Gay Western Showdown

Me in a gunfight. Fuckin unbelievable. What am I doin' here? I should be home on the range giving head to a ramrod or trail-boss, or even a chuck-wagon cook, not stuck out here, in the middle of the street wilting under a high noon sun with some fucking barnboy ready to blow my fuckin' brains out. But there he is with a gun stuck in the front of his bib-overalls, with the gun handle sticking out, and his hands a'itching and a'clawing ready to draw, pull out that motherfucking whatchamcallit, and blow my brains into pumpkin mush. I'm dead, I'm dead. It's not even as if he has good cause. He caught me talking to his sister, assumes I was trying to fuck her and this is the consequence. They gave me a gun and had to bandage it to my hand, so it wouldn't fall out, as my hand was shaking so much.

I wished I was back in Hoboken, writing my fairy stories, and never come up with the idea of writing tales of the Gay West. I was talking to his sister, making inquiries in the hopes of getting to him, so that I could bend him over a hay bale, and fuck the be-jesus out of his ass. He's a flaxen haired punk blond with a body of a young biblical hero and looks as if every morning he gets up, someone smashes his face in with a plank. Just the type who needs boning; I wanted to volunteer. He had a bulge in his crotch, dearly, I could sink my teeth into, tear off his coverings, suck so hard, he'd lose his overbite. But he got me wrong, dead wrong, thinks I want to stick my dick up his sister's vapid cunt. Instead of him. He should've known, the first time I saw him, cherubim appeared in the sky, seraphim did their thing and I stiffened visibly. Should've made my intentions known then, but he was gone when I got back.

Found his sister there in the smithy, acted polite, and as her talk got more lascivious, the smaller my dick got, as she moved in closer, backed me up against the wall, opened her shirt, revealed her udders, and that was the moment Billy Jo walks in, and convicts me on circumstantial evidence. Only hours ago, I'd gotten off the stage, here in Happenstance, South Dakota, earlier than intended, to get some background for the next story I'd write, about "the Cock-Sure Kid", an outlaw who dresses all in black leather, and who everybody fears on account of the size of his dick, which he likes to stick in the rear ends of members of the local male community. He was gonna be a little autobiographical, handsome like me, but brunet and a hell of a lot braver. He would have a splash of Chippewa blood in him, and a cruel mouth, hawk-eyes, lean, mean, with an insatiable sexual appetite.

He'd do all the things I'd do, if only I weren't no gentleman. In my head I'd written several sketches, for instance, the adventure, when he'd forced Deuce Coupe, the sherrif's deputy into giving him a blow job with the barrel of his Colt inserted into the navel of the peace-officer, to guarantee compliance. Heady stuff. But though my readers love the sex-acts, for my own benefit, and a desire to write good, I like to throw in a little local color to achieve a flavor of authentic verisimilitude. The sex I make up, or draw from experience. Change the locales around, don't want too many Easterners following my tracks.

So I'd wandered, after checking into the hotel, into the jail, or 'hoosegow' as they call it, to make notes on the general layout, see what real 'Wanted' posters look like, and look for places where acts of illicit sex could take place, like the holding cell fr'example. Barney Flitcraft was on duty, and with little exaggeration looks like 'Deuce' would look like. Beaver brown hair poking from under his wide-brimmed hat, with dark highlights, coarse stubble that would taste like sandpaper, and eyes that you could see your reflection in. He rolled a matchstalk in his mouth, juggling it with expertise. Barney sat back on the office chair, his legs and boots sprawled across the desk, a shotgun cradled in his lap like an erection, next to his six-gun hardon that he massaged with his gun-butt.

"What kin I do you for, stranger?" says Barney and he introduces himself with a handshake, that I would've like to stick my boner into. I gave him the cover story. About being an Eastern journalist, wanting to write the story of the West. Told him I was looking for a real life hero I could make famous, as a two dimensional dime-novel hero, and me and whoever would get rich on the royalties. Like Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickock, Dixon Bullcock, Calamity James, Butt Masterson, John Wesley Hardon etc, etc. My editor, a manic depressive, gets uptight, corrects my grammar, says I should write stories of languorous queens, who want roses, delivered to their door and manly strapping men, prepared to take the whip.

I used to write like that; but no more. I want earthy. Guys with broken noses, hairy, stinky, real life, written in cold blood. Men with giant size erections, veins on their phalluses, balls the size of the Monument valley. Men with brains and muscles, squirming beneath me, crying out for more. Barney Flitcraft fills the bill, he's handsome, and given the necessary, I'd jump his bones. Gotta flirt. He might turn in that direction. Potential bedmate, or potential guy who beats the shit outta guys like me, gotta watch my words.

"Have you ever killed a man? Ever nailed one?" I asked.

"Waal, not perzackerly, but we did hang a woman last week, who shot her kinfolk, Bad-Breath Zeke, when she caught him, a hay-lofting with the Mayor's son. I caught her. Put her, back there in that there jail-cell. Fat woman, broke the rope; we had to hang her twice." I started to make notes.

"Er, the Mayor's son, where might I find him? Maybe I should interview him. Get the full story. Took it up the Ass,huh? Not to many of his sort around these parts, I suppose?"

PART 2

"Not too many of those homeosyckles round here. But the mayor's son... name of Charley Boniface. Cute as a rattlesnake. But listen up, 'cause I could tell you stories that would make your blood burn. Like the time me and Marshall Rambone went head to toe, with the Glory-Hole in the wall gang, with a little twistin' around and maybe you could include me in, and you'n me could make some money. Tales of Babyface Barney, that's my handle." Babyface? With that mustache? He's way past puberty. So he's not smart. But attractive, makes my jugular vein throb.

"Well, maybe, but I'd also need a romance angle, what do you do around here for 'relaxation'? If you don't mind me asking."

"I get your drift, pardner. Truth to tell, there ain't be too many women-folk round these parts, not 'nuff to go round. Billy Sue's 'bout the only gal who puts out, most'n everybody's done her, and those who haven't gets satisfaction out of Billy Jo, her brother." I wrote the names down and asked how he was spelling 'Joe' and where might I look him up.

The smithy, huh? Next to the stables? He's the blond, the one with the muscles and the powder-keg smile? Told Barney, I'd catch him later, and went back to the hotel, for my own form of relaxation, wherein I let my hand wander, my mind wander, work out a plot, which usually involves a good looking naked man, doing things, to another good looking naked man, the kinds of things I'd like to be doing, to a good looking naked man, if one were available. I conjured up a wet day-dream. Billy Jo, huh? A guy with a back-handed cowlick, that starts at his forehead, sweeps back, and returns to drape over his temple.

His eyes, intense azure blue, his lips parted, accepting my cock, his tongue pushes out, wraps around my shaft, my pubic hair matches the color of his cowlick, that swishes and flaps against my belly as I roll my butt up and down, his mouth stationary, till I'm forced to cum, and he licks and swallows my pearl-white semen and tells me how delicious it tastes. Fuck, I needed to get laid. Imagination's fine; but not like the real thing. So decided to check out the lay of the land. Freshened up, walked out, hands in pocket, whistling.

Crossed the street, avoided the horse manure, said "How" to the cigar store Indian, and went into to the General store, and was greeted by the store clerk, called Charlie, who by synchronicity, turns out to be the mayor's son. A paisley waistcoat with brown-silk trim, gray pants that look as if they were painted on, and if that's a cucumber in there, I'm turning vegetarian. He stands arms folded leaning over the counter, and a black cowlick brushes his forehead. His smile is insolent, his mouth truculent, full of bad-boy attitude, the kind I like. He looks bored, he's used to serving farmers, if I play my cards right, maybe he'll do service by me. His hair's parted in the middle, his eyes doe-sleepy, his hips trim, and an unbelievable backside. Shapely. Hands long and slender, not a cuticle out of place.

"Can I help you?" Oh, you can. Just bend over, drop you pants, let me squirm you and squish you. I could die happy, my face in your ass.

"You new round here. Just off the stage? You must be passing through, you don't look like the kind who'd stay." I would if you'd be there, smiling in the morning.

"Do you happen to carry Dr Ezekiel's elixir jelly?" I queried. The nineteen year old boy-clerk, unfolded his arms, leans forward on the counter and looks up, raising a quizzical eyebrow. He's interested.

"You don't look like you got a bald spot, sir, what do you want that restore-all for?" asked Charlie, and I could tell from the way he asked, that he knew exactly what I wanted it for. But I beat around the bush and complained of a mild chest congestion. For those not in the know, it's a penile lubricant, makes asses easy to enter, just slide in, no embarrassing yelps of pain. Some kind of local anesthesia, for those like me, who like to fuck butts. It's popular, generally available; someone's making a fortune on this exclusive patent medicine. I know, I'm a customer.

"Mebbe we got some in the back, wanna help me come look?" He climbed up the small stock ladder to reach the top shelf, my face inches close to his ass, a small split in the seam, sort of inviting like.

"Hey, dude, we got some, do you want I should I wrap it?"

"No, I'll take it like it is, pass it down." It wasn't long before I'd got the store clerk mayor's son up a ladder with his pants down, his dick, his balls and puckered ass-hole right where I wanted them, in back, in my face, away from public view. My tongue gliding over his boyish buttocks, a chink of delight exposed between the cheeks.

Licking turns him on, he wants me to kiss his hole, cup his balls, bury his shaft in my mouth, till saliva is wetting everything, till he's a little frenzied, and lets me draw my pecker from its holster, shove my penis into him, fuck for all I'm worth, as I fill him all up, till all that's left on his behind is beaded strands dripping, a trail of cum glistening like morning dew. It's funny how past events flash through your mind when you're gonna die. This farm-boy, Billy Jo, naked biceps bulging, ready to go for his incredibly big pistol, an 1851 Navy Colt revolver, is going to make me a corpse before my time, because he thinks I wanted to fuck his sister, when I'd much prefer to be fucking him, if only I could explain, but I'm at a loss for words, trembling and shaking like a leaf. We're moving closer, he stares down the barrel and at this range, he can't possibly miss.

PART 3

"Shit, Billy Jo," I pleaded, "there's no need to kill me! If all you want is your family honor defended, why don't you just grab me, bend me over, fuck my ass to smithereens, in front of the whole damn town. I'll be thoroughly humiliated, won't be able to show my face here again in Happenstance, and you will have your satisfaction. Socially I'll be destroyed." I fell to my knees in front of him, face up, imploring, pleading. Would he buy it? He buys it.

Maybe I've invented a new form of Frontier Justice. One where the victim is really enjoyin' hisself. I was strapped to the tailgate of a wagon, my pants unceremoniously ripped down, my white butt exposed for all to see, and watched they did. As Billy Jo moved behind me, with bib overalls at his knees and his horse-dick sticking out, aimed between my butt-cheeks. We'd drawn a crowd, and I could turn my head and see them. I gave 'em a wave. Always the trouper. Even if they didn't buy tickets. He slapped a hard drum-like paraddiddle on my buttocks and gained their attention. Smirking Charlie Boniface, who only that afternoon I'd fucked, looked over at Billy Jo, who nodded. He jumped down from the storefront.

A gob of elixir jelly in his hand and generously slapped it on my rear end, stepped back and let Billy ram his oversized penis in my undersized shit chute; there's was no faking of the howl I made as he plunged inside me. My eyes bugged, and never did go back to the former location. Once I got used to the rock hard python, plowing and furrowing my rear-entrance, the howls that had at first to be fake, became moans as the pain gave way to pleasure; a man gets to like this kind of ramrodding. Billy Jo starts to grunt and sweat and cursed, using denigrating dirty epithets that if I remember them will become part of my vocabulary. Apparently I was a shit-sucker, a fuck-squirmer, a bend-over bandit, a ball-licker, a scat-sniffer, a cock-cunt, a spunk-spiller, major dick-meat, ass-inhaler, a shit-chute, a fuck-butt: such flattery, I plead guilty to all of the above.

"Make them stop!" cried Billy Sue, who promptly fainted with orgiastic sexual jealousy. Reverend Heaven-sent went to her aid, got smacked across the face, as she clawed forward, bringing Clarence Bull-dick to his knees on top of her and wrapped her legs behind his thighs and ground his pelvic appendage into her crotch.

My butt whumping continued, I managed to keep his cockhead tight against my pelvic bone, and I just stretched his phallus like a piece of hard rubber elastic and I milked that son-of-a-bitch till I'd drained every last drop of cum out of him. Poor guy was exhausted. Imagine our surprise when Barney Flitcraft arrested us, dragging Charlie along for aiding and abetting, gross indecency and lewd behavior and slammed all of us in the slammer. Imagine our surprise when he locked himself in the jail cell with the three of us. Showed us his shot gun size erection. He peeled off that stupid fake mustache, showed us that in fact he was baby-faced, more muscle than we expected, and we circle-jerked to celebrate. I got to return the favor with Billy Jo, let me be the man, takes as good as he gives, we make a great team. Charlie and Barney alternated bottom and top, then we switched partners, dosey-doh, and invented a few new positions. We did more than that, but if I wrote it all down... well even my readers wouldn't believe it.

Happenstance, 1883.

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written by davistrell