Date: Fri, 12 Oct 2007 03:30:22 -0700
From: Jon Hold <jonhold@earthlink.net>
Subject: The Other Little House on the Prairie  Intro-3

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be used without his
express permission. Private persons and no others are given permission to
have one (1) electronic and/or one (1) printed copy of this work. Nifty
Erotic Stories ArchiveTM  is  given permission to archive this work.

All the usual disclaimers that are usual apply here. This is a work of
fiction involving sex acts between consenting persons of various ages and
conditions of life. If you can't handle that or if you are not of legal
age or mindset or location, go no further but remove this material from
your possession forthwith.

If you have faggot sensitivity, you ought not read this story.  I'd
really like to hear from some of you with either positive or negative
comments. I have no idea really if I'm bringing any of you pleasure or
what it is you'd like me to write about. I only hear from a few people on
each story. I'd really like to hear from YOU so I'll have some idea how
I'm doing and what it is you like to read. Thanks.

I used two returns between paragraphs to simplify formatting for you.
This is a hyphen -. This is an en-dash --. This is an em-dash ---. Other
high-ascii characters that PC's can't understand have been stripped.

Try to keep in mind that while 42 is the meaning of life, it is not the
only possible solution and that sexual dimorphism is Mother Nature's
excuse for being kinky.

Enjoy!

Jon

-------


The Other Little House on the Prairie
Next to a Stream with Two Guys Living in It Alone Together with Each
Other
by Themselves
(and an occasional Friend or Two Sometimes
But Really Not All That Often)
and Some Other People

by Jon Hold
<jonhold@earthlink.com>
Copyright (c) 1998
Copyright renewed 2007



In the Beginning

Chapter 1
A New Meeting

The rain had begun that morning and was starting to turn cold. I glanced
over at Brent but the rain didn't seem to be bothering him at all. I'd
met Brent almost a week ago in the little town of Boxley. A nowhere place
hanging on to it's dying existence in the middle of nowhere. Brent
stopped for a beer in the little saloon where I had a job cleaning up and
helping the whores service whatever cowboys wandered into town. Three of
the local tough guys decided that there wasn't any reason to bother going
upstairs and were trying to force me to suck their dicks right there in
the bar. They thought it was funny to make it as public as possible that
I was a cocksucker.
I was handling the situation OK until one of the jerks tripped me and
another one kicked me in the head as I fell on the floor. He was winding
up to kick me again when Brent said, "That's enough. Leave the boy
alone!"
All three of them laughed and Jess, the ringleader, said, "And just who
the fuck do you think you are, asshole?"
The guy didn't answer so Jess wound up to kick me again.
"I said, leave him alone!" Brent said in a level, quiet voice.
Jess stood up and so did his two cohorts. "You better watch your mouth
cowboy," Jess said as he kicked me in the ribs. I was pretty groggy, so I
couldn't roll out of the way very good and Jess hurt my ribs pretty bad.
Brent took two steps and used his right fist three times and three more
bodies hit the floor, bleeding from their mouths and noses and pretty
much or all the way unconscious. Brent bent over and picked me up like a
rag doll. I tried to stand on my own, but my knees just wouldn't
cooperate. Brent shook his head and tossed me over his shoulder like a
half-sack of potatoes. It's a wonder I didn't puke. He walked over to the
bartender and said, "You got a Sheriff in this town."
"Nope."
"You got any problem with what happened?"
"Nope."
"You owe this boy any money?"
"Nope."
"That ain't right, Louie," one of the working girls said. "You've worked
that boy half to death for a month now and sold his body to half the
cowboys for fifty miles around and ain't given him a dime."
"Shut the fuck up, bitch!"
Brent reached across the bar with his left hand and pulled the bartender
up over the bar by his apron. "What did you say to the lady?"
"Shut up, Maggie?"
"That's some better. I figure you owe the boy at least a hundred dollars
for a month of that sort of work, and it's time to pay up."
"Shit! His share ain't more than twenty dollars."
"OK. We'll split the difference. You reach under the bar there and get
your cash box and you can pay the boy two hundred dollars."
"TWO HUNDRED! Are you fucking crazy!?"
"DON'T!... Hah-humph." Clearing his throat, and taking a deep breath to
calm down, Brent continued, "...Don't talk to me that way! It upsets me
something fierce. Do you want to try for four hundred?"
Dangling in mid-air from the cowboys clenched fist, the bartender sort of
changed his mind. "OK! OK, set me down so I can get the money."
Brent opened his fist and the bartender bounced off the bar and slid down
to the floor. He staggered back up to his feet and put the cash box on
the bar. Opening it with one hand, he reached inside with the other hand.
Brent's big fist slammed down on the lid of the iron cashbox. You could
hear bones breaking as the heavy lid tried to close over the mans wrist.
Brent pulled the broken wrist and hand out of the cashbox and a two-shot,
.40 caliber Derringer fell to the bartop as the barkeeper fell to the
floor behind the bar, holding his wrist and crying in pain.
"Didn't your mother tell you that it ain't nice to try and shoot people
you're doing business with?" Brent asked. He put the little pistol in his
pocket and counted $400 out of the cashbox and stuck it in the back
pocket of my jeans. "Now I'm going to give you a little piece of advice.
You come after this boy or me, or you cause either one of us any trouble
and I'm going to break both of your arms and both of your legs and then
I'm going to nail your balls to the bottom of a horse trough and stand
there and watch you drown. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," the bartender mumbled.
Brent turned to the one cowboy that was somewhat conscious. "Same goes
for you boys. You understand?"
The cowboy still couldn't talk, but he nodded eager acceptance. He just
didn't want to ever get hit like that again.
"Enough said then." Brent turned to Maggie and, doffing his hat, asked,
"Excuse me, ma'am, but do you happen to know if the boy has any
belongings he should take with him."
With a big smile on her face, Maggie walked over to the big cowboy and
put her arm though his. "Come on, cowboy, I'll show you where his kit
is."
Maggie took us out to the barn behind the saloon  and showed the cowboy
which was my horse and saddle and were my stuff was up in the hayloft
where I'd made my bed. Brent set me down on a bale of hay and leaned me
up against the wall. It only took him a couple of minutes to put what few
clothes I had in my saddlebags and to roll up my blanket and groundcloth,
tie them to my saddle and saddle up my little yellow and white pinto
filly.
I was still pretty much out of it, so he just put me under his arm and
stepped up on his big black stallion. Maggie handed him my filly's reins.
"You gonna be OK, ma'am?" Brent asked.
"No problem, cowboy. Me and the girls been meaning to move on out of this
no good town anyway. You take care of yourself. And don't you worry about
that boy. He does what he has to in order to stay alive, but he's a hard
worker and as honest as he can be."
"Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate knowing that."
Brent put me in the saddle in front of him and rode out of town with his
arm across my chest, holding me up. For the first time in a long time, I
felt safe -- and passed out without worry.

Chapter 2
Weakness

I woke up wrapped in blankets on the other side of the campfire from
where the cowboy was sitting. I sat up and looked around. We were camped
on a little flat area next to a little brook. The horses were grazing in
knee high grass a little bit downstream. The cowboy had stood up when I
started moving and was staring out into the dark across the brook with
his hands in his back pockets. I'd become a pretty good judge of men, and
this one was about 6' 6" tall, 230, maybe 240 pounds of very solid
muscle. Nineteen or maybe 20 years old. Solid, strong, very quiet. Black
hair and piercing dark blue-violet eyes. Heavy beard but well shaven.
Below his belt buckle his worn canvas jeans seemed to be uncommonly well
filled.
"You hungry?"
"Yes, sir."
The cowboy came back to the campfire and knelt down on one knee. He
picked up a tin plate and scooped up some beans from a pan sitting next
to the fire. He put a green twig with roasted soda bread wrapped around
it on top of the beans and handed the plate to me.
"Name's Brent," he said.
I took the plate from him and said, "I'm Jason."
He handed me a spoon and poured some coffee into a tin cup and handed me
that as well. He took the beans and put them on my side of the fire and
did the same with the coffee pot. "Just take 'um off the fire when you're
full. I'll clean up in the mornin'." With that, he moved over to his
bedroll and covered himself, using his saddle for a pillow. With his back
to both the fire and me, he was soon snoring softly. I couldn't eat much,
but I did eat. I wanted to wash up, but was so sore I just covered things
up and banked the fire before falling asleep again.
We finished off the beans for breakfast and then he washed everything up
and caught both of the hobbled horses and saddled them. I was still
trying to get up to help him when he came back with the horses. My leg
and side and head hurt so bad I could hardly move. He stood there and
watched me try to get up for a while and then turned and took the
headstalls off the horses and loosened their saddles. Then he walked off
upstream and out of sight around some trees. I collapsed back to the
ground, tears of shame filling my eyes.

Chapter 3
Taking Care

It must have been more than an hour later and I had to use the outhouse
something fierce. I struggled to pull myself off into the bushes, but I
was so sore and stiff and swollen up with bruises that I couldn't hardly
move. As I struggled to move myself, both my bladder and then my bowels
cut loose. They'd hardly stopped when Brent came around the trees and
headed back to me. He stopped and looked down at me, seeing my wet
trousers and his nose wrinkling from the smell.
I looked down at the ground in shame, wishing he'd just go away. To make
everything even worse I started crying as he stood there looking down at
me. I tried to say, 'I'm sorry,' and 'go away,' but all that came out
were some choking sobs.
 Brent never said anything. He just bent over and scooped me up in his
burly arms. I tried to push away from him, but I might as well have been
pushing against one of the sun-warmed oak trees for all the difference it
made. Brent just turned around and headed back the way he'd just come
from with me in his arms.
We moved through some big trees and up a bend in the creek. Brent laid me
down on a grassy bank and pulled my boots off. He started to pull my
pants off but I tried to fight him. He just reached up and tapped me in
the forehead with the end of his broad finger. Shamefaced, I subsided
rather than have him use his whole hand to subdue me. Evidently, he was
going to do what he wanted to do, and I was just going to get hurt even
worse if I didn't go along. He finished pulling off my pants and shirt
and left me lying naked on the sun-warmed bank, my soiled clothing laying
in a heap off to the side.
Brent stood up and started taking off his own clothes. As sick and in
pain and ashamed as I was, I couldn't help but notice his body. I admit
that I didn't have to be forced to have sex with men. I've always
preferred men, enjoyed what they look and smell and feel and taste like.
I get along with women really well, and can perform sexually with them,
but I prefer to touch, and be touched by men. Brent was a real treat to
the eyes. As his shirt came off, he exposed a sun tanned expanse of
tightly skinned muscle. This was a well-formed man who had worked hard
and developed every bit of his bodies potential. His broad, strong hands
had thick wrists leading to heavily corded and lightly haired forearms.
His upper arms were thickly muscled, the smooth bulges swelling and
relaxing as he moved. Great masses of shoulder muscle made the already
wide shoulders overhang the wide, tapered torso. The broad chest was
covered with fine, soft-looking hair, not obstructing the view, but
accenting it. His paps were dark brown  with the nubbins sticking well
out from the dusting of hair surrounding them. The deep cleft between the
flat plates of his pectorals was darkened by the hair that continued down
his heavily washboarded abdomen in a narrow line to his flush
bellybutton. His thick, solid waist was unaugmented by fat and looked
like it could have been carved in marble.
As he bent over to pull off his boots he turned his back to me. I've kind
of got a thing for men's backs, and confronting me was my perfect ideal
of masculine pulchritude. Brent's finely formed head, with its smoothly
shaped soft black hair, was supported by a thick column of taut muscle
and deeply buried bone. Arching down from the strong neck, a thick band
of muscle swooped efficiently down under the mass of the shoulder muscles
only to reverse direction and delta out from the shoulder in a skintight
spread of finely striated cords that inserted all down the sides of the
spine. As Brent moved, these muscles danced in a naturally choreographed
ballet that roused in me a deep felt desire to touch. To touch and caress
and glory in the magnificence flowing before my eyes.
As mazed as I was by my injuries and the sight before me,  I still paid
close attention to how, from under the spreading mass of muscle, thick
cords of muscle swelled on either side of the deeply indented spine.
Traveling from the base of the heavily boned skull the alternately
flexing ropes swaggered down to their grip on Brent's hips at the base of
his spine where the loosened Levis' exposed the interface between the
sun-warmed mahogany of Brent's tanned torso and the pearl-white swellings
of the cleft globe.
Balancing awkwardly on one foot, Brent struggled to remove a sweat soaked
sock and one leg of the wash worn canvas Levis. Finally pulling his leg
free, Brent stood with feet spread to unravel his balled-up sock. He
smelled the sock and wrinkled up his nose and threw the sock over with
his other clothes. The entrancing shapes of the back muscles were now
shown in full exposure where they overlay the strong lower back and torso
muscles. The startling white of exposed buttocks was accented by the hair
shaded crease and squared off lower margins where the thick supporting
columns blended their horizontal curves into the vertical curves of the
mouth-watering ass.
The legs themselves deserved to be worshiped. The heavily muscled thighs
were completely hairless in their pristine shining whiteness all the way
down to where they narrowed down to the thick tendons attached to the
angular knee where the sudden swell of the lower leg was covered with sun
borne glints from the soft curls of black hair that covered the surface
from knee to ankle.
The Levis pooled down around the right leg but the left ankle and foot
were exposed to my view in all their apparent perfection. I've always
been especially fascinated by men's feet even though I've seldom been
able to do more than look, and maybe get a quick feel as I worked on a
mans groin from my knees. Brent's foot looked as perfect as the rest of
him. Large and well-formed, the foot sat squarely on the soft grass,
ridges of skin raised by the taut tendons supporting Brent's body weight.
I wanted so badly to be allowed to inspect and explore every inch of what
I could see. To touch and fondle and glory in the exposed masculinity.
Brent's other foot raised from the ground as he bent over to remove the
last sock and his pants. As he bent over my eyes were drawn to the
opening cleavage that briefly exposed the shaded depths of Brent's fur
lined crack. I was so entranced I didn't notice as Brent began to turn
as he attempted to keep his one-footed balance and I hardly noticed when
my focus moved from his ass cleft to the deep valley between his
pectorals backed by the shadowed depths behind the protuberant nipples
whose view was tantalizing my eyeballs.
As Brent rose to stand tall with his Levis in one hand and his sock in
the other, my eyes followed the lightening exposure down across his broad
chest and washboard stomach to the previously unexposed territory. The
flat swirl of bellybutton had a fuzzy black trail of hair leading
downwards into the most perfectly formed pubic patch I'd ever seen. The
curly hair was darkly colored enough to be clearly visible but pellucid
enough to allow a clear view of the shapes and curves of the entire
groin. A clearly  shaped trapezoid of sun-shining gold-red-black darted
up in the center to the bellybutton and down around the thick shaft,
without climbing up the shaft, to sprinkle the globular bag with short
curves of deep black hairs.
The fine skinned scrotum was sticking to the hairless groin and thighs as
the gummy sweat from days in the saddle glistened and dried in the sun.
Two large oval testicles roiled beneath the surface of the loose-skinned
scrotal sack proving beyond doubt the masculinity of the naked stallion.
My mouth watered as my mind filled with imaginations about the tastes and
smells rooting round under that sack would provide. Of all the men's nuts
I've seen and felt and handled and tasted, this pair in their swollen bag
took the grand prize before I even got within touching distance.
Smoothly flowing out from under the neat pubic bush, pale flesh arched
over the swollen testicles about five inches, the broad head clearly
visible under the thin foreskin. Again referring to my wide experience
with men's equipment, on my usual scale of one to five, I immediately
rated this cock a solid ten. I had to double my usual rating scale (a
game I played with myself while sucking dick or getting fucked up the
ass) just to find a place for Brent's magnificent cock. Each of us has
our own set of ideals, but if I'd been allowed to design my own perfect
ideal cock, it would be identical to what I saw depending from Brent's
groin.
Not too long to deep-throat comfortably. That's important because I love
the feel and smell of pubic hair against my face with an erect cock
holding my mouth open and gagging my throat. A cock that is too long
makes that uncomfortable and detracts from the joy of deepthroating a
stud until he's forced to fill my mouth with his seed. The thin, pale
skin showed a tracery of blue veins but was flat and smooth,
uninterrupted by the corded veins that look and feel good on a raging
weapon, but that can detract from the beauty of a flaccid cock. This
fully-fleshed member glowed with youth and power. The loose foreskin fit
comfortably over the cock-knob without compressing or disfiguring its
helmet-shaped perfection, the wide and deep flare clearly visible as the
foreskin traveled up and over the corona.
The foreskin was plenty long enough to completely cover the dickhead but
was not tightly pinched at the end. Rather, it was snugly open,
apparently having been stretched by frequent movement over the thick,
heavy cockhead and shaft. The shaft itself was much wider than I would
have expected from a soft five-incher, but was not gross. Just a thick,
solid piece of meat that could prove to be a more that adequate ass and
throat stretcher.
Even more important to my eyes was the perfect fit of Brent's cock and
balls to his body. The model for this body came from Paris and Ganymede,
done on a heroic scale. Smooth, athletic and finely shaped transformed to
a thicker, more solid, heavier working form. Perfection only the Greek
Gods could create, although lathed in America to remove all traces of
daintiness.
As Brent twisted his torso to drop his Levis behind himself, I was
treated to a quick view up inside the opening of his foreskin where a
glistening, pouty mouth resided. This single eye seemed to stare at me,
and I stared back, wanting it to know that I was available.
Brent unrolled his sock as I continued to stare at him. He finally tossed
the sock behind him with the rest of his clothes and as he started to
turn back I became acutely aware of my throbbing, seeping erection and
his eyes looking at me. Blushing bright red clear down into my chest, I
dropped my head with the shame of having this stud catch me, not  only
staring at him while he got undressed, but with an erection from what I
was seeing.
With my eyes averted from Brent, I could see a closed in pond of water
next to the running stream. From the looks of the logs and rocks, Brent
had spent the morning building the pond. I wondered why he'd waste the
time to do such a thing  and suddenly noticed him when he bent over to
pick me up again. I struggled to push him away from my soiled body, but I
was hardly able to lift my arms much less overcome his power. "Please
don't touch me." I begged.
He just shook his head and picked me up anyway and then walked down the
bank into the small pond. At the lower end of the pond there was a
submerged log that the water was running over the top of back into the
stream. Brent sat me down on this log. The water was WARM! Really warm,
almost hot in fact! I looked up at the top end of the pond and saw an old
board directing the cold water from the stream into the pond and where a
rivulet of steaming water came down the hillside from a spring. Brent had
used nature to make a hot bathing pond! I stared at him in amazement.
The cowboy just grinned at me and kneeled down in the sand on the bottom
of the pond in front of me. If he'd have let go of me I'd have fallen
into the water I was so weak, but he just leaned my head and chest
against his broad chest and held me in place with one hand while he
reached behind me with his other hand and used the somewhat cooler
mixture of pond and stream water to wash the mess off of me like I was a
sick calf, or a baby. The warm water and the gentle stimulation opened my
bladder and bowels again and Brent quickly moved his hand out of the way.
I began to cry again with the shame of loosing control in front of him
like that. He just rubbed my back and hummed deep in his chest as I
emptied myself.
Once I was done he reached back and made sure I was clean back there and
then, holding me to his chest, laid backwards into the warm pond water.
He scooted the twenty or so feet across the bottom of the pond to the
upper end and propped me up in the warm water between some large rocks.
Making sure I was secure, he waded out of the pond and up the low
embankment and collected our clothes. He staked mine out on the bottom of
the stream with some rocks and took his over to  a big flat rock. He
pounded a piece of soaproot with a stone and used the paste to carefully
wash his clothes. After rinsing them off he hung them over some bushes in
the bright sunshine. He then retrieved my clothes from where the creek
had pre-washed the cloth and gave them the same careful treatment he'd
given his own clothes.
When he was done with the clothes he beat some more soaproot and then
treated me with the same impartiality and disregard for what little
modesty I might have left as he had the clothes as he washed me all over.
He put his hand over my face, holding my nose and mouth shut, and then
dunked me under the water. When he was done rinsing me, he propped me
back up against a big rock and then washed my hair. It took three washes
for my hair to rinse clear and clean. Then he took some stems of pale
blue flowers and rubbed them against a rock until they made a creamy
paste. He rubbed the fragrant goop into my hair and propped me back up
into the rocks. I was so weak from the heat and my soreness that all I
could do was lay there and watch him as he washed himself.
I won't bore you with a description of a magnificent piece of manhood
carefully cleaning every surface and crevice of his gorgeous body, or
bother you with word pictures of how he became half-erect as he cleaned
under his foreskin. Just take it for granted that he didn't seem to be at
all body shy or self-conscious and that I wasn't bored the least little
bit.
Once he was rinsed off, Brent came over and rinsed the goop off my hair.
Once it was rinsed clean, he took some of my shoulder length blond hair
in his hand and brushed it up against my face and then held it under my
nose. My eyes opened wide in surprise with how soft my hair felt and how
good it smelled. He got a big grin on his face at my surprise and then
tucked my wet hair behind my ears to keep it out of my face.
"Is it OK to leave you here alone for a little bit or should I take you
out of the water?" he quietly asked.
Startled to hear his voice after the mornings silence of wind and stream,
I shook my head in surprise. "No, please leave me in the water. I don't
hurt so much here."
He just nodded and made sure I was propped up safely before walking back
downstream again. It took him two trips to move all our gear to a new
campsite on the bank. The second trip back he was followed by my little
filly, closely followed by his big stallion. The horses, after being
gently pushed out of the campsite, wandered across the stream and began
cropping the lush grass on the far bank.
Brent had the camp set up and was just getting the campfire going when he
quietly reached over and grabbed his six-shooter. A single, loud report
and he got up and walked around a bush only to return a few seconds later
plucking a fat prairie hen. I had a feeling I knew what was for dinner.
Once the prairie hen was wrapped in plantain leaves and buried in the
coals of the burned down fire, Brent rejoined me in the water. He made
himself comfortable in the hottest part of the pool and pulled me over to
lay in the crook of his arm.
"If you need anything, wake me up," that deep, quiet voice rumbled from
deep in his chest." He snuggled me into his side and closed his eyes. In
a few minutes he began to softly snore. Shortly after that, I fell asleep
with my nose buried in his soft, fine chest hair. Warm, comfortable, and
safe.