eyes wide. “…What the hell do you mean by that?”
John only gave a lopsided, almost shy smile, as if to say that’s a story for another time.
Abigail sat there stiff as a board, her hands clutching the sheets up under her chin like a shield. Her face was red to the ears, her chest rising and falling too fast. “…You’re serious?” she asked again, her voice small in a way John wasn’t used to.
“Course I’m serious.” John dragged a chair closer to the bed, then thought better of it and sat on the mattress instead. “Ain’t like you’re enjoyin’ this misery. Let me take some of the weight off you.”
She chewed her lip, caught between pride and the throbbing ache in her lap. “…It’s…different for me, John. Real different. I don’t even know what I’d—”
“Then let me worry about that.” His voice dropped, a calm rumble that made her throat tighten. “Ain’t nothin’ you gotta do but sit there.”
Her hands trembled. Finally, with a strangled groan, she shoved the blanket down. John’s eyes flickered down, and he swallowed hard—yeah, that was no small problem she was packing.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” she warned, her voice breaking.
“Laugh?” He gave a soft chuckle, leaning closer. “Abi, I ain’t laughin’. More like wonderin’ how in hell you thought you could keep this hidden for hours.”
She covered her face, mortified. “Just—get it over with!”
John hummed, the corner of his mouth quirking as he settled between her thighs. He reached out, fingers wrapping around the base with an easy confidence that made her squeak. “Relax,” he teased, “you’re tighter wound than a spooked horse. Won’t bite.”
Her whole body shuddered at the first stroke. “Oh… god…”
John glanced up at her, his thumb brushing the tip, smearing the slick that had already beaded there. “Sensitive, huh?”
“J-John—!” She tried to glare, but it melted into another whimper when he bent down and took the head of her cock into his mouth.
The heat, the wet, the way his tongue flicked—Abigail’s eyes flew wide, and her hands shot down to grip the sheets for dear life. A burst of sensation nearly stole the breath from her lungs. “O-oh…! Oh, Christ almighty—!”
John’s lips curled in the faintest smirk around her, satisfied at the reaction. He drew back slow, letting the sound of it ring out in the quiet bedroom.
Abigail’s head thudded back into the pillow, her voice breathless and shaky. “…Oh…yeah… I think I get why y’all like that so much…”
John didn’t rush it. He never did. He let Abigail feel every bit of what was happening, the way his tongue dragged over her tip, the slow, wet slide of his lips down her shaft, the firm pump of his hand working where his mouth couldn’t quite reach yet.
She was already a mess, trying to stay still, knuckles white in the sheets. “Ohh…~ God, John–th-that’s…!” Her voice cracked into a sharp gasp when he sank lower, his throat working around her, his free hand bracing on her hip like he was grounding her through the storm.
John hummed low in his chest, the vibration making her toes curl. He drew back, then took her in again, steady as a heartbeat, easing deeper each time. Every wet pull had her legs trembling, and she kept biting her lip like she was fighting against letting the noises out.
It wasn’t working.
When John finally got almost halfway down, Abigail bucked her hips without thinking, chasing the heat of his mouth. He gagged, coughing against her cock, pulling off with a sharp, wet choke.
“Oh my god—! I’m sorry!” Abigail sat up so fast she nearly smacked foreheads with him, panic flooding her voice. “I didn’t mean to–! Are you okay?!”
John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, giving a crooked, hoarse laugh. “Damn near killed me, woman.” His eyes, though, were glinting, like he wasn’t mad at all.
Abigail’s blush went scarlet, her hands hovering helplessly. “…but-uh-if I’m bein’ honest… that was…kinda hot.”
That laugh of his came again, deeper this time. He leaned back down, giving her shaft a slow stroke with his hand before kissing the tip like a tease. “Well, hell. If you like it rough, Abi, you just gotta say so.”
Her breath hitched, thighs pressing together tight. “I-I don’t know what I like, John!” she admitted in a rush. “But I know I want more…please, don’t stop…”
John’s smirk softened into something more wicked, his thumb circling her leaking tip as he lined himself up to sink back down again, slower, steadier, but clearly intent on testing her limits.
Abigail’s hands found his hair almost without thinking, clutching at the strands as if she needed something—anything—to anchor herself. John was already pushing her to the brink, his lips stretched around her cock, his throat working each time she slid deeper.
She gave a shaky little thrust, just to see, and John’s muffled grunt, the way his throat tightened, nearly made her collapse right there.
“…o-ohh—! god…!” she whimpered, and before she knew it, she was doing it again, hips rocking forward into his mouth, slower this time, like she was testing the waters. John let her, his shoulders tense but his hands steady on her thighs, bracing, letting her set the pace.
The wet sounds in the room made her dizzy, his gagged breaths, the lewd slide of spit gathering around his lips, the obscene squelch as she breached his throat. She should’ve been mortified. She was mortified. But the sight of John Marston on his knees between her legs, taking her cock like this, had her head spinning far too fast to care.
Her rhythm built without her meaning to. She held the back of his head now, fingers tight, guiding him down and pulling him back only to press him forward again, deeper, firmer each time. His throat clenched hard around her length and he groaned low, whether in discomfort or something darker, she couldn’t tell, but it sent shivers down her spine either way.
Abigail’s voice cracked into a whisper, breathless and disbelieving: “…John…I-I kinda like this look on you.”
His eyes flicked up at her, watering but sharp, and her whole body jolted when she realized he wasn’t pulling back. He was letting her do this.
The words tumbled out of her, half-laugh, half-moan: “Oh, no, I-I really like this look on you.” And with that, she bucked her hips again, harder, her thighs trembling as her cock drove past his lips, deeper into the tight, hot grip of his throat.
John choked but didn’t stop, hands squeezing her thighs tighter as if daring her to go on.
By then Abigail had stopped pretending she was in control of herself. Every thrust grew sharper, needier, and John barely had time to gasp before she was sliding back down his throat again. Her hands fisted tight in his hair, holding him steady, and her hips found their own merciless rhythm.
John gagged, shoulders lurching, throat straining to take her, but he didn’t shove her away. If anything, the way his hands clamped onto her thighs only steadied her thrusts, as though he was daring her to push him further, to see how much he could take.
Abigail’s breath came ragged, high and desperate, shame mixing with the rawest pleasure she’d ever known. “Ohhh god…!John—John-I can’t–I can’t stop…!” Her voice cracked on a half-sob as she ground him down, hips jerking, tears stinging her eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.
John’s chest heaved, his throat working frantically around her cock, spots beginning to dance at the edge of his vision. She was fucking him too deep, too fast, his body convulsing as he struggled for air. He thought for a second he might pass out, but Abigail’s choked moans above him kept him right there, anchored, refusing to pull away.
Her thighs trembled violently. Her grip on his hair turned bruising. And then her whole body seized, bucking forward one last time as a strangled cry tore from her throat.
“John—!!!”
Hot, pulsing release spilled straight down his throat, and Abigail held his head tight against her, forcing him to take every drop. John’s eyes squeezed shut, body convulsing as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful, gagging around the thick rush of it. He couldn’t breathe—christ almighty he couldn’t breathe—but he could feel her cock twitching between his lips, feel her shuddering through the sheer force of her orgasm, and some wild, stubborn part of him refused to break the moment.
Finally, her grip loosened. Abigail slumped back, gasping, her whole body quivering as she pulled him away from her with a shaking hand.
John collapsed onto his knees, coughing, spit and spend dripping from his mouth, his chest heaving like he’d just run a mile uphill.
Abigail was staring at him like she’d just committed a crime, her hands shaking, her voice hoarse when she finally croaked out, “...oh my god. I almost killed you.”
John keeled forward onto his hands, coughing wetly, trying to drag air back into his lungs. His throat burned, his chest ached, spit was stringing off his lips, and yet somehow he still managed to let out a hoarse laugh.
“Jesus, Abigail…you damn near murdered me,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If that’s what you call ‘rejuvenating the marriage,’ then hell, woman, you’re gonna be a widow by tomorrow.”
He glanced up at her, still half-choking, and flashed a crooked grin. “Reckon that’s the hardest I’ve ever worked just to keep you satisfied. Nearly saw the pearly gates.”
Abigail, though… she wasn’t laughing. She was staring at him, really staring. The mess of his hair from her fingers. His face flushed crimson. His lashes wet, eyes glassy, mouth shiny with spit and come that was still dripping down his chin. His chest rising and falling heavy.
The sight hit her like a gunshot to the gut.
Her cock twitched, then perked right back up against her stomach, heavy and hot like nothing had happened at all.
Abigail gasped, slapping both hands over it like she could hide the betrayal. “What the—!!? What the hell is wrong with this thing?!”
John blinked at her, wheezing a laugh, then another. He slapped his knee, half-strangled by it. “You’re…hah! Y-you’re kiddin’ me. You just…nearly blow my goddamn head off, and you’re ready again?!”
“I’m not—! It’s not…!” Abigail whined, face blazing red, glaring down at the offending stiffness trapped under her palm. “I don’t want it to…it’s just—look at you!” She gestured helplessly at John, her voice pitching high. “Goddamn it, John, you look like you been ruined. How am I supposed to…how’s it supposed to not react to that!?”
John just stared at her, incredulous, spit-slick lips twitching into a slow, wicked grin.
“Well,” he rasped, leaning back on his hands, still catching his breath, “guess I’ll give you this much: you definitely got your money’s worth outta that snake oil.” John sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “I can…help you out again. Just—tell me what you want, darlin’. Same thing as before, or…?”
Abigail blinked at him, wide-eyed, her lips parting. She looked him over—once, twice—her gaze lingering on his broad shoulders, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint smear of her own release still shining on his chin. And then, before she could stop herself, the words came tumbling out.
“I-I kinda wanna fuck you.”
Silence.
John froze, head tilting slowly, eyes narrowing. He looked at her like she’d just confessed to wanting to rob the nearest church. “...’Scuse me?”
Abigail’s face went scarlet, her hands tightening into fists on her thighs. “I just—! It ain’t–I just…! L-look, I know it’s bold, but this thing’s drivin’ me insane and I wanna…I wanna know what it feels like, alright?” She blurted it all in one breath, mortified, biting her lip hard enough it nearly drew blood.
John stared another long beat, then snorted. Then wheezed. Then burst into a ragged laugh that had him clutching his ribs.
“Christ almighty, Abigail…you got some gall on you.” He shook his head, still grinning through the disbelief, hair sticking to his damp forehead. “One minute you’re hollerin’ about snake oil and blowin’ me half to kingdom come, and the next you’re askin’ if you can put it in me. You really don’t quit, do you?”
Abigail ducked her face in her hands, groaning. “Forget I said it…just—forget it.”
But John just kept grinning, the sound of his laugh fading into a softer wheeze. He leaned in, catching her wrists and pulling her hands gently away from her face so she’d look at him.
“Hey,” he said, softer, still amused. “If this is temporary…hell. Might be your one shot to try somethin’ like that. Ain’t like I’m a stranger to it.” His smirk curled just enough to be dangerous. “Figure we might as well enjoy ourselves, before you turn back and this all becomes one hell of a strange memory.”
Abigail gawked at him, chest heaving. “...You’re serious?”
John shrugged, already starting to undo his belt, eyes still fixed on her. “Dead serious. Now, what’re you waitin’ for?”
Abigail’s eyes were wide, hands fidgeting in her lap like she wanted to both crawl under the bed and smack him at the same time. “So…how do I… I mean, do I just—stick in there? Do you…get wet on your own?”
John couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped, low and amused, but Abigail snapped, cheeks flaming. “I’M SERIOUS!”
He held up his hands, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, girl, don’t get your britches in a twist. No, I don’t ‘get wet on my own’. Gotta…prep before you stick anything that big in there.”
Abigail froze, jaw slightly slack. “Where did you…learn that?”
John’s grin turned faintly grim, eyes narrowing at the ceiling like he was remembering things he didn’t want to. “Remember that year I was away?”
Abigail’s brows shot up. “…How could I forget—oh.”
John gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Yeah. Oh.”
She swallowed hard, trembling with a mix of anticipation and nerves, and he rose from the bed, fishing through his satchel. “We’ll take it slow,” he murmured, voice low. “Gotta lube up, get you ready…then we see if this thing of yours can handle what’s comin’.”
Abigail shivered at the deliberate phrasing, biting her lip. “...I think I’m already not ready,” she admitted, eyes flicking to his hands and the satchel.
John just gave her a crooked grin, kneeling back down next to her and brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry. You follow my lead and I’ll take care of the rest. You’re gonna like it… I promise.”
Her chest heaved, heart racing, and she nodded—part mortified, part desperate—while John finally found the small bottle of gun oil. The faint metallic scent hit her nose, and she shivered again.
“Alright, Abigail,” he murmured, tilting her chin up, “we’re gonna do this right.”
John leaned back on his elbows, giving her a careful, measured look. “Do you wanna do it, or do you want me to?”
Abigail hesitated, brow furrowing as she weighed it. After a few deep breaths, she nodded, almost defiantly. “I… I want to do it. Whatever it is.”
John’s grin was faint but approving. He held out his hand. “Alright. Give me your hand. Now…” He poured a little gun oil onto her palm. “It’s been a long time, so be patient. Otherwise, you’re gonna rip me in half. And I’m clean, so don’t worry about that.”
He guided her trembling fingers toward his entrance, giving her a reassuring nod. She swallowed hard and pressed one finger in. John hissed softly, arching his hips.
“Sh-shit… did I hurt you?” she whispered, panic flitting across her features.
John exhaled, trying to keep his tone calm. “Y-yeah, but… that’s normal. Just a sting. It’ll pass. You’re doing fine.”
Abigail tilted her head, eyes wide and curious, rubbing the finger inside him slowly. “Feels… real weird. Real hot. And… tight.”
John’s voice cracked into a low chuckle. “Now you’re the one teasing me.”
Abigail smirked, a little triumphant. “It’s the truth!!”
The tension hung thick between them, a mixture of anticipation, embarrassment, and undeniable heat, both realizing just how delicate—and thrilling—this first touch could be.
John shifted slightly, giving her a wary but encouraging look. “Alright… you think you can do a second finger?”
Abigail hesitated a moment, then nodded, rolling her shoulders as if psyching herself up. She slid it in slowly, and John hissed, tensing under her touch. “Easy… scissor your fingers a bit, yeah? Stretch me right,” he murmured, guiding her.
She did as instructed, spreading her fingers carefully, letting the motion stretch him in ways that made her a little dizzy, a little drunk on the way his body reacted—every hiss, every grunt, every sharp inhale making her pulse race.
Once she felt him giving in to the stretch, she leaned back slightly and added a third finger. John let out a sharp moan, hips jerking slightly, and she froze for a moment.
“Oh… oh!” she muttered, startled, as her fingers brushed a particularly tender spot inside him. “I thought that talk about men having a sweet spot in there was just talk…”
John’s chuckle was low and ragged. “Nope… definitely in there…”
The heat between them spiked as she lingered on the spot, watching his chest rise and fall, utterly captivated by the way he was reacting to her touch. Every small motion she made seemed to draw a new sound from him, and the thrill of power and intimacy made her pulse hammer in her veins.
Abigail bit her lip, concentrating hard as she tried different angles until she settled into a steady rhythm. Her fingers pumped into him with more confidence now, curling every so often to drag against that tender spot that had made him moan before. The way John’s body shifted and clenched around her was addictive—his breath hitching, low sounds spilling out of him no matter how he tried to rein them in.
Her free hand, almost without thinking, pressed against his chest. She grabbed at him clumsily, palm flat over his pec, like she needed something solid to hold onto while she worked him open. John chuckled through a sharp exhale.
“Well look at you,” he rasped, voice hoarse but teasing. “Gettin’ the hang of it already, huh?”
Abigail let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, cheeks flushed deep. She suddenly yanked her hand from his chest and shifted, putting her weight into it. In one smooth, impulsive motion, she rolled them over and pressed John flat beneath her, his back hitting the thin bedding with a muffled thump.
His eyes went wide, lips parting around a startled sound that turned into a surprised laugh. “Christ, Abi—warn a man, would ya?”
But the way she hovered over him now, her cock heavy and twitching against her stomach, her breath coming quick and uneven, made it clear—she wasn’t about to be careful anymore.
Abigail’s breathing had gone ragged, her whole body buzzing with nervous excitement as she glanced down between them. Her cock—still iron-hard, flushed dark, and dripping—looked almost unreal to her.
And now… here John Marston was, lying under her, chest heaving, looking at her like he’d asked for this.
Her throat worked as she swallowed, one shaky hand reaching for the little tin of oil John had left nearby. She poured some onto her palm and stroked it down her shaft with tentative movements, hissing under her breath at the slick glide. The sight of her hand working over her own cock while John watched—eyebrows drawn but lips parted, jaw tense—only made her flush deeper.
“Go on,” John said quietly when she hesitated too long, voice low and steady. “Don’t overthink it, Abi. Just… do it.”
She nodded quickly, more to herself than him, then shifted closer until the blunt, oiled head of her cock pressed right against John’s entrance. The heat of him there nearly made her lose her mind. She bit her lip, eyes flicking up to meet his—he was biting his own, trying to hide the twitch in his stomach muscles as his body instinctively tensed around the intrusion.
“You sure?” she whispered, almost like she expected him to shove her away.
John gave a breathless laugh, nodding. “Ain’t my first time starin’ down somethin’ too big for me. Go on. You got my say-so.”
That was all the permission she needed. She pushed forward, clumsy and overeager. The head slipped past the first tight ring of muscle and John yelled, jerking under her grip. Her heart lurched, panic flashing across her face.
“Shit! Did I—did I hurt you?!” she blurted, starting to pull back.
John’s hand shot out, gripping her hip, keeping her in place. His face was twisted up in pain, yes, but also determination. “Don’t you—don’t you dare stop now. Just—” He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Slower. You hear me? Slower.”
She nodded quickly, her whole body trembling as she steadied herself and tried again, easing forward inch by inch. He guided her with small squeezes of his hand, reminding her when to pause, when to move.
“Good… good girl,” he rasped when she stilled halfway in, letting him adjust. His other hand fisted the blanket beside him, sweat beading on his brow. “That’s it… easy does it…”
Her face went hot at the praise, her hips twitching forward without her permission. The extra push dragged a guttural sound from John’s throat, his head falling back against the bedding.
“Oh god, I-I’m sorry, I—!”
“Don’t be,” John cut her off, panting, though his voice was raw. “It’s supposed to sting. You’re fine. You’re doin’ fine.”
She froze for a moment, staring down at him, at the way his chest heaved and his eyes squeezed shut but his grip on her hip was firm, steady, grounding her. Slowly, carefully, she pressed in deeper, biting her lip hard enough to hurt at the feeling of his body stretching around her.
By the time her hips finally pressed flush against his, both of them were shaking. Abigail let out a shaky laugh, more disbelieving than anything, brushing her hair out of her face.
“Holy shit… I’m… I’m in,” she whispered, voice catching on a laugh.
John opened one eye to glare at her weakly, though the corner of his mouth tugged up. “No kiddin’, Abi.” He shifted under her, groaning. “Now… give me a second to remember how to breathe, an’ then you can start movin’.”
For a long moment they stayed just like that—Abigail buried to the hilt, her palms braced on either side of John’s ribs, her chest heaving as she tried to get her head around the fact that this was real.
She was inside him.
John was the first to break the stillness, a breathless chuckle rattling out of him. “You plannin’ on just usin’ me like a sheath? ’Cause I ain’t complainin’, but… might be a waste.”
She flushed scarlet, smacking his shoulder without much force. “Shut up. I’m… I’m tryin’ to figure it out, alright?”
“Figure it out while movin’, darlin’.” He grinned up at her, cocky even with his hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead, even while his whole body clenched tight around her. “Ain’t rocket science.”
She muttered something under her breath and pulled back just a fraction, then pushed in again—too fast, too shallow, clumsy as hell. John yelped, jerking, his legs twitching. She froze, wide-eyed.
“Did I—?”
“No–no, that’s… fuck.” His voice broke on a laugh, his head thunking back against the bedding. “Just startled me. Christ, you’re tight as a newborn colt at this, but…” His hands went to her waist, steadying her. “Do it again.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed, then she tried again, easing back and pressing forward. The drag made her groan, hips stuttering as she struggled to keep her rhythm steady. It felt like her whole body wanted to rut into him like some dumb animal.
The third time she managed a smoother thrust, John’s reaction nearly undid her, his back arched, a strangled noise tearing out of him, his fingers digging bruises into her hips.
“Jesus…Abi—!” He was whining now, openly, his voice cracking as he writhed beneath her, every muscle tight, squeezing down around her cock so fiercely she thought she’d black out.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, her own voice unsteady, hips jolting forward harder than she meant. The heat, the clench, the sheer madness of how he reacted had her dizzy. “Y-you’re…fuck, you’re squeezin’ so hard. ..”
“That’s you, makin’ me–ah—!!!” John choked on the words, his thighs flexing, kicking uselessly at the blankets as if he didn’t know what else to do with himself. His cock, hard and leaking against his stomach, jumped every time she bottomed out, as if her thrusts were pulling the sounds straight out of him.
Abigail found herself laughing breathlessly, somewhere between disbelief and euphoria, her hands sliding to his chest to pin him down. “God damn, you’re loud.”
“Shut—shut the fuck up…!” he snapped back, but it broke on another moan, his body tightening again, fluttering hot around her in a way that nearly drove her wild.
The awkwardness was gone now. Her hips had found a rhythm, her body learning quick, addicted to the wet drag and the way his eyes rolled back when she hit just right. Every time he flailed under her, every little whimper or curse he let slip only spurred her to move harder, faster, chasing that same rush she’d never imagined she’d feel.
“Goddamn it, John,” she gasped, half laughing, half crying out. “You’re…you're gonna kill me like this.”
His only answer was another broken noise, muffled as he bit at his own knuckles, his whole body trembling with it.
Whatever hesitation Abigail had left snapped like a dry twig. She found her rhythm, hips smacking hard into John’s thighs as she thrust with purpose now, every stroke slicker, deeper, faster. The bedframe rattled under them, John’s ragged cries bouncing off the walls.
She couldn’t stop grinning, half-mad with the sight of him—a mess beneath her, hair sticking, mouth falling open on broken moans, his whole body twitching around her cock like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.
“Fuckin’ hell, Marston,” she gasped, sweat dripping from her temples. “You’re insane. Look at you. I ain’t even…” Another sharp thrust stole her words, her head tilting back, a laugh bubbling up between her panting. “I ain’t even good at this, and you’re already…”
“Shut—up—!!!” John’s reply came out cracked, breathless. He was clawing at the sheets, at her arms, anywhere he could get a grip. “I c-can’t—ahh~ Abi, I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” Her voice came out harsh, near feral, and she slammed into him again, making him jolt with a strangled shout. “You’re takin’ it. You’re lovin’ it.”
“F-fuck—!!!” John bucked beneath her, thighs spread wide, his cock smearing slick mess across his belly. His voice had gone high, desperate. “Jesus Christ, I–Abi—please…!~”
The plea sent a thrill through her chest, down her spine, settling low in her gut. He was begging. John Marston—tough bastard, mouthy outlaw—reduced to a writhing, whining mess under her cock. And it was her doing it.
“Say it again.” She ground into him, leaning forward until their faces nearly touched. Her thrusts turned brutal, the wet smack of it obscene in the small room. “Say it. Beg me.”
His eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching. For a moment he fought it, pride written in every tense muscle—then another sharp stroke had him breaking, gasping out, “P-please! Please don’t stop—!!”
Abigail’s laugh came out shaky, almost disbelieving, her hips snapping faster, reckless now. “God damn, John. You don’t even know what you sound like, do you? You’re squeezin’ me so hard I can barely—fuck—barely breathe.”
He sobbed out a half-laugh, half-moan, arching up into her thrusts, his body clenching and fluttering around her like it couldn’t get enough. “I…I can’t—”
“You can.” She braced her hands on his chest, pinning him, pounding into him with abandon now. Her voice cracked as pleasure overtook her own, the raw rhythm making her groan. “You can, and you will, ‘cause I ain’t stoppin’ till you come apart for me.”
And John, voice breaking high and desperate, finally did—body seizing up, cock spurting hot between them as he let out a hoarse cry, still twitching and begging incoherently beneath her as she fucked him right through it.
Abigail couldn’t stop. Her hips were still jerking, every sharp thrust sending sparks down her spine, her cock throbbing inside him so hard it hurt. She was half-gone, drunk on the heat and the way he squeezed around her, the way his body dragged her back in every time she pulled out.
John was already gone—completely wrecked, his release still wet across his stomach, but his body clung to her desperately, trembling and twitching with every stroke. He was moaning louder now than before, broken sounds that filled the air, unguarded and raw.
“Christ, John….!” Abigail groaned, her head falling forward onto his shoulder. She tried to slow down, but the slick, unbearable tightness around her cock had her rutting in again, a whimper slipping from her lips. “I c-can’t stop. You’re…god, you’re killin’ me.”
John’s nails dug into her back, his thighs locked around her hips. His words were slurry, slurred between moans. “D-don’t…! D-don’t stop, Abi, please, please don’t stop—!”
That plea tore through the last thread of her restraint. She slammed into him again, harder, chasing the bliss curling hot in her belly. “You’re outta your mind,” she panted, biting at his throat. “You’re already spent, and you’re still—fuckin’—beggin’—”
Each thrust dragged a ragged cry out of him, his voice hoarse, eyes rolled back. He was past words, past shame, just clinging and bucking up into her like his body needed it as much as she did.
Abigail swore, the sound guttural, her rhythm turning frantic. “I’m gonna—fuck, John, I’m gonna—!”
And then she broke, hips snapping hard as she spilled deep inside him, grinding down through every wave of her climax while John sobbed beneath her, shaking and moaning louder than ever, milking her cock with every twitch.
She collapsed against him, both of them trembling, her cock still twitching inside his overstimulated body as his arms locked around her like he’d never let go.
Abigail stayed buried deep, chest pressed flush to John’s, her whole body trembling from the force of it. Her cock was still pulsing, spent but too swollen to soften, locked inside him while both of them shuddered through the aftershocks.
John was a wreck under her. His thighs wouldn’t stop trembling, twitching against her hips in little spasms he couldn’t control. His arms clutched her so tightly it was almost painful, nails still scraping faint lines down her back. His breath came in wet, broken whimpers, every exhale hitching, his lips brushing against her ear like he was begging even now without realizing it.
Abigail groaned, half in bliss, half in disbelief. “Jesus, John…” She shifted a little, meaning to pull out, but his body clenched so hard around her that she gasped and froze, her cock throbbing helplessly in the tight heat. “F-fuck…”
“Don’t,” John rasped suddenly, his voice wrecked and hoarse. His whole body arched against her, trembling harder. “Don’t—please…just—just stay.”
Her heart lurched. She swallowed hard and let herself sink down, keeping still, her forehead pressed against his damp hair. “Alright… I’ll stay.”
She felt every little twitch of his body around her, every flutter and squeeze making her cock ache all over again. John whimpered into her shoulder, thighs spasming, overstimulated beyond belief but still clinging to her like he’d fall apart if she moved.
Abigail’s hand found his jaw, tilting it just enough to see him properly; his face flushed, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes glazed and watery. Drool and sweat streaked his chin, his lips trembling, but his gaze was locked on her like she was the only thing in the world keeping him together.
Her breath caught. “…Goddamn, John.”
He whined softly at the sound of her voice, hips giving the smallest, involuntary jerk against her even though every nerve in him was screaming.
Abigail kissed him hard, messy, desperate, and stayed right there, cock buried deep, both of them shaking through the fragile, lingering comedown.
Abigail finally, carefully, eased herself out of him. The drag made John jolt, his whole body twitching with one last broken gasp. She sat back on her heels, catching her breath, and then froze, her eyes narrowing at the sight of herself leaking out of him in thick, wet streaks down the inside of his thighs.
For a moment she just stared—shocked, overwhelmed, some heady mix of pride and guilt rolling through her chest. She dragged her gaze back up to him, sprawled boneless in the rumpled bedding. His arms had fallen slack at his sides, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. He looked utterly spent, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, face still flushed, lips parted like he was too far gone to even think of words.
“I think…” Abigail rasped, her voice low, still a little shaky. She rubbed a hand across her mouth, then laughed under her breath in disbelief. “I think we both need another bath, John.”
He didn’t answer—just made a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper, muffled into the pillow. His fingers twitched weakly, like he meant to reach for her but couldn’t quite manage.
Abigail’s expression softened. She leaned down, pressing a kiss into his damp hair, then pulled the blanket over him, tucking it around his trembling body before she lay down beside him. One hand stayed on his chest, steady, grounding, while she whispered, almost to herself, “Later. We’ll get cleaned up later.”
John only made another faint noise, but this time his lips curved just a little, like even half-conscious, he was still reassured by her voice.
Abigail lay there for a long while, just listening to the sound of him breathing—still shallow, still uneven, but calmer now. His chest rose and fell beneath her hand, the heat of him seeping into her palm. She could feel his heartbeat, quick but steadying, the wild edge finally softening into something she could hold onto.
John twitched again, thighs trembling under the blanket, and she tightened her arm around him instinctively. “Easy, John,” she whispered, her voice low, hushed like she might scare him if she spoke too loud. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
He didn’t answer, not with words. Just a faint hum, the smallest turn of his head until his cheek pressed against her shoulder. The simple weight of it made her throat tight. She’d seen him hurt before, seen him bloody, limping, stubborn enough to spit through pain. But never like this.
Her other hand slid up into his damp hair, combing it back from his face. It was tangled and messy with sweat, but she didn’t care. “Shouldn’t let you let me do things like that,” she murmured against his temple, half to him, half to herself. “You let me run you near ragged.”
His lips moved like he meant to say something, but all that came out was another broken sound, closer to a whine than anything else. Abigail kissed his temple, tightening her hold as if to keep him from floating away.