Cowboy Up

by Shane Allison

  “Buck off!” Jesus jeered at him, over the anticipatory cheers of the crowd.

  Chad looked down at the naked man between his legs, nodded, then dropped down onto Jesus’s shoulders. The bell rang and the plastic gate swung open and they were off, Chad squeezing his thighs tight to the man’s unshaven face, hooking his calves into the man’s damp, unshaven armpits.

  Jesus ran out onto the sanded stampede ground and dipped and twisted. Chad hung on with his legs, his left arm straight out and wildly bucking, his right arm raised high and violently waving, his cock pressing hard into the back of Jesus’s hairy, sweaty head. The crowd went wild, wilder when the horn sounded signaling eight seconds and a standing ovation erupted, the fans stamping their feet on the makeshift metal bleachers to the tune of their smacking hands.

  Chad slid off Jesus’s shoulders and flopped down onto his back on the soft sand surface. Jesus dropped to his knees with Chad, in between the cowboy’s spread legs. The stockman grabbed on to Chad’s cock and pumped it, stuck the cap into his open, gasping mouth, and sucked.

  The crowd let loose again. Raw sex was one of the rewards for a good ride, if both cowboy and stockman were willing. That was one of the reasons rogayos had to be held indoors, in front of adult-only audiences.

  Both men were more than willing; Chad’s cock had already rubbed erect against Jesus’s head during the brief ride aboard the man’s shoulders. Jesus pumped Chad’s solid shaft and sucked on Chad’s swollen cap, then dove his head down and ate up half of Chad’s cock. He sealed his red lips tight and blew all he could, fisting the rest. Chad waved his right hand in mock surrender, pumping his hips to Jesus’s suctioning. The crowd swelled with more than excitement.

  Chad drew Tiny in the bear-riding competition. Tiny’s name was the only thing small about him. He was a huge, barrel-chested, muscle-plated man with a coat like a brown bear, and a beard to match. Down on all fours in the pen, he twisted his massive head up and glared at Chad. “Better enjoy riding me while you can,” he growled, “‘cause I’ll be riding you soon enough.”

  “That’s bull, bear,” Chad responded calmly, legs spread and boots poised on either railing, cock hanging down sure and weighty.

  He dropped onto Tiny’s hairy back, and hooked his legs tight around the burly man’s chest, just as the bell rang and the plastic gates burst open.

  It was pandemonium—eight seconds of bucking, leg-kicking, rearing, spinning, and whiplashing. Chad was flung crazily backward and forward, jerked to and fro, his arms akimbo and flailing, head and neck snapping, cowboy hat sailing. Until the horn went off and Chad jumped off over the top of Tiny’s bald head, the crowd screaming and applauding.

  Now, the hard-breathing, sweaty, and hair-bristled stockman was in for another kind of cowboy taming. As Chad ambled in behind Tiny, his hard, bobbing cock leading the way, the bear compliantly knelt down on his hairy forearms and upraised his hairy ass.

  Chad studied the bulls-eye, lubing his prong, a smile on his studly face. He waved his gleaming cock at Tiny like a matador waves a red cape at a bull, much to the crowd’s delight. And then he hit the bear hole, and filled it, ramming his cock balls-deep into Tiny’s accommodating chute.

  Chad groaned and Tiny snorted. The crowd cheered— everyone’s eyes fixed on the old-time, sensuous riding rhythm now taking place on the arena floor, cowboy sawing his saddle horn back and forth in stockman’s anus. Chad gripped hairy waist and churned heated, tight chute. Tiny buried his burning, bearded face in the sand and bounced his enormous, hirsute butt back on Chad’s penetrating prong.

  The show went on.

  After three events, Chad was tied with Wade Brubaker and a talented local yokel, Buck Skinner. The stud-wrestling event had separated the wheat from the chaff, the beef from the gristle. Chad and the other two cowboys had brought their stockmen down in near-record times, pinning them cock-to-cock, and then pumping, much to the pleasure of competitors and crowd alike.

  It came down to the man-roping competition, where both speed and talent were required, points awarded subjectively and tellingly.

  Chad watched Buck waste too much time chasing down and swinging the velvet lasso around his stockman’s chest, then knotting the man up way too simply in his panic to make up for lost time. The small, wiry African-American was all but eliminated.

  But Chad, like the crowd, had to admire Wade’s skill. The big, bronzed, blond-haired man lariated his stockman quickly, efficiently, and sexily, lacing a cock-ring knot onto the trussing. The cowboy’s score was going to be tough to beat.

  And then Chad was thrown—when he saw his stockman in the chute next to him. He’d forgotten all about what Clint had told him earlier in all of the excitement.

  “Hey, Chad. How’s it going?” Duff Blocker asked through the padded railings.

  Chad stared into the familiar deep, green eyes, now latticed with red veins. Duff was nude, his thin body pale, his brown hair wispy on top, and his pretty face more drawn than Chad remembered. “Wh-what happened?” Chad croaked.

  Chad and Duff had been fierce competitors on the circuit a decade back, and fast lovers off the circuit. They’d been young, hung, and full of cum back then, neither one willing to back down, or bottom out. The match hadn’t lasted, burning too hot, scorching the both of them. Chad had left the show soon after. He hadn’t heard from Duff since.

  Now, Duff looked earnestly into Chad’s eyes. “I guess I went too fast and too hard, and too high,” he admitted. “I lost my friends, my home, my money, and then I lost my nerve. I had to come back as…a stockman.” He shrugged and smiled endearingly at his former foe, friend, and lover. “I guess I learned a bit about humility along the way, though. I get by.”

  Before Chad could digest it all, the bell suddenly went off. The chutes burst open, and Duff ran like hell.

  Chad gave his head a shake, staring at those familiar twitching, taunting, tempting buttocks of his former buckle buddy—running away from him. He wanted them back, wanted Duff back. Chad slammed his cowboy hat down onto his head with his left hand and lifted the velvet rope with his right, and raced out of the chute, hot on Duff’s trail.

  The crowd stood and roared at the top of their lungs, knowing it all came down to this.

  Back in the day, Chad had never been able to outrun Duff. The lithe, lanky man had moved too fast and erratic. But now, time seemed to slow down, and maybe Duff, too. Chad felt himself flying, Duff’s quivering, humping asscheeks and rolling back and pumping arms coming closer and closer.

  Chad swung the lasso and threw it, the brightly lit lewd scene crystal clear in his oft-jaded eyes. He couldn’t miss. And he didn’t. The velvet hoop dropped down over Duff’s shoulders and noosed his chest. Chad dug his heels in and pulled back, rearing Duff to a halt in the sand as gently as he could.

  It seemed to take all the fight out of Duff, if there was any. He turned and looked back at Chad racing up to him, and his puffy lips broached a smile. Chad grinned back, skidding to a stop. Then he lashed the lengthy velvet rope around Duff’s chest, his cock and balls, and in between Duff’s buttcheeks.

  It was an awesome display of bondage mastery, in record time, the results even more lovely to behold. Duff’s pale pecs and pink nipples stood out from the twin bands looping above and below, his balls bloated and his cock jutted thanks to the roping, and his buttocks were breathtakingly split and spread.

  “Well, that’s it, folks!” Clint bellowed over the loudspeaker. “Chad Crowder is champion of the Wyoming rogayo!”

  Chad and Duff weren’t hearing it, though, the earsplitting announcement and the deafening cheers. It was just the two of them: older, wiser, less egotistical—and more in love.

  Chad took Duff in his arms and brought him down to the sand, their lips locked together in a tender kiss. Their hot, damp skin pressed together, their hard cocks squished erotically. Chad pumped and Duff pumped back. Not cowboy and stockman, champion and also-ran, but equal lovers.

  Chad broke his lips fre
e of Duff’s soft, wet mouth and dipped his head lower. In the shade of his cowboy hat, he swirled his tongue around one of Duff’s engorged nipples, then the other one, shining and swelling the rubbery pair still more. Duff moaned and shivered.

  The crowd fell silent, sensing they were witnessing something more than the usual post-rogayo celebration.

  Chad engulfed a nipple with his lips and sucked on it, gazing up into Duff’s glistening eyes. He moved his head over, gently and urgently and sensually sucking on Duff’s other nipple, feeling it blossom even more in his mouth. Duff moaned and undulated his hips, pumping his hard, bound cock into Chad’s ridged belly.

  That’s where Chad went next, down to Duff’s cock. He trailed a wet line of fire along Duff’s stomach with his tongue, then lifted his body away so that he and the hushed crowd could see the huge erection Duff was sporting. The man’s roped cock thrust rigidly into the air, vibrating.

  Chad nuzzled Duff’s tied balls, making the man shudder. Then he licked Duff’s shaven sac, tongue-teased the pair of nuts. And then he licked up from the balls, along the underside of Duff’s towering cock. The man and the crowd sighed.

  Chad licked up from the velvet rope lashing the base of Duff’s cock all along the straining, swollen shaft, around, up and down, stroking, painting, caressing Duff’s prong with his moist, loving tongue. Duff spasmed and shot his cock up even higher. Chad jumped his head up and caught the bloated tip of the beef-stick in his mouth.

  A few in the crowd clapped. Others just held their breath, hands clasped to their mouths. Chad briefly sucked and chewed on Duff’s hood, then began the long, stretching, sexy mouth-plunge down Duff’s cock.

  More raucous applause, then, Chad’s lips kissed up against the ropes binding his lover’s base and balls. He lifted his head high, and brought it back down low, sucking on Duff’s entire inflamed length of cock, his nostrils flaring and cheeks and throat bulging with amazing erotic effort. Duff squirmed in the nonstick sand, watching and feeling his cock get consumed and suctioned over and over.

  Finally, Chad lifted all the way up. He greased Duff’s raging erection and his own rump, getting ready to mount.

  The crowd chanted, “Ride ’em, cowboy! Ride ’em, cowboy!”

  But Chad and Duff, gazing into each other’s shining eyes, knew this sexual event was no contest; both men were winners. Chad straddled Duff’s waist and lowered his ass down onto Duff’s cap.

  Duff’s cock slid inside Chad’s anus slick and quick, finding a familiar home. Both men groaned, Chad rearing his head up and reveling in the stuffed-full feeling of meat in his ass; Duff rolled his head in the sand, ablaze with the superheated tightness enveloping his cock embedded in Chad’s butt. To the whoops of the crowd, Chad swept his cowboy hat off his head and rode Duff’s cock, bucking up and down. As Duff thrust his hips up to meet the rugged rogayo motion, despite tied-up arms, cock, and balls, far from tamed.

  It was a spectacular showstopper, well worth the price of admission and more.

  For Chad and Duff it was an open, unabashed renewal of their lust and love for each other, on a more mature basis than before. Chad grabbed his jumping cock and fisted, his anus getting searingly reamed. Duff bounced his gleaming body up and down, pounding his surging cock into Chad’s chute. Their mutual orgasmic semen outburst was the sizzling brand to mark them officially as romantic lovers again, for a long time to come this time.

  Chad’s cock erupted and his body jerked and gyrated like he was going to be thrown, semen spouting out and striping Duff’s humping body. Duff spasmed and spurted as well, repeatedly, shooting deep into the cowboy’s convulsing anus. Their lusty cries were echoed by the packed house.

  The two men drove off into the Wyoming sunset in Chad’s pickup, their rogayo rewards right there in each other’s arms.

  MEXICAN GOOD LOOKS

  Joel A. Nichols

  Ladies and Gentlemen, especially Gentlemen, welcome to the Las Vegas Distrito Federal Exposition Center, a joint venture between the federal district of Sunny Las Vegas, the WynnYooBell Family of Resort Casinos and, most importantly, you, our honored guests! Tonight at the Expo main stage, it’s a sixty-gallon salute to the heritage and history of this place, this great place called the West.

  You probably know that we’re the largest bullfighting ring and animal exposition north of Mexico City, and we have quite the lineup tonight. Jalisco’s hot hot hot Jacinto Monmouth is in the ring tonight! And the dazzling delights of Delfino de Moraz and his brave assistants. But first, to welcome you, the Cabaret de Calaca and their mysterious, dangerous Skeleton Ballet….

  Backstage, Felipe dodged a big-wheeled cart carrying two of the white tigers back to their pens. One of the tiger tamers told him to watch out, and the big male with thin black stripes roared from inside the cage. Felipe darted down the corridor, passing several French clowns getting ready for the concessions, juggling shrink-wrapped fruit and ice-cream bars. Felipe was working the toro embolado sideshow and had to make sure that the cotton balls they’d be tying to the bulls’ horns were completely soaked through with lighter fluid, but wrapped in such a way that they’d burn slowly and consistently. He had had to run back to one of the storerooms in the lower-level stables to get another can of fluid, and he came running back into the hold just as the stage manager was giving the matadors their ninety-second cue.

  Felipe tipped up the can and finished soaking the last two handfuls of cotton, then wrapped them into tight balls. He passed them to another hand, who affixed them to the metal candle-holders fitted over the last bull’s horns. “Showtime,” said one of the matadors, Gabriel Zunca, as he strutted out into the arena. The crowd shrieked at the sight of his hard body and flashy suit. Gabriel Zunca was also the national spokesman for Zembrano Soda Water, and everyone loved his sexy commercials.

  Felipe and the other hands gathered in front of the relay screens that broadcast the arena into the backstage holds.

  The onstage hands cut the ropes holding the first bull and ignited the cotton wads at the same time. The bull went wild, snorting and shaking its head as sparks flew from Felipe’s expert wraps. Gabriel Zunca strutted around the perimeter of the ring, posing the long lines of his body in elegant arches and preening stretches. Luckily the relay screens muted out the audience; at this point in the show, people were weeping for Zunca to look at them. Eventually, toward the end of the show, he would rip buttons from his outfit and toss them toward the stands. The Expo was so massive, with the arena floor ringed by cameras and microphones and tunnels in and out to the holds, that they rarely even reached the first rows. But these crowds didn’t care. You could buy the replica buttons in the shops and carts outside, anyway.

  Felipe thought Gabriel Zunca was full of shit, and hated passing by his dressing room because there was always some young and beautiful woman crying in the hallway. It was always the same story—he was pushy, and rough, and Felipe had also heard some stories from some of the other hands who had gone off with him hoping for a taste of his legendary cock. He had smacked the face of one, uninvited, and then mercilessly fucked his mouth and throat and hadn’t asked to come at all and just let it fly. Felipe had thought he was handsome, before he had started this job, but was glad he’d never given Gabriel Zunca a try.

  “Prick,” he muttered under his breath as even the stagehands gathered around his closed-circuit feet hooted and clapped when Zunca dodged the two flaming horns and thousands of kilos of terrified bull with an especially dramatic set of flourishes. As a youth, Zunca had famously studied flamenco in the Nuevo Maghreb. One of the managers shot him a look and another made a note in her tablet. Felipe straightened up and pretended to watch the relay screen. He was lucky to have a job in this show, and couldn’t afford to risk it.

  The Gabriel Zunca show went on and on, through several styles of bullfights. Finally, the last, the comicos, were on, and Zunca was having great fun abusing the hands dressed as clowns while they taunted and dodged the bulls. That was Felipe’s dream,
to be picked as a clown, because it would put him in the performance union and his wages would almost double. And it wasn’t a bad first step. When his friends would tease him about coming west, to join the Expo, he would always say, “With these Mexican good looks, I’m guaranteed to be a star.” And it was true that he was still turning heads, after four years working the Expo. He looked good in tight jeans with his long legs and a firm but still round ass. But so far he hadn’t ever won a performing role. He practiced all the time, stage skills, dancing, but he never got a callback.

  The day he moved to the DF, he started doing a pushup every day and then one more and one more until it burned too bad. Now, every morning he would drop out of his narrow bed and pump through almost two hundred pushups, and then, his body burning and his shoulder numb, he would roll over and do a hundred leg lifts. This exhausted him every day at first, but then kept him strong enough to work shift after shift.

  As the bulls came offstage, Felipe leaned over the edge of the paddock and stuck it with a tranquilizer right in the neck. Immediately it slowed and stopped snorting. Then Felipe wrangled each wounded bull into a wooden frame and tied it around the neck and each leg. Another set of hands would lead it back down to the stables where it could be stitched up, loaded with antibiotics, or, sometimes, euthanized. They only killed one bull a night, on purpose, and it was always the last. Finally, it fell to Felipe and the other hands to winch its bloody body onto a handcart and then roll it away. One guy could drive a live bull, but a dead one took at least six or eight.

  While Felipe was holding on to the side of the cart, helping nudge its great bulk down the hall, he saw the next performers filing in. Billy and Luke Berry, the original all-American cowboys, strutted into the hold, surrounded by handlers and other staff. One stagehand was leading in their glossy horses, and another was unpacking a crate with their six-shooters, lassos, and other props. They didn’t have that many: the real attraction in this act was the Berry Brothers themselves, both tall and handsome and broad-shouldered, expertly clad in flannel shirts and jeans that looked authentically cowboy from the stands, but were even more authentically haute couture up close: jeans so tight and subtly hand-distressed they looked painted on, each crease and fold sitting perfect on their lithe bodies. Billy Berry was the older one, with sandy-brown hair and a brown cowboy hat. Luke was as blond as you could get in the Estados Unidos Norteamericanos, owing no doubt to some amounts of French or German blood seeping in from the long border the country shared with Nouvelle France, all the way from Louisiana to the Saint Lawrence Seaway along the eastern edge of the Estados Unidos Norteamericanos. They spoke Spanish just like in an old Western, coarsely, proficiently, and confidently. Luke’s accent was stronger than Billy’s.