Organization: Arora
Outlaw Bait by davistrell@aol.com
I bit his left nipple lightly, my forearms round, under his waist, my hands gripping his buttocks. My cock between his thighs, the tipped slipped inside; then I moved my arms up, raising his legs and very slowly pushed my way up into his ass. Another blond kid underneath me, squirming, wanting me to go slowly, but me thrusting in faster; he pinned, having no control over events. I liked the kid, but at times like this I'm no gentleman. And he had tried to rob me, after all. I'll write it up nicer in my journal when I get the chance.
Coming through an arroyo, humming a tune with a piquant memory, I was riding aimlessly, when out, over the ridge, came running this kid waving a colt forty-five, and trying to keep his black derby hat from coming off his head. Only wearing his grandfather's longjohns, white, I could see the outline of his schlong clearly defined, length, just right, shape, perfect shape, weighty balls. Button down ass-flap. At first I thought I was dreaming. His strawberry-blond hair, poking out from his large pink ears, and his face sunburnt freckled.
"Wait up, mister, wait up..."
I pulled the pony to a stop and waited for the kid to catch up. His big black boots, kicked the dirt as he ran, still holding onto his hat, and still waving that big grey gun.
"Hey, watch where you point that thing," I yelled as he got nearer. He reached me, leaned against the sorrel's flanks, panting, trying to catch his breath. I looked down at him, eighteen, if a day. Wondered why he was dressed, well, where were the rest of his clothes? It was warm out, but he was only dressed in his underwear.
"Raise your hands mister, 'bove your head, and get off the hoss easy like. My trigger finger's kinda itchy."
"And if I don't?"
"Don't make me do it mister, I'm a warnin' ya. I need yer hoss and any cash you got."
He moved to the front of the pony took the reins and pointed the gun directly at my balls.
"I said, careful where you point that thing! Higher, at least aim for my chest...."
He did and I took the opportunity to reach down, grab the gun, and disarm him. I tossed the revolver, in my hand, so caught it by the handle, and levelled the barrel at his cute, winsome boyish face.
"I'll kill you for that mister..." and he reached up, grabbed the gun, wrenched my arm and I fell off the pony, and there we were wrestling for control of the fire-arm, me lying on top, him, wrapping his legs around me, and our free hands clasped, interlocked fingers, both fighting for control. It felt likewe were having sex, and my cock got real hard.
We rolled over and over, in the dirt, in the sagebrush, both holding onto the gun, he trying to aim it at me, and me trying to prevent it. Somehow he got me on my back, and the barrel was almost touching my temple. His hat had fallen off and the blond shock of hair stuck out every which way and his face exerted, frowning, showing his teeth like a cougar, so ferocious was his expression.
"God, you're cute, kid..."
His eyes got wilder. and I'd got his wrist turned and the gun was sort of sandwiched between our bodies.
"I'll kill you, mister, I'll kill you..."
"Sweet death indeed..."
"What'cha mean..."
"To die and sleep no more, blown away by a mere wolf-cub"
We kept struggling, this way and that. We fought, though neither good at it, but if he'd been bigger, Id've been done for. As it was, despite the danger, I was enjoying it, his body pressed so close to mine. A bedroom fantasy, real in the outdoors.
"I'll kill you, mister..."
"Please try, this is the best fun I've had..."
"What's up with you mister, you talkin' weird..."
I rolled him over, and ground my boner into his crotch, it was hard to tell if he was getting excited, or not.
"Don't touch me..."
I'd got one hand free.
"That's somekind of something you got there," I said as our bellies contacted, "you half pony, or what...?"
Our hips ground together, though I was supposed to be concentrating on the gun.
Some how his button-down backside flap came undone, it wasn't me, I didn't have a hand free. Twin mounds of melon-peach flesh was exposed, and as we rolled over, I got a glimpse. The gun emerged and pointed up, but he was trying to shove it back at me. His free arm I forced back, and shifted my weight, and I was on top again. I tried to undo the buttons on his front, with my teeth.
"Hey what you doin'?....Oucchh!"
He was in pain, had I hurt him?
"Got a goddam thorn burr in my ass."
I shifted myself. He sorta slid sidewise, I could see the thorn, pricking his pretty butt.
"I'll get it out... no, I think it's the rattle snake..."
"Rattle snake?" he hollered.
"Lemme suck out the poison...."
I removed the burr with a flick of my tongue and then stuck it between his sweet buttcheeks.
"That's not where it hurts...ohhh...."
"We gotta get these longjohns off...I can't quite reach..."
We held a truce, me and the young owlhoot, with our two hands still holding onto the gun, while I got the buttons open and pulled the white cotton to his knees, his dick, was hard, so somewhere he was enjoying. Probably the wrassling, there's nothin' quite like it.
We wrestled, me on top, him below, and the game had begun.
His dick was hard, erect, and his dangly balls, jiggling.
He tried to force me over.
"Gotta suck out the poison," I said as I went down on him, his cock enlarging between my lips.
"Hey, mister, lay offa my dick!"
He held the gun, which got limper in his hand, while I gripped his wrist. His boyflesh in my mouth, and one hand slipping under his butt, pulling his cotton clothing down, and a hand gripped his buttocks, and a finger wedged in his ass-crack.
He fought back.
He tried to get his hand free, with mine, down to my pants.
I helped him, as three or four buttons flew open, and my cock stuck out. We wrassled some more, but he never let go of the gun.
"I'll kill you mister..."
"You been fucked yet,...?" I asked.
"By bigger men than you, asshole."
"But you liked it?"
I could tell by the ways his hips were humping.
"You wanna do it now?"
His finger tightened on the trigger. I took that as a yes. His face was tight, eyes scrunched closed, but his blond eyelashes, flickered. And his trigger finger tightened.
"I'll kill you mister..."
Like a locust, after bodies are enjoined, he'd bite off my head.
"Now?"
"Git it over.., you ass-bandit."
"Bend your legs a little more, or I won't be able to..."
"I'll kill you, for this mister..."
And his hips helped me in.
The sun was scorching, the breeze wafting slow, my dick entered, and the gun went limp. His ass raised high, I bore down, and felt the luscious warmth, of penetration. And still he was trying to shoot me.
First time in anger, he shouldn't've tried to rob me. I'd have given all my money anyway, given him any present, told him any lie, just to get my dick where it was now, gainlfully employes, buried deep in his ass. I could see his belly tremble, sink in, as I got in evendeeper, and he scowled, that turned into a smile, but he saw me looking, so scowled again.
My butt started to twitch as I contacted my gluteal muscles, all in, way in. Neither of us had a hand free, so we had to watch his cock, twitch with no assistance. He forced the gun behind my head, still not letting go, as I drove deeper, humping my ass, trying make him drop the side-arm. His spine arched back, his legs somehow wrapped against my thighs, his heels, urging me on.
All of my cock was inside, it fell in so easily. I started pulsing back in forth, with my hips traversing in wanton arcs.
"I'll kill you for this mister..."
Well, the way his legs tightened, the way he hung his gunhand, the way he watched my grunting with the smile in his eyes, I knew he wasn't kidding. We rolled over in the sand and sage brush, as I let my dick do the walking, in him, outta him, back in, out and then in again, and he gave a muted groan, at every thrust.
I came, with bodies interlocked like a pretzel and I shot a load,so much so that the excess dribbled, soaking his butt.
I took hold of his cock, jerking hard, while I still came up with the last of my shoot.
He'd let the gun go and the trigger guard looped in his finger, as he twirled it, as my mouth, rode him hard, but he still wouldn't come.
"Can't make me mister....not with your mouth, or your hand..."
His hand went rub-adub, on his mansize hardon, grown to the full.
"Have to do it myself...."
And I watched him as he ran his hand hard.
"Now, watch me, watch me...watch me cum...."
And with his legs still behind me, watched him, bring himself to orgasm, and his belly was stained, with milky whiteness. I lowered his legs down, and he pulled up his gun.
"I'll kill you for that mister..."
But he put up his gun.
"You gotta, name, kid?"
"What's it to you?"
"I'm Ethan.....and you?"
"Billy...."
Not....
"You shitting, you're not Billy the K..." I laughed uproariously.
Forgive me, but these things don't happen, not in real life.
I met Billy the kid, yeh, right.
"Billy, huh?" I said, sorta sarcastic.
He froze me to the bone, cause he sounded like he believed it. I pulled my pants up, while he sprawled, his long johns still around his knees, and his belly all liquid fom the puddlings of cum.
"They call me Billy Junior, but most call me J.R."
"Jay Are?"
"S'right."
"No relation?"
"I'm his son fer chrissakes....."
Well, after all my adventures, forgive me for not believing.
"My Pa will be gunning for you when he hears what you did."
Er, excuse me, but William Bonney's been dead for more than ten years. Kid probably reads dime-novels. Maybe not the kind I write, but similar. Ones that give a way a cigar-store Indian as first prize in Western literature contests.
"When Pat Garrett gets to hear, you're prairie-dog meat...."
He looked annoyed, as he pulled back on his long-johns and retreived the black derby. He stood with the stance of a gunfighter, whose cock had tired. He held the gun, and didn't seem to mind when I took it.
"I suppose he'll be jealous...."
"When he hears what you done to me..."
And he laughed when he said that.
I'd left the last sorry, one-ass, town with no regret, and I'd made enough to buy this horse, a short-horse, a sorrel, who's previous rider was a widow who only took him out at the weekends, apparently. I was ready for pastures new, moving West, headed vaguely for San Francisco, where intution told me to go. That and a yearning to join the budding community there, that positively encourages the lifestyle I like to lead. Jeez, I might even get married if the right guy shows up. A big hairy man, that likes to take moonlight walks, and's good to me and good in the sack.
So with directions written out for me, how to get to Farsight, where I heard from a friendly telegraph operator there was a job with a newspaper. I'd gone in to the office to see if the New York office, had read and more importantly, bought the latest butt-fuck story. My editor, a Mr.Omiah Caterwhaul, was a weird old guy way past his prime, and in that garret office of his he showed me a way to spill out my creativity. I'd answerd an ad in the back of his magazine, which I'd found, and the yellow pages, the stories inside had been an eye-opener. So I'd taken the trolley car, climbed the four flights of stairs, and got introduced into the seamy world of sex fantasy. First he got me writing reader's letters, dictated the first few, till I got the hang of it.
I was only seventeen, and had no experience. That changed when Mr. Caterwhaul, invited the pugilist, Fingers O'Toole for a photoÐgravure session. He was big and dumb as an ox, but he was the first man I'd seen completely naked. I took notes, measured his girth, and noted down the names of the important part of the male anatomy, which I would later work to death in fiction. His cock was elaphantine, I wrote, his balls that could've been used in cannons, an abdomen of bricks and mortar, arms and legs completing his manly architecture and had a backside that was mostly muscle, and an ass that smelt of the tropics. Even his bald head and drooping thick mustache was attractive but I was unprepared, but took the plunge when Mr Caterwhaul, ordered me to disrobe, in the dingy studio, and get in front of the camera. I had to lie atop Fingers, and with a few roses strewn on our bodies, the gunpowder flash flared and we were caught on the plate. We had to hold the pose for an entire minute, me with a mouthful, a faceful of Finger's massive cock, and one of Finger's fingers stuck up my ass. I began to like it, and continued the activity even after we'd exposed the last plate.
"No message from New York," said the telegraph operator.
"What? Nothin'?
"Fraid so, youngster, nothin' for Ethan Newell."
I was depressed, no sale, no money, I turned to leave.
"Mr Newell..."
The telegraph guy, hooked a finger toward, looked from side to side to see the place was empty. He whispered in my ear, as he leaned over the desk. He had a vulture face, and looked like he wanted to pick my bones, or offer a layaway plan on my coffin.
"I recognised you... from your picture..."
Oh, shit. They must've found out I was the one who got Johnnie Betts outta jail. I'm wanted. Probably a price on my head.
"With you and Fingers O'Toole..." and he produced that ancient copy of 'Manly Tales for Manly Men; Stories and pictures with homoerotical import. June 1877 issue', and he turned to page 3, where my asshole was clearly on view, then page 17, where Fingers has his dick halfway up my ass, page 25 with my lips on his hardon, and page 45 where you could see my face, dribbling with gobs of Fingers' cum, but my face clearly recognizable. I've put on eight years or so, but you can see it's me, even with my tongue stuck out rolling a stringy bead of milky stickiness.
"It is you, ain't it? Mighty cute looking boy you was, even though you added a few pounds to your gut since then...."
Telegraph guy is one Herb Andenbert, originally from Minnesota, in his late forties, bald on his pate, but furry between his legs, but now stuck out here, and his dick's stuck out, and I have to go down, even though, my heart ain't in it. And he had the nerve to mention, my slight weight addition. He has a pot belly, fat thighs, and a fish smelling cock.
But I'm doing what's required, in case he goes blabbing all over town. They tar and feather guys like me, and that's no turn on.
Just then we hear the door-bell jangle and someone comes in. I'm behind so whoever can't see me in this compromising situation.
I hear Herb, trying to talk straight. I'm not helping, and keep munching on his dick. He pushes my head down, so I can't be seen.
"I want you to send this telegraph to my brother in Mudville, I've kept the word count to a minimum," says a wizened female voice.
"Er.. oh... certainly,...uhmmm....Mrs Hepatitis....uhnnnn..."
"You alright, Mr Alpert? The heat getting to you? .. you're perspiring like a pachyderm..."
I put my tongue tip in his piss slit, and squeeze his balls real tight. I lifted his testicles up and swallowed them like an Emperor ordering peeled grapes or shelled eggs.
"Ohhh,.. t'snothin, ma'am...ookk..I'll send your message straight....unnnfff...away," and starts banging out the Morse code.
"And no misspellings..." says the voice and the bell jangles, and the voice leaves. Herb pulls his cock out, goes limp, his face is red.
He takes his cock out my mouth, and fussily puts it back in his pants. The telegraph raps back. A request to repeat the last message sent. As it was intelligible and full of obscene spellings.
"You better leave...we could try it agin another time..."
I don't think so. But in the next few days he tells me about the newspaper job, and I take off to Farsight, in search of a gainful employment, and a good way to recount that last adventure, and make it worthwhile for someone to read.
Musing thus, Billy made his appearance, waving his gun, running down the ridge, wearing his grandfather's white cotton long-johns. Best fuck since Mudville, but after the event, seems to have enjoyed it as he pulls his old-time long-johns on. My handprints have soiled the white cotton covering his butt.
"Pat Garret and my pop, when they find out you fucked me, well they're gonna kill you mister...."
I'm with a kid, with a sagebrush-smeared bottomed , maybe we spent a week's full of spunk, and he's telling me this weird-ass story. Say's he's Billy the K...well Billy Junior...
"William Bonnney, aka the kid, died long time ago, killed by Garrett, every body knows...."
"They were lovers, the death, a story just to cover up their romance: so much you know of Western ways, Mr Easterner," he says, with a laugh, and God help me I'm beginning to believe.
"He calls hisself Brushy Bill Roberts, now, and he's grown a full beard, and works the farm, milks the cow, and says that he regrets nothing. Didn't make a dime from any of them stories, although Garret gets a royalty, every time they cummup with a new 'un"
We saddled up the pony, I let him get up behind me, snuggling up behind, with his stained underwear, kick my heels and hope the horse has some sense of direction.
"Well, I'll take you back, but if you don't mind, I'll keep the gun," I say as I tuck into the front of my pants.
"Over that hill there's another hill, a plain, a mountain and over beyond, there's home."
I wished I'd known the pony's name. I hadn't bothered to listen, when I'd bought it. But I wished I'd known.
"Giddyap, Sleepy-head," and pressed my heels into its flanks.
"I like it when you talk dirty," said the voice behind my back, as he slipped his hands round my waist, grabbed a hold of my cock.
"That's not the gun," I said.
We rode into the sun as it drowsed sleepily, and took the curtained orange drapes and sucked them down below the horizon.
"We'll be there tommorrow? You promise?" I said as I built the fire.
"It's maybe three hours further, we could do it tonight."
"I'm tired."
"You got any liquor?"
"A bottle of red lizard breath..."
"Gimme some...."
We dined on rabbit, that sadly happened by, as if to say hello, and before it knew it, was served up as spit-braised and we ripped the flesh from its haunches, and fed the hungry.
"You got a sleeping bag?"
"Sure."
"You in the mood?"
"Fer wrasslin'?"
He asked me, and I took him to my bosom, as they say in stories that romance this sorta stuff. He lay gently against my chest and I looked into the soul behind those gray-green eyes. He put a hand on my shoulder as we lay under the sarape, my arm around his back. In the small hollow behind, just a hand's breadth away fom his buttocks.
We looked up at the moon, as the fire died, leaving only embers.
"Lie back on your stomach."
I lay across him, my dick between the muscles of his perfect behind. I put my hands under his chest; he raised his hips. I freed one hand, spat into it, and greased up his butthole with saliva and pushed my way in. Inside him. He groaned a little as I entered.
"I'll kill you for this mister...ohhhh..." I came three more times that night, but he had to do it to himself. I offered to let him fuck me, but he wouldn't.
I took him in the morning, over the hill, to the run-down shack. Where two men worked on a small farm, they were wizened in body and offered me hash breakfast but I said I had to go.
But they insisted on coffee, I saw the poster of Lily Langtry on the wall, the embroidered home-sweet-home. The single queensized bed, the few yellow flowers in a milk urn, strands of chintz, and buffalo skin, and a few Wanted posters of a left-handed gun, but very faded; and I said I had to be off.
I gave Billy Jay Are his gun back, and the bullets with my other hand.
"Thanks fer bringing him back, " said the older of the two.
I gave Billy JR a handshake. Gave him a whisper.
"Get the fuck outta here..."
Guess I missed the opportunity to intervew Mr Pat Garrett; and Billy; but at least I had his kid.