Intent 2

Author's Note: This story has been posted to Literotica.Com with the full knowledge of the original author, JimBob44. No part or whole of this story may be reprinted in any other format or on any other web site without the express written consent of the original author.

Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

This story has been edited by myself, using Microsoft Spell-check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

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"R.C. Hall," the well-dressed man spoke, a decided Southern lilt to his voice. "I would like a room for myself and my beloved. Might we also arrange for a hot bath? "

Lawrence Cooper nodded his agreement as he pulled the leather bound ledger from beneath the counter. Genially, he asked R.C. Hall his business in Sopopaya, New Mexico. From time to time, he did glance at the very stylishly dressed Lydia Hall; she was a striking blonde woman with a very fetching figure.

"Well now, that is mighty rude. Mighty rude indeed, young man," R.C. Hall snapped, twisting his mustache with his left thumb and forefinger. "My business is exactly that. It is my business, sir."

"No offense meant," Lawrence quickly amended. "I am simply making small talk."

"Darling, I am sure he meant no offense," Lydia said, accent as thick as molasses. "Do let bygones be bygones, Darling."

The couple were given Room 4. The hot bath would be delivered after the husband and wife had enjoyed a fine meal in the hotel's dining room.

Watching the distinguished guests enter the dining room of the Desert Rose Hotel, Lawrence peered around the open doorway. Marguerite had seated the couple far from the doorway of the hotel's lobby and Lawrence nodded with satisfaction. Stepping back, he waved Jose over. He handed the boy a dollar coin and whispered an urgent message to the young Mexican boy. With a nod, the boy set off at a dead run.

The couple were still dining when Jose returned. With an impish giggle, the youth admitted that Colonel Danbridge had given him a second dollar coin for delivering the message. Jose laughed with delight when Lawrence pretended to give chase; intent on retrieving his original dollar coin from the churlish youth.

"He loves you, Senor Larry," Marguerite smiled from the open doorway of the dining room.

"Ah, but what of the mother, eh?" Lawrence asked, waggling his eyebrows at the attractive young woman.

With an impish giggle of her own, the woman scampered into the dining room, out of Lawrence's reach. Jose playfully tugged on Lawrence's sleeve before dashing away again. Lawrence easily caught the boy and picked him up. Giving the boy two playful whacks to his backside, Lawrence kissed the boy on the top of his sweaty head and sent him out of the Desert Rose Hotel's ornate lobby.

"Maybe I love you a little," Marguerite admitted, watching her son scamper away.

"Maybe I love you with all my heart," Lawrence declared and she smiled a dazzling smile at him.

Lawrence watched the Latina beauty's ample haunches as she returned to serving the few customers within the dining room. A moment later, a smiling R.C. Hall and his wife, Lydia Hall came out of the dining room. Lawrence assured them that their bath would be brought to their room within the half-hour.

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In Room 4, R.C. did slip his boots from his feet. Lydia located the buttonhook from her cavernous handbag and set to unhooking the buttons of her boots. A moment later, a single knock sounded on their door. R.C. quickly sat down and loudly bade the person on the other side of the door to enter.

Two Negro servants brought a wash tub into the room. A Negro maid followed the two men, carrying a small wooden table. The men set the tin tub down onto the floor near the foot of the bed. The woman set the table down and artfully draped two rectangles of flannel cloth, two small squares of linen cloth, and a large cake of soap. Silently, the three colored servants left the hotel room, the woman firmly closing the door behind them.

"My dear," R.C. said, no trace of his Southern accent visible. "Our bath awaits."

"Why Darling! What, whatever has become of your delightful accent?" Lydia giggled, stripping out of her travelling gown.

"The same thing that has become of your beautiful brunette locks," R.C. smiled, spying the triangle of dark curls capping Lydia's plump pubic mound.

"True, true," she giggled, her own Southern accent gone.

She lay on the bed, buttocks perched at the edge of the mattress. Spreading her plump thighs, Lydia parted her thatch of brown curls, exposing the pink inner lips. The lips were puffy and wet with her excitement.

"You say you love my taste best before it is washed," Lydia purred. "Do take that ridiculous mustache off and come have your taste."

Gingerly removing the mustache, R.C. knelt on the hard wooden floor and gave his sister's crotch an appreciative sniff before reaching out a thick tongue. Both sighed in pleasure as his tongue made contact with her wet sex.

R.C. licked and fingered Lydia to two very satisfying climaxes before she pushed his mouth away from her cleft. Rising, she sauntered to the wash tub, knowing his eyes were on her buttocks, watching their swivel and sway. Turning, she smiled at him, then lifted one delicate foot and immersed that foot into the scalding water. She made sure he watched as she slowly lowered the shapely calf into the steaming water. Then, lifting the other foot, Lydia repeated the artful, erotic motions.

R.C. did watch as Lydia scrubbed her bountiful breasts. He smiled as she dipped her head beneath the surface of the water, emerging a moment later with much of her brunette hair now visible.

A second dunking beneath the water removed the last of the coloring. And, with her face scrubbed clean, her delightful freckles were once again visible.

R.C. removed his own clothing as Lydia neared the end of her bathing. She watched with interest as he bared his flesh. When he was down to his all-together, Lydia motioned him to her with a crook of her delicate finger.

R.C. brought his slender manhood to her mouth. Looking up into his eyes from her seated position, Lydia opened her mouth and took his cock into her mouth all the way to the root of his shaft. She maintained eye contact with him as she bobbed her head back and forth along the length of his manhood.

"I, oh, oh dear sister," R.C. moaned, raising his head to bark at the ceiling.

Lydia laughed happily as he spent forcefully. She swallowed his seed as he flooded her mouth. Soon, too soon for her liking, he was spent. Slowly, she allowed him to slip from her lips.

"Now, do be sure all of the color is from my hair," she ordered.

R.C. checked carefully but could see no trace of the yellow. To be certain, though, she did dunk herself once more under the surface of the water.

R.C. availed himself of the still quite hot water. Rapidly, he lathered his body, then rinsed. Lydia fetched his razor from their large satchel and he soaped his face, then scraped away the three day growth of whiskers.

Lydia used the still damp flannel towel to dry her hair, then brush it. R.C. assisted her into her sleeping gown, then used the wall pipe to call down to the lobby that they were through with their bath.

He hurried to put his mustache on once more and ducked into the bed, next to a secreted Lydia.

"Woman! Do cease," R.C. hissed as Lydia blayfully grasped his limp penis in her hand.

"Y'all come on in," R.C. Hall called out, heavy Southern accent rich and warm.

Lydia took R.C. Hall's manhood into her mouth just as the three servants entered the room. Silently, they retrieved the tub, the table and the towels. With a knowing smirk, the Negro woman shut the door solidly behind themselves.

When the door shut, Lydia flung back the coverlet and raised the hem of her gown. Swinging her left leg up and over, Lydia guided R.C.'s cock to her wet pussy. Both groaned as his manhood pushed up into her wet sex.

Reaching his hands up, R.C. grabbed Lydia's swaying and bobbling breasts. He pinched and tweaked her long nipples, causing her to pause in her vigorous bouncing for a moment. Leaning forward, she pulled the horse hair mustache from his face and kissed him ardently.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too, my darling Lydia," R.C. groaned, close to his climax.

Deftly, Lydia reached her hand down, grasping the base of his cock. She kept the pressure firmly on his member until his crisis had passed. Then, with one more kiss to his lips, she sat up and began to bounce with renewed vigor. When he began to groan again, Lydia reached her hand down and diddled the bud of her pleasure.

"I, oh, oh dear Lydia, Lydia my darling!" R.C. cried out, spending forcefully into her womb.

"Yes, yes, oh dear Bobby," Lydia groaned as her climax overtook her.

After a few long moments, Lydia dismounted from R.C.'s wilted member. Lying next to him, she used her fingers to scoop his spendings as they trickled from her sloppy sex. Then, making sure she had his attention, Lydia licked her fingers clean of their combined juices.

Pulling a flannel shift onto her form, Lydia rolled onto her side facing away from him. R.C. rolled over, fetched a clean union suit from their satchel and pulled it on. Then, he rolled over and placed his front against her back.

"You called me 'Bobby,'" he softly chided her.

"I, did I?" she asked.

"Yes. You did," R.C. said, gently pinching her on her delectable bottom.

"Well, sorry, baby brother," she giggled. "I've been calling you 'Bobby' since the day you were born."

At five thirty in the morning, according to R.C.'s pocket watch, R.C. rose from the bed. He stood at the window, looking across the path to the Sopopaya Bank. The three floors were dark; there was no light visible through any of the curtains that faced the Desert Rose Hotel. Even though he'd memorized the building's façade the first day they'd arrived in town, R.C. again studied the building.

He knew, upon entering the heavy door with half-window of glass, the three teller stations were on the right, the east side of the large bank room. The solitary guard stood to the left, the west of the single entry door. Just to the left of the guard's post was the manager's office. The three times R.C. had entered the bank, that door had been wide open. But, even if it should be closed, the door had a single pane of frosted glass, easily shattered.

In the north east corner of the room, just behind the teller stations was a heavy safe. The gray metal structure was roughly six feet by six feet by six feet; a perfect cube.

Just as they had done in Stooker, Pennsylvania, in Aitchel, Ohio, in Norwill, Tennessee, Myndee, Arkansas, and in Oakleaf and Lowridge, Texas, just after the bank opened for the business day, Lydia would enter the lobby. She would then approach the guard, ostensibly to make an inquiry. Then she would create a distraction.

A count of ten after Lydia entered the bank, R.C. would enter, fuse lighted on his stick of dynamite. While the employees, manager, and guard were distracted by Lydia, R.C. would toss the stick of dynamite toward the safe. If the safe happened to be open at that moment, R.C. would hurl the stick behind or to the side of the safe. If it was closed, he would attempt to get the stick as close to the door of the vault as possible.

The roar would be deafening to those that did not expect it. And, in the chaos, R.C. would disarm the guard, grab the manager and demand he put the money into their bag.

While the bank's attention was now focused on R.C., Lydia would sidle out of the bank again, now guarding the entry of the bank so that R.C''s activities would not be interrupted.

The one fatality in Oakleaf had disturbed him. The bank manager had been kneeling at the vault, twisting the knobs when R.C. had tossed the stick of dynamite.

"Two fatalities," R.C. remembered; the guard had also been killed.

They'd managed to hop onto a train heading east just after leaving that bank. On that train, R.C. had overheard one US Calvary officer telling another US Calvary officer of the payroll of Fort Engels in Sopopaya, New Mexico that was slated to arrive in Sopopaya four days hence.

The coach had arrived from Santa Fe the previous evening; R.C. and Lydia had watched from the dining room of the Desert Rose Hotel as the conveyance pull to a stop in front of the bank. While they watched, three heavily armed men transported the strongbox from stagecoach to bank. Then the coach continued travelling east from Sopopaya to their next destination.

As R.C. continued to watch from the hotel window in the pre-dawn hours, he again thought of the unfortunate bank manager and guard in Lowridge, Texas. He then shifted his attention from the bank to the path between bank and hotel. The dark path looked deserted of human and beast at this pre-dawn hour.

"Ready?" Lydia whispered, hugging him from behind.

"Yes," R.C. said, turning and kissing her.

Her body was lush and her flannel garment did little to conceal her lithe figure. R.C. delighted his senses by slowly lifting the gown up and off of her form.

He eased her back onto the bed and knelt onto the floorboards. Smiling up at her, he poised between her legs. She cooed as his mouth found her thicket of curls.

After tonguing and fingering her to a climax, R.C. rose and pressed the head of his manhood into her. She clutched a pillow to her mouth as he drove himself into her with vigor. Twice more during their coupling, Lydia screamed into her pillow. Then, with a groan, R.C. pumped his seed into Lydia's squelching depths.

With smiles, touches and kisses, the couple dressed. First, Lydia affixed a sheepskin bladder to the inside of her left thigh. Carefully standing so that she would not disturb the bag, Lydia placed a canvas sack at her middle, tying the cords around her back. Then, she pulled a cotton shift on. A simple skirt of layered crinoline went about her waist, hanging to the floorboards. Finally, a simple, threadbare gown went over her form. R.C. assisted Lydia to place her feet in low slung leather pumps.

For himself, R.C. dressed in union suit, canvas trousers, a linen shirt that had been washed several times too many, and a simple jacket of buckskin. His head was covered by a low brimmed Stetson travelling hat. His shoes with lifts were placed in the satchel and he pulled on his very worn and comfortable boots.

Daylight was making its way from the east as R.C. and Lydia left the hotel room. Lydia carried their heavy satchel while R.C. secreted an empty satchel behind his back. The buckskin jacket covered the bag. The jacket likewise concealed the solitary stick of dynamite in the waistband of his trousers. His Colt.45 was easily within reach in his oiled holster.

With a furtive look around, R.C. pushed open the door to the rear stairwell of the hotel. Allowing Lydia to enter the dark, unlighted stairwell ahead of himself, R.C. quietly shut the door then proceeded Lydia down the stairs to the ground level.

Exiting into the rear garden of the hotel, R.C. and Lydia both looked around furtively. They then made their way quietly through the alleyway that separated hotel and stable. When they approached a window, both R.C. and Lydia crouched and walked past the window. Finally, they approached the path that traversed in front of the Motel and the bank. R.C. sidled closer to the stable; he could see the front door of the bank but could not be easily seen from the path. A thin beam of light could be seen through the window, but the shade of the door was pulled down. R.C. also swept his eyes back and forth, noticing that there was no traffic; pedestrian or equine on the path. He did wonder briefly if this town was so small that there would be no traffic at this time.

A quick check of his pocket watch confirmed the hour and R.C. looked up again. He smiled as a man's hand reached from inside of the bank and pulled the shade up. He gave a nod to Lydia and she approached the path. Just before stepping from between stable and hotel, she gave R.C. a quick kiss.

Waddling was necessary; the bladder between her upper thighs dictated the odd walking stance. Lydia cupped her left arm underneath her belly and lugged the heavy leather satchel in her right hand. Stepping from dusty path to the wooden walkway in front of the bank, Lydia pasted a beatific smile onto her pretty face and opened the door of the bank.

"Well good morning, Ma'am," a kindly looking gard greeted Lydia as she entered the bank. "I don't believe we've seen you in these parts before."

"No, no, my husband was just transferred to Fort Engels," Lydia said, southern accent thick.

"Well now, that right?" the man smiled as the bank manager quietly slid the latch for the door closed once more.

"Yes, and I... Oh!" Lydia said, clamping her thighs together, bursting the sheepskin bladder between her legs.

R.C. had counted Lydia's progress perfectly and had lighted the fuse of the stick of dynamite at the eight second mark. Stepping from his vantage point, R.C. was nearly to the door of the bank. The fuse was hissing and sputtering as it slowly made its way to the volatile dynamite.

"Robert Charles Hallowell, halt!" R.C. heard an authoritative voice call out from behind himself.

Turning, R.C.'s eyes opened wide at the sight of no less than fifty United States Army men, officers and servicemen alike. All had their rifles pointed directly at him.

R.C. decided to toss the stick of dynamite at the one man in the full dress uniform of colonel in the United States Army Calvary. His arm had begun the swing forward when fifty rifles sounded, almost as one.

Inside of the bank, Lydia was clutching her 'pregnant' belly, declaring that she was in birth. Indeed, her 'water' had broken, there was a widening puddle of amniotic fluid at her feet.

"Miss, you can cease with the charade," the guard said, his revolver pointed directly at Lydia.

Lydia turned to retort when they heard a deafening roar of fifty rifles being fired. A few seconds later, there was a dull thud as a stick of dynamite exploded.

"They got him," the bank manager said, no smile on his face as he peered through the half-window on the bank's door.

"They got, they got whom?" Lydia asked, voice quivering.

"Robert Charles Hallowell. And we've got one Lydia Christine Hallowell here," the guard said, jerking the satchel from her hand before she could reach in and retrieve her own Colt.45 from the depths of the leather bag.

"Wish it hadn't come to that," Colonel Danbridge said to the bank manager when the man unlatched the door for the Army officer. "Would have much rathered bring him to justice but... Miss Hallowell? Please come with me."

Mutely, Lydia stepped out onto the wooden walkway. She saw a white linen sheet draped over a lump in the dirt path just beyond the door of the bank. There was some splotches of red beginning to seep through, staining the sheet. With an anguished cry, Lydia slipped into blackness.

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The burlap sack and ruptured sheepskin bladder had been removed from her person. Lydia still wore the gown and the crinoline, protecting her modesty as she lay on a cot in a jail cell. Slowly rising into a seated position, she looked around.

"Ah, Miss Hallowell, I am relieved you have revived," a kindly looking doctor said.

He might look kindly, with graying thick mustache and bushy head of graying brown hair and twinkling blue eyes. His words might convey a gentle meaning. But the downturned corners of his mouth were not kindly. And, the tone of his voice conveyed no true warmth or concern for her health and well-being.

"Why thank you kindly," Lydia said, heavy Southern drawl on full display.

"Do cease and desist with the affected accent," the doctor snapped. "Being a native of Georgia, it is quite simply offensive to my ears to listen to you speak in such a manner."