"Stagecoach to Laramie"
Part 5
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Part 5
"Let me hold you," groaned Jake with arms out stretched. He wanted Sonny next to him, with their warm flesh touching. Sonny was not sure where this was leading, but was hopeful. "I'll be looking forward to something or other," he quietly thought to himself.
Slater is sexy, "yes," and a cowboy rugged and packed is something to think about with a not so clean mind. Sonny, however, is hotter in a grueling, but sweet way. There is not much thinking with sonny, just doing. It is actually quite uprising, when you compare the two of them.
A man on horseback was approaching the ranch; it was Slater.
"How's my two best friends doin?" chatted Slater, dismounting from his horse. He pushed his hat back on his head adjusting his belt, and letting his crotch move comfortably into place. "Am I in time?" he asked, with a broad smile and charming as if a double-digit "Hottie." He hugged both of them.
"Am I in time?" meant nothing to Jake and Sonny, so they ignored it. Cowboys seldom hugged, they shook hands, but even that was rare. Most of the time, they only nodded and said, "Howdy." However, when these cowboys were alone, they did plenty of hugging, for sure.
Slater hugged Sonny and the nineteen year old, half-breed, felt his ass. The touching impressed Slater coming from Sonny with a nine-inch Indian cock. It perked Slater's interest immensely. Slater looked like a master fucker of women, but was completely homo. With Jake, he was on the bottom, with cock deep inside him, being Jake's pussy whore, imagine that!
Jake saw Sonny touching Slater, and did not give a hoot; in fact, he was not interested right now in sex. Otherwise he would have them both naked in the barn in five minute. Sex was something they did as a trio with no rules and not much of anything other than getting off and never talking about it.
"I'll tell you why I am here," began Slater.
"Because you're a whore, and I'm a slut," joked Jake winking at Sonny.
"No, it's because Slater wants a "peace-pipe" shoved up his ass. Look at brother Slate smiling. Sonny added to the teasing.
"Stop with the funning. I am looking for a driver to go with me by stagecoach from Laramie to Cheyenne in the morning.
"What are you jawing about? You're not a stagecoach driver."
"No, but in the morning I am using a stagecoach from the transport line in Laramie to deliver an order of goods from Pa's store to a dealer in Cheyenne. It will take a couple of days and I need a second driver, in case anything goes wrong. The horses changed at relay stations along the way. Who wants to do it with me? The pay is good, and will put cash in your pocket."
"Hold on – hold on, what do you expect to happen, along the way?" asked Jake.
"Dang, yuh never know. Bandits may think we are caring gold, and the Comanche's may not like a stage crossing their land.
"Jake, you can handle a gun, and Sonny you can speak Comanche. Dang, all three of us should go together. My pa will pay us well.
"Herman won't like us gone for two days from the farm. I don't think so." Jake admitted not fond of bandits or guns either.
"He will be here shortly, we'll ask him. Did I mention no passengers, just the three of us in an empty coach? We have to rest the horses, and who knows what we can do together inside the coach."
"How about if Sonny and I both poke your ass," suggested Jake.
"I don't care, you help on the stagecoach run, and you can do what you want."
"I'll do it," said Sonny.
"I will too," Jake, added rubbing his hand over the front of Slater's crotch. He did have an amazing pecker, and Jake knew how delicious it was for the taking. Sonny knew it also. They were a team.
Herman returned and heard about going to Cheyenne with Slater, he liked the idea of helping wherever they could.
At first light, the three of them arrived in Laramie to load the coach with goods for the Cheyenne run. They quickly had a breakfast of coffee, bacon, taters, and eggs before the coach set out towards Comanche country and onwards to Cheyenne. The Comanche were at peace, and the territory of Wyoming was expecting to become a state soon. They did not anticipate trouble along the way; it was mainly cowboy talk.
Slater drove the team for the first group of miles before resting. He went at a slow pace making it easy on the team. They were close to having a change of horses, and could have continued, but Slater had other ideas.
All three had been in the driver's seat. Sonny was in the middle banked by two familiar hot cowboys. Slater often rubbed Sonny's leg, and Jake's hand feeling his crotch at the same time. The young man was constantly aroused and suffering in silence. His cock was trying to escape with no place to go, but ooze sweetness in his underwear. Yuh, Comanche pecker oozing sweet pecker sauce, and Jake couldn't stop thinking about it.
There was a small stream close to the road. The horses smelled the water and stopped. This was perfect. The horses could drink and rest. They could sit by the stream for a few minutes and stare at the water. It sounds logical, but hardly true. Nobody was interested in staring at the water.
Sonny leaned against a tree with Slater and Jake on either side of him. They had a threesome arrangement all morning except now, no one was driving. Slater and Jake took turn kissing Sonny and groping him. This meant only one thing, the Comanche feast of San Pueblo, was about to happen. They had his pants off and licking his hunky dark pecker, sticky and leaking over plump, dark hairy balls, smelling like an animal, and dry piss, was ravishing.
Don't shudder – it was intoxicating flesh that cowboys considered hot. A sign of the times, in 1890, where everybody smelled nearly the same.
They licked his thighs, his balls, choking on nine inches of cock and breathing in a bouquet of wildness, difficult to explain. However, when Sonny shot off, his cum was sweet as honeysuckle nectar. They shared it like the pigs they admitted to being. Sonny washed his cock in the stream and went back to the stage waiting for Jake and Slater. They were right behind him ready to move on to the relay station, about a mile ahead.
"I'll drive," said Sonny. "You homos can play with each other," then he laughed. Sonny, always serious, rarely laughed, this was a good sign.
Sonny and Slater rode up on top the last mile and Jake rode inside the coach. Sonny did the driving and Slater went into his tough-man cowboy act. The relay station was just ahead.
"Howdy partners," said an elderly gent greeting the stagecoach as they came to a stop at the relay station.
"Where' Toby today" What is this, a special run? I didn't expect the stage until tomorrow."
"Yup, I'm Slate Racker, my pa owns the mercantile in Laramie, and we are delivering merchandise to the Chong Company in Cheyenne. This here is Sonny, and the feller stepping from the coach, is Jake. We work in Laramie.
"Good to meet you fellers. There is coffee and stew on the stove inside, go on in and help yourself. I'll have the team changed in no time."
Sitting on an old wood bench in front of the relay station were two elderly Indian braves. Sonny knew immediately, they were Comanche. He stopped to speak to them in Comanche. The old gents beamed seeing a young Indian lad, although dressed like a white man, thoughtful enough to speak to them, in their native tongue.
Sonny said he was "Summer Cloud." They were tired and hungry, from walking back to Comanche territory from Laramie, trying to get home. No person would give them a ride, for fear of going near a Comanche camp. So there they sat, frightened and scared, not to mention hungry. The station master said they could rest for a while, but they had no money for food.
Sonny translated Comanche into English for Slater. Jake brought them inside, to give them something to eat. Slater paid the bill, and the station keeper served stew since stew was the only thing he had.
When they left, the two elderly Indians went with them riding in the stagecoach. They had to go through Indian Territory, so Sonny wanted to bring them back to their tribe.
At the time, Indian Territory was off limits to white settlers according to the treaty. Only Indians, allowed to hunt and fish on Comanche land. However, just passing through, was accepted. Nevertheless, a wagon or stagecoach was sometimes stopped by renegades and harassed, even robbed.
They saved seventeen miles taking a shortcut through Comanche land, and Slater intended to do just that. Their next rest stop was well into Indian Territory. When they did stop to rest the horses, a hunting party of Comanche Indians, surprised them.
The hunting party was friendly. The two elderly Indians were happy beyond belief. At last, they could get home with the hunting party...
Sonny had spoken more Comanche in those few hours than he had spoken for years. He was still sharp however, remembering what he learned as a young boy. ********
They three of them were alone once again and camped out overnight. Jake slept inside the coach against a wooden crate of merchandise. Slater stretched out on top of the stagecoach covered with a blanket. Sonny, curled up on the driver's seat using an empty rolled up potato sack for a pillow. This was luxury accommodations. Without the stagecoach, they would be sleeping on the rocky ground with crawling insets, bugs, lizards, and even snakes, for company.
The night passed slowly for Jake. He was not comfortable inside the coach unable to stretch out his long legs. His thoughts travelled back to Slater and Sonny. His pecker was hard thinking about them being so close, and yet, so far away.
Jake, a handsome hot dude, had many chances for sex (mostly straight) at his disposal; yet he wanted to be in the arms of the two cowboys sleeping on top of the coach. He would tease Sonny about being part Comanche; however, Sonny was actually a genuine Laramie cowboy. Manliness was how one looked straight. However, like animals in the wild, you couldn't fool another gay cowboy.
Slater, near perfectly put together, was keen on everything. His favorite thing was getting butt fucked with any size cock. Looking at him, Slater was tough. "Who knew?"
The next morning, the Stagecoach from Laramie, rolled into Cheyenne to the crowing of the town's rooter. The sun was coming up and it was going to be a hum dinger of a day – Yass sir, a real hum dinger.
To continue...