by Tom Graham
The sound of Hank’s moans and the thought of Owen watching got me so hot that my own cock battled to escape my jeans. I turned my head a bit so I could check out what Owen was up to on the bar and it nearly made me come in my pants. He had taken off his jeans and boots and was sitting on the edge of the bar buck naked with his legs on either side of Hank. His massive cock was inches from Hank’s face, and Hank was taking full advantage by licking it like an ice cream cone. The sight of Hank’s gorgeous mouth all over that enormous cock made me tingle from my dick to my asshole. I renewed my attention to Hank, imagining that as I sucked his cock, I was somehow also sucking Owen’s. I was moaning now too, and that sent Hank over the edge. His cock pulsed in my mouth as the first spurt of jizz hit the back of my throat. I kept licking and sucking, more gently now as the spurts kept coming. When he was done, I had a mouth full of cum and a smile the size of Texas.
I looked up to see Hank still sucking Owen off. He was using one hand to keep Owen’s dick in place, the other to tease his ass. Owen looked at me, his face ecstatic at witnessing two blow jobs at once, one of them performed on him. I had an idea for Hank’s cum, which was still in my mouth, but I paused to admire the contrast between Owen’s meaty build and Hank’s lean, sinewy body. Hank was sweaty and flushed with orgasm, and Owen’s hands clenched the bar, making the muscles in his forearms and biceps bulge. I couldn’t believe I had not one but two gorgeous men naked in front of me.
I ran a hand up Owen’s thick thigh and moved in to join Hank on his cock. Owen groaned when he felt the second mouth on his dick. I let Hank’s cum dribble out all over the shaft, giving Hank and me extra lubrication as we slid our tongues and lips all over Owen’s massive girth. Our mouths met at the head, a three-way French kiss with Owen’s cock in the middle. Having seen the way Owen responded to Hank’s ass-teasing, I used one of my hands to massage some of Hank’s jizz over Owen’s balls and asshole. Owen squirmed toward my fingers, so I inserted one and was rewarded by an instant surge in his cock. I gently stroked in and out while my tongue lapped up and down his shaft and Hank worked the tip. Owen let out a huge groan and his ass tightened around my finger. I kept licking his shaft as Hank caught the cum load in his mouth. My own dick was so hard now that my precum was sticky in my jeans.
Hank seemed aware of my situation, and while Owen recovered, he motioned for me to strip and get up on the bar. I released my aching cock first, then took off my shirt and jacket. Hank and Owen watched appreciatively. I hopped up next to Owen but Hank shook his head and gestured for me to lie down on my back. When I was spread out naked on the bar he got up next to me and knelt between my thighs. He took my throbbing cock in his mouth and let Owen’s hot cum drip all over me, rubbing it all the way down to my balls and asshole.
“Like I said, Johnny, turnabout is fair play.” He grinned up at me from between my thighs, Owen’s cum glistening on his full lips. I thought I was going to shoot my load right then, but I managed to hang on. Hank gestured to the mirror behind the bar and said, “I thought you might like the view.” Owen took the hint. As he moved the bottles away from the base of the mirror, the muscles in his back rippled and his firm asscheeks flexed. In the mirror I saw Hank’s sleek body kneeling over mine, his head bobbing over my cock. I nearly came right then, but Hank sensed it and pulled back. He toyed with me, lightly licking the underside of my shaft and running his fingers gently over my balls and asshole. When Owen was done adjusting the bottles, he came around to the customer side of the bar and stood next to my head.
“How you doing, Johnny?” he said.
Hank took that as his cue to begin working my cock more thoroughly, licking, sucking, and deep-throating while increasing his ass-teasing as well.
My response to Owen came out as an unintelligible moan. He laughed and kissed me, immediately working his way over my neck and chest as Hank kept sucking me and fondling my ass. I turned again to the mirror to watch but had to look away. My whole body was so ripe to come that I was tingling all over. And I didn’t want it to end.
Hank worked my ass in earnest now. Owen’s jizz was the perfect lubricant, and I was greedy for more. I was so out of my mind that at that moment I thought I could take even Owen’s fat cock in my ass and love every inch of it. But that would have meant stopping what was happening, and there was no way I was doing that. Hank slipped another finger into me as Owen worked his way down my stomach with licks and kisses. Panting and moaning, I spread my legs wider as Owen’s head nudged into my crotch.
I didn’t want to come yet, but I had to watch. I looked down at the tops of their heads moving on me, their sweet asses in the air. Then I looked at the mirror and saw Owen’s face framed below Hank’s, his big pink tongue headed for my balls. Hank was gulping a throatful of cock, his arm flexing as he pumped his fingers in my ass. The sight burned itself into my brain and went straight to my cock. Just as Owen’s fat tongue lapped my nuts, I came like a fucking rocket. I shuddered and bucked, riding Hank’s fingers in my ass, both of their mouths all over me. Owen kept licking my balls, but Hank moved his mouth off me so he could watch my cum load shoot up over all of us and onto the bar. He grinned at me as I writhed and moaned.
When I was done, Owen surfaced, and both he and Hank moved up the bar to lie down on either side of me. The three of us lay on our backs laughing as I caught my breath.
“Welcome to Carson Hole, Johnny,” Hank said.
“We hope you can stay awhile,” Owen said.
“He has to stay,” Hank said. “He still owes me a dare.”
LONGHORNS
Victor J. Banis
They were roping cattle when he showed up. “Heard you was herding some longhorns,” he said. “Thought you could use an extra hand. Name’s Buck.”
Les looked him over. The stranger wore an old shirt, faded but clean, and those new pants—dungarees, the boys called them—they said were more comfortable than old-fashioned woolies. He wasn’t more than eighteen, maybe nineteen, and small built but wiry, his skin leather colored. His hair was a mass of curls, black as obsidian; his eyes, in the fading light, nearly as dark.
“You Indian?” Les asked.
“Half.” He seemed unembarrassed by the fact. “Daddy was a trader, so’s I heard. Mama was a Nasoni.”
“Don’t know that tribe.”
“Texas is a Nasoni word. Means friend. I’m a friendly sort.” Buck grinned again and surveyed Les up and down. Something about the way he looked at him made Les uncomfortable.
“You new around here? I don’t recall seeing you.”
“Just come up from Galveston.”
Les looked past him to where the boys were working on the corral. “Best make that a little higher, Red,” he called. “Looks like we might get some weather.”
When he turned his gaze back, the kid was looking down. Les looked too, and realized Buck was staring right at the bulge of his crotch.
“What you got on your mind?” he said sharply.
“I was just thinking…” Buck seemed not to mind at all that he’d been caught staring. “…’Bout some of the things them sailors taught me down in Galveston.”
“Well, they ain’t no sailors here,” Les said, doubly annoyed because he’d been out on the prairie weeks now, and his prick, on alert for any prospects, took note of the attention. “I reckon you can stick around for a day or two, see how it goes. I guess you can ride,” he added spitefully. “We ain’t got room for sissies.”
“Well, now, seeing it’s you, I’d surely love the opportunity to show just how well I can ride,” Buck said with a flash of teeth in his sun-leathered face. “I got the time, if you got the inclination.”
“I expect I’ll see you on your horse soon enough,” Les said.
“Oh, a horse, well, I guess so.” Buck turned and started away, but he looked back over his shoulder to add, “I can ride them, too, case that’s what you meant.”
Watching him go, Les wondered if he had just made himself a mistake.
; The Texas longhorn was the descendant of the cattle the Spanish explorers had brought. Narrow-hipped, swaybacked, bony, the longhorn adapted to the wilderness with a vengeance. They could fight off wolves and wildcats, even a bear. They ignored blizzard and drought and could travel forever. They lived mostly in a no-man’s-land of mesquite, prickly pear cactus and sharpthorned paloverde, rattlesnake, and javelina. No man pretended it was easy to catch the longhorn. On the other hand, any man who could, owned them, and they were the animal for the long, arduous cattle drives to the railroads in Kansas.
Les and his men had herded better than a thousand head by now and would shortly bring them to the ranch to prepare for the drive up the Chisholm. The weather was hot, and the cowhands worked with sweat streaming down their faces and kept an eye on the sky. So far, they’d had no trouble, and they were all looking forward to heading home. Les figured even if the new man was a mite strange, he couldn’t likely cause too much mischief in the few days they had left.
Les was sleeping lightly that night in the weighted heat, when someone shouted his name. Just as he opened his eyes, a sheet of lightning lit up the prairie sky. He scrambled up, instantly awake. A bad thunderstorm could stampede the cattle. The temporary corral wouldn’t withstand the onslaught of a thousand or more charging longhorns.
Distant thunder rumbled ominously. In the next flash, he saw the men hastily saddling horses. They all knew what had to be done. If the cattle stampeded, the only necessity was to stop them. How, you couldn’t be sure until you’d done it, or failed.
The cattle were on their feet, too, milling nervously. The cowboys riding guard began to sing to calm them. “Did you ever hear of Sweet Betsy from Pike….”
In another flash of light, Les saw a rider wearing one of those new rubberized slickers. The light was gone too quickly for him to see who was wearing it. In the next moment, he forgot cowboy and slicker. The cowhands were singing louder and louder, the air dense, heavier, the movement of the cattle more worried.
An ear-splitting clap of thunder rent the air, and a blinding blue flash set the night sky afire. In the blackness that followed, Les was blinded, but he didn’t have to see to know what was making the earth tremble. The cattle were stampeding. The storm had unleashed torrents of rain, but it was the thunder and lightning that spooked the cattle and each rider cursed as he rode in pursuit of the thundering, bellowing herd.
Les rode for all he was worth, his palomino nearly leaping from under him. You had to get to the front of the herd to turn a stampede. Once, twice, lightning flashed, and he saw not only the herd but the rain-slickered cowboy just off to his right, riding alongside him, hell bent for leather.
The ground shook beneath pounding hooves. Despite the rain, he felt the heat of a thousand rangy bodies. The smell of cowhide filled his wet nostrils, and the palomino snorted wildly. Les could see nothing ahead or below. One misstep—a prairie dog hole, a fallen branch—and both horse and rider would end up with broken necks. The banging of horns was like the clicking of castanets in a Mexican fandango, but this was a deadly dance, and the thunder-drums and the alto cries of the cattle only made it eerier.
The sky turned blue-white again, and glancing aside, Les saw that they were alongside the leaders of the herd, him and Red, and somehow the rain-slickered rider had gotten ahead of them, pounding stride for stride in a life-or-death race with the front-running bull. To turn the cattle from their headlong flight, they had to push them aside, and that meant the rain-slickered rider had to convince the leader. If that cowboy fell, if his horse stumbled for an instant, those charging hooves would pound them into the Texas dust.
They were turning. The lead bull yielded, veered, and once the leaders had started, the others followed, slowly forming a circle that wound in upon itself, until cattle bumped into cattle and none of them knew which way to run.
The stampede was stopped. The thunder grew more distant, the lightning far-off flashes. Les and the palomino were both gasping for air. He leaned down and patted the horse’s powerful neck, and it snorted disdainfully.
Till morning, the boys would take turns riding a containing circle about the gradually calming cattle. With daylight the cattle would be penned again, corral repaired, damage assessed.
Les felt oddly exhilarated as he rode back to camp. Cookie’s campfire already glimmered where he brewed thick bitter coffee by the gallon in his big enameled pot, to keep the men awake.
The cowboys milled about, laughing off their fear, slapping each other’s backs. Les dismounted next to the campfire. Red saw him and called, “Man, did you see that kid ride? I never seen nothing like that!”
“The one in the slicker? I saw him,” Les said. “But who…?”
He didn’t need to finish, because the new man rode up just then and jumped down from his horse, shed the slicker, and tossed it across his saddle.
“Hoo-ee,” he shouted, walking over to them. “That was some excitement, wasn’t it? Got my blood all stirred up.” He reached behind him and rubbed his hands over his butt. “Makes me want a ridin’ myself, to take the edge off.” He cast an unmistakable glance at Les’s crotch. To Les’s embarrassment, the boys standing nearby saw it too and whooped with laughter, too keyed up themselves to mind.
“Say,” Red said with a wide grin on his face, clapping a hand on Buck’s shoulder, “why don’t you and me go take care of them horses?”
Buck returned his grin and started away with him, but he looked back to wink at Les, which produced another round of guffaws. One or two of the cowboys looked after the departing pair wistfully.
Les was no fool. Sometimes on the trail, he knew, one or the other of the men would slip away to somebody else’s bedroll for a spell. Everyone pretended they didn’t notice or hear the noises; it might be you feeling the need the next night. Truth was, once or twice he kind of wished someone might creep over to his bedroll, but they never had.
He suddenly realized his eyes had strayed to Buck’s curvy little bottom, those tight dungarees like a second skin. He had a fleeting notion he wouldn’t have minded taking the edge off his own pent-up energy. He turned away in disgust. Shit, he told himself. Next thing you know I’ll be taking him serious.
Fucker sure could ride, though.
What surprised Les over the next few days even more than Buck’s outrageous remarks and leers was that none of the grizzled cowboys seemed to take any offense. Course, Buck had proven himself the night of the stampede. These were tough hombres—a man with that kind of nerve, who could ride like that, could talk and act however he wanted, was their attitude. If anything, they seemed to take an amused interest in his blatant flirtation with their range boss.
Well, way things were, Les couldn’t fire their hero now. He’d have an uprising on his hands, so Buck came back with them to the Double H. Anyway, Les figured, all them boys in the bunkhouse, Buck’d probably find somebody who’d be happy to give him those rides he craved, and the newcomer would be out of Les’s hair.
It didn’t work out that way. He should have guessed something when he sat down to breakfast two days later and discovered Cookie’s skills had miraculously improved.
“These flapjacks are light as feathers,” Les said. “What’d you do to make them different, Cookie?”
“Weren’t me,” Cookie said. “It’s that new boy. He’s natural-born cook.”
Les almost choked on a swallow of coffee—better coffee, too, than the usual brew. “He’s cooking now?”
“Sure is. Been teaching me all kinds of things. You’d be surprised.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t,” Les said.
“I even told him he could have my little room behind the kitchen there, to sleep in,” Cookie said on his way out. “And I’d take me the shed.”
When Les asked Buck about it, why he wasn’t sleeping with the others at the bunkhouse, he said, “I figured you wasn’t likely to stroll down to the bunkhouse at night, but, hell, you could sleepwalk your way here.”
“I ain�
��t one for sleepwalking,” Les said, and started to turn away, but he paused to ask, “Didn’t you ever have no women, boy?”
“Some.”
“You didn’t like it?”
Buck shrugged. “Well, sure, who doesn’t? You think I’m queer or somethin’?”
“I think you’re something, that’s for sure. So how’s come if you like women, you’re always trying to get someone to, you know?”
“Well, see, when I was in Galveston, this lady, Miz Montgomery, ran a boarding house, and every Sunday she fixed fried chicken, and that was some delicious chicken. I never could get my fill, but the thing is, much as I loved that chicken, it never stopped me enjoying a big old juicy steak. ’Sides, if you want to know, I can do things with a piece of beef that old lady couldn’t ever do with her hens.”
“Seems to me the steer might have some say in that,” Les said. “We got work to do, boy.” He walked away, but he knew without looking that Buck was staring at his ass, and it made him self-conscious.
He found Buck a few days later, looking over a pony that was penned up by itself.
“Don’t be looking at that horse, boy,” he said, “Ain’t no one on this ranch been able to ride him. I’m just keeping him to breed.”
“That’s an Indian horse,” Buck said, as if that explained everything.
“What that horse is is the devil himself.”
“Here, let me show you.” Buck jumped over the fence, and Les came up to the rail.
“That pony liked to kill old Jack when he got too close,” he warned.