Cowboys Page 5

  He held me at the hips, his grip gentle, everything about us quiet, serene as the forest. I noted birds calling, the sun upon us. It made me quite happy. As Abel righted himself, he reached around to feel for me and found my hard cock. “You’re up again,” he said, and with that he worked me much as I did myself when there was nobody around to fuck. His prick had softened a bit inside me but still remained, and I squirmed on the thing while he pulled on my cock. Minutes later, I felt the wonderful rise and issued new spurts into the water. They floated to the surface, little white dots surrounding us. After Abel emptied me, he played with my prick and laughed at the gobs of spunk in the water.

  When he let me go, we waded to the middle of the stream and did our washing. He was a sight to behold, thick dark fur all up his front from cock to shoulders, formidable thighs and arms. I decided then and there he was the very man I had imagined so often.

  When he caught me looking more than bathing, he chuckled and came over and washed me. He seemed to appreciate having his hands on my body. He spent considerable time cleaning my cock and balls, then turned me around and bent me forward to wash my bottom. I felt his fingers on my buttocks then up and down my crack. He parted me, and I knew he was looking at my hole. His finger poked at it then pushed in, and he worked me a bit. “Fuckhole,” he said. “I’m going to get into you again before we go back to the others.”

  I didn’t think an older man would be up to having another fuck so soon after the first, but Abel wasn’t an ordinary man. I couldn’t tell his age but ventured him to be past thirty-five, such were his worldliness and the lines on his face. He might be twice my age, I thought as he continued to work my hole. I had turned eighteen not three months before, but I found I liked his being older. I felt a security in it, even in the midst of a gang of robbers. I knew that whatever adventures we faced, he’d look out for me.

  Abel withdrew his finger, and when I turned I saw his cock was up again. “I’ll fuck you on the shore,” he declared, and led me to a tree where he had me bend over and grasp it. He mounted me from behind while he stood.

  This time the fuck was a long one. He thrust steadily in and out of me for a good while, gripping me at the waist as he drove his cock deep inside. Sometimes he pushed all the way in and held fast, then grinded against me for a bit, and this I truly enjoyed, his big thing working around inside my passage. Then he’d resume his stroke. On occasion his prick popped out, and he rode it up my crack, rubbing on me before driving it back inside my hole. All these things worked him up, and I could tell he was trying to draw more up out of his balls.

  My hole was raw when he finally spurted inside me. My legs ached, my bottom was sore, but Abel seemed unfazed by his effort. Then his spunk arrived, and he let out a yell unlike his earlier roar: a cry of great relief, as if he were pleased not only with the feel of the cum but that it had at last arrived. He pushed into me hard as he spurted and kept at it even when his stuff stopped coming. I think he didn’t want the fuck to end, but it did at last and he withdrew. I turned to see him covered in sweat, his fur glistening in the sun, his great cock hanging between his legs. Without a word, he ran to the stream and jumped in.

  When we returned to the house, his brothers offered no comment. Abel suggested they go to the stream to bathe, which they did. I suspected he wanted me alone with him.

  We settled at the table, and he set to cleaning his gun. I thought of my own weapon but didn’t take it up as it brought to mind the bad turn my life had taken. Instead I watched Abel. After he’d finished, he took out a map, which he studied for some time.

  “There are banks in Ellsworth and Hays City we haven’t robbed,” he told me. “In a few days we’ll set out for one. You can ride along and take part.”

  Until then I hadn’t considered the next robbery, and I reminded myself that I wasn’t an outlaw. I didn’t want anyone’s money, for I knew firsthand of the hard work required for a day’s pay. I considered telling Abel this, but he went on about his plan, and I knew he had no idea toward anything but his own way. I told myself I had no choice, that my shooting the clerk meant there would be no other life for me. I was fortunate to be taken up as I had. So when we rode into Kansas to rob the bank at Ellsworth, I went along.

  Abel made use of me each day with a good hard fuck and sometimes did it twice. He also sucked my prick a good deal. It became his practice to get at me in bed each night, but sometimes he did it early in the morning as well, awakening with his cock hard and making use of it. Other times he caught me bathing or in the barn or simply got out his cock for a quick one when he happened upon me most anywhere. The brothers often saw us, and when they did they went their own way although young Jacob lingered a bit one time, rubbing his crotch as he looked on.

  So I was much fucked and happy, but then came the trip to Ellsworth. I would’ve rather stayed behind but knew not to ask, as such a thing was a woman’s way. Abel charged me with watching over the horses while the others committed the robbery. I took this to be his understanding that I was no real outlaw. I was pleased to ride with him, but my innards cramped up as I thought about the robbery.

  The three brothers entered the bank, and I heard Abel shout, “Throw up your hands,” then nothing more until Samuel and Jacob rushed out with sacks of loot. They mounted their horses, and we waited. Then came a gunshot, and my heart sank. A moment of agony passed until Abel dashed out and leapt onto his horse. And then we were off.

  As before, we rode steadily to Missouri. We made camp at dusk and later that night Abel took me some distance from the fire, put down a blanket, and had him a good fuck.

  It wasn’t until his cock went up me that I felt at peace. The robbery had brought up a strong fear in me; I detested the danger Abel craved, hated the idea he might be lost to me. I felt alone and scared until he put his prick inside me. He was rough and quick, and I knew it had to do with his outlaw ways, but I only cared that he was fucking me. I spurted while he ground into me. When he spent his own load, it was with loud grunts, and I felt his seed warm in me.

  After Abel pulled out and rolled me over, he took my cock in his mouth and sucked until I hardened again and burst forth with new spurts, which he gulped down. After he sucked me dry we lay alongside each other. In my comfort I grew bold enough to tell him my confession. “I’m no bank robber,” I said. “Even as I hold the horses I worry after you. I’ve become very attached and would hate to lose you.”

  “Would you go free instead?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to leave you. Besides, I’m now a wanted man.”

  “You could be free of it, go west, change your name.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  Abel went silent, and I thought I’d gone too far. Listening to his breathing, I hoped he understood. He said no more but put a hand to my thigh, which told me all.

  In the morning he didn’t fuck me. We rose with the sun and rode home, reaching the house at midday. He didn’t say a word until he declared we would bathe. He took a blanket, and we went upstream.

  Abel stripped naked and went into the water, ignoring me, it seemed. Uncertain, I stripped and waded in, cock limp. He washed himself and so did I. He pulled on his cock as if to encourage the thing. I approached him, turned, bent, and parted my buttocks to invite him in. He obliged, and as his prick had grown hard, he put it inside me.

  Standing in the water, we fucked for all to see, and once again I knew happiness. I thought he did too, that he might like his robbing but he liked his fucking more. As he thrust in and out, he reached around and took hold of my now-hard cock, pulling at it while he fucked. As I unloaded my spunk, I cried out and his thrusts grew urgent. Then he issued great long spurts into my passage.

  Afterward, we lay in the water and he played his hands over the whole of me. I saw in his eyes that he loved me, but I knew a man couldn’t say such a thing to another man. So I took comfort in his touch. He rubbed me gently, poked and prodded some. He massaged my titties until they grew hard, then got
a hand under me and put a finger up my hole. He seemed content to have it in me, to take his time. I knew he wanted to fuck again.

  The sun was nearly down when he grew ready. He had me on a blanket on the shore and put two fingers inside me. His cock stood erect, but he still played with me, taking my balls in one hand while he prodded my hole. “I would have you with me always,” he said, and my heart leapt, for this was a true declaration.

  “I would be with you always,” I replied.

  With that he rolled me onto my stomach and gave me a long fuck.

  The day of reckoning came in Newton, Kansas, some months later when shots were fired inside a bank during a robbery. I held the horses and waited, fear choking me. Barely able to breathe, I saw Abel tumble from the door, but the others didn’t follow. He had no loot in hand. “Ride,” he told me, as he climbed into his saddle. When I looked at the bank, he said, “Samuel and Jacob are dead,” and rode away. I could only follow.

  During the night, we reached Missouri but didn’t stop. At dawn, when we arrived at the house, Abel appeared grief-stricken. We dismounted, but he didn’t go into the house. Instead he stormed about, beset with a pain so great, an anger so immense I didn’t dare come near him. He drew his pistol and fired it until it was empty, then tossed it away. After this he quieted, slumped to the ground, and I went to him.

  He crouched in the dirt, and when I put a hand to his shoulder, he grabbed me and pushed me onto my back. He climbed atop me and humped as if having a fuck. He swore and said all manner of foul things, which I knew not to take to heart. I started to undress him, and when he saw me agreeable to his need he stood and stripped naked then and there. I did likewise, saw his hard cock, and knew his pain had settled where he might make use of it. So I got on all fours, and he mounted me from behind in the dirt.

  It was a rough fuck but a good one, his only solace for his great loss, and when his cum released inside me he roared like a wounded animal. After he finished, he pulled out and staggered to his feet, going about the place naked like a madman. I managed to corral him and get him into the house, where I put him to bed. I brought him whiskey, which he drank until sleep came.

  Abel slept the entire day then awakened at night. He came out of the bedroom stark naked, dirty, and coarse, still in the grip of pain. “Drop your britches. I’m in need of a fuck.”

  I bared my bottom, and he took me standing as I leaned over a chair. His thrust was steady, and I knew he’d need plenty of fucking in the days ahead as it was his sole comfort. It took him time to spend, surely the result of the liquor and fatigue, but at last he grunted and emptied into me. Then he left me to go upstream to wash.

  Two days passed before Abel would talk to me about the failed robbery and loss of his kin. We ate and slept and fucked. Nothing more. But as a third day dawned and he started to put his cock inside me while we were in bed, I turned to face him. “You told me once I could change my name, go west, and become free. You could do the same. We could buy a ranch with our robbery money. I know that life and you can surely learn. We can have a new beginning, but I fear if we stay here it’ll drive you mad. Take the memory of your brothers and go with me to California.”

  “Roll over.”

  “There’s a time to fuck and a time to talk. You’ve had fucking for two days. Now you must talk.”

  Abel shut his eyes, and I knew he resisted all because he wasn’t a man of words. He reached for me again, and at first I pulled back, then saw it wasn’t sexual. He put his arm around me and held me close, and as I felt a shudder pass through him, I had my answer.

  1 A.M. COWBOY

  Simon Sheppard

  So you who hate the USA,

  You commies, atheists, and gays,

  You’d better run, startin’ today,

  ’Cause me and God are on our way.

  There was a tremendous roar from the audience, stamping and whistling and clapping, a tumult that quickly morphed into an earsplitting chant of “U-S-A…U-S-A.”

  Who’d have imagined, thought the Stetsoned man in the spotlight, that L.A. was so full of Christian conservatives? So full of MY people?

  Across town, and an hour or two later, Harry Deering hopped out of a taxi and, ignoring what he at least imagined was the supercilious sneer of the uniformed doorman, pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and checked the room number.

  The heels of his cowboy boots clicked on the highly polished floor as he headed across the lobby toward the bank of elevators. He was familiar with the place. He’d been there, more than once, to service a Scientologist superstar who was cheating on his new wife. He knew that, as little as he felt he belonged there, if he kept going, looked like he knew what he was doing, nobody, no one at all, would stop him to ask, “Hey, aren’t you a goddamn hustler?”

  He picked up the phone beside the elevators and punched in the room number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s Brett,” said Harry. “I’m on my way up.”

  “Brett? Oh, yeah. Okay. C’mon up.”

  The coast was clear. Harry felt excited as the elevator headed to the penthouse floor. It was stupid, he knew that, but just being in the presence of conspicuous wealth still had an effect on him. Didn’t matter how many times now he’d fucked millionaires’ asses—money gave him a hard-on. Which made him perfect for his job.

  There was a knock. Craig McCormack looked through the peep-hole, then opened the door. Well, the kid was a little overdone, no doubt about it. He’d ordered up a cowboy from the agency, but this boy was sheer Joe Buck: hip-slung jeans, embroidered boots, white cowboy hat, and—God help us—a fringed buck-skin jacket. But serviceable. Nicely handsome face, a little on the rugged side, but something boyish about it, too. The kid was, in fact, fuckable. Nice and fuckable.

  “C’mon in.”

  Harry felt a little thrill of recognition. Wasn’t that…? Yeah, it was. He was damn near sure, though the singer was shorter than he looked on TV. His last single, “Me and God,” had rocketed to the top of the country charts. Craig McCormack. That guy was worth money, plenty of it. And he was married, to that soap actress, what’s-her-name. Not that Harry would ever blackmail someone—the thought never even crossed his mind—but if he was discreet and played his cards right, this could become a regular gig, like spanking the Scientologist. Big tips. Big money. His uncut dick snaked down his denim-clad leg.

  “C’mon in,” the man said. “I’m Sam.” Harry wondered whether McCormack figured he hadn’t been recognized, whether he just hoped so, or whether he knew Harry had clocked him but expected him to play along. Maybe any of that. Harry was good at hiding his emotions, and that talent had served him well.

  “Thanks.” He consciously drawled it.

  “What was your name again?”

  “Brett.”

  “Drink?”

  “Whatcha got…Sam?”

  “Whiskey? That’s what I’m drinking.”

  “Sure, rocks.”

  McCormack kept an eye on the boy as he poured him a drink. Brett, or whatever his name was, took off his cowboy hat and threw it on a chair. “Mind if I sit?” the hustler asked.

  “Make yourself comfortable.”

  The boy sprawled in the other chair, legs spread wide, head thrown back, stroking his shoulder-length brown hair. It was supposed to look seductive. It did.

  The guy offered him a drink. There was an unopened bottle of Cristal in a cooler by the bed. Harry liked expensive champagne, one of a number of tastes he’d picked up since hitting L.A. But all the client offered him was a whiskey—though Harry assumed, correctly, that it would be a very good whiskey—and he figured it would be both polite and good for his image not to ask about the Cristal.

  He sat in the chair and spread his legs, letting one hand trail down to his crotch, fingers just brushing his basket. Now the singer would have to serve him, and he figured—also correctly—that wouldn’t bother his client a bit. Since he’d left Elko, he’d learned quite a bit about human nature.


  So he was expected to serve some hustler a drink? Didn’t this kid know who he was? No, of course he didn’t. The buckskinjacketed boy just sat there caressing his crotch. And now, as he walked over to this Brett, drinks in hand, Craig McCormack felt his own dick swell up.

  “Here y’go.” The boy looked out from half-closed eyes and grabbed the whiskey. Craig had to admit, this boy knew what he was doing. Of course, the boy had no way of knowing about the other Brett, his Brett.

  He’d had an enormous crush on Brett Moore through high school, had even joined the Young Republicans just to be close to him. He’d never gotten in Brett’s pants, though, and the last time they’d met, years later, it hadn’t gone well. Craig had been back in Chapel Hill to celebrate his father’s being made a full professor at the university. His soon-to-go-platinum album, No Goddamn Liberal, had recently come out, and Brett—who had become a card-carrying member of the ACLU—had thrown the lyrics of the title song right back at him.

  “But no goddamn liberal can tell me to smile / at two freaky fruits as they walk down the aisle? Craig, what the hell is that about?”

  Craig had laid his hand on Brett’s shoulder. He still wanted him so much, and now that he was a big star… “Brett,” he’d said, “it’s just show business, right?”

  Brett had brushed his hand away. “Fuck you, Craig.”

  “Brett…”

  “No, I mean it. Fuck you.”