by Tom Graham
The fence stretched on for miles and miles, an endless march of cedar posts and barbed wire, all set two long paces apart and strung with three strands. The piece Danny patrolled was nigh on fourteen miles long, and that seemed long enough in the middle of a storm, for sure.
He’d been riding two days and was on his way back to his line shack when he spotted the break in the fence. Goddamn sumbitch. Stiff as an old rope, Danny climbed off his gelding and slogged over to look. Cut, clean as a whistle. Didn’t look like they’d lost any cattle, but there was a set of horse tracks, shod, plain as day. They headed in, not out. Whatever snake had cut the fence was looking to round up mavericks, no doubt.
Damn it. He was out of supplies and cold to the bone. He marked the location with a big old strip of red flannel, just in case they got snow on top of ice, and headed back home, figuring on coming out in the morning and patching the fence.
Smoke curled out of his stovepipe, and Danny cursed again at the sight. He’d put out that fire when he left two days back, so someone had started it up again. Someone not him, damn it.
He tended his horse first. There was a rawboned gray in his little lean-to, a mare, and it didn’t have no brand on it. Old man Flint branded all of his mounts. Danny drew his rifle out, leaving the horses cozying up and his saddle on a post, making for the shack and whoever it was squatting there.
The butt of his rifle hit the planks of the front door hard, making a harsh, ringing sound.
“All right, whoever’s in there, come on out. This is my place, and if you so much as twitch about it, I’ll blow you to kingdom come.”
The door swung open, the stinging wind helping it enough that it banged against the inside wall. Danny’s mouth fell open when he saw who stood there. It was like seeing a man come back from the dead.
His old friend Malachi James lifted both hands in the air, giving him a tiny little smile, a curl of the lips so familiar it was like a kick in the gut. “Well, hey there, Danny. How’s it hanging?”
Hands lax on his rifle, Danny stood and stared until Malachi stepped back and motioned him in like he was a guest. Then he snapped out of it, stepping inside and carefully setting the long gun in its rack by the door. He took off his hat and hung it up, removed his slicker to shake out.
Then he turned and took one quick step forward so he could jab Malachi right on his square jaw. Pow.
Malachi staggered back, hand coming up to feel where Danny’d hit him, but he didn’t fight back, just looked at Danny with them sad, dark eyes, floppy brown hair falling in his face.
“I suppose I deserved that,” Malachi said. “I surely do.”
“That and more, but I ain’t got the energy,” Danny returned. “Don’t reckon you made coffee?”
“I did.” Malachi grabbed his tin cup and poured a measure of hot coffee into it, handing it over. “Got in last night. I fixed the latch when I was warm, so you don’t need to worry about the door shutting.”
“Well, I’d say thank you if you weren’t a low-down thief.”
He couldn’t believe it. Malachi. Here. In his line shack, looking tired and ragged, but safe and solid and real.
“Now, Danny. You know I didn’t steal them horses,” Malachi said, watching him close as he sipped his coffee.
“No, but you cut a hole in the fence. What’s that for if not for rustlin’? And besides, you ran.”
Malachi’s face darkened. “I ran because if I’d told them where I was that night they would’ve strung us both up. Old man Flint wouldn’t hold with what we were up to. I’ll help you fix the fence tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Jesus. Suddenly too worn down to care, Danny shrugged, setting his coffee aside and stripping down to his union suit. “You can stay the night, at least. We’ll go from there. I’m too tired to jaw. Night, then.”
Keenly aware of Mal’s eyes on him, Danny threw on his slicker and boots and went to the necessary before coming back and curling up on his pallet, right near the fire. He wasn’t gonna talk on it no more.
Maybe if he closed his eyes and slept he’d wake up and find it was just a dream.
He dreamed about hangings. Malachi’s, in fact, his old friend kicking in the wind, an accusing glare leveled on Danny the whole time.
When he started awake the fire cast only the most sullen glow, the dark right before dawn on them. Someone snuggled right up to his back, warm and long and lean, feeling as good as anything had—except for the hand on his cock, rubbing him through the worn, soft wool of his long johns.
“Mmm,” he murmured. “Mal.”
“Uh-huh. Missed you, Danny.”
His eyes popped open wide, and Danny struggled out of Malachi’s embrace, going up on his knees to look down. “What in God’s name are you doin’, Malachi? Ain’t we had enough trouble?”
“No. I think we can borrow a bit more.” A lunge brought Malachi right to him, eyes insanely dark this close, lips hard as they took his own.
The fight went right out of him, and Danny kissed Mal right back, hands sliding up to cup the back of Mal’s neck, holding him close. So long. It had been so damned long. The kiss went like a battle, his tongue pushing into Mal’s mouth to taste, Mal chasing it back into his own mouth. Danny felt his lips bruise and swell, felt the bottom one split under the pressure.
Fingers sliding over the bruise on Malachi’s jaw, Danny kissed Mal’s cheeks, then down his throat, a frustrated growl leaving him as he encountered cloth. They needed more of the naked, he figured, and he put his thoughts into action, tugging at flannel and wool, the scent of aroused male surrounding them as the clothes fell away.
Malachi felt leaner, Danny thought; his ribs were sticking out a little, but hard muscle still roped his arms and chest, still flexed under the skin of his hips and thighs. Danny explored it all. He’d figured he’d never have this again, not ever. Not with Malachi or anyone else. It was like a gift he couldn’t turn down.
His mouth followed his hands, sliding down Malachi’s chest, over the dark, flat nipples, right down the hard breastbone, all the way down the now concave belly where a trail of black hair pointed the way. Finally he just gave in and took what he wanted, putting his mouth on Malachi’s cock, tongue stroking over the loose skin at the head, lips closing around it and sliding down.
A deep groan was his reward, Malachi bucking under his mouth, and Danny almost smiled. He remembered the first time Mal had ever done that to him. He’d never thought of a mouth on that part of him, hadn’t even been able to imagine the pleasure it would bring.
Now he knew. Sinking deeper on Mal’s cock, Danny sucked, putting a year of lonely nights into it, his hand coming up to cup Mal’s heavy balls, pushing against them slightly.
Malachi cursed, the sound sharp and rough, before reaching down to grab Danny, turning him so his hips were level with Mal’s mouth. Now they both felt it, they both had the heat and wet of it as Malachi’s tongue slid along the underside of Danny’s cock, playing it expertly. His belly went hard as a board, his ass clenching, and Danny moaned, riding it for all he was worth.
When one calloused finger pushed along his crease and poked at his hole, Danny did his best to relax, letting it in. He opened up, rode back on it, and next thing he knew Malachi’s finger was curling in him, finding a sweet, sweet spot inside him and pressing it. Everything in him zinged, making him buck into Malachi’s mouth, making him cry out around the flesh in his mouth. When he shot his load it really was like a little death, draining him, leaving him spent and panting.
Danny made no resistance when Malachi turned him over, pulling him up on his knees, that wet, hot tongue pushing at his hole, opening him even more, getting him slick. And when Malachi slid inside him, thick and hard and hot as a poker from the fire, all he could do was moan and take it, his body trying to wake up again, his cock twitching madly.
Malachi rode him like a bank robber’s horse, until they were both nearly lathered, the little cabin heating up until Danny was sure it was gonna start melting the
ice outside. In and out, that heavy cock thrust and prodded until he was braced on his elbows, pushing back for all he was worth, Malachi’s hand on his reawakened prick, pulling in time. When they came, they came together. Malachi filled him with hot seed, his own cock jerking almost dry after the first load he’d shot, the pleasure as big as the Texas sky.
They lay together a long time, until light started creeping in around the door, and Danny stirred. Malachi put a hand on his hip to hold him.
“Come with me, Danny. I came back for you. Riding the trail wasn’t the same without you.”
A quick roll had him facing Malachi, staring straight into those sloe eyes. “It’ll make me an outlaw too, Mal. And I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” He hated to be the one to put the sad back on that face, the lines around Mal’s eyes and nose deepening.
“I haven’t either. You know that.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other, neither of them willing to beg. Oh, they’d had them a time when they rode together, loving every night, laughing during the day. He had him a good job now with Mr. Flint and the Bar D, had a good life. What kind of life would he have on the run?
“Well, even if you ain’t coming, I got to get going. Want me to help you with that fence?” Malachi asked.
“You damn betcha.”
They didn’t say much after that, just got up and took turns going out, then ate some hardtack and jerky. Danny thought on it, though, thought hard and long, and while Malachi was out saddling the horses, he packed up his few belongings and his little stash of greenbacks, stuffing it all in his saddlebags and tying up a bedroll. The fire just took a load of icy slush to put it all the way out, and the little shack was clean as a whistle.
If Malachi noticed the extra Danny carried along with his rifle and his slicker, he didn’t say so, but when Danny rode with him right through the hole in the fence, Malachi finally broke the silence.
“Thought you’d stay on that side,” Mal said, looking him right in the eye.
Danny grabbed his tools and headed for the break, shaking his head. “Can’t do that if I’m gonna become an outlaw and ride with you, now can I? Come on and help me.”
There was a long silence before he heard Malachi’s boots hit the ground, the jingle of spurs moving close as Malachi reached for the wire. “An outlaw wouldn’t fix a drift fence.”
“No, sir.” Danny grinned over, figuring he was Mr. Flint’s cowboy until the job was done. Once that break was mended, though, he was Malachi’s drift-fence desperado for good.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
SHANE ALLISON is the author of four chapbooks of poetry. His fifth book, I Want to Fuck a Redneck, is due out any day now from Scintillating Publications. His poems and stories have appeared in Savage Lust, Velvet Mafia, Suspect Thoughts, Mind Caviar, Blue Food, Outsider Ink, zafusy, Shampoo, New Delta Review, Mississippi Review, Best Black Gay Erotica, and Ultimate Gay Erotica. He has work forthcoming in Hustlers: Erotic Stories of Sex for Hire. He loves nothing more than receiving dirty little notes at [email protected].
VICTOR J. BANIS has written professionally since 1963 and has authored more than 140 books. He lives in the Blue Ridge of West Virginia.
A native Californian, BEARMUFFIN lives in San Diego with two leather bears in a stimulating ménage à trois. He writes erotica for Honcho and Torso. His work has also appeared in Manscape, In Touch, Hot Shots, Friction, and Ultimate Gay Erotica.
STEVE BERMAN has published more than sixty stories and articles. His work appears in anthologies such as Best Erotic Ghost Stories, Best Gay Erotica 2005, The Faery Reel, and Skin & Ink. Haworth Press will publish his novel in 2007.
DALE CHASE has been writing gay erotica for eight years and has had more than one hundred stories published in various magazines and anthologies, including translation into German. Harrington Gay Men’s Fiction Quarterly recently published his first literary story, and his collection of Victorian gentlemen’s erotica, The Company He Keeps, is due from Haworth Press in 2007. A native Californian, Dale lives near San Francisco and is working on a novel.
DALLAS COLEMAN grew up in deep east Texas surrounded by beef masters, quarter horses, and a helluva lot of goats. He survived. He escaped. He has, thus far, resisted his daddy’s attempts to reclaim him. Dallas writes because it’s cheaper than therapy.
HANK EDWARDS is the author of the humorous erotic novel Fluffers, Inc. More than two dozen of his stories have appeared in various erotica magazines, including Honcho, American Bear, and 100% Beef as well as a number of anthologies. Hank lives in a Detroit suburb with his very patient partner of many years and their orange tabby who believes he’s a dog. To feed and clothe himself, he organizes software testing for an impersonal multinational corporation. Visit his website at www.hankedwardsbooks.com.
JUDE GRAY is a good ol’ boy from a tiny town in Texas. He lives on a small piece of land with his longtime partner and their three dogs. Jude works at a local hardware store where he enjoys stocking tools and taking smoke breaks.
GUY HARRIS grew up in California, where he first learned to ride. He currently lives outside San Francisco, a short drive from the coastal ranches and acres of riding trails along Highway 1. “Pole Inn” is his first published story.
NEIL PLAKCY is the author of Mahu, a mystery novel featuring Honolulu police detective Kimo Kanapa’aka. A contributor to Men Seeking Men, My First Time 2, and Dorm Porn, he’s also the editor of a forthcoming anthology from Alyson Books that focuses on gay men and their dogs. Neil received his MFA in creative writing from Florida International University and is a professor of English at Broward Community College.
CB POTTS is a full-time freelance writer from upstate New York. There’s a special spot in CB’s heart for all things rodeo. Send an email to [email protected] or read more of CB’s work in Hot Gay Erotica, also available from Cleis Press.
DOMINIC SANTI is a former technical editor turned rogue whose latest erotic work is the German language collection Kerle Im Lustrausch. His fiction is available in English in Best Gay Erotica 2000 and 2004, Best of Best Gay Erotica 2, Best American Erotica 2004, Best Bisexual Erotica 1 and 2, Tough Guys, His Underwear, various volumes in the Friction series as well as dozens of other smutty anthologies and magazines, and on the Internet. Visit www.nicksantistories.com.
SIMON SHEPPARD is the author of In Deep: Erotic Stories, Sex Parties 101, Kinkorama, and the award-winning Hotter Than Hell and Other Stories. He also writes the columns “Sex Talk” and “Perv,” and is currently working on a historical survey of gay porn. His work also appears in more than 125 anthologies, including many editions of Best American Erotica and Best Gay Erotica. San Francisco magazine has called him “our erotica king,” but he hasn’t let it go to his head. Say hi at www.simonsheppard.com.
JULIA TALBOT has published gay erotica with Torquere Press and Fishnetmag.com, lesbian erotica with Suspect Thoughts Press and Pretty Things Press, and other stories with Changeling Press and in Justus Roux’s Erotica Tales.
Born in Halifax, raised in Montreal, and currently living in Ottawa, VIC WINTER loves winter best of all the seasons and stays warm on cold nights by writing gay erotica. Words and snow, silence and long nights, the fall of rain and of silk, and men in love are some of Vic’s other favorite things. To learn more, visit www.stemsandfeathers.org/vwinter.
ABOUT THE EDITOR
TOM GRAHAM lives in Wyoming, with his partner of many years. When he’s not writing or editing gay erotica, he spends his time taking care of his ranch and two young sons, David and Chance.
Copyright © 2006 by Tom Graham.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc., P.O. Box
14697, San Francisco, California 94114.
eISBN : 978-1-573-44462-0
Hank Edwards’ “Gold Rush” originally appeared in a slightly different form under the title “Miner Sixty-Niner” in Bear magazine (November 2000). Dominic Santi’s “Urban Cowboys” originally appeared in a slightly different form in Honcho magazine (May 2001).