Organization: Arora
Stagecoach.part 1/3
by davistrell@aol.com
Well, finally got out of Mudville and was heading west, on a rumbling stage-coach. Scraped up enough dough for the fare. The three passengers equally uncomfortable, sitting beside me, all of us scrunched up way too close for comfort. Me, next to a disgusting fur-trapper who smells like he hasn't bathed in a decade with teeth the color of rust, and across on the other seat, a fat myopic banker reading Brett Harte stories, next to him a prim teacher/spinster masquerading unsuccessfully as a femme-fatale. Needless to say I'm staring out the window, looking at a never ending prairie, the clouds hanging low with their underbellies tinted salmon-pink. Letting my imagination drift and conjuring up my next fantasy jerk-off story. I've got my notebook in my lap, concealing my hand-clasping dick and the bouncing stagecoach is providing the necessary good feeling. Gotta come up with stories, to send back to New York, for the butt-fuck magazine I free-lance for. Manstuff for the few who read this stuff, aloud for a bedtime companion, or for those who don't get none or for those who can't get it up. Not impotent, just lonely. Gotta come up with a plot. I need a hero, in more ways than one.
My mind turned back to the last stop we made, where that cute tenderfoot dentist disembarked. He'd saved his money and was gonna set up business here in Pronto and is convinced the West is ready for the latest technological developments in oral surgery. I helped him down with his bags, offered to carry one, as the driver told us we'd be here forty-five minutes to feed the horses. He told the spinster she could use the stage-office water-closet, but you other guys go to the out-house out back. A communal trench was our pissoir and an evil smelling hole constituted the facilities. The dentist looked disgusted and said we should go to the hotel and he'd check in, and we'd use whatever they had available. As I'd been so helpful, he'd let me freshen up in his room; if I wanted. I followed him, watched the stares he was getting. His red derby hat, the loud check suit, totally out of place. Lean and lanky, all of twenty-eight and ginger haired, wire-rimmed spectacles and a nervous way of talking. He signed in, and I followed him up creaky threadbare carpeted stairs, to the second floor, down the dark corridor.
He unlocked the door, and we put down the bags. The room was clean, well lighted, a single bed the centerpiece dominating the single chair and dresser. I sat back on the bed and watched him wash his hands and face from the china water-jug and basin. He turned and it appeared he'd got soap in his eyes and squinched them as if blinded. His hands searched for a towel, and found my pants front instead. His hands explored, he looked puzzled at first, but broke into a smile as he recognized the warm friendly cock that he found there. His hands admired the shape and form of my erection as I opened my pants, the heel of his palm brushed the bulbous cockhead, his fingers curled around the shaft, gripped and fondled like embracing a long-lost friend. He knelt down and his fingers continued to explore, and found my sperm churning balls.
I slipped my trousers to my knees, taking his hand away momentarily, put it back, so skin could feel skin. Still soapy-eyed he leaned forward, opened up his mouth, my cock slipped in, my hands cradled his head as he went down on me, his tongue folded around my hardon. I held onto his head, to assist him giving me my blow-job, so that he'd do it right. Pushed his head back and forth, in a rowing motion, me the row-boat cox-swain. It could have gone on much longer, but I heard the shout of "All aboard!" and so came as fast as I could cum. I grabbed the towel, wiped myself, gave it him and rushed out, buttoning up and resumed my seat on the stagecoach. He waved goodbye, a face in the upstairs window. Hope he doesn't get too lonesome. I should've stayed, but my money's running low.
Yes, I think I could turn that into a short story, but of course I'd have to change it around, write it, making the dentist a burly hairy mountain-man and it all had happened in the outhouse, more action, and that I'd blown him. I know my readership; they like that kind of stuff; who wants to read about tenderfoots getting it on?
I looked around at my companions, who had puzzled expressions on their faces, and I blushed and pushed my erection down with my notebook. I continued to write in my secretive spidery writing.
"There's two "L"s in "fellatio," the teacher/spinster whispered in my ear, her hand covering her mouth. I took another look, what else had she read, upside-down?
For a woman, her face was plain, angular rather than curved, her forehead flat, eyebrows a trifle bushy, her figure strong, though boyishly slim. Her eyes twinkled, though difficult to read, on account of the netting that hung from the brim of her coquettish cap.
"What are you writing, young man?" said the portly banker. His hat a squashed stovepipe, his face ruddy from alcohol, jowls that would have looked good on a hog, and an irritating voice that he thought ingratiating. Could've gone in to politics, and been an eminent success.
"Oh, ...er, ...just a travel journal," my evasive reply.
"I'd be honored to read it, if you'd allow; Hangnail's the name, Horatio Hangnail. Maybe we should introduce ourselves, as we're all travelling together on this "Ship of Fools". Young lady, you go first."
She put her hand under my book, slid up my thigh and held my dick with a manly caress. It seemed to give her confidence.At her lap was a rising protruberance that seemed to be inappropraiate on a lady.
Stagecoach.part 2/3
by davistrell@aol.com
Miss Bentfeather told us her name, with a tone that was unusually low, with a masculine timbre. Clarissa Bentfeather, on her way to Wyoming, promised to a widower who owned a ranch, with three young children that needed a mother. Her face partially covered with that veil draped from the petite hat, her throat was covered with a cameo brooch, her hairline bunched up, her shoulders square but covered with a shawl, her jaw powdered heavily, her hands gloved and the perfume she wore smelled more like rubbing alcohol. A long taffeta dress and a fetching powder-blue bodice covered the rest, the bosom big, but could've been padded, especially if she wanted to impress the widower, but a pair of men's riding boots, Spanish leather with broad French heels popped out from under her skirts.
"Two hours more and we'll be in Roughshod, let me buy you all dinner, and later, if you're not adverse, young man, you can read me your journal in my bedroom," said the piggy banker, the last person I'd want to get the invitation from. And I wished he'd take his fucking hands off of my knee.
To pass the time, it was suggested we sing "The Streets of Laredo", but thankfully nobody remembered the words. It was all fits and starts and no-one could carry a tune if their life depended on it.
We ignored the fur-trapper but he joined in anyway.
"Frrrrt-snzzzz-Frrrrt," he snored in his grizzly-bear way.
An hour or so later, we arrived in Roughshod. The driver, a handsome man called Sam, directed us to the saloon/hotel. I decided to get my own room, but would allow Banker Hangnail to pay for dinner, and freshened up. Ethan Newell, writer, fucking handsome; least I think so. Need someone to agree. I look in the mirror, see the scar from the chalk-board eraser, that my teacher had thrown at me, for not paying attention. The dark eyelashes that were bedroom long, the mouth generous, and the pale skin that need more sun, the body , upper part undeveloped, got muscles, somewhere. Waist trim, something you could easily wrap your arms around, hips a pelvic Pandora's box. So I'm blond, doesn't make me stupid; so I can't grow a mustache: I tried. But my eyes, look in my eyes, there's a something; you'd fuck me, or I might fuck you, dependent on the circumstances. All you need is a dick, and a virulent charm. Hangnail don't got it, no way. No way. Bentfeather maybe.
The hotel, "Dead Milkmen", an odd choice for a name, was spacious, full of Western charm. Jackaloupes were mounted on the wall, rabbits with stag horns; polished wood, brass fittings, sawdust on the floor. I said "Hey" to the locals at the bar, who seemed to be hard of hearing, and ordered a saspirilla with a big splash of whisky. Three cowhands, fingers shaped like udders, a grizzled trail-hand and a guy with a drinking problem. Excellent company.
The bartender, who looked as if one-time he could have made it onto a Wanted poster but had ran to fat, poured me my drink with an insouciance only bartenders understand, used to a more sophisticated clientele, 'cause he spat in my glass before he wiped it and poured me my drink. I asked about the painting of the nude trollop behind the bar, was told it was a genuine Mapplethorpe, some fruit from England, which surprised me, in New York he was famous, maybe if you turpentined off the top layer of varnish, you'd find a sexy hung youth underneath the top paint layer.
I sidled up to the best looking guy in the bar; ended up looking at the mirror again, when a loud voice announced that Hangnail the banker had arrived. Polite, I went to the checker covered table, sat and watched Miss Bentfeather swishing down to join us. If she was a woman, then I'm heterosexual. She'd changed into a skimpy little number, that showed her assets to best advantage. We ordered soup. Soup de yesterday, well that's what it tasted like. Flavor of cock-roach, but I need the meat.
If you like men who wear dresses, you would have approved of Bentfeather, his ass was shapely, and I swear I could detect a glimmer of a bulge at the point where his thighs met. After the initial pleasantries were dispensed with, his hand slipped under the table, stroking my thigh, getting higher, feeling my crotch, sampling the family jewels. If you like fat guys, you still wouldn't have liked Hangnail, even if you have sugardaddy fantasies. His conversation, like his halitosis was full of innuendo, and not good innuendo at that.
He hung on my every word as I told a bull-shit story, stolen from Poe, about the murder in New York, that as a journalist I had helped solve. They got interested, I liked the interest, especially Clarissa's.
Does Bentfeather have a dick? I hoped so. I was beginning to explore, when a cowhand sauntered over. Not bad looking for a cowhand, and asked Bentfeather to dance. Someone fired up the nickelodeon, it seemed appropriate, and she acquiesced. Slut! Secretly I hoped the cowhand was a dyke in drag; that'd show her. But the way he held her in the clinch, the way he slobbered over her, the way his trousers were tented, showed he was either going to have an evening of bliss or we'd be picking up a bloody ex-Bentfeather later.
Hangnail moved into her chair, sat like she'd been sitting, put his hand where hers had been before, doing what she'd being doing but without the elan. I got up rapidly, knocking my meat and potatoes into Hangnail's lap.
I got angry. They don't call me the Marshmallow Kid for nothing. I left cursing, jealous. I scurried across the dining-room and searched for the bathroom. I did the macho thing, missed, and urinated on the floor, I hadn't even bothered to raise the seat, I was that pissed off. The green-eyed god had got me in it's thrall.
When I got back, much to my surprise, Hangnail was dancing with the cowhand, trying to clutch the cowboy's rear end, who kept lifting the hand up to the waist. Bentfeather gone.
Stagecoach.part 3/3
by davistrell@aol.com
I ordered another drink and toughguy that I am, asked for whisky, forget the fucking saspirilla and give me extra bartender spit.
When the cowhand started frenching Hangnail, I had to leave. I went upstairs, vaguely looking for my room. The door was slightly ajar. The room was full of Bentfeather, naked, finally revealed in all its glory. I closed the door behind me, trying to look suprised.
His eyes, smokeish-grey. He'd let his hair down, raven black, down around his shoulder's like an Indian brave, without the sun-tan. His chest, flat but muscled, his nipples rouged, his abdomen washboarded, his loins covered with a wispy sheet. I was still being tantalized. A gentle river of hair ran down his torso, with tributaries swirling, finishing in a blackhair whirlpool, peeking out. His arms out lying on the pillows like he was being crucified, his face turned partially away, his armpits full of hair, his shoulders raised in an imploring "hold me" pose, knees raised open pulling the bed sheets up in a diaphonous fold.
"Should I go back to my room?" he asked with a pouty expression.
"Nah," I said.
I took off my jacket, slipped thumbs under my suspenders, undid my fly, pulled down my pants and climbed on the bed, cock pointing forward like a hunting dog. On my hands and knees, straddled over his covered legs, tongue sticking out, panting. He pulled me toward him and kissed me hard on the neck, high, just under the ear. He nibbled my earlobe, put his arms around my body and hung tight. My shirt came off, my hand went to the sheet and pulled it back.
Oh, yes. Bentfeather has a dick! A pretty dick, a boyish dick, an erect dick, a dick I could get my mouth around. A tasty dick. The bed squeaked, and a little moan escaped from his lips, as my hand gripped and stroked. His cock-head went in in easily between my lips as I glided down, as every muscle of his body reverberated with pleasure. His head sank down deep into the soft pillows, closing his eyes, opening his mouth, raised a finger to his teeth and bit hard on a knuckle as his hips raised up, so I almost swallowed his dingle balls too. As I sucked my damnedest, his arms over his head, he started to gyrate like a snake-woman, caught in the throes of a pagan dance. Somehow he rolled both of us over, so now I was underneath. He gripped the iron-bedstead bars and started fucking my face, all lithe and supple, raising his ass high, rapidly bringing it down with an obsessive repetition. Guttural noise escaped from his throat like a Hopi medicine man, doing the rain dance. The folds of his belly, opening and closing like an accordion. His black hair waving and tossing like the mane of dervish, until all of a sudden, not unexpectedly, BentFeather came, climaxing copiously in my mouth. Still gripping hard to the bed rail, but caught in a frozen moment, the only movement now coming from his dick as it throbbed, shooting and spurting, tasty liquid, viscous and overflowing, heap big medicine. When he was done, spent, emptied, and I'd finished swallowing, he moved down beside me, kissing my body, trying to be everywhere at once. Finally calmed, he gave a languorous sigh, escaping with a hiss of a tired locomotive.
I used my best line. Couldn't think of a better, in the circumstances.
"You. Fuckable you."
"Do you mean it?" He was positively purring in delight at the prospect. He looked at my hardened cock, and knew he'd met Prince Charming.
Bentfeather offered up an ass, pretty as picture, two curvaceous half-domes covered with peach-fuzz, bathed in the evening light streaming in through the gauzy curtains. My hands moved to hold the mounds of his buttocks, where at the vee shape at the top where they started to separate, below the sacrum, lay a bead of sweat. I licked it up, letting my tongue track down the valley, into the canyon, as my head fell in between butt-cheeks, my tongue slipped into his moistened butt-hole and Bentfeather spread wide. But not as wide as a woman, his hole looked too small, too tight, too shy. His hand went to the bed side table and passed me a small jar of Dr. Ezekiel's elixir jelly and I lathered my dick with it. The jar was almost empty, and I used it all up, applying the rest on BentFeather's now eager hole. This close up I recognized the ancient symbol, used as a motif on many a bed-blanket. Especially those of Navajo origin.
The elixir made it possible to slide my dick in easily and start it's short journey northwards. A seductive groan broke from his lips as I entered, leaning forward, breaching the dark inner doorway, crept through the tunnel walls, rock hard, embedded in the shrine of his sacred temple, as he felt the pink and blue-veined pillar spear-thrust delve into his bowels. He called me bigboy and I liked how that sounded. I'd never been compared to a stallion before; I found it encouraging and I behaved like a mustang in heat. I was his bedroom rodeo-romeo. His thighs stretched behind, clamping onto mine, as my hands held hard onto the small of the his back, hands spreading round his strong waist, riding with no saddle, needing no spurs to urge him on, he answered my every movement like a well trained steed. I buried my cock deep inside his ass, feeling his insides, clenching tight, wanting to hold me there, me refusing, he wanting me to to drive in deeper. I shoved up, pushed up, like a javelin thrower working on my swing, practiced throws, again and again, until I was ready to release, emitting a gush of sticky white goo inside and I grabbed all of him, immobilized, in a lover's headlock, my dick shooting, spurting, his ass twitching, churning, greedily taking all my cum. He squirmed, writhed under me, trying to escape, trying to stay. It felt so good I came again. He shuddered, I came again, until my testicles were drained and aching.
We lay together, two sleepy panthers, I stroked his belly, sticky from his own ejaculation. I kissed him all over his face, throat, chest, belly, crotch, like a mountain-lion, washing its young.
"Clarissa..."
"Call me Chuck in private, but Clarissa in public, and when you've had time to re-load that six-shooter of yours, promise you'll use me as target practice again."
Didn't get a wink of sleep all night.
On the stage the next day I was wondering how to relate the events of last night, and how best to change it into a rip-snorting sex story, acceptable to my readers, when I glanced across at bloodied Hangnail. Somewhere in his pain, he managed to give me a smile, even a tip of the hat. The Fur trapper snored, Miss BentFeather looked prissy, and I stared out at the never ending prairie, my notebook covering my lap.