Organization: Arora
The Trial part1/3
by davistrell@aol.com
Tribulation, 1884.
Oh my god, that wasn't a wet dream I had last night. He's still here. That's his hand stroking my penis, trying to wake me up. I better pretend to be asleep. He's stroking from the base to the tip and I'm getting hard. I daren't look. He's blowing warm air up my spine, wants to fuck me again. I've forgotten his name. I've forgotten what he looks like. I think he has sandy blond hair, tied at the back like a pony's tail. How much did I give him? No more than ten dollars, I hope. Must've got way fucked up in the saloon last night. The straw in the barn is scratchy and he's got a finger up my ass, so far he must be able to feel daylight. The place smells of horse sweat and last night's cum.
Got paid finally, check at the Well's Fargo office, and the first thing I do is go into a bar. Heaven help me. Practicing my Spanish, "Hasta La Innuendo!" and go looking for adventure, searching for forbidden fruit. Drank too much tequila, danced the cucharacha with a cockroach trying to avoid a beer-spill on the counter. Guess it's unreasonable to expect anyone drinking when there's work to be done. So I stayed, watching the afternoon sun fall, turn pink, energize itself for a final flowering, before drawing over itself the mantle of night patterned with stars. Waiting for a cowpoke to poke. They'd come. But it would be a while, and my speech had slurred, my head begun to spin, the rest is hazy. I'd had too much to drink.
Rambone is dead. Shot in the back, outside a gin-mill, maybe I could've saved him. It was good while it lasted. Take a while to get over it, but I'll have the memories. Been drinking, trying to remember.
A tongue licked the inside of my ear, grazed my cheek bone as I turned to face my tormentor. But with his tongue buried into to my morning breath sending a buzzing warmth throughout my body, I can't see his face; too close. Supporting himself with his arms I can feel his strong erection skate over my belly, rub against my cock, slither down and a hand pushes his fat cock up and into my upturned ass.
As he pushed in his dick, it seemed to expand and my butthole stretched to accommodate his pulsing, straining penis. He rammed back and forth, in and out like a mighty steam engine.I'm just a slut; any ramrod or saddletramp can encamp in my ass. I start to pump my own cock, jerking off with an energy to match the strangers'. Who'll cum first? It becomes a frenetic race. Is my ass making him mindless as me, ramming his cock into me? Our hips locked together, feeling him entering, foreclosing my mortgage, it doesn't make sense, but I feel an emptiness filled, a pain he can improve on, why doesn't he cum? But as my hand rubs harder, faster as he slows, wanting it to last, to delay; too late, as he erupts, his body rigid, I turn, see his face, with an expression like he'd jumped over a cliff, still mounted on his horse, the long way down to the river, to escape the posse. And as his liquid, stickiness fills my ass, and the overflow dribbles down my bare buttocks, my cock finally belches out its load of pearlwhite juice, and I spray the gushing sperm like a hose and everything gets wet.
Grinning archly at me, with a toothsome smile, beneath the beaver stubbled mustache, a face healthy from the sun's touch, he pulls on his red plaid shirt and dirty blue jeans and pulls on his cowhide colored boots ornamented crudely by a branding iron.
"You're a good fuck, kid. Bin used to having regular horsecock action in that ass'n yours."
Made me remember Rambone. The only cock I ever loved.
"See yer around, kid."
The blonde trailhand, thirty-three year old Texan, five feet eight, weight 145, dark hair, Montana eyes, still drunk from last night; why else would he want me? He saunters out, sunlight breaks through the opening barn door bathing him like an angel, turns, steps outside and disappears; he is gone. Instead of the afterglow of sex you'd expect I felt dissolute and disgusted with myself. It happens so often these days. leaving me with an ungovernable ache, I watch through half closed eyes as he closes the door, not even with a slam, leaving me in my misery, alone among the horse turds and the smell of human dung.
Archimedes Treadwater was advertising for clerical help. I could read and write, and those I could do, both to my advantage. Mostly it was boring, mostly it was filing, but mostly filled the better part of the day. He caught me staring out a window. I'd never seen him mad before. His neck throbbed red, a vein pulsed on his brow, his eyebrows knitted together.
"I don't pay you to moon away the day!"
"Sorry, sir," I murmur, wanting his approval, but he looks at me, with an expression that would curdle milk.
I'd been working for lawyer Treadwater, for three weeks, after answering his ad in the local broadsheet, I was clerking for money; better than dishwashing. Better than writing sodomitic pornography, like I used to. I was gonna turn my life around, well maybe tomorrow. He had but the one office, next to the stables, and invited me in and I got the job. He was handsome for forty or so, as I placed his age. Distinguished but threadbare like his jacket. A high collar around his neck adorned by a silken cravat. From a pince-nez on his nose, dangled a chain in his vest pocket where he stuck in his fingers the other holding his lapel, as if delivering a speech. Haughty, slightly pompous, conversation limited to legalese. But I liked him. But I don't think he likes me.That was my impression when we first met and I don't think it's changed.
The Trial part2/3
by davistrell@aol.com
He showed me the cabinet with the lawyer-thick papers, mortgages and foreclosures, records of horse auctions, the usual horse shit. But when he found I could spell, and was up to the task, he relented, but his manner is somewhat cold.
I'd been working hard on Widower Penniless's mortgage. a task that filled me with shame, the bank wanted the property; it was theirs by default, he'd been moribund since his wife died, let the calves die unborn.
"Have you taken the signatories?"
"No."
He was about to give me shit, when a gunshot broke the ice. He leapt, I traipsed to the window. He seemed excited.
"Looks like they've brought in Johnnie Betts, the young negro tied over that horse, they say he stole that horse, he looks as if he needs my services."
He went to the Jail, I heard the details later.
"He's innocent as Judas, hasn't got a penny, they say they'll hang him."
Archy was exuberant, I hadn't seen that before. Figured out he was a mormon, but maybe he just does have a conscience. I'm impressed.
"He's black of course, makes it twice doubly difficult, but on points of law, we'll treat him as one of our own. If he was Indian, then that would be different, can't trust those those heathen savages, but this man knows God, but we'll have to play that down. Get me Faber vs. Faber, I think that'll work."
I got the heavy tome, written in the labored english, they call the law.
The town was abuzz, with the story, that Johnnie Betts had been caught, brought back to the town, where he'd be hung. Horse stealing, a hanging offense, and Johnnie had stolen the Grey mare, from the Burning-triple-K Ranch. He'd been caught by an over-zealous bounty hunter, who paraded him downtown, tied over the horse's back. The young black, showing defiance in adversity, taken to the gaol and the cage doors slammed shut. The trial date was set and Justice Jospasiah Bedfellow had arrived on the stagecoach and the trial was scheduled to begin.
Archimedes Treadwater had taken the case. Me and him, went over to the hoosegow to interview our client to prepare for tomorrow morning's preliminary hearing. We'd spent the night in the cell going over the handsome black buck's testimony and coached him in what to say. He was literate, and occasionally spoke in religious cliche, which I found endearing, but Archy thought it out of place.
"You claim that the horse had wandered onto your property, and all you were doing was trying to return it to it's owner. You saw the Burning-triple-K brand, so rode across country, and were pounced on Rooster McGorgoun's yahoos and were beaten and sexually invaded, taken back to the bunkhouse and were sodomised, fellated, all against your will?"
"As Jesus is my witness, may he mortify my soul, all I've told you is the god-fearing truth. They plugged my butt with cocks the size of shotguns and made me suck off the others, till it was their turn to rear-entry me!"
I believed him, but the lawyer, Archimedes Treadwater was wary. Usually slippery but this time wary.
"But they have a witness, who says that you are notorious for a willingness for indulging others in unnatural intercourse, that in fact, you have a history, a male prostitute as it were, in fact, taking money for sex. And that you stole the horse in lieu of payment, an act most illegal, as well you knew.
"May I never see the Rivers of Babylon, if I lie! They raped me most unwillingly, and besides, my past has nothing to do with it."
"Enough for impeachment purposes," I volunteered.
Treadwater smiled, I was speaking his language.
"But one bad act matched against another, outweighed by an overbalancing of moral turpitude?"
Would it make a legal defense? Treadwater mused.
"We'll have to have it all in writing, my clerk will take your deposition, while I concoct mitigating circumstances to aid your defense."
So I stayed behind in the jail-cell, writing in his own words, his version of the truth, deleting the references to the Almighty, and adding a few white lies.
Johnnie Betts and me, stayed in the cell, out of eyeshot of the guard, who we could hear snoring, whiskeyed to sleep.
"This could be my last night on God's good green earth, would you requite me my last request, will you stay with me through the night?"
He lay back on the bleak bed-board, pulled down his pants and showed me a blackpurple cockhead, in the beckoning twilight, jail-window shadowed, so I kneeled down and took it in my hand, squeezing so gently, admiring its dimensions. One lone disciple at the altar, worshipping his cock, tasting it in communion, wanting to drink his gooey wine. He lay back as I enjoyed him but he stared through the barred window, staring intently at the night filled with stars. He started humming an old slave spiritual, about a low-hanging chariot, that would apparently come to take him home.
Sucking him off, with the flair of a natural born cocksucker I brought him to orgasm, and let him overflow into my belly, and hung on while his ecstasy intensified, overcome with emotion, sublime.
"Sleep now, it's only a couple of hours before court assembles, I'll see you then."
I left, somewhat sheepish, my tail between my legs, feeling defeat, I'd gone back to the old ways, but determined, I knew in my heart, he was innocent, I was determined; I'd get him off. (to be continued)
The Trial part3/3
by davistrell@aol.com
Court assembled, complete with audience, the gallery full. Local townsfolk, all wanting to see a negro rail-roaded. This was only the prelude. Then would come the neck-stretching, watch the legs dangle, until the twitching stopped. Then they would cheer.We stood as the judge rolled in, as if his gown had hidden a bedroll underneath. We came to attention and seated as the gavel banged down.
The prosecutor, one Everett Homily, his head bald, the skin stretched tight over his narrow head, his speech, a sibilant hiss, outlined the facts, such as they were. The Grey mare, good breeding stock, stolen in the night. Stolen by Johnnie Betts. Identified by five Burning-triple-K ranch-hands. In order, Warren Pierce, Homer Sectial, Brandon Iron, Gopher Broke and last and least, the cook, Happi Go Lucki.
Not one didn't smirk as they gave their evidence.
Betts leapt up, called all of them Liars, and had to be quietened, a gag order round his mouth. Any more, he'd be shackled said Justice Bedfellow, so we did our best to calm Johnnie down.
Justice Jospasiah Bedfellow, portly, greying, undistinguished, kind of a judge that bangs his gavel everytime the defense opens its mouth.
Thank God it was lunchtime, even the hogs need to eat, a recess was called, we had time to think.
"Look, Archy, legal points ain't worth a shit. We somehow spring him, the law ain't worth a damn."
We were back in the room, reserved for the defense, no light, no windows but to me, all was clear. Treadwater spoke in words polemical, judicicious; crafty like a fox.
"We free him, but it's going to be legal. After lunch, I will deliver a defense that'll get me a Supreme Court nomination."
All is bullshit, so thick you can still smell the bull.
I got a derringer. I walk to the holding cell.
"Conference with our client. If you'll allow. Can't talk to him shackled, take those leg-irons off."
They do. I pull my gun, threaten the gaolers menacingly, we walk out of there, without a stain on our character. There's a Bay out there, a motherfucker of a horse, I get in front, Johnnie on back, we get the fuck outta there. We ride hard towards sunset with a posse behind us, but we're way ahead 'cause I've all worked it out.
We enter the badlands, move onto badderland country, we whip the horse hard, she screams until we drive her to a rest-stop.
"D'yer think they'll be following?" says Johnnie, as we take a respite.
"Surely will, they haven't finished hanging you yet."
Why am I doing this? Ruined my career; got to be lots of people's whose lives I can pervert with the law.
"Where we going?"
"How the fuck should I know, all I know is I got your ass outta here, Suggest something."
"Burning-triple-K Ranch."
Last place they'd look.
"Nah, Let's head to Mexico."
He had to explain how bad my geography was, how Mexico was as far away as Eldorado; not in the scheme of things. So we rode hard for three days, west, if my astro-navigational computing of the sun was right, which it wasn't, so we ended up in Lysol, a town that looked that'd it'd gone down the drain.
At least the rooming house was cheap, we rented a room. A place to rest, a place to catch our breath.
"We need to lay low, here."
"For a white guy, you're all right."
He pulled me close to him, and placed the wettest of tongues into my mouth, and we fell to the bed. The bed complained with an outraged squeal.
His head, heavy, his neck, ebony and thin, with a plantation of thick curling black hair, and cruelly short. His forehead broad and high, his nose flat, also broad with wide nostrils, that flared as he breathed fire on my sensitive skin. A large mouth with heavy sesual lips, dripping saliva, that wetted my nipples, and his thick beefy tongue rode down my body, with an enflaming sensation. I writhed, while his arms pinioned me, so I could not escape the beauteous torture. He pulled my arms down to my sides as he got closer, as his head got nearer, as his mouth opened and took my overexcited cock into his mouth. He swallowed me whole. And then didn't move. My cock, imploring, squirmed and then hard suction, his cheeks acting liked a bellows pulled, pumped and pumped. My legs flailed in the air, pointing at the ceiling as he worked harder, and harder. I could see the sweat bead on his muscular back, see the corded muscles, sinews coil, the bumps of his backbone, forced upward through his skin, as he worked harder and harder, till my cock gave up, surrended and sent up a white flag. He let my dick free, spurting as it spurted still, shooting gobs of semen onto his chest as he broke into a broad grin, the ivory teeth flashing with delight.
He looked down at me in the sunny sleep-filled morning and proffered me a hand rolled cigarette.
"Good morning," he said."Did you sleep well?"
So I got laid, but he was missing the point. Wasn't cause I'm into guys, I rescued him, it was the iniquity of justice. Well I got laid anyway. Johnny's lips bruised my lips, bruised my hardon, bruised my ass. In the morning we separated, a big plop, as his dick left my ass. We shook hands, he split. And I was glad he left. How's sex mixed up with the twelve names of God? He never called mine. So I let a black man go free, isn't that what the war was about? I buy the local broadsheet, to see if the news is caught up yet, spend special attention to the dishwashing employment ads. Help wanted. Lord, I need help. Aftermath of religion; you'll excuse me.