From: davist@dsp.com (davist)
Subject: Saddletramp by davis trell
Date: Tue, 29 Oct 1996 03:31:52 -0800

Saddle tramp. 1/5
by davisrell@aol.com

   The lone rugged horseman, paused, cocked his hat, wiped his sweaty
brow, licked the salt taste from his hand, pulled away the creased denim
cloth that had wedged itself into his ass-crack, adjusted his balls, as
his horse pawed the ground with a front hoof, testing the slope, to see if
would take both their weight. Walter stared out onto the cruel splendor of
the fiery-skied terrain of the Arizona desert landscape. The beauty was
ominous, almost claustrophobic. Both horse and man were hot and sticky,
but down aways he could see the small town, Presbytery. A nip on the
flanks and they slid scurrying down the hillside in a wake of dust and
sand flurries. Maybe there'd be a guy he could fuck down there.
   He needed a beer; his horse a bucket of water laced with a shot of
whiskey. And maybe there'd be barfly he could stick his dick in.
   "What'll it be?" said the saloon keeper as the weary traveller
sauntered up to the bar. No guys, well none too attractive.
   "A beer, a bath, a room." and a  butt fuckable man, he thought in
silent parenthesis.
   "Got all three, want the boy to look after your horse?"
   "Sure."
   He downed the amber liquid with it's white frothy head, watched the
blond tousled-hair lad who the barkeep had waved over. He was carrying a
bucket of water, and walked out the door to the street to where the horse
was hitched. Nice looking kid.
   "Whiskey, and a shot glass."

   "He won't drink, mister."
   "He will."
   The horse saw the whiskey bottle, saw the pouring of the shot, whinnied
appreciatively, and proceeded to drink.
   "Never saw nothin' like that in all my born days," laughed the lad.
Couldnt've been a day over eighteen. Blond like an angel.
   "He's an old drunkard. Later he'll bother me for the bottle."
   "Whaddaya call him?"
   The dirty cowboy explained how his horse was called Pedestal, on
account some guy had once tried to put him on one. Instead he got a horse.
Don't think the kid understood but he laughed anyway. An innocent
laugh.Maybe Walter would be able to make the laugh less virginal.
   "Would you get ol' Pedestal to the livery, here's half a dollar. Bed
him down for the night."
   He watched the boy walk away, leading the old nag, gently patting his
hand round his mane, talking to the horse softly. Nice kid. Nice ass. Nice
everything.
   Walter Longbranch returned to the bar, with his saddleblanket draped
over his shoulders, his sugar-loaf brim hat draped over his eyes, and the
saloon keeper, gave him a key, directed him upstairs.

   So far what I'd got was a story, a man, a boy and a horse. Of all
three, only the horse won't get laid. But I needed a plot, crank up the
sexual, otherwise I won't get paid.
   And Ethan Newell, needs paying. I got into trouble in the last town I
hung out in. Got involved with a handsome blackman with a too big a dick
and a hangin' judge. I managed keep a wad of money I'd earned, enough to
rent lodging with Widow Cornpole, and I'm back writing one-fisted stories
for the homeopathic eastern readers who like the mano y mano stories I
write. I write as the fancy takes me, but I took that piece of writing
advice I was once given: write with a hardon.

   Walter Longbranch filled the hip bath with steaming hot kettles of
near­boiling water and luxuriated in the warmth, in the soap, in the
bubbles as the water turned grey with his grime. But cleansed, he stood
up, toweled down, looked in the mirror, saw he needed a shave, maybe two
shaves, it'd been a long time since his chin had seen a razor. He'd keep
the walrus mustache, that hid the scar, that a tomcat had left him with.
He looked down onto the street and lo and behold the kid was there looking
up at him.  A fine looking boy, eager and headstrong. Why's he lookin' up
here? I'm an old man in his eyes. Shit, he's cute. Hitch that to my
hitching post, anyday.

   I like writing about old guys, salt of the earth types.  Grizzled,
weatherworn, leather-beaten skin, squinched eyes, from too much sun,
world-weary and cynical and always ready to fuck.

   The kid waved up at the window, up at Walter, covered with shaving
cream. Walter looked down at the boy, down at his dick, and saw his dick
looking right back up. Smiling. Maybe the old feller'll see some action,
after all. They don't call me Longbranch fer nothin'.
   So he opened the window, and hoped the kid could see his John Wesley
Hardon from this distance. The Kid blushed, but I swear he smiled. He
watched the kid walk back into the hotel, kittenish, like a colt.

   Walter went to the saddle-bag, got out the linen shirt, and a clean
pair of pants. Picked up his gun-belt, with the heavy colts, hung them on
the chair by the bed. Won't be needing 'em tonite. Ran his fingers through
his damp unruly locks, pepper-colored with a smidgin of salt. He took out
a roll of greenbacks, pulled out a few notes and hid the remainder, and as
he left, looked back at the room, looked at the bed and gave a wry smile.
Gotta remember to get the Elixir Jelly off' a Pedestal's other saddle bag.
Tight assed kid probably need a good lubing. And he sauntered down to the
saloon area, looking for a little action. To pass a little time afore the
kid gets off. A little gambling mebbe.
   As he passed the kitchen, he looked in, saw the youth strangling a
squawking chicken, breaking its neck.


Saddle tramp. 2/5
by davisrell@aol.com

   "Try the special. Chicken braised in red wine," said the portly
Nathaniel, the barkeep. He ran a smooth operation, a bar, a kitchen, a
hotel all rolled into one. Presbytery is a small town, and his was the
only lodging around.
   The food was good. My compliments to the chef. Your wife?
   "Nah, the kid."
   "Your son?"
   "Joey? Nah..he's a orphan. Brought him up like he was my own, but.
Parents killed by Indians. He lived with them til he was ten. Then was
found by the soldiers. Nearly killed him too. He was wild. Dirty, covered
with painted symbols, daubed with pig's blood and goatshit. Like trying to
bathe a dog when we got him. He howled and he screamed, kickin' and
scratching."
   "Well, tell him I liked the fixin's, and give him this dollar."
   "Mighty nice of you stranger," and Nate waddled away. He returned with
a bottle of whiskey. Told him Joey says thanks for the tip.

   Walter introduced himself, invited himself in to join the card game.
The other three had been playing poker for pennies, but Walter upped the
ante, they moved up to dimes. There was Larry the barber, Clem the town
drunk and Saul Harper, probably the town card cheat, if the perspiration
on his fingers means what it usually does. They played a few hands, all
friendly like. Walter was winning, but no-one cared, it was all just plain
fun.  Walter had eaten, but was gracious, bought whiskey and beers for the
table, and asked if it were possible to rustle up some chicken-wings,
fried country-style.
   "Like me a bit of chicken..."
   "What brings you to these parts, stranger?"
   "Headed down to Amarillo, join a fresh drive, take those dogies all the
way plumb to St. Louis, them's my plans."
   Saul Harper said he'd done some drovin' but now was in the feed
business. Business was good obviously, by the way he dressed. Black
leather hat, snakeskin vest, big gold watch, dangling from a fob, which he
checked from time-to-time. Pencil-thin mustache, hair the color of gravy,
but didn't set quite right on his head.
   Joey came in from the back carrying a couple of baskets of steaming
fried chicken. His hands pale and long, as neat as any fancy french
waiter. He stood next to Walter, waiting for him to take the first bite.
Walter's teeth tore the skin and exposed the pale meat.
   "Mmmm...'licious...after all that prairie chicken and scrawny desert
rabbits...tastes...well, delicious."
   Joey beamed at the compliment. His eyes bright, with a touch of campfire.
   "You play? Wanna join us?" said Larry."C'mon kid you can sit on my lap,
I got an itching."
   "Don't got no money sir."
   "What about the buck fifty I staked you?"
   "Oh that goes to my savings, sir, I'm saving up."
   "Fer what?" says Sam Harper, after he spat a tobacco juice stream into
the spittoon.
   "For a saddle, sir. A Spanish saddle."
   "Well, invest your buck fifty an' afore you know it, you'll be
affordin' to buy anything you want," says Clem, laughing heartily.
   Joey walked back to the kitchen still smiling, and the men craned their
necks to watch him, then got back to the game.
   "Know how the young feller could earn a chunk of change," said Saul
Harper as he stared into his hand, with an expression, that you couldn't
tell if he had four aces or a truly busted flush.
   "He's sure 'nuff a pretty kid."
   "I hear he's into Indian ways, but won't do it fer money," announces
Larry, who from his dandified appearance looked as if he's tried, but had
no success.
   "I'll take two cards," said Saul, and looked at the pasteboards with
obvious disgust.
   Clem had reached the point when sobriety suddenly turned to sleep and
his head fell down and cracked on the card table.
   "I fold," said Larry, threw his cards face down. He got up, grabbed his
hat.Took a hold of Clem pulled him up, raised his arm, took the weight,
threw him up on his shoulder, his companero's fat ass upward, and started
to move out.
   "Pleasant evening, Gentlemen. Goodnight."

   So that left Walter with Saul Harper, one mean lookin' hombre.
   "You been travelling long? Bet the trail makes you lonesome."
   "I got my dick fer company."
   "A big 'n, I'd guess. A regular shooter."
   "Buy me drink if'n you want to find out..."
   Saul held up two fingers, so the bartender came back with two bottles.
While he poured, Saul let his hand, under the table slide up Walter's
thigh, and found the true measure of the man.
   "All this liquid, don't you need to pee."
   Out back,by the lean-to was where the cowboys pissed, and in the
moonlight the two men faced off.
   "Cost you three dollars," says Walter.
   "Give you five if you'll suck me off after."
   "Deal."

   Plot seems to be growing, I just write the words; the characters lead
me along. Gotta write more about Walter. Gotta set up his experience, then
I'll get him laid. He'll get laid before me, that's for sure. Apart from
the widow's son, Brett, there's no one round here, to have lustful
thoughts about. Brett's cute, but shy.


Saddle tramp. 3/5
by davisrell@aol.com

   The Widow keeps a firm eye out for her son Brett. Blackhaired,
over-ripe farmboy, not a cityway about him; I once offered to help with
the chores, he was washin' and I was dryin', and I'd got around to ask
him, if he'd been doin' any girls yet, he told me not, and before I could
move the conversation around to see if he was, you know...when the widow
came in, grabbed the plate from my hand, said it was kind of me to offer,
but she didn't think the guests, should be back here in the kitchen, and
gave me a look, so fierce, she might as well have cracked the plate on my
head.
    So I'm up here in my room, writing in longhand, and getting nowhere.
Can't even get my hero a decent blowjob.
   Then there's a knock on the door. I quickly close my journal, and hope
to hell my boner goes down, before I open the door. "Just a second..."
   It's Widow Cornpole. Oh, God, she's gonna ask me to leave; senses
there's something odd about me. It must show.
   "Sorry to trouble you, Mr Newell, but could I beg a favor?"
   "Err'm ...sure, what's the problem?"
   "It's one of my regulars, turned up unexpectedly, A Mr Emmanuel
Goatmore...he doesn't usually stop by this time of year, but he had a
sudden business deal, and needs to stay over...and this is his room."
   "And you want me to switch rooms, I would be delighted to help you out."
   "No, no. There's no other room."
   She wants me out, she's seen the way I was checking her son out.
   "No, no. I was going to ask... would you bunk up with my boy. He only
has a small bed, and Mr Goatmore he's a rather portly man....my son
doesn't snore."
   I agreed, maybe too readily. He doesn't snore, I wonder what else he
doesn't do.
   "I'll get my things."

   We sat down to supper, and all the way through the meal, the widow
giggled like a schoolgirl at every inane remark Mr Goatmore, a dealer in
sheepskins, made. Brett didn't look at me, as with his head bent over his
plate, he looked like he was panning for morsels of meat in the murky
soup.
   When Goatmore started playing the piano and the widow warbling like a
cockatoo crossed with a screaming jay, I announced I was tired and ready
for bed.
   "These youngsters, no spunk," said Goatmore. But I think the widow was
pleased, as she let her rather large bosom almost spill out of her blouse
as she turned the pages of the sheet music, letting Goatmore get a
glimpse, of what he was going to have to deal with later.
   "I gotta do the dishes..." said Brett, still acting a little sullen.
This time I didn't offer to help, just walked into the kitchen with him,
and grabbed a towel.
    Silently he gave me plate by plate not saying a word.
   "S'pose we should go to bed now," he said finally.
   His room was small, without the bed it still would have been small. He
blew out the candle.
   I took off my clothes till my flesh was covered with goosebumps. I
lifted the covers, and found a naked eighteen year old in there.
   "Sorry..." he said as his flesh touched mine.
   There was a only small ray of light coming from the window, and the
room was shrouded in blue-black, with no shadows.
   "You asked me if I'd done a girl..." he said softly. "Why'd you ask?"
   "Just curious, a man like you should be laid by now..."
   "Wanna get laid. But want to be the girl..."

   I shifted my weight, we lay naked thigh to thigh. I put my hand where
his cock should be, and boy, it was there. It lay limp. It filled the palm
of my hand.It felt like an enormous snail, without a shell, unprotected.
His arm fell over my chest, sorta accidental like.
   "I wish I was like you..."
   His snail grew.
   "I read some of the writings you did in that book of your'n. You really
slept with the Marshall... Rambone I mean...?"
   I told him I made that up it wasn't real. I'd made it all up. The
fucking kid read my book. I wasn't sure I liked that.
   His cock, in my hand was getting larger.

   Walter let the sperm of fourteen days travel spurt all over Saul
Harper's face. And Saul, his hair now definitely askew, drank every
dribble. His tongue licked Walter's balls, as Walter sighed.
   Then he had to go down on Saul, it had been his agreement, but the man
had a cock, that smelled evil and green. He'd been there before, too many
times, his mouth filled with unpleasant smelling meat. But he got Saul to
cum, a thin viscous dribble, and put the back of his hand to his lips, to
get rid of the spillage.
   "I need another drink..." said Walter, putting his hardware back in his
pants. He got up, a little disgusted with himself; when  suddenly he felt
the barrel of a gun, press into the small of his back.
   "You filthy cocksucker, if you think I'm gonna let you go back in there
and tell everybody what we just did..."
   Walter raised his hands high.
   "If you think I'm going in there to brag..."
   "They'll find you're dead body, and I'll say you called me a cheat..."
   Walter sighed. So this is where I die. Oh, well.At least I got my boots on.
   "Lemme at least do up my pants...."


Saddle tramp. 4/5
by davisrell@aol.com

   Joey, total white boy, but versed in Indian ways had stealthily crept
round the back, and seen, Walter sucking the sleaze. Why had he done it?.
Here was a boy who could've pleasured the stranger all night. But then he
saw Saul Harper pull his gun out, but couldn't hear what was said. He
sailed in the air, jumped on Saul's shoulder, brought him down, and heard
the breaking of the overbite as Saul's teeth bit the dust. Walter whipped
round and cracked a boot heel into the back of Saul's skull, and wondered,
just wondered if dentistry had reached Presbytery yet.
   "Shit, kid! That was fucking great. The way you walloomed that guy.
Snuck up on'm like a bare-assed Indian."
   Joey looked down on Saul, moaning in pain on the ground, and moved
closer to Walter.
   "I don't like that white-eyes! One day I swear by the seven stars I
will kill him! I will take his scalp!" and the hairpiece came off.
   These two obviously had a history, but Walter had no desire to ask. He
held the boy close and thanked him for saving his life.

   "No woman has a cock like that," I said, as I was enjoying running my
hand along the length of Brett's shaft.
   "You gonna do me, or talk all night?..."
   I slid on top of widow Cornpole's son, and pressed my weight on  him.
My two hand I slipped under his shoulder blades, and kissed his chest, the
two brown-pink tits, the space between his chest muscles with its light
covering of hair, the space between the two knobs of his collar bones, the
apple in his throat, the beginnings of a youth's beard on his jaw, the
side of his nose, the eyes, the ears, and the rigidly closed separation
between his lips, all the time grinding my hardon in his crotch. His legs
bent, he held onto my hips and his hands sprawled on my back, trying to to
claw the muscles of my spine.
   "Do me, mister, do me good...."
   "I'll do my best..." I promised...

   "You live in a tent!?" said Walter incredulously.
   "My tepee," said Joey proudly. They bent down and entered the small
tent flap, the floor covered by a quilt of soft rabbit fur. The boy stood
up, the tent a rounded pyramid, and shucked off his work clothes. Till all
he stood in was a loincloth, held on by a braided strap, around his hips.
A finger painted sun on his belly, and two rudimentary painted arrows on
each thigh, pointing at his crotch.
   "Sesquoia markings..." said blond Joey, proud of his nation. Then he
leaned over helped Walter off with his shirt, helped him off with his
boots, having  to stand backward, holding each  of Walter's legs between
his thighs, so the boots came off easy, one by one, but Walter, undid his
own belt-buckle, took off his own pants. But he left on the bandanna, tied
round his throat.
   "Speak magically to me, incant powerful words, O wise man...before I
give myself to he who is chosen..."
   Walter didn't quite know what to say, but thought quickly, and came up
with that little bit of French he'd learnt down New Orleans way.
   "Couchez avec moi, mon tendresse, donnez le moi, votre bras, votre,
jambes, votre bouche..."
   The simple rope braid fell, the simple flax of the loin cloth fluttered
to the floor with the speed of a feather falling and Joey's pink arrow,
pointed high, up his white belly almost reaching his navel. He made a
stance where his hands pressed together, elbows hugging his waist, his
legs open, imitating the shape of the tepee.
   "Into your arms, I commend you my spirit..."
   And Walter took the boy's invitation literally, and swallowed the blond
kid's sweet dick. Even the balls were in, which in the closed mouth he
could jiggle with his tongue, while the penis entire brushed up against
the hard pallet, and the soft point was at the edge of the precipice of
Walter's throat.
   "Take me to the mountain, to the high summit, beyond the clouds, to the
peak, to touch the sky..."
   Walter cupped the youth's warm buttocks, burying his mustache so the
golden triangle of the boys pubic hair intermingled and hair became
snagged up with hair, wolfing him down licking and cajoling, while
squeezing the boy's butt-cheeks, then letting him slide partially out, get
a gasp of air, then take all  in again, with rhythm, each motion repeated,
to the beat of the Earth's heart.

   Brett opened easily, he'd been practicing opening his butt with
corncobs, and my cock went in smoothly, but he gasped, so I knew it
must've hurt a little.
   "More, stranger, put it all in...ohhh..."

   We could hear his mom below, doing it with Mr Goatmore, so covered the
sounds I was making, the filthy ephitets I hurled in Brett's ears. Vulgar,
crude, kind of words you find scratched into the timbers of stage-stop
out-houses; where I'd learned most of 'em.
   He called me dirty names, back, but each were imploring, and every
swear word I uttered were silken promises.
   I rode him for maybe ten minutes, and I came, a violent gush, and six
seconds later, he came too and I licked it up from his belly, but I had to
keep two fingers up his ass, to keep him happy, because my cock had long
since wilted, and that was the only way, he insisted he could sleep.
   I lay awake, listening to the sounds of Widow Cornpole, chase Mr
Goatmore in the downstairs, until finally she caught him, and boy, did he
squeal when she nailed him. Brett snored softly, but quietened when I
stuck a third finger in.


Saddle tramp. 5/5
by davisrell@aol.com

   I woke in the morning, crept out of bed, went downstairs, went out onto
the veranda and in the dawnlight and morning-fresh air finished writing my
story.

   Joey on his hands and knees,  golden legs spread wide, Walter huddled
on top of him, one arm wrapped under the waist of the boy, then the other,
cradled under the boy's chest, so far it came up again and hung on Joey's
shoulder. and  his cock buried deep into the boy's ass, and rode him like
a wild pony that wanted to be subdued.
   With no saddle. With naked flesh pressing against flesh, with
determination, with excitement, and with an energy that came into his
body, as if the old Spirits of the Mountain were listening, giving
crackling energy into Walter, which he passed into the boy, through his
hard penis, into the boy's ass, then back into Walter, filling him with an
untamed warmth, and then back again, into Joey's inside, but transmuted
into  the liquidity of a spermy orgasm.
    As they fell into the bed of rabbit fur, holding each other tightly,
Joey produced a dagger, made a cut on Walter's wrist, then cut his own,
and let the blood mix together.
   "Now you too, are Indian," said Joey, as he let a tongue run over the
old saddletramp's lips.
   "..takes one to know one..." said Walter, the only dam thing he could
think to say....
   Gotta straighten young Joey about the Indian thing, but it can wait,
Walter thought, as he was getting horny again. Much to Joey's delight....

    Me, I finished the yarn, and  so went down to see if Brett had woken
yet. We can fuck again, I'll wake him if I have to. Poked an eye in Widow
Cornpole's room, Goatmore evidently having made his escape... she held a
half spilt whiskey bottle in her hand, she was snoring away, and to my
surprise, saw Walter's horse, Pedestal, licking up the spilt whiskey with
his big horsey tongue.



Saddletramp is the latest chapter of my continuing Western series.
   Each chapter is self-contained but if you want to read the others they
are being archived at http://www.nifty.org -- Prolific Authors.

davistrell@aol.com