Historical Story: Hunter's Return

You precede me up the stairs to the bedrooms I keep for rent above the saloon, and I can tell from the sag in your shoulders and the unusual lack of spring in your step that you have really been ridin' hard and steady for a long time. The curve of your fine ass in those dark brown rawhide trousers--dusty, worn, fragrant-- reminds me of past pleasures and my need to renew them. I'm more concerned right now, however about taking care of your trail fatigue and enjoying one solid night of quiet old-buddy lovemaking. I know that tomorrow your animal spirits will be back and there'll be hell to pay with complete, continual uproar, but tonight is ours.

When we reach the head of the stairs, I gesture to the big room at the end of the hall, through which you can see my sturdy four- poster. When we enter, you look around and give a tired smile at the things you find...my old, familiar saddlebag hanging on a peg, an indian blanket we used many times, the books, pipes, guns, bottles you've come to expect around me, and on the wall in a frame, the badge I gave up wearin' after I hadda shoot down that last young stud who challenged me to a senseless duel, long after the last time you saw me. And then your eye falls on the bedside washstand, where--next to the pitcher and basin--a tintype in a leather case shows two smilin' boy-men staring stiff with pride in their new-grown whiskers and store-bought suits.

The younger one, you, sits with a bowler hat in hand (the camera man had to loan it to you) and knees apart, a view that guy with the camera knew would please much and often, later, even if his subjects hadn't yet caught on. Your whiskers drift down both sides of your mouth and overhang your chin, and though you're tryin' to look stern, a relaxed pleasure shows in the curve of your mouth and in the glint and happiness in your eyes. The other guy is older, but not much, and stands with a hand on your shoulder, bowler in hand at the other side, and the light glints off his dark hair, parted in the middle and slicked back. There's only a shadow where the beginnings of a beard sprout, but his bushy mustache sets off a half-smirk and the musculature of his cheeks accents it even more. In his eyes are pride and an earnestness, and not a little humor at the situation that put him there. There's a noticable bulge in his rough trouser material where it's brought tight against the top of the thigh of his forward leg.

The older guy, you well know, is me--and always will be, podner-- and my hand is not just lyin' on your shoulder casually, but graspin' in a gesture of possession, need, and protection, just like it has been ever since both sets of our parents died on the wagon ride from the east and the party decided we'd have to continue the trek in each other's company, me in charge. The watch on my vest in the photo catches your eye. Your hand instinctively goes to that same watch in your pocket. With a look of relief and familiarity, you pull it out, wind it, and place it on the bedside table. Then you turn to me.

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"I'm a mess," you say, "I'd better wash some of this range dirt off me, and pheeee-yew, I smell!"

I take you gently by the shoulders and, turning you around, guide you into sitting on the bedspread. You're too tired to resist. "Lie down, Hunter, and let me worry about that." I take your stetson and place it on the chair, then bend to lift your legs onto the wide bed, forcing you into a prone position. Your left hand rises to your stomach and scratches lazily. I pour some water from the pitcher to the basin and wet a linen towel, which I bring back and start wiping your face gently. The sunburn and windburn have taken their toll over the years: there are lines at the corner of your eyes that weren't there the last time I looked into them, and I can sense that not all of them are laughlines. Your lips are parched, cracked and split, parted a bit. Your damp hair clings to your head in sweaty ringlets where your hat was. I look into your eyes while I work, and see a combination of exhaustion, relief, and want. You bring your right hand onto mine as I wipe your brows and, gently, your eyelids. I tell you quietly, "Don't talk...there'll be time for that later." Then I balance myself by putting my arm on the bed on the other side of your waist and--eyes open and looking warmly into yours--lean down to your face. My tongue gently wetting your dry lips first to keep from hurting you, I press more firmly then, feeling the give in your soft lips and listening to the small sounds you begin to emit, a quiet combination of whimpered need and exhaled tension. You move your big hand up to the back of my neck, brushing the hairs there, and press me down into a deep, satisfying kiss. We lock there, eye to eye, and I try to force my strength through that contact into your tired body.

When we break our kiss, we're both a little breathless. I know your strength and can tell by the way your hand has pressed me into the kiss that your fatigue means I'll lead tonight...just as I want it to be. As I sit up, I drag my fingers across your face and chin, down over your adam's apple and into the silky hairs below your neck. Your bandanna gets in my way, so I slowly untie it and push it aside. My hands stray down the front of your shirt, feeling the bulk of your muscles underneath. I open the top three mother-of- pearl buttons and lean forward to lick lightly at your warm, dusty skin. While I'm doing that, my hand moves lower, over your gunbelt buckle and on to the rougher leather of your trousers. No foolin' around; I find what I'm searching for and cup my hand firmly to it. It's obvious that our kissing has caused some arousal. Me, too. Your equipment is ridin' high in there, and as I press my palm and fingers against it, I feel it swell a little more and stir, starting to stretch. I tenderly press my fingers against the rounded bulge of your balls, not wanting to hurt, though we've played that game, but wanting to assure myself that, yes, you are really here, lying before me.

I walk to the foot of the bed, your eyes following me, and grab one of your heavy boots. "These have got to go first." I pull it down and after some struggle get it off. A smell of leather and dampness greets me, and as I throw the boot aside, I lean forward to kiss your instep, then drag my tongue across the hairs on the top of your foot. After I get the other boot off, I take your feet one at a time and massage them in my two warm hands. I watch as the tension starts to flow out of your body.

"Shirt next" I order, and help you to a sitting position as I unfasten the last buttons, pull the tails out of your waistband, and help you slip the damp cloth down your shoulders and off your arms. The heat from your shoulders is tremendous, and the scent of your body, a combination of warm flesh, sweat, and lust, is the scent of honey to my nose. A tangle of wet hairs sticks out of each of your armpits. I loosen and remove your holster and the top fastening of your trousers. "Roll over."

I always have loved this view of you. Wide, massive shoulders, not overly defined, but tight enough that as you turn over the play of the muscles beneath the skin is an erotic animation I could watch forever. I can trace the veins beneath your skin and the stories in each of the old scars and bruises you've collected, but instead I start at first gently, then more forcefully, to knead and rub, feeling your skin yield, your muscles give up their tension. This is when I always get my hardon, and there it is, right on schedule, full up and straining at the scratchy wool of my trousers. I press it against the side of your leg. Your wavy blond hair surrounds your profile against the pillow, and your eyes are only partly open. I climb up to straddle you, sitting on the firm round stool of your butt. I'd trade this for any hundred fine stallions. This one's enough for me! As I knead upward towards your shoulders, your back arches and your buttcheeks press upward against mine, making my cock rub against wool. I rise up and lower your waistband, and the tops of two white, warm mounds show, with a dribble of shining hair patched just above them and extending down into the cleft they make. I could stay here all night and be content, but....that's not what you or I need tonight. I rise off and return to the foot of the bed: "Roll over." Slowly you do....

Our eyes lock for just an instant, and there's pleasure written deeply in yours. I notice that your response to the backrub is the same as mine: a bulge is pulsing at the front of your trousers, and it's even bigger than I had remembered. You reach to adjust it, but the subtle look in your eyes sends a message I was hoping to read. "No, you don't, cowboy, that mustang's mine to tame!" I say, and, grabbing your soiled red bandanna, I join your hands over your head, elbows bent at your face, and tie them together to a small thick metal ring in the headboard. Your look has turned to relief. Did you really believe I'd fergit the nuances of our needs? Fergit 'em? Hell, I've played each one over a thousand times in detail as I pleasured myself in this bed! I grab at the legs of your trousers and you raise your hips as I tug. The leather grabs at the sweat of your body and it's difficult to pull them off, but slowly they yield, and your dark blond thatch of pubic hair comes into view...the pants are caught on the jut of your asscheeks, but a tug there frees them, and now all that's restraining them is your hard tentpole. Before I finish my task, I have to stand back to look at you...deep blond stud, dark wet hairs curling out of your pits, vulnerable in this position and crying for my tongue. A look of pleading in your eyes, and gratitued, your nipples standing up hard, surrounded by occasional blond hairs which look darker against the pure whiteness of your skin and trail down to gather around your navel, then spread to the darker bush below. I tug hard, and you wince, but the trousers at last are off and in my hand. Your feet and legs look immense--hell, they are!--but more commanding are the fencepost thrusting up at the center of your groin and the large, deep pink skinsac below it, bulging with your nuts like a full wineskin.

Kicking off my boots, I crawl up onto the bed between your legs and, kneeling, lower my suspenders and remove my shirt. I see your eyes shift to study how the curly reddish-brown of my beard blends into a thick mat of the same, burying my nipples and extending across the flat muscles of my stomach into my trousers. I open the fly and my hard sex swings out, trailing a thread of clear precum from my stomach hairs out to its purple, bobbing head. When I reach in to free my ballsac, your eyes lock there, and a faint, happy smile crosses between the two furry trails of your swooping mustache.

A deep sigh escapes your lips. Your relaxation is now obvious! I gently take each leg in hand and, raising them, begin to move forward between them, trailing my tongue against both calves and up the inside of your thighs, running it against the lie of the hairs there and savoring the salty tang of your sweaty skin. I begin to smell the scent of your crotch, and like a critter in heat, I have no resistance. I lean forward, putting your legs down, spread widely, and support myself on my hands while I stab a deep, probing tongue kiss into your throat. You moan this time, more loudly. I move to your right armpit, burying my nose and mouth there and eating it out like a lover's pussy. Your scent is all over my beard after I've dived into your left pit as well. I move my tongue down the smooth expanse of your pecs to where a dark nipple is sticking straight up.

I put my lips around it like it's a virgin's dick and begin to tug gently, laving it with my tongue like a miniature blowjob, repeated on the other one, where I begin to nip and chew lightly at the tenderness of your skin there and feel your tit, unbelievably, extend even further. You're squirming now. I continue nipping and biting lightly, and when I reach your flanks you thrash beneath me. "I can't take this long, please, please help me shoot off," you gasp. I continue moving down your damp, tight skin into your navel, where I do a wet, rhythmic tongue fucking. "Please, please hurry! My nuts! Oh, my dick!" you're crying.

I sniff the damp patch of hair above that last muscle, catching its head in the tangle of my beard and feeling its weeping stream wet down my beardhairs. I raise slightly to begin long, lapping strokes with my tongue up the creases where your legs join your abdomen. You raise your legs and clamp them to my shoulders, pulling me forward and raising your crotch into my face "Pleassssse," you hiss, "Oh, Han, I want you, I can't wait! Please!" But I have one last preliminary to attend to. Raising you with your asscheeks in my hands and forcing your legs back further, I lick slowly down the thick dark rope running from your nuts to your puckered and pungent hole, then start plunging just the tip into the folds of that dark secret place where my mind has traveled with you. I lick and tonguefuck every saddleweary inch of that ass, returning to its secret center to plunge ever more deeply with my tongue each time.

My own dick has never been harder, and I can feel my balls drawn up tight against my dick's base as they squeeze out precum all over its purple cap and in a river down the shaft. You're emitting sounds now that aren't words, just hisses and "ah!"s and grunts. The tight ring of muscle loosens around my tongue, and as I press it more deeply in with long, vibrating strokes, I bring up my thumbs to spread it, my nose still buried right up into the wet backside of your ball pouch. "Now!" you shout, "Oh, god, Now, Han!" ...So I relent and kneel upright. Our poles cross like swords, and I grasp them together briefly, milking more thick clear liquid lubricant onto mine. Then I lock eyes with you one last time and place the plumhead of my cock, painful in its hardness, against your wet opening. "Yes! Do it! Come into me, dammit, Han!" you whisper so softly I am not sure you said it, but your eyes give the same message. My hands on your waist, I thrust forward against the resistence of your hole, but feel the wet of my tonguebath and the dicklube of my cockhead slide against each other.

You start to groan. I press more insistently. You groan louder and start to strain against the bond holding your arms up as if to protect yourself. At last I watch my big dickhead disappear inside and feel the clenching of your asslips around my shaft just below, where it's most sensitive. I pause. Your eyes have never broken contact with mine. I can feel you adjusting. I thrust slowly, persistently forward in one long stroke as I lean forward to untie your arms and gather you into mine. At last, Bear Hunter, at last! We are together and nothing in the deep, jealous stars above or the violent scrappings of men below can seperate us. I have you fully impaled upon me and begin a slow withdrawal, dragging the deep ridge of my cockhead across your cumtrigger, feeling the click.

I thrust forward again, and your head falls backward on the pillow, mouth open, soft gasps and grunts escaping outward as your fingers grasp and play in my chest hair and pull on my aching nipples. I rub my abdomen against yours, grinding your stiff, dripping pole between our hairy mats, and can feel the throbbing and straining your crotch makes as it rises to reach my thrusts, which are coming faster now, much faster, almost, but not quite beyond my control. I lean to plant one deep kiss on your open mouth, whispering at last what you've ridden these long miles and months to hear: "I love you, Hunter! I love yoouuuuuu!" There's no space between our glances, we're united; then I feel the fucking take hold and know I'm going to the edge and over. I rise, only to plant my wet hot mouth around your fuckpole, licking what I can reach in this doubled over position, and, feeling each of my thrusts force your dick deeper into my mouth, I begin to spasm deep inside and feel the flood rise from my nuts up my thick, deeply buried pole into you while you erupt wildly into my mouth, on my face. Yes! Ah! Hunter! Unnnnnnnnnnnnnngh! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! YEESSSS!

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