Organization: Arora
Harvest by davis trell
I've found a home. I've been adopted. By a step-daddy. A True Grit US Marshall, one Harvest Rambone. He takes me everywhere. He even bought a customized saddle, so I can ride behind him, both mounted on Hellion, his fiery-eyed stallion, star-blazed on the forehead and a butt so big he carries us both with ease.
Should any one be brave enough to question; he tells them I'm a junior deputy, old enough to carry sidearms and what's so unusual, that the two of us prefer to rent a single bedroom.
One hotel clerk that queried, was picked up by his necktie, his face pulled close to Rambone's, who bit the questioner hard on the nose, so the squeal could be heard as far away as my hometown, Hoboken, New York.
I met him in Glitch, Montana, on my way to San Francisco. I'd run out of money. My last few stories had all been rejected, by the New York gay porno magazine I write for, and hadn't had a royalty check in the last two months. I was working as a dishwasher in a saloon, that gets four greasy spoons in 1883's Fodor's. They let me sleep under the stairwell that leads to the cathouse upstairs, noisy and smelly. As I watch the cowhands go up, I can see through the cracks, watch the horny men mount the stairs to mount the whore. Delilah's okay but doesn't turn me on, not like the horny cowhands, who I'd do; one or two anyway, for free. I was getting lonesome, just me and my best friend, my dick.
I dreamt of sex, but couldn't write. I'd got writer's block, and there's only one way of getting rid of it; the old fashioned way. I needed a male body to rub up against, that'll get the literary juices flowing.
So I went to the bank, corner of Main and Shakedown street, where Bartholomew Coffinmaker works. Not his fault, his name, father after all is the undertaker, and the sins of the father...
I'd loaned him a few of my well-thumbed dime novelettes. Y'know the kind with tales of derring-do with a six-gun slant. I had slipped in a copy of "Hand-Job" tales too, the man-sex journal I've written for, maybe it'd break the ice. A chance acquaintance, when I cashed the last draft, he caught me looking at him, we started a conversation which I hoped would lead somewhere. He's nineteen, possibly virgin, he acts kinda shy, looks round at his fellow employees as if he doesn't want them to know he has friends. Found out he usually works late, brought him food, from the kitchen, at least I get free meals. We talked late into the evening, 'bout this and that, but never got round to my favorite subject. Mebbe that'll change tonite.
The light was on and I sauntered into the bank and found my new buddy still filling in the account spreadsheet. He was alone. Last thing we needed was company, for what I had in mind.
"Burning the midnight oil again, Bart?"
He looked up with a start. The light filtered through his green eye shade that he wore over his onion-colored hair, curly and a little long. His freckled cheeks dimpled, broke into a hesitant smile of recognition. I look him in the eyes; he looks right back.
"Oh, it's you. Yeah, still working, should be finished soon, though."
"Mind if I hang out?"
He said he didn't but remained engrossed in his massive red-leather ledger. Full of numbers, figures, he likes them; give me a headache.
I folded my arms, cradling my head in them, on his desk and looked at him sidewise. I knew he was nineteen, but looked younger. He seems nervous; can't think why.
Shirts sleeves rolled up, a small weskit, gray pin-striped pants, a necktie that had been loosened, and as he wrote he mouthed the words and numbers with his bee-stung lips.
"Had a chance to read any of the stories I gave you?"
He continued to write, then paused.
"Some."
"Didja like 'em?"
"Mostly."
"D'ya have a favorite?"
"There...was one...but I don't think, you meant to put it with the others."
"The one..."
"...with the naked prizefighters, wrestling instead of fisticuffs? I had no idea guys got up to such things."
He'd stopped writing and looked at me kinda odd. He spoke softly.
"There was a picture of a man...he had a... peter that was so big...so long, I couldn't believe it. Nobody has a cock that long."
"They're only engravings, Bart. An artist I know draws 'em. He exaggerates the sizes somewhat. Sexy, huh?"
"Well, it made me feel...so small by comparison."
"No need to feel that way...most men, you can tell their cocksize by looking at their hands. Look, show me your hand. See, from here to here," measuring between his outstretched thumb and pinky.
"...that's the way to tell. My, you do have long hands. Now put your hand against your boner. You do have a boner? Measure, see, am I right?"
"Yeah, about right."
"Must be long enough you can suck it yourself..."
"What, suck my own cock? No way."
"Sure you can! I'll help. Get on up the counter and open yer pants."
Bart did as he was told, his legs making a kind of inverted W shape. But as his delicious looking piece of pink meat flopped out and up, his back bent sharply, he couldn't get those lips of his around his pink-purple shiny cock knob. I pressed down gently on his back, nearly bending him double. It wasn't working.
"I told you I can't suck my own dick! Can you?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
I took the bank-teller's rigid-hard penis and swallowed it whole.
"Hey, what'y'cher doin'?...Stop...no...don't stop, oh, that feels so good..."
I gave him a good tongue bathing, and slipped outside and popped his chicken-egg balls, into my mouth, drooling and covering them with flesh-warm spittle till his gooseberry-hair ballsac was soaking, and the straining pillar of mancock that grew from them, flailed helplessly from my oral onslaught. I grabbed a hold of it, and gave him a humdinger handjob. I licked my other hand's fingers, and slowly, ever so slowly, pushed a finger in...
"...Not my bung-hole..not my...Oh..siree..bob..."
Bart's protestations turned to moans of pleasure as his shitter relaxed and I was able to risk two fingers, three fingers as one, and pushed gently deeper inside, simultaneously jerking him off.
They fall like flies, the men who want me to sleep with 'em. Ten a penny, I've an irresistible charm, and an ego, swollen by writer's hubris, it's the only thing that keeps me alive. Men I have to conquer, I remind myself I've only seventy years left. I'm in a hurry, maybe somewhere there's one, I can love.
He lay writhing on the counter, pushing his pants way down and pulling his shirt way up as I kissed his white stomach, flicking my tongue in an out of his bellybutton, with snake-like lunges.
"Here take over fer a second..."
I pulled his shoes off; his pants a pile on the floor; undid my belt; unflapped my pants; let my cock smell the evening air, and pressed it close, against, in, into young Bart's asscrack, pushing forward, entering, slipping into the muffin's greedy asshole, all the way in. His head flopped, his eyes closed tight shut, a silent scream on his soft lips, which I pressed on with my own, sticking my tongue down his throat, penetrating him from both ends, while he pulled his pud and came, sluicing our bellies with sticky cum, as I fucked his cherry blossom butt but good. This was not the time for a withdrawal as I shook and shivered and let a white lava deposit into the bankteller's warm, wide open safe. I think he fainted, or I did. We just stayed there. Till the ruckus started. Till all hell broke loose.
Blam! The door was kicked open, and a man shouted, "Freeze!" The gun in his hand backed up the order as we two hugging ball-naked buttfuckers were startled to attention.
The stranger wore a calico mask which covered his face all but his eyes; intense cruel and grinning. A black hat, with a silver hatband, a black vest embroidered with curlicues of silver, and black outfit to match his black heart. The Calico Kid, a face I'd seen on many a wanted poster; bankrobber, horsestealer, widowmaker, owlhoot and cardcheat.
"Get off that counter and get your hands up," he snarled.
Dripping cum, we complied; like we had a choice.
"Which of you cornholers is the teller? Get me the keys to the vault, pronto, do as you're told!"
The green eyeshade had come off Bart's curly hair mid-fuck, but the way he stuttered identified him as the man with the knowledge.
"I c-can't give you the k-keys...I'll lose my j-job."
"You'll lose yer fucking life if you don't, you shit-nose." He brandished his weapon, thrust it close to Bart's nostril, ready to remove excess boogers. The bandit's eyes wild, half-crazy and his intentions obvious. He wanted cash, gold, treasury notes, stuff they give you for free in a bank; if you've got a gun.
"B-But if you steal the m-money... the widows ... the farmers..." Bart this is no time to give him an economics lecture. Give him what he wants.
"Kid, so you like it up the ass? Bend over that counter and spread your shit pucker wide open. You, bigboy, move over there so I can see you." Oh, no he's gonna pump Bart for information.
Bart grabbed the teller bars and stuck his head through the opening, where he usually worked, bent-over, exposing his baby-soft freckled ass and the Calico Kid pulled out a boner huge and hard, and rammed it into that slippery boy cunt I'd been enjoying only minutes before. But unlike me, he wasn't gentle, you could tell by the terrible howl that Bart made as he was buttplugged.
"Like that, kid? Tell me where the keys are!"
Ram! Howl! More ramming, more howling. I'd cover my ears but have been told not to move.
"The keys, kid!"
It wasn't pretty to watch. Bart's crinkled eyes crying tears, as the Outlaw banged him again with a bull-like thrust. Again and again with venomous ferocity. Bart whimpered but said nothing.
I moved in a lame attempt to do something, but the pistol barrel pointed at my privates froze me frigid. Another ram. Another howl. It was piteous.
"Give me the fuckin keys!"
Bart couldn't take no more. I noticed what any enterprising robber should've noticed.
"It's open, you mean, stupid fuck!" I said, pointing at the obviously open door.
He took his cock out of Bart's ass, turned and looked at the vault. He pulled up his pants, and barked an order.
"Over there!" waving his gun to indicate the direction he wanted us to take. We waddled, me supporting my bruised buddy.
"Kid, you take another step, and it'll be your last."
A new voice, basso profundo added to the confusion.
The three of us spun around to look at the looming silhouette filling the doorway, shotgun in hand.
The Calico Kid with speed, grabbed Bart as cover.
Harvest2 by davis trell
"Rambone, you bastard! I thought you were dead! Drop your iron, or I'll pump these shit-for-brains with lead."
Impasse. Standoff. Scary.
The giant with the walrus mustache wasn't going to let his gun go down. His wide brimmed hat with the low crown hid his eyes, but we knew he was serious. He had a job to do, and didn't look like he worried about innocent bystanders. His Marshall's star flashed, his license to kill.
"Drop the kid, drop your gun or you'll find yourself on a shovel as they pour you into your coffin."
Rambone moved closer, the Calico Kid pulled the hammer back, started to squeeze the trigger.
So I did the unthinkable. I got brave, and kicked the Calico Kid between his legs and crushed his nuts. Rambone, U.S. Marshall, brought his gunbutt into direct contact with the bankrobber's skull, and I swear you could see the sparks fly from the blow. The owlhoot crumpled to the floor like a dirty dishrag. Rambone stood over him, prodding the inert outlaw to see if he were faking.
"I've been following this sick piece of shit for a month. He shot me in the back. Thought I was done for. It'll be a pleasure to watch the hanging."
He picked up the limp form single handed, when the unexpected happened.
Bart picked up the Kid's fallen revolver, raised it and shot Rambone, who keeled over, another face on the floor.
"You hurt Jimmy! I'll kill you! Jimmy, Jimmy wake up! Wake up, precious!"
I flashed and realized that the "rape" had been a fake. Some kind of alibi providing scam. These guys were in cahoots! And to think, I'd thought him cute. Now he turns out to be a badass.
"You sure chose the wrong time to stick you're nose in our business." Wasn't my nose, but now was not the time to quibble. He shoves the gun in my ribs, Bart's not the Bart I thought he was, now he's a killer, and I'm the next victim.
My blood boiled and my elbow flew back making a bone-crunching slam against his brow with a thunderous crack. He fell backward, pole-axed. I rushed to Rambone. His temple was blood grazed but managed to stir. My back turned, I didn't see the reviving Calico Kid pick up the gun and stars exploded, Fouth of July in my brain, sleazy episodes of my life flashed before my eyes and a dark blackness descended.
The next part is hazy. I felt being carried out like a dying Hamlet, by a giant of a man through the street, through a door, into the hotel. I heard Rambone order a room, the best room, the one with the brass bed, the one with the lacy curtains, and send up roses. I think I'm in love.
I was concussed but remember being laid out on the bed, feeling my nipples being kissed, my ears nibbled, my forehead licked, my belly sucked, my thighs parted, my cock stroked, all for the benefit of my well being.
"You're a brave kid," said the smile that gradually came into focus. "You saved my life."
Romance entered the room unfettered, Cupid's a big guy, what a guy; I just melted.
Harvest Rambone naked is a sight to behold. A Western bronzed leather-skinned Hercules, a lion of a man. His stare alone is so intense, he could fry eggs with his glare. But I found it erotic, like his white sideburns, his black widow's peak, his heavy molded muscles, his hairy and powerful limbs, his dark mysterious crotch, sporting a dangerous tool; danger, sweet danger.
Never be afraid of a man with a big hat. Harvest has a big one and wears it proudly. But he's also tender, and takes care not to hurt me. If I put my thumbs together, my forefingers touch, the opening created is just about his size. And I have more than average size hands. A redwood emerging from twin boulders, luxuriantly foliated with scratchy scrub points to the ceiling, with a bead of precome, an opalescent jewel. I can take it; I have to; I want to. Time for a man, time to put away childish toys.
I straddle his magnificent thighs and lather the giant penis with an overgenerous helping of Dr. Ezekiel's elixir jelly, and let him smear his massive gun-hand with some, which he applies to my lovehole, ride on his middle finger, squirming and churning, as he penetrates deep within till I get used to the insertion, kissing his face, his walrus mustache tickling, driving me wild, and I take his hand away, position that gigantic horse-cock of his, somehow get the huge knob-head in, letting my asshole suck it in, ride down over the ridge, the widest part, I feel it go in more, inching down as his goliath-cock rises up and I ride it, pulsing with passion, and it's all in, I can take it all. I grab hold of him and get tossed up and down on an ocean with cresting waves, drowning in the sexual act. I can hear far off, the rattle of the windmill vanes turning in the breeze, the rasp of its greased gears, and the whisper of a pump-shaft rising and lowering. Rambone is smiling, and as he rolls me over, him now above, I feel his weight, pushing me deeper into the bed.
We continue our sensual struggle, becoming accustomed to each other, to each other's rhythm, driving flesh deeper against each other, in a mutual physical understanding. Entwining, a flashing of limbs in the subdued light, two men forming a knot with their bodies. Now and again, came a sharp grasp of breath, the junction of the bodies becoming a oneness. My breath rising, slowly panting as Harvest, kneels over, my legs gripping, hips loosened for movement, buttocks taut to receive the pent-up fury, excitement released. The bed seemed to tilt and sway, buckle under the forces of nature, as fireworks exploded in my belly, the loudness of two hearts beating, the slap, slapping sounds of flesh hitting flesh, energy penetrating, transmitting intimacy from one to the other. Passion rising, stroke following stroke, like the ringing of a bronze bell, interminable and indomitable.
Supple strength, yielding, all quivering, my entire body trembling, filled to the full, back arched, flanks flecked with sweat, reddened flesh where hands had held too hard, legs ankle-locked, knees clasped over elbows, torso crushed. Then the hot molten stream penetrated, flowing, absorbing, turning into lifeblood.
I was overcome with an all powerful desire to sleep. Only waiting dimly, in a state of fulfilled well-being, for many uncounted unknown minutes. I felt my spirit leaving my body, joining us together, enveloping Harvest with kindled embraces, to hold him, clasp him closer to me in an infinite relief.
When it's all over, he cradles me against his imposing body and I count his bullet wounds and scars. He tells me the stories of how he got them, he's quite modest, and as I listen, he lets me rub his silver Marshall's star.
I've changed a little, walk more maturely, kind of bandy, bow-legged now, on account of all the bare-back riding. Finally a cowboy. Gonna write it up, but only in my diary. This one's not for public consumption. C'mon Rambone , do me again.