The Erotic Adventures of Doc Holliday: The Unvarnished Truth As Told By His Mistress, Big Nose Kate, To Eleanor Tremaine
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by Eleanor Tremaine
Category: Erotica/Erotic Romance/Historical Fiction
Description: A Sexy Western Romance of the Hunky Shootist and the Lusty Woman Loved Him! He died in her arms--every night! A bullet could only kill him once! Kate tell all, what kinds of sex acts cowhands paid her for to the special tricks she saved only for the one man who truly turned her on, the romantic, dying gunslinger, Doc Holliday. See Doc in action as quick on the draw with his member as he was with a sixshooter, as he loves his way across, always winding back up between Kate's thighs. By the author of the Erotic Adventures of Calamity Jane, The Erotic Adventures of King Arthur and other Erotic Adventures titles.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: October 2008
1 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [79 KB]
Reading time: 47-66 min.
CHAPTER ONE MOSTLY ABOUT ME
Doc Holliday? You want to know about that good-for-nothing, lying, cheating, cold-blooded lunger card shark? That son of a bitching bastard who'd as soon shoot you as look at you?
Yeah, I knew him. And I loved him.
And God help me, I'll love that bastard until the day I die.
Me? I'm Big Nose Kate Elder. And I'm a whore.
Let's get that straightened out before I tell you about Doc.
Now, that epithet I carry. Yeah, the "Big Nose" part.
I wear this aristocratic nose with pride. My ancestors were Norman-French aristocracy--way back. And I am as proud as they were of the ducal nose.
There are a lot of Kates out here in the West. But, I am the only one with the aristocratic nose.
And my last name, Elder. The Elders were among the first colonists to settle Rhode Island. They were a very pious bunch. We made our fortune in the slave and rum trade. My family back East is rich as hell.
I guess that takes care of the name I go by. Big Nose Kate Elder.
But, you might ask, what am I?
I already told you.
I am a whore. I practice the most ancient profession of all. And, I might add, the most necessary one.
What I want you to know, though, is that I am not a two-bit whore.
There's a passel of two-bit whores out here. They're a necessary commodity with all the healthy young miners, cowboys, buffalo hunters, gamblers and soldiers who populate the West.
I respect the two-bit whores.
But I'm not one of them.
Those sisters practice their trade in whorehouses and work for madams, pimps, or mackerels.
That's not for me. I am an independent operator. And for a standard treatment of what I sell it will cost you four-bits--up.
I'll tell you how I became a whore. * * * *
It really started when my parents found out I was a "problem child."
My very earliest memory, way before I was old enough to start school, is a very happy recollection. I was sucking the cock of my little brother.
I just always knew I loved cocks and balls.
I liked them. I liked the feel in my mouth. I liked the smell of that little thing. I liked the taste. I liked how happy it made Willy.
I don't have any idea how many days, weeks, or months passed by while I played and sucked on Willy's wee-wee. But one day, Mother walked in on us when I had a mouthful of both his cock and his empty little ball-sack.
And, immediately, I was a problem child. * * * *
I never got over my taste for cocks and balls. (And subsequently learned to love fellers who love tits, cunt, and ass. I may mention that later on.)
As I grew older, I became adept at the game of "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." I played it with girl and boy playmates. I got more of a charge out of it with the boys. But it was also quite entertaining with my girl playmates as well.
What I was really good at was making sure no adults ever caught us. You'd be surprised how popular I was among the girls and boys in our neighborhood (and beyond).
(Some of you, I see, would not be surprised at all.)
My parents got enough feedback from some of their nosey friends to realize they could find themselves with a large potential problem when I hit puberty. Something would definitely have to be done about my reproductive equipment.
Since they were rich, they could afford the best.
There was a specialist in Utica, in upper New York State, who ran a regular practice of "fixing" problem children, both girls and boys. So my parents took me to the clinic in Utica and got me spayed well before I would have had my first period.
I was wise enough to appreciate what was going on. I was even more grateful after I entered my profession. One thing a whore definitely does not need is to get knocked up. And the only positive way to be sure is to get some doctor to convert the nursery into a playroom.
Thank you, Mommy and Daddy. * * * *
When I was sweet sixteen, my folks sent me off to New Hampshire. There's a finishing school up there that will accept problem children. It's still there. It's called Miss Claybourne's Academy for Young Ladies. You could look it up if you have a daughter whose interests parallel mine.
I got a good education at Claybourne's. Music, literature, sewing, manners...
Oh, yes. And also the fine art of cunt eating.
We girls had ourselves a time at night in the dormitory, let me tell you. I got to really enjoy sucking tittie and eating pussy. Licking a stiff clit is one hell of a time.
Naturally, my preference for cocks and balls remained paramount. But there were neither cocks nor balls at Miss Claybourne's. And it was not tough settling for tits and cunt. * * * *
When I graduated from Miss Claybourne's, I had no intention of returning to the strictures of life in Providence. I could hear the sigh of relief from my parents when I told them I was not planning to move back in with them.
They told me they loved me, and would provide me a hefty allowance for as long as I lived. A trust fund was set up for me at the Ainsley Trust Company of Providence.
They did not suggest I keep in touch with them. I just had to let the Trust know where I was and it would send me my monthly stipend.
I was now an adult. I was horny, spayed, educated, and looking to enter my chosen profession.
So I left New England on a train headed for Texas. I was thrilled and excited as I thought of all the cock there was out there in that male population that dominated the Wild West. * * * *
When I was at the academy, we girls did more than just suck each other's titties and munch each other's pussy. We shared information about the opportunities that awaited us after graduation.
So when that train pulled into the Dallas station with me in it, I knew the score. In the West, a girl could always get herself a job at a whorehouse. As you know, that wasn't for me.
There are saloons and dancehalls in every settlement as well. Some of the saloons have dancehalls as part of the entertainment. Some don't. But what they all have are cribs and/or fuckrooms upstairs.
A dolly can arrange with the management for use of a crib or a fuckroom.
A crib is a room with a bed and a basin that can be used by any girl registered with the house to entertain a client. The house takes care of stocking the room with towels, wash cloths, and sheets.
You take your man upstairs, take the agreed upon sum of money from him, service him, and split the take with the saloonkeeper, twenty-five percent to him, seventy-five percent to yourself.
There's a temptation to hold out on the management. But men are such loudmouths that word gets back to the manager and your ass gets kicked out of the place and word gets around to the other 'keepers.
Not worth it.
The other way to go, instead of using a crib, is to rent a fuckroom.
A fuckroom looks just like a crib. It's upstairs and is furnished with a bed and a basin. The dove furnishes her own towels, wash cloths, and sheets.
She pays anywhere from five to fifty dollars a day to the 'keeper. That room is hers. No sharing with the other girls.
So that's the difference between a crib and a fuckroom.
That information is in case you ever decide you want to go into the business. Or, as we call it, the profession.
I'd done my research before I ever got to Dallas. I knew I was going to rent me a fuckroom at the Bella Union and that it would cost me thirty dollars a day.
Hell. With my money from the Trust back in Rhode Island, that was no sweat.
I got myself a nice hotel room at the Alamo Hotel. One of the swankiest in town. Then I went to the Bella Union, all decked out in the lowest-cut red dress you ever saw. I met with Mac McCready, the owner of the joint.
As soon as I'd checked out my fuckroom, I went downstairs to the bar to order myself a glass of "champagne."
I never, ever, had to pay for the glass. A horny pilgrim always appeared, paid for my wine, and agreed to my price. Anywhere from four-bits to ten bucks, depending on the quality of service he was looking for.
The services varied with the price.
For instance, some of my clients were kids who'd run away from home back East and had managed to get to Texas to become cowboys.
These ran from as young as sixteen up to about eighteen. They were seldom very sure of themselves and would agree to pay four-bits for a hand job.
Once in the fuckroom and standing there in front of me with their pants down, they tended to be pretty shy.
I took off my clothes, let them play with my tits, and even suck the nipples while I jacked them off.
Sometimes it was all over with two or three strokes. Sometimes, if they were nervous and shivering, it took as many as ten strokes for me to get their rocks off for them.
That was a fast four-bits.
Those boys usually were return clients for as long as they were in town. And my fist got a harder and harder workout as time went on. Pretty often they worked up to a full one-dollar fuck before they left town for the trail.
Among the more mature clients, nineteen years old and up, most just wanted a four-bit fuck. That usually lasted about seven minutes.
Some just wanted their cocks sucked. Same price. And about seven minutes, too.
About a fourth of the fellers wanted the daily-double. That's a cock sucking, but a shift to a standard fuck before he comes.
There was a price for swallowing the cum. A price for a cornhole. You can figure out the permutations of what can be done with one cock, one pair of balls, two tits, one cunt, and one ass. The possible combinations were figured out, so they say, about the year thirty-five thousand B.C.
Now you might want to know about the rough stuff. I'll tell you about that.
A feller who wants to beat a girl, he has to go to a whorehouse. The madam has girls who will take that. Not a white girl, of course. Or a young one. But there are dollies, usually hopheads, who will let you beat her up for a price.
None of us independents will go for that crap.
I'll tell you a trick I had that worked fine.
What I did. I went to one of the local undertakers, and for five dollars he cut the balls off one of his stiffs and sold it to me.
I had that scrotum with balls enclosed hung above the door inside my fuckroom. If a feller would even begin to get rough, I pointed to that bag over the door.
I'd tell him, "That's what happened to the last pilgrim tried to manhandle me."
I'd show him my stiletto and my lady pistol in the little drawer in the side table.
I've never once had so much as a tiny bruise from a client. * * * *
I hung around Dallas for about six months. I loved it there. I got all the fucking and sucking I could handle between sundown and three in the morning. That's when nearly all the action takes place in a whore's day.
It was a great life for a gal who loves cock as much as I do.
And I was making at least as much money from fucking as from the stipend I got every month from the Trust. So, I was rich, satisfied, and happy.
But I was ready to move on. The pickings are great in a town like Dallas.
But the new towns springing up at the railroad terminals to the west were where the gold was ... to say nothing of the boomtowns where miners were striking it rich. And the cattletowns where the cowboys come off the trail led by their hardons are like a cash machine.
That's where a good whore wants to be.
So, I headed West. * * * *
I'd hit one bonanza after another as I moved around my Wild West. Then, I settled down for a mite in a shithole of a settlement that was brimming with money.
It's simply called the Flat. It's near a cavalry post in West Texas called Fort Griffin.
I'd rented a fuckroom there upstairs in Shanssey's saloon. It was in that saloon that I met the one son of a bitch I fell for and will always love, Doc Holliday.
It was on September eighth, 1877, that I first saw him.
I told you I'd tell you about him.
So here goes.