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Calamity Jane Does Deadwood Dick
by Eleanor Tremaine

Category: Erotica/Historical Fiction
Description: Fans of TV's Deadwood Will Love This! Here is Calamity Jane as she really was: pistol packing, bullwhip wielding, tobacco chawing, hearty swearing, horny, and very much bisexual. She can drive an ox team with her blacksnake and skin a pack of mules with her blistering profanity. Look out Deadwood, Calamity Jane is coming to town! Deadwood, the toughest town in the West, and the Wild West itself are about to get wilder. Calam' has the hots for desperado Deadwood Dick, for gunman Wild Bill Hickok, even for faro-dealing Madame Moustache. Most of all, she can outshoot or out screw any man or woman in the West. And when somebody catches her fancy, who'd dare say 'No' to Calamity Jane when she has a hankering to bed 'em. Only Eleanor Tremaine, author of The Erotic Adventures of Robin Hood and The Erotic Adventures of Rad Dracula, could have captured Calamity Jane's authentic voice. In the first of this new series, Tremaine brings the West's most notorious woman to life in an unforgettable novel filled with sex, gunfights, and a behind the scene peek at the Old West as it really was. As Calamity tells it, Swearengen was the good guy, and it was the hypocritical, sanctimonious Seth Bullock who had a finger in every dirty racket and game in town.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2005
eBookwise Release Date: December 2005


8 Reader Ratings:
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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [145 KB]
Words: 35159
Reading time: 100-140 min.


My legal name is Martha Jane Cannary Hickok. And if you call me that I'll knock you flat on your fucking ass.

Everyone out here calls me Calamity Jane. That's because years back I was riding my horse out by Goose Creek in Wyoming. Right before my eyes I saw a band of Injuns fighting our soldier boys and a captain named Egan got an arrow shot into his leg. I lifted the captain onto my horse, got his ass out of there, and set him down back at his camp.

I came by to see him after the sawbones got the God damned arrow out of him. From then on, I took care of his wound until it healed. The captain looked up at me from his hospital tent cot and said, "I name you Calamity Jane, the heroine of the plains."

After that, whenever I was anywhere near a calamity, I dove right in and helped straighten things out.

So now you know how to call me by the name I go by, I'll let you buy me a drink. Rye if they've got in this here saloon.

* * * *

Oh, about the Hickok part of my name. Wild Bill and I was traveling together on our way to Abilene. He got a flesh wound from a band of desperados that swooped down on us. Between Bill and me, we finished off the bastards with our rifles and six-shooters but Bill needed some nursing help. And if I do say so myself I'm the best God damned fucking nurse west of the Kansas border.

While I tended him, we fell in love. As luck would have it, a preacher, Reverend W.F. Warren hitched us up nice and legal.

Right away, Wild Bill denied we were married. And I understood why and agreed with him. Bill's a great pussy hound. He claims he's fucked as many women and killed as many men as the number of days he's been alive since he was sixteen. If word was to get out he was married to me, gals would be scared away from him, thinking I'd be after 'em with my trusty six-shooter.

As for me, I love pussy, too. And cocks as well. I don't much care whether I score cocks or pussy. But I try to average one fuck a day of one or the other.

Truth is, I'll fuck just about anything. One time, out in the woods, I was real horny and I let a nine hundred pound, slavering grizzly bear fuck me. That was one damned hot bruin, let me tell you. You don't believe me? Try it some time. You'll like it, if you survive, that is.

Bill lied to everyone that he was married to some circus owner named Agnes Lake back east. That's so he'd seem off limits matrimony wise to the cunts who wanted to wrap a ring around his finger. But I, and only I, was his legally married wife--and now, of course, his widow.

And I'll drink to that. Thank you, Pilgrim.

* * * *

That's one of the ways Bill managed to deal with women. Of course, he didn't know women like I know men. Hardly any females even know how to deal with men like I do. I've lived like a man, dressed like a man, worked like a man, and fucked like a man ... and like a woman, too. Gals see me with a group of guys, getting along with them, they tell me they'd like to understand the other sex as well as I do. I've worked right along beside 'em as a mule skinner, a bullwhacker, and a stage coach driver. I've hunted with the hunters, scouted with the scouts, and gone pussy hunting with the pussy hunters. As a result, I've learned what makes every God damned male in the West tick. He's always in one of two states. Gals ask me, "What are those two states, Jane?" I tell 'em a man's always either thirsty or horny. I'll bet you didn't know that either, did you? I'll let you buy me another shot of rye if I tell you what good it does to know that little gem about men--paper-collars, pilgrims, dudes, lawmen or desperados. If that hunk of meat ain't got a hardon, give him a shot of rye. And that, Pilgrim, is Calamity Jane's recipe for getting along with men.

You can buy me another shot of that fucking rotgut now if you'd like.

* * * *

You were probably wondering how I ended up here in Deadwood. Well, I guess I wouldn't be here if the citizens in Abilene hadn't got all pissy-pissy. You know Wild Bill was marshal of that God damned burg. There was no law and order when he and Colorado Charlie and me got there. He cleared up the place. While he was there the pilgrims could hardly get drunk and disorderly without getting one of Bill's slugs in their bellies or get hauled off peaceably to the calaboose. Bill even shot one of his own cops. That was by mistake, of course. He mistook that deputy for someone else. Hell, anyone can make a mistake or two, can't he?

Well, the powers in town got good and sick of law and order and turned against Bill. After all he'd done for the cocksuckers you'd think they would have been appreciative, wouldn't you?

The God damned saloonkeepers and whoremasters got up a petition with a list of "undesirables" whose likes were "not to be tolerated in Abilene." Guess who the three "undesirables" were? Number one was Wild Bill Hickok. Number two was Colorado Charlie Utter. And number three, fuck their rotten souls to Hell, was Calamity Jane Cannary. The motherfuckers didn't even know my name was Calamity Jane Hickok. But I guess I can't blame 'em for that. Bill insisted, after all, that we keep a lid on that bit of intelligence.

That bad part, though, was this. At the head of the fucking petition were the names of the same sons of bitches who'd begged Bill to be marshal there in the first place.

Bill, Charlie, and me didn't leave that asshole of a town because we were run out. No, siree. We left in disgust. Fuck those bastards. We wouldn't stay in Abilene if they'd of begged us on bended knee. They can kiss their own fucking asses. We were out of there.

We went on to Cheyenne. But we weren't too well received there either. Bill found it hard to score pussy in Cheyenne and Charlie and I weren't able to get our daily quota of cock. It just wasn't a friendly town. And besides, the card players were shy of high stakes. At least when Bill was at the tables.

Bill said to Charlie and me one day, "I'm sick of this cheapskate, piss-poor excuse of a town. They've hit gold in the Black Hills, up in Dakota Territory. Miners have gold and can't wait to gamble it away. What do you two say to going up there?"

Colorado Charlie's a Mountainman. But he's also one hell of a horse driver and can manage a wagon train better than anyone I ever knew. Except me, of course. He'd managed a stage coach line back in Colorado, and ran provision lines to mining camps up there. With the Black Hills being newly opened up he saw the possibility of running a coach line or provision wagons, or both from Cheyenne or Fort Laramie to Deadwood. So he was all for going there and checking it out. And besides, I know he was thinking there'd be more fresh asses to fuck and cocks to suck in the Black Hills than he was likely to find sticking around in Cheyenne.

And, of course, wherever Wild Bill wanted to go, that's where I wanted to go. That's the one way I was always faithful to my husband.

So Charlie rustled up a couple of wagons, and some mules, and we left Cheyenne for Deadwood. And that's how I got here.

But I didn't make it here as fast as Wild Bill and Colorado Charlie. I'll tell you about that. But, God damn! I've got to take a chaw of 'baccy first. It's hard for me to talk this long without gnawing on a plug. Know what I mean?

Thinking of 'baccy, it's a funny thing about me and Bill and Charlie. We each had a different hankering when it came to 'baccy.

Ptui! Hit that God damned spittoon right in the hole. I just don't miss very fucking often.

Anyway, about us three and 'baccy.

Chewing's the only kind of 'baccy for a bullwhacker or a mule skinner. I've been both so I take mine smokeless. Now Bill, he smoked stogies. A lot of that was for looks. You know about his vanity and the way he was always living up to his image. He liked to dress up real nice and he was real particular about how his hair and nails looked. He figured a stogie went real well with that hat he wore, too. I don't much give a shit for how I look most of the time. So a wad of chaw in my cheek don't bother my looks one way or t'other.

Charlie smokes pipes. Clay pipes. He's got store-bought teeth you know. He needed to keep his gums in good shape and said there's no better way to keep your gums hard than smoking clay pipes.

Now, about Colorado Charlie. He's queer as fool's gold. He said those gums of his made him a very popular sock sucker. I can see his point. But I'm not about to knock out my teeth and start smoking clay pipes to improve my prospects as a cock sucker. I do just great the way I am, teeth and all. You could have asked Wild Bill, since he got more head from me than I ever gave anyone else.

But you're not here to listen to me run my fucking yap about 'baccy. I was going to tell you about how me and Bill and Charlie hauled ass out of Cheyenne and headed for the Black Hills.

But, I'll tell you what. After I've had a good chaw, I get to hankering for a little shot of rye. What do you think, Pilgrim?

Ptui! Thank you kindly.

* * * *

We headed north with two wagons. Charlie drove one wagon and I drove the other. Bill rode Black Nell. I don't recall if she was Black Nell III or Black Nell IV. Makes no difference nohow. Bill did all the scouting ahead. He'd talked to every Injun scout in Cheyenne before we left and he figured we'd be clear of Sioux along our way. No roving bands had been seen recently. The three of us knew we could take care of ourselves if we only ran across one or two Injuns out hunting game instead of scalps.

In the evenings when we set up a campfire, we'd sit around after I'd rustled up some grub for us. Bill would practice with his deck of cards. Wild Bill was a card sharp. That's how he supported himself and me when he wasn't getting paid as a lawman. Poker was his game. He cheated, of course. But he made sure never ever to win real big. If one of the men at the table was losing a lot, Bill would manipulate the cards so the chump could win back enough to leave the table just a little broke, not busted. Know what I mean? But naturally there were times when he couldn't really rescue the man if he was too shitty a card player.

So Bill would win some and occasionally lose some. He knew big winners can't get people to play with 'em. And, besides, big winners get ambushed by big losers when they get caught off guard.

So on the way to Deadwood, the three of us would sit around the fire at night. Bill would shuffle his deck. I'd say something like "seven of diamonds." Bill would deal out that fucking seven most of the time. Charlie would say, like, "Jack of spades." Damned if that wasn't the next card Bill dealt off the top of the deck. Most of the time.

My job, and Charlie's too, was to spot him doing it. Once in a while I'd catch Bill peeking at a bottom card or flipping one from his sleeve. I'd yell "Fuck!" when I spotted it and Bill would work at doing it again and again until neither Charlie or me could see the slight of hand.

Of course if anyone accused him to his face of cheating at the table, Wild Bill just shot the guy.

It was Bill's reflexes that made him so good at manipulating the cards. Being the fastest draw in the West kept him alive. Being the slyest card mechanic in the West kept him flush.

When we put out the fire at night and crawled back in the wagons, Bill and me fucked in my wagon and Charlie bedded down in the other one. Bill's fucking was nothing out of the ordinary. He did the standard tit sucking and pussyhandling. Then, we usually ended up doing the missionary position or sometimes the doggie. I'd suck his cock once in a while but Bill never ate my twat. And that was pretty much our love life.

We could've had a problem with Charlie. He had the hots all the time for Wild Bill. And, of course, Bill would have none of that. He knew about Charlie and how he loved to suck cock and assfuck and get assfucked. But Charlie's sexual tastes didn't bother Bill one fucking bit. Wild Bill was real open minded 'bout what didn't really concern him. But he made it real clear to Charlie, or to anyone else for that matter, that he only swung one way himself.

When Charlie was all snuggled down in his wagon he could hear Bill and me fucking away. Our wagons were kept side by side and sounds carry out there on the prairie.

So, to keep Charlie from getting all grumpy and hard to get along with, I'd go over to his wagon after Bill and me were through and let that Colorado man fuck me in the ass. He'd pretend I was a boy. And taking it in the asshole never bothered me none and it made Charlie feel good. So what the Hell, eh?

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