Farsight 1/4 by davistrell@aol.com
Yesterday, I applied, fought for and got the job. At the local newsrag, "The Farsight Gazette". Yeah, we got papers out here: bi-weekly. We know what is news. And mostly what is not.
I went into the green paint-peeling office, with clippings of previous newstories affixed to the window. I read a couple, to get the gist, of what it might be like to work here.
Usual stuff: Pony bites man, Fire burned down shack, Capture of the Outlaw, Biggy Thomas, and widow Fourscore marries, sixth husband, and the follow up, the bereavement as the widow overexerted, and is widow again. Molehills striving to be mountains, journalistically speaking. But it'll be better than washing dishes.
I was greeted by the owlish Mr.Benjamin Applejuice, the beanpole of a man who runs the place. He's about fifty, pink face, bald of pate, with bushy outgrowths of untidy hair sprouting from behind his copious ears. But he seems nice, as he invites me in, and I tell him that I'm Ethan Newell, from New York, where I wrote advertisement copy and news stories, and showed him, the letter of reference, from Mr Omiah Caterwhaul, who ran a magazine, bi-quarterly, and wherein he relates well of my skills. Actually a butt-fuck magazine, tales of horny men, doing what I like to do, in the company of other horny men. But of course Mr Caterwhaul and I don't tell of that. He's a good old stick.
I tell my next lie, that my clippings were lost in a fire, 'cos in the consternation, I'd saved the daughter of the boarding house, and barely escaped with my life. That I ran back and smothered the flames with her petticoats.
Mr.Applejuice seems suitably impressed.
"Would you like tea...Jakob, make some tea for our visitor..."
Past the window of the office, giving a quick peek in, is a tousled-hair young lad of twenty, barely. He's got the rudimentary makings of an unmanly mustache, strong powerful arms, emerging from his rolled-up shirtsleeves, a chest like a bull-dog and a trim waist, and below, well, was covered by the apron covered with inky streaks.
"Jakob's my apprentice, sets the type, don't you know. A printer's devil they call them, and a devil he can be."
"Looks like a nice kid," I reply with considerable understatement.
So instead of my usual stories of cocksucking in ranch-bunkhouses, or ass enjoyment in the privacy of the great outdoors, I fabricate news stories I never wrote.
"Mr Newell, Ethan, isn't it? I like you, my boy....Jakob, our visitor first, thankyou...you take lemon....or sugar?"
Jakob stands, arms folded, against the roll-top desk, looking not a little sullen, as I sip the hot brown water. I do my best to look sullen back, but Jakob's the better at it.
"Jakob Malley, meet Mr. Newell, he will be working here, as a reporter. Tommorrow we will aquaint you with the town and environs, your bailiwick as it were, but for today, Jakob, would you show Mr Newell around the premises, aquaint him with our little establishment. And the room upstairs you'll share."
Share? Perks on the job, already. We finish the tour, and stand before the long ladder, that leads upstairs to the attic. I follow Jakob up, and, though tempted, don't poke my finger in the little ripped hole he has in the butt-seat of his pants.
I went to get my haircut in preparation for the interview. And while we were waiting, while the head in front got shorn, I struck up aquaintance with a very nice man, one Buck Henty. He's dressed in black, apart from the white boots, and white hat, who's band he fiddles with, as he holds it over his lap. He's come to have his mustache trimmed. He's got the drop-dead look one usually expects of owlhoots.
We looked each other up and down, and before you know it, after my hair is fashionably pudding-bowl cut, we end up back at the ranch, while his father's away on business, looking for lost cows.
We stood next to the fireplace, under the obligatory handlebars of a longhorn, mounted on the rough-hewn stone.
We sip his Grandfather's whiskey, interlocking arms as we down the malt, and his free hand massages my butt. My hand, politely down the front of his pants. Wherein lies expectant business,
He's way in his thirties, his chin grayblue, his skin ruddy, his eyes, looking directly into mine. His mustache tickles.
"Good whiskey?" he asks.
"Better cock..." I reply as I feel the leathery snake in my hand.
He downs his drink, and with his interlocked bicep, pulls me closer into him. He throws the glass into the fire-place and I do the same. The broken shards, crackle in the enveloping flames.
"Light a candle Buck, the firelight's good, but we need a little more light." says I as as the Malt, kicks in.
A taper is lit and the candle flames on, growing large, and throws the room into a whirlpool of shadow and light. But Buck had not moved, apart from gripping my butt-cheeks tighter.
"Who's the dishrag?" says a voice behind me. I turn and see a burly individual, naked from the waist up, with a broad chest with a very hairy covering, his head, shaved. His eyes are arched with a cruel upswing at the corners, the nose is broken. Looks like Buck, well more like his darkside doppleganger.
"Harry, what are you doing home, thought you were with Paw...."
"Stayed home with a headcold, bin asleep for ten hours, heard giggles down here, thought I'd investigate."
"He's Ethan, picked him up at the barbershop, cute little buggar, ain't he..."
"Say guys, mind not talking as if I'm not here!"
"He's got spunk, I'll say that for him..."
Harry, the elder of the two, sat himself down on a long chair, sprawled, legs wide open, and at the crotch of his work pants, was an immenseness, you usually associate with pack-animals. Buck led me over, sat next to his brother, they made a bed with their knees, for me to lie upon.
Buck's thighs under my upper back, and Harry has my butt resting on his lap, with my hip bone pushing into his none too soft crotch. Harry held my head and put his ring knuckle to my lips ad let the finger bone slide into my mouth, which I sucked gently, letting a finger tip, and then two fingers into my mouth, and sucked them wetly. Harry leaned a little and started to unbutton my shirt, opening, as if unwrapping a gift, till my chest was exposed, then my abdomen, my belly, and pulled the shirt out of my pants and started undoing my belt buckle, while I gave a up-lifting moan as I sucked on the fingers somemore, pushing into, almost all the way to my larynx. With his free hand Buck teased my nipples, bullet-headed sharp. Meanwhile, Harry had my fly open, got my cock out, and though hard, when he made a fist around my phallus, it was completely buried within. He stretched it with his hand, jerking up and down, my mushroom tip, popped out of the space between finger and thumb. Like a shy prarie-dog on ground-hog day.
Harry started what looked like tobacco-chewing, and bent forward, and let a huge beady glob of spittle to spill over my penis, making it slick, and went back to the rhythmic hand jerks.
"He'll do...just fine...we should take him out the next drive."
"He'll work at night, sleep through the day...."
"While his ass gets better...."
I tugged at his pants top, to see if he's all mouth and brag.
Harry, spitting image of his brother, but a reverseness, that I can get down and dirty with. Harry, his hairy belly with a mass, a fountain of hair, opened his pants front and the mighty organ poked out like a rejuvenated tree-sapling. Thick, where it should be thick.
The cruel tip, the tears in the skin, wrought by an inexperienced surgeon-apprentice, the veins so pronounced, the skin like a vulture's throat that dangled from his King Rooster balls.
I understood. My butt sighed, my ass-hole twitched.
But with Buck at my head, I thought not of the pleasure threatening my rear, and paid attention, to the equally thick veined cock, threatening the entrance of my mouth.
I twisted slightly and took all of Buck in, starting slowly, helment swallowed, the ridge of no return, till the shaft, filled my mouth and the tip of my tongue, till he reached the abyss of my throat, my lips around the python.
Then I was ambushed from behind.
I spread wide to let him enter and with another gob of spittle he entered my warm, dark ass-chute, making his way in, while I still slurped up on Buck's meaty cock.
"You're good, boy! Done this afore..."
I had, but each time it seems as if it's the first. It hurts like always, and the thicker it is, the more it hurts. But that's the point. Then you feel you can't breathe, you feel like Moses is dividing the waters, and Pharaoh's chariot rides in. I nearly fainted. Probably on Biblical Metaphor. Writer's get laid different.
We reached the top of the ladder and Mr Applejuice wished me and Jakob, a fond good night. I stuck my head through the trapdoor and could see we were in a tall narrowish attic. There was a bunk-bed to one side, and opposite the harsh raking angle of the roof.
Jakob, helped me up, and sort of crouching, he indicated the bunk.It was his place and I was the stranger.
"I'll sleep on top," he said, still sullen, but less than before.
"No problem, I'm scared of heights, anyways."
A couple of boxes for furniture and a hanging hurricane lamp, burning low. Jakob, took off his shirt and vaulted to the top bed, and as he got on, that ass positively shone as he clambered on. I slipped onto the bottom bed and listened while he undressed.
There were pictures stuck on the wall; a cowboy with a walrus mustache, and a high-pointing hat. "Who's that?" I asked.
"Texas Dick. He's my hero. I read every one of his adventures. I got the complete collection," and he indicated a stack of well-thumbed dime-novels in a corner. " A real tough guy. He could shoot the eye out of a rat at fifty paces."
"Can I read one?" I asked.
I rested on the bottom bunk, just me in my shirt and a cotton thick blanket. I was tired, it'd been a long day; might get longer.
"Nah, but you can tell me a story before we go to sleep."
"What about Texas Dick?"
"Nah, a real one."
I thought of telling him about the Henty brothers, but I don't know if he'd like it. After all, not all men are like me. They may have balls, dicks and asses, but may not want to share.
Like, would he want to hear about me pounding my cock, while Harry invites himself into my rear end as I suck down on Big Buck.
I like that sort of a story, and let my mind go back to two nights ago.
Buck had moved himself into position, in front of my face, and fucking my face as if it were a tight asshole. Buck swings his hips into my face, then pulled out a little and swung back in again.While Harry matched him, stroke for stroke and thrust for thrust.
His cock's so big it'll probably kiss its brother, coming in from the other side.
These two were ranchers, one day would inherit the farm, be big men in these parts. The ranch-house was big, almost european in its decor, if buffalo parts, if native-American ever become collectible.
"Gonna cum....jism in the hole!!!" yells Harry, eventually.
By now, Harry's thrust into me one hundred and seventy-two and a half lunges, and I'm no longer on Buck's cock, 'cause I have to breathe. Buck is a gentleman and holds me while his brother pile-drives in again. He cums, and two centuries later, his dick softens in my ass, and his breathing gets hoarse.
He pulls his cock out so he can watch it dribble on my ass.
"Jizzin' Christopher.. " he swears, and I agree.
"Ass, balls and all..." is the best I can muster.
My hand goes to my dick, no-one else is gonna help, I'll have to bring myself off.They watch, and a glob hits Harry in the eye.
"My turn," says Buck, as brothers switch ends.
I can't tell a story like that to young Jakob. He might not understand.
"Do you want me to read you a story?"
All I have are a couple of inappropriate man-fuck stories in my journal, and I feel the inappropriateness of reading them, out loud.
"No, tell me a story."
"You mean, I should make one up."
"Yeh, but make it sound real."
"I'll try."
Not used to telling straight stories I began.
"It was a few years ago, just after the war, and these two hombres, rode together."
"What are hombres?" Jakob asks, and I give him the whitewashed answer.
"Friend, buddies, hacksters, comrades, companeros. Well, one was an ex-cavalry officer and the other was a half-breed. Still half-Indian, he wore a buckskin jacket with wild tassels, braided his hair behind and wore a band round his head with Navaho markings and goose-feather. The ex-officer, sky-blue shirt, sky-blue pants, had rode with Quantrell..."
"What's a Quantrell?"
"A renegade band of confederates, that couldn't accept the Southern loss. Our hero was handsome strong and brave. And became disillusioned with Quantrell, and left. Got himself a job as a peace-officer. Then one day the remnants of Quantrell's band showed up in his jurisdiction, they were just a rag-tag of mealy outlaws now..."
"Is this a true story...?"
"Would I lie? Now no more interruptions, Jakob.."
The bunk board above my head squeaked, as he started to settle down. The lamp burned out finally, leaving an oily smoke smell, lingering in the air.
"What's the guy's name?"
"No-one knows, not even to this day. He gave a false one afore, on account to get the sherrif's job." I'm making this up as I go along. Can Jakob tell. His bunk squeaks occasionally.
"What's the breed's name?"
"Kaagla. Now let me tell this story and shut up..! Well the bandits started shooting in the street, wild on bad booze and cheap liquor. The Sheriff comes out and warned them to ride off. They recognises him. There was a brief shootout, and two die. But leaping off of a roof, one of them downs the marshall, err I mean sheriff, and takes his gun. Kaagla who had earlier been thrown out the bar, on account they don't like tainted blood, sees what's happening and grabs a fiery torch and throws it at the man who had disarmed the sheriff. The man burning, ran into the horse's trough to extinguish the flames. But he'd dropped his gun, which the sherriff picked up, and used to drill bullet holes in the remaining two owlhoots.
"Cool..." interrupted Jake, and the bedboard creaked again.
"Sssh..., but the half-broiled owlhoot, got out of the horsetrough, screaming with pain. The Sherriff went to him, and went toward him, as the man picked up, the flaming brand and shoved it in the Sheriff's face. He screamed in agony, and Kaagla leapt on him covering him with a blanket, wrenched from a horse, hitched nearby, and put out the flames. The other man, was in so much agony, that he fell where he stood."
"Was the Sherriff blinded?" asks Jakob hopefully.
"No, but his eyes were horribly scarred, and had to wear a big black mask to cover his terrible scars, from that day on.They called him the Phantom of the Prairie. But he and Kaagla, became inseparable friends, went to righting wrongs. He became a justice vigilante, even had a price put on his head by the law. They had to hide by day, lay low by night. Camping out in the outskirts, deserts, the badlands."
"They were like brothers. Even shared the same blanket. Holding each other in the night, as they slept."
"'Do you trust me Kaagla,' said the masked stranger."
"'With my life, white-wolf...'"
"The masked man took out his Navy Colt and showed it to Kaagla, the pretty sheen, the calibre, the length, the girth, and asked if he could put it in his mouth. It's not loaded, he said. Kaagla took the sleek barrel in between his lips, and allowed it to be pushed in between his lips, all the way in. The hammer was cocked back, ever so slowly, and a finger applied gentle presure to the trigger. The hammer cracked, Kaggla, flinched a little, his eyes closed tight-shut. But left the barrel still in his mouth, gripping the metal with his lips. There was no explosion. Trust had been repaid."
"Did the masked guy let Kaagla do it back?" asked Jakob.
"Of course; they were hombres."
Jakob was quiet, but the bedboard above creaked again.
"Wisht I had a hombre," he said in a purring whisper.
"Me too." I said, and this time, my bedboard did a little creaking."You like me, don't you Jakob?"
"Sure, but I don't know if I can trust you."
"You can trust me, Jakob."
"We could do the test, like Kaagla and the masked guy."
"We don't have a gun."
"Gun, schmunn..." says Jakob, no longer sullen.
Jakob leaned over his bunk and looked down on me. Saw what I'd been doing. He monkey-jumped off the top, and knelt by my bottom bunk, with a twinkle, and his his hand snaked out.
"Oh, yes you do," and his hand went to my crotch, and his hand grabbed my phallus.
"I got no gun," I said, but he's wrapped his hand on my dick.
"A mighty Navy Colt, Mustang, Buntline special, blunderbuss, shotgun gun kind of a gun..."
And he pulled my hardon out of my hands.
"Can you put it in my mouth?"
"It's loaded..."
"It better be."
The Henty ranch, three or four miles out of Farsight, was proving more fun than at first I had thought it would be. The two brothers, were excellent hosts, in a sporting kind of a way.
Harry had shot all, was now a little groggy, leaving Buck to tend me as I was feeling a little vulnerable myself. Harry, the brother without the good looks and bedroom manners, staggered off, leaving me to tender to Buck's ministrations. It's now I want him to hurt me, sharply, at least slap me across the face, and please have your wicked way. Will he take the hint? Is Ethan a good storyteller or what?
Jakob thinks so.
"How'd you get that there scar? The one on yer butt; looks fresh..." says Jakob, sounding so refreshingly naive.
"The two interlocked circles with crosses atop?"
"Yeah, looks like a brand..."
"It is...."
"Wisht I'd could get branded...."
I didn't see Harry coming, as Buck was coming. Large rope-like spurts of cum shot out, snaking like a lariat, scalding my belly. But he hasn't finished, this is just beginning. Harry unbeknownst to me has taken the poker from the fire.
"You gotta earn a branding..." I said to Jakob, now both of us sharing the bottom bunk.
"What ya gotta do...?" asks Jakob, as he looks up at me, with lights on in the balcony. He's making snake-eyes, so he knows.
"Schtuff..."
"What kinds 'a stuff...?"
I played with his foreskin a while, pulling it back and forth.
"Oh, stuff, just stuff..."
"Sounds like I'll like it."
"Mebbe. Only one way to find out..."
"Show me, but, don't just tell. I heard enough of your stories....fer one night..."
They say 'meanwhile back at the ranch' has been overused, and I suppose it has. But meanwhile back at the ranch....
My legs aloft, Buck began to gyrate his hips, in a rotary grind.
I was here, there and neither. I could almost see his cock, emerge, burst through the taut skin of my belly. It's how it felt. The unstoppable train, laden with goodies, gold for the rich, paychecks for the poor, meat for a common man. His cock-thrusts relentless, my hand jerks pointless, I'd cum, like what seemed hours before. He grabbed me by the ankles, forcing them down, so I was split wide, folded in two, as he finished jab, jab, jabbing into me, till I could hear his cock almost bleat, he held me round the waist, pushing in, so I couldn't miss the cum-flood, and he pushed my butt together, impaled upon him, as he shouted out his orgasm.
"Tch, tch. Such language!" says Harry who at the time I failed to notice, was carrying the smouldering orange-red tipped branding iron, that had been heating in the fire place. It hurt. Oww, it hurt.
"C'mon, put that finger in further..." says Jakob, who I willingly oblige.
"Two fingers, you're ready for two..."
"I trust you...ohhhh..oh.."
"You must have Indian blood in your veins..."
He's blond as fuck, Norwegian to his backbone, which looks charming as the knobs of his vertebrae push out. He's sorta kneeling, his head on the bed, looking up from under his body, my fingers in the imitation of a side-arm's barrel, plunging in, while he gets used to the idea. He grimaces but doesn't tell me to stop.
I yell, with no-one to hear, as my butt gets embroidered with burning iron. I feel my flesh sizzle, smell the pungent smell, feel the pain. I squeal, real loud as the other two laugh.
"Don't move, don't scratch it, you'll spoil the design" says Buck, smiling at his brother.
"You ready?"
"I took in three fingers, your cock ain't that big....owwww..."
Jakob finally shuts up as we get on with the devil's work. He likes it, and as the nights get longer, eventually I let him get on the top bunk, and relent, and allow myself get on the bottom bunk. He's more of a man now, and I like that. But mostly, I'm the one with the gun.
Like I said, I like Farsight. Got me a Jakob, a job, and if I get bored, I can always visit with the Henty's, back at their ranch.
What Farsight really needs is a frog-jumping competition....