Saddle tramp. 1/5 by davisrell@aol.com
The lone rugged horseman, paused, cocked his hat, wiped his sweaty brow, licked the salt taste from his hand, pulled away the creased denim cloth that had wedged itself into his ass-crack, adjusted his balls, as his horse pawed the ground with a front hoof, testing the slope, to see if would take both their weight. Walter stared out onto the cruel splendor of the fiery-skied terrain of the Arizona desert landscape. The beauty was ominous, almost claustrophobic. Both horse and man were hot and sticky, but down aways he could see the small town, Presbytery. A nip on the flanks and they slid scurrying down the hillside in a wake of dust and sand flurries. Maybe there'd be a guy he could fuck down there.
He needed a beer; his horse a bucket of water laced with a shot of whiskey. And maybe there'd be barfly he could stick his dick in.
"What'll it be?" said the saloon keeper as the weary traveller sauntered up to the bar. No guys, well none too attractive.
"A beer, a bath, a room." and a butt fuckable man, he thought in silent parenthesis.
"Got all three, want the boy to look after your horse?"
"Sure."
He downed the amber liquid with it's white frothy head, watched the blond tousled-hair lad who the barkeep had waved over. He was carrying a bucket of water, and walked out the door to the street to where the horse was hitched. Nice looking kid.
"Whiskey, and a shot glass."
"He won't drink, mister."
"He will."
The horse saw the whiskey bottle, saw the pouring of the shot, whinnied appreciatively, and proceeded to drink.
"Never saw nothin' like that in all my born days," laughed the lad. Couldnt've been a day over eighteen. Blond like an angel.
"He's an old drunkard. Later he'll bother me for the bottle."
"Whaddaya call him?"
The dirty cowboy explained how his horse was called Pedestal, on account some guy had once tried to put him on one. Instead he got a horse. Don't think the kid understood but he laughed anyway. An innocent laugh.Maybe Walter would be able to make the laugh less virginal.
"Would you get ol' Pedestal to the livery, here's half a dollar. Bed him down for the night."
He watched the boy walk away, leading the old nag, gently patting his hand round his mane, talking to the horse softly. Nice kid. Nice ass. Nice everything.
Walter Longbranch returned to the bar, with his saddleblanket draped over his shoulders, his sugar-loaf brim hat draped over his eyes, and the saloon keeper, gave him a key, directed him upstairs.
So far what I'd got was a story, a man, a boy and a horse. Of all three, only the horse won't get laid. But I needed a plot, crank up the sexual, otherwise I won't get paid.
And Ethan Newell, needs paying. I got into trouble in the last town I hung out in. Got involved with a handsome blackman with a too big a dick and a hangin' judge. I managed keep a wad of money I'd earned, enough to rent lodging with Widow Cornpole, and I'm back writing one-fisted stories for the homeopathic eastern readers who like the mano y mano stories I write. I write as the fancy takes me, but I took that piece of writing advice I was once given: write with a hardon.
Walter Longbranch filled the hip bath with steaming hot kettles of nearboiling water and luxuriated in the warmth, in the soap, in the bubbles as the water turned grey with his grime. But cleansed, he stood up, toweled down, looked in the mirror, saw he needed a shave, maybe two shaves, it'd been a long time since his chin had seen a razor. He'd keep the walrus mustache, that hid the scar, that a tomcat had left him with. He looked down onto the street and lo and behold the kid was there looking up at him. A fine looking boy, eager and headstrong. Why's he lookin' up here? I'm an old man in his eyes. Shit, he's cute. Hitch that to my hitching post, anyday.
I like writing about old guys, salt of the earth types. Grizzled, weatherworn, leather-beaten skin, squinched eyes, from too much sun, world-weary and cynical and always ready to fuck.
The kid waved up at the window, up at Walter, covered with shaving cream. Walter looked down at the boy, down at his dick, and saw his dick looking right back up. Smiling. Maybe the old feller'll see some action, after all. They don't call me Longbranch fer nothin'.
So he opened the window, and hoped the kid could see his John Wesley Hardon from this distance. The Kid blushed, but I swear he smiled. He watched the kid walk back into the hotel, kittenish, like a colt.
Walter went to the saddle-bag, got out the linen shirt, and a clean pair of pants. Picked up his gun-belt, with the heavy colts, hung them on the chair by the bed. Won't be needing 'em tonite. Ran his fingers through his damp unruly locks, pepper-colored with a smidgin of salt. He took out a roll of greenbacks, pulled out a few notes and hid the remainder, and as he left, looked back at the room, looked at the bed and gave a wry smile. Gotta remember to get the Elixir Jelly off' a Pedestal's other saddle bag. Tight assed kid probably need a good lubing. And he sauntered down to the saloon area, looking for a little action. To pass a little time afore the kid gets off. A little gambling mebbe.
As he passed the kitchen, he looked in, saw the youth strangling a squawking chicken, breaking its neck.
Saddle tramp. 2/5 by davisrell@aol.com
"Try the special. Chicken braised in red wine," said the portly Nathaniel, the barkeep. He ran a smooth operation, a bar, a kitchen, a hotel all rolled into one. Presbytery is a small town, and his was the only lodging around.
The food was good. My compliments to the chef. Your wife?
"Nah, the kid."
"Your son?"
"Joey? Nah..he's a orphan. Brought him up like he was my own, but. Parents killed by Indians. He lived with them til he was ten. Then was found by the soldiers. Nearly killed him too. He was wild. Dirty, covered with painted symbols, daubed with pig's blood and goatshit. Like trying to bathe a dog when we got him. He howled and he screamed, kickin' and scratching."
"Well, tell him I liked the fixin's, and give him this dollar."
"Mighty nice of you stranger," and Nate waddled away. He returned with a bottle of whiskey. Told him Joey says thanks for the tip.
Walter introduced himself, invited himself in to join the card game. The other three had been playing poker for pennies, but Walter upped the ante, they moved up to dimes. There was Larry the barber, Clem the town drunk and Saul Harper, probably the town card cheat, if the perspiration on his fingers means what it usually does. They played a few hands, all friendly like. Walter was winning, but no-one cared, it was all just plain fun. Walter had eaten, but was gracious, bought whiskey and beers for the table, and asked if it were possible to rustle up some chicken-wings, fried country-style.
"Like me a bit of chicken..."
"What brings you to these parts, stranger?"
"Headed down to Amarillo, join a fresh drive, take those dogies all the way plumb to St. Louis, them's my plans."
Saul Harper said he'd done some drovin' but now was in the feed business. Business was good obviously, by the way he dressed. Black leather hat, snakeskin vest, big gold watch, dangling from a fob, which he checked from time-to-time. Pencil-thin mustache, hair the color of gravy, but didn't set quite right on his head.
Joey came in from the back carrying a couple of baskets of steaming fried chicken. His hands pale and long, as neat as any fancy french waiter. He stood next to Walter, waiting for him to take the first bite. Walter's teeth tore the skin and exposed the pale meat.
"Mmmm...'licious...after all that prairie chicken and scrawny desert rabbits...tastes...well, delicious."
Joey beamed at the compliment. His eyes bright, with a touch of campfire.
"You play? Wanna join us?" said Larry."C'mon kid you can sit on my lap, I got an itching."
"Don't got no money sir."
"What about the buck fifty I staked you?"
"Oh that goes to my savings, sir, I'm saving up."
"Fer what?" says Sam Harper, after he spat a tobacco juice stream into the spittoon.
"For a saddle, sir. A Spanish saddle."
"Well, invest your buck fifty an' afore you know it, you'll be affordin' to buy anything you want," says Clem, laughing heartily.
Joey walked back to the kitchen still smiling, and the men craned their necks to watch him, then got back to the game.
"Know how the young feller could earn a chunk of change," said Saul Harper as he stared into his hand, with an expression, that you couldn't tell if he had four aces or a truly busted flush.
"He's sure 'nuff a pretty kid."
"I hear he's into Indian ways, but won't do it fer money," announces Larry, who from his dandified appearance looked as if he's tried, but had no success.
"I'll take two cards," said Saul, and looked at the pasteboards with obvious disgust.
Clem had reached the point when sobriety suddenly turned to sleep and his head fell down and cracked on the card table.
"I fold," said Larry, threw his cards face down. He got up, grabbed his hat.Took a hold of Clem pulled him up, raised his arm, took the weight, threw him up on his shoulder, his companero's fat ass upward, and started to move out.
"Pleasant evening, Gentlemen. Goodnight."
So that left Walter with Saul Harper, one mean lookin' hombre.
"You been travelling long? Bet the trail makes you lonesome."
"I got my dick fer company."
"A big 'n, I'd guess. A regular shooter."
"Buy me drink if'n you want to find out..."
Saul held up two fingers, so the bartender came back with two bottles. While he poured, Saul let his hand, under the table slide up Walter's thigh, and found the true measure of the man.
"All this liquid, don't you need to pee."
Out back,by the lean-to was where the cowboys pissed, and in the moonlight the two men faced off.
"Cost you three dollars," says Walter.
"Give you five if you'll suck me off after."
"Deal."
Plot seems to be growing, I just write the words; the characters lead me along. Gotta write more about Walter. Gotta set up his experience, then I'll get him laid. He'll get laid before me, that's for sure. Apart from the widow's son, Brett, there's no one round here, to have lustful thoughts about. Brett's cute, but shy.
Saddle tramp. 3/5 by davisrell@aol.com
The Widow keeps a firm eye out for her son Brett. Blackhaired, over-ripe farmboy, not a cityway about him; I once offered to help with the chores, he was washin' and I was dryin', and I'd got around to ask him, if he'd been doin' any girls yet, he told me not, and before I could move the conversation around to see if he was, you know...when the widow came in, grabbed the plate from my hand, said it was kind of me to offer, but she didn't think the guests, should be back here in the kitchen, and gave me a look, so fierce, she might as well have cracked the plate on my head.
So I'm up here in my room, writing in longhand, and getting nowhere. Can't even get my hero a decent blowjob.
Then there's a knock on the door. I quickly close my journal, and hope to hell my boner goes down, before I open the door. "Just a second..."
It's Widow Cornpole. Oh, God, she's gonna ask me to leave; senses there's something odd about me. It must show.
"Sorry to trouble you, Mr Newell, but could I beg a favor?"
"Err'm ...sure, what's the problem?"
"It's one of my regulars, turned up unexpectedly, A Mr Emmanuel Goatmore...he doesn't usually stop by this time of year, but he had a sudden business deal, and needs to stay over...and this is his room."
"And you want me to switch rooms, I would be delighted to help you out."
"No, no. There's no other room."
She wants me out, she's seen the way I was checking her son out.
"No, no. I was going to ask... would you bunk up with my boy. He only has a small bed, and Mr Goatmore he's a rather portly man....my son doesn't snore."
I agreed, maybe too readily. He doesn't snore, I wonder what else he doesn't do.
"I'll get my things."
We sat down to supper, and all the way through the meal, the widow giggled like a schoolgirl at every inane remark Mr Goatmore, a dealer in sheepskins, made. Brett didn't look at me, as with his head bent over his plate, he looked like he was panning for morsels of meat in the murky soup.
When Goatmore started playing the piano and the widow warbling like a cockatoo crossed with a screaming jay, I announced I was tired and ready for bed.
"These youngsters, no spunk," said Goatmore. But I think the widow was pleased, as she let her rather large bosom almost spill out of her blouse as she turned the pages of the sheet music, letting Goatmore get a glimpse, of what he was going to have to deal with later.
"I gotta do the dishes..." said Brett, still acting a little sullen. This time I didn't offer to help, just walked into the kitchen with him, and grabbed a towel.
Silently he gave me plate by plate not saying a word.
"S'pose we should go to bed now," he said finally.
His room was small, without the bed it still would have been small. He blew out the candle.
I took off my clothes till my flesh was covered with goosebumps. I lifted the covers, and found a naked eighteen year old in there.
"Sorry..." he said as his flesh touched mine.
There was a only small ray of light coming from the window, and the room was shrouded in blue-black, with no shadows.
"You asked me if I'd done a girl..." he said softly. "Why'd you ask?"
"Just curious, a man like you should be laid by now..."
"Wanna get laid. But want to be the girl..."
I shifted my weight, we lay naked thigh to thigh. I put my hand where his cock should be, and boy, it was there. It lay limp. It filled the palm of my hand.It felt like an enormous snail, without a shell, unprotected. His arm fell over my chest, sorta accidental like.
"I wish I was like you..."
His snail grew.
"I read some of the writings you did in that book of your'n. You really slept with the Marshall... Rambone I mean...?"
I told him I made that up it wasn't real. I'd made it all up. The fucking kid read my book. I wasn't sure I liked that.
His cock, in my hand was getting larger.
Walter let the sperm of fourteen days travel spurt all over Saul Harper's face. And Saul, his hair now definitely askew, drank every dribble. His tongue licked Walter's balls, as Walter sighed.
Then he had to go down on Saul, it had been his agreement, but the man had a cock, that smelled evil and green. He'd been there before, too many times, his mouth filled with unpleasant smelling meat. But he got Saul to cum, a thin viscous dribble, and put the back of his hand to his lips, to get rid of the spillage.
"I need another drink..." said Walter, putting his hardware back in his pants. He got up, a little disgusted with himself; when suddenly he felt the barrel of a gun, press into the small of his back.
"You filthy cocksucker, if you think I'm gonna let you go back in there and tell everybody what we just did..."
Walter raised his hands high.
"If you think I'm going in there to brag..."
"They'll find you're dead body, and I'll say you called me a cheat..."
Walter sighed. So this is where I die. Oh, well.At least I got my boots on.
"Lemme at least do up my pants...."
Saddle tramp. 4/5 by davisrell@aol.com
Joey, total white boy, but versed in Indian ways had stealthily crept round the back, and seen, Walter sucking the sleaze. Why had he done it?. Here was a boy who could've pleasured the stranger all night. But then he saw Saul Harper pull his gun out, but couldn't hear what was said. He sailed in the air, jumped on Saul's shoulder, brought him down, and heard the breaking of the overbite as Saul's teeth bit the dust. Walter whipped round and cracked a boot heel into the back of Saul's skull, and wondered, just wondered if dentistry had reached Presbytery yet.
"Shit, kid! That was fucking great. The way you walloomed that guy. Snuck up on'm like a bare-assed Indian."
Joey looked down on Saul, moaning in pain on the ground, and moved closer to Walter.
"I don't like that white-eyes! One day I swear by the seven stars I will kill him! I will take his scalp!" and the hairpiece came off.
These two obviously had a history, but Walter had no desire to ask. He held the boy close and thanked him for saving his life.
"No woman has a cock like that," I said, as I was enjoying running my hand along the length of Brett's shaft.
"You gonna do me, or talk all night?..."
I slid on top of widow Cornpole's son, and pressed my weight on him. My two hand I slipped under his shoulder blades, and kissed his chest, the two brown-pink tits, the space between his chest muscles with its light covering of hair, the space between the two knobs of his collar bones, the apple in his throat, the beginnings of a youth's beard on his jaw, the side of his nose, the eyes, the ears, and the rigidly closed separation between his lips, all the time grinding my hardon in his crotch. His legs bent, he held onto my hips and his hands sprawled on my back, trying to to claw the muscles of my spine.
"Do me, mister, do me good...."
"I'll do my best..." I promised...
"You live in a tent!?" said Walter incredulously.
"My tepee," said Joey proudly. They bent down and entered the small tent flap, the floor covered by a quilt of soft rabbit fur. The boy stood up, the tent a rounded pyramid, and shucked off his work clothes. Till all he stood in was a loincloth, held on by a braided strap, around his hips. A finger painted sun on his belly, and two rudimentary painted arrows on each thigh, pointing at his crotch.
"Sesquoia markings..." said blond Joey, proud of his nation. Then he leaned over helped Walter off with his shirt, helped him off with his boots, having to stand backward, holding each of Walter's legs between his thighs, so the boots came off easy, one by one, but Walter, undid his own belt-buckle, took off his own pants. But he left on the bandanna, tied round his throat.
"Speak magically to me, incant powerful words, O wise man...before I give myself to he who is chosen..."
Walter didn't quite know what to say, but thought quickly, and came up with that little bit of French he'd learnt down New Orleans way.
"Couchez avec moi, mon tendresse, donnez le moi, votre bras, votre, jambes, votre bouche..."
The simple rope braid fell, the simple flax of the loin cloth fluttered to the floor with the speed of a feather falling and Joey's pink arrow, pointed high, up his white belly almost reaching his navel. He made a stance where his hands pressed together, elbows hugging his waist, his legs open, imitating the shape of the tepee.
"Into your arms, I commend you my spirit..."
And Walter took the boy's invitation literally, and swallowed the blond kid's sweet dick. Even the balls were in, which in the closed mouth he could jiggle with his tongue, while the penis entire brushed up against the hard pallet, and the soft point was at the edge of the precipice of Walter's throat.
"Take me to the mountain, to the high summit, beyond the clouds, to the peak, to touch the sky..."
Walter cupped the youth's warm buttocks, burying his mustache so the golden triangle of the boys pubic hair intermingled and hair became snagged up with hair, wolfing him down licking and cajoling, while squeezing the boy's butt-cheeks, then letting him slide partially out, get a gasp of air, then take all in again, with rhythm, each motion repeated, to the beat of the Earth's heart.
Brett opened easily, he'd been practicing opening his butt with corncobs, and my cock went in smoothly, but he gasped, so I knew it must've hurt a little.
"More, stranger, put it all in...ohhh..."
We could hear his mom below, doing it with Mr Goatmore, so covered the sounds I was making, the filthy ephitets I hurled in Brett's ears. Vulgar, crude, kind of words you find scratched into the timbers of stage-stop out-houses; where I'd learned most of 'em.
He called me dirty names, back, but each were imploring, and every swear word I uttered were silken promises.
I rode him for maybe ten minutes, and I came, a violent gush, and six seconds later, he came too and I licked it up from his belly, but I had to keep two fingers up his ass, to keep him happy, because my cock had long since wilted, and that was the only way, he insisted he could sleep.
I lay awake, listening to the sounds of Widow Cornpole, chase Mr Goatmore in the downstairs, until finally she caught him, and boy, did he squeal when she nailed him. Brett snored softly, but quietened when I stuck a third finger in.
Saddle tramp. 5/5 by davisrell@aol.com
I woke in the morning, crept out of bed, went downstairs, went out onto the veranda and in the dawnlight and morning-fresh air finished writing my story.
Joey on his hands and knees, golden legs spread wide, Walter huddled on top of him, one arm wrapped under the waist of the boy, then the other, cradled under the boy's chest, so far it came up again and hung on Joey's shoulder. and his cock buried deep into the boy's ass, and rode him like a wild pony that wanted to be subdued.
With no saddle. With naked flesh pressing against flesh, with determination, with excitement, and with an energy that came into his body, as if the old Spirits of the Mountain were listening, giving crackling energy into Walter, which he passed into the boy, through his hard penis, into the boy's ass, then back into Walter, filling him with an untamed warmth, and then back again, into Joey's inside, but transmuted into the liquidity of a spermy orgasm.
As they fell into the bed of rabbit fur, holding each other tightly, Joey produced a dagger, made a cut on Walter's wrist, then cut his own, and let the blood mix together.
"Now you too, are Indian," said Joey, as he let a tongue run over the old saddletramp's lips.
"..takes one to know one..." said Walter, the only dam thing he could think to say....
Gotta straighten young Joey about the Indian thing, but it can wait, Walter thought, as he was getting horny again. Much to Joey's delight....
Me, I finished the yarn, and so went down to see if Brett had woken yet. We can fuck again, I'll wake him if I have to. Poked an eye in Widow Cornpole's room, Goatmore evidently having made his escape... she held a half spilt whiskey bottle in her hand, she was snoring away, and to my surprise, saw Walter's horse, Pedestal, licking up the spilt whiskey with his big horsey tongue.
Saddletramp is the latest chapter of my continuing Western series.
Each chapter is self-contained but if you want to read the others they are being archived at http://www.nifty.org -- Prolific Authors.
davistrell@aol.com