Author's note: The following tale is mostly fiction. All sex involves live humans aged 18+. The story contains multiracial and bisexual elements, as well as the expected incest; if you object, stop reading. For readers' convenience, most non-Anglish-language communications are presented in loose Anglish translation. Views expressed may not be the author's. Information may not be totally accurate. It's just a story, folks.
*****
'Neath Western Skies, Ma!
Ain't it funny how things work out?
*****
The bulbous full moon rose like a giant pearl over the purple sage of the craggy Mogollon {MUG-ee-own) Rim. Lanky blond Jack puffed his stubby cigar and regarded the view over the Verde Valley, and his prospects.
Jackson Jericho 'Jack' James was a pike, a real one - poor white trash whelped and raised in Pike County, Kentucky. Or maybe Pike County, Missouri. Or Pike County, Ohio. Same thing. Despite that ignominious kleptomaniac trigger-happy redneck heritage - he was not-too-distant kin to Frank and Jesse James - he was a loyal, honest cowpuncher, never joining rustlers, only re-branding unidentifiable strays, and keeping his own counsel about what he saw and heard, in or out of camp.
And he saw and heard a lot.
Jack saw and heard his trail boss Clayton's wife Rosa being doggy-fucked by that slick Argentine gaucho Ernesto, the epitome of the Latin lover. Even Latin lovers are dogs. Ernesto was a slow, leisurely lover until he switched into frantic-poodle mode and pounded her without mercy, canine-like. Woof.
Jack saw and heard his trail boss Clayton having his own little affairs. A man like that should not be allowed near cattle. Sure, there were a couple little calves Jack fancied himself, but he was not going down that path. He shook his head and puffed his stogie again.
Movement on the homestead directly below Jack's cliff-top lookout caught his eye. Lights flickered. Matches were struck, candles lit and held aloft, a tide of lights, maybe a dozen, drifting to the frontier cabin's front door. Widow Martin must be pulling the old train again tonight, Jack thought. That should be quite a show, and well-lit, too.
Jack extended his collapsible spyglass and peered at the gathering. His lens kissed face after face - faces of prosperous men, respectable married men, village councilmen, aldermen in the settlement church, the local elite. Horny men. Men who would get lucky tonight, and share microbes. For a price.
Jack pulled on his cigar again and grinned as he recalled the vivid story of Mrs Merry Martin and the late, unlamented Mordechai Martin. Theirs was the stuff of legend. He was just another dusty saddle tramp with a battered Stetson, a dented Sharps carbine, a mouse-eaten bedroll, and a huge ten-pound sausage of a schlong. She was a well-worn saloon floozy with a cunt the size of Carlsbad Caverns. They were a perfect pair.
Their frantic couplings frightened the cattle. Their herds preferred distant pastures for peace and quiet.
Mordechai Martin had recently joined the heavenly choir, perishing of lead poisoning after unfortunate cards slipped from his buckskin jacket's sleeve. There had been a recent epidemic of such cases. Jack shook his head at the carelessness.
The spyglass peering in through Widow Martin's front door saw men wearing frock coats over ruffled shirts, and dressy boots, and nothing else but hairy skin and expectations. Candlelight reflected off scattered gold coins. Yes, Jack thought, the old Clarkdale Express is about to cum roaring in.
Jack's sorrel mare nickered softly behind him, a warning - something neared. Jack moved slowly, deliberately, softly cocking the hammer of his Colt US Navy revolver while flicking an ash from his cigar stub, not turning to see who was behind him but extending his sixth sense.
A dark wisp of breeze from behind brought a signature fragrance - smoky patchouli. Flora O'Farrell!
Jack twisted to view his approaching lover. Her sharp freckled face glowed in the syrupy moonlight, thick gold hair tied back in an untidy hank, blue eyes sparkling. Dusty buckskin clung to her voluptuous curves. Even in 'gator-hide Mexican boots she moved silently through the low brush. She looked used. She was
rode hard and put away wet
but he loved her herbal douche and spicy sweat.
Flora unrolled the cinnamon-and-blue Zapotec-weave saddle blanket from her shoulder and spread it in a small clearing in the sage. She regarded Jack, her feet spread, hands on wide hips, oval head nodding.
"Well, cowboy, ya want a ride?" she hummed.
Jack pushed himself up from his perch on a boulder. He brushed dust from his coat and chaps and smiled at the frontier temptress.
"Yes, ma'am, I do believe I could accommodate that."
"You'll have to wait your turn though," Flora drawled. She kicked off her boots and stripped the buckskins molded to her curvaceous body. "I always take the first ride."
She stood naked on the blanket's edge. Her large breasts, topped with dark silver-dollar areolas and pebbled nipples like Comanche clay beads, rose firm and proud from her strong, work-tightened, sun-stained frame. Her wild amber muff was a briarpatch Jack would lose himself in gloriously. I'll Bre'r Rabbit
you
, he thought.
Jack did not stand inactive while he regarded her bare-ass femininity. His coat and chaps hit the ground; worn army boots swiftly joined them, followed by denims and long johns. His cock hung thick below drooping balls. Moonlight picked out the pale, curly hairs on his long, lean body.
"And you're gonna wipe down first." Flora threw a fairly clean flour-sack at him. "Don't wanna do no dirty dog."
"Yes, ma'am, I know the routine." He thoroughly toweled-off his nethers and tossed the soft cloth back to her; she did the same.
Jack rolled his long-coat into a pillow and lay back on the blanket with one hand under his head. He stroked his lengthening cock; his eyes feasted.
"We all kind of
dry,
now ain't we?" Flora fingered her pussy. "I sure am. We just gonna have to take care of that the usual way, now ain't we?"
Flora stood over the blond man's trail-hardened body and smiled evilly. She spun around and knelt over his face. His tongue reached to her tangy taint as she settled onto him, his cock in her mouth, his hands on her taut ass, his fingers stroking and probing.
Jack savored Flora's damn delicious pussy, sharp like peppered jerky, wet and tart like those almost-spoilt oysters they served at cheaper taverns. Was she sweet? Fuck no! Piss and sweat and lymphatic secretions, and brains used to tan her buckskins, and fuck knows what else, like a shamanic stew minus the magic mushrooms, probably.
Flora loved slurping that thick, musty man-root deep into her mouth, filling her throat, throbbing on her tongue, spiked with a tincture of pre-cum. Her head moved up and down; her cheeks puffed in and out; her larynx moaned.
They lubricated each other quite well. Flora came twice on Jack's agile tongue- and finger-work. Jack was near the edge and Flora was approaching a third explosion when she rolled off him.
"Okay boy, time for you to be my fucking Golden Palomino, and me to be goddam Calamity Jane." She straddled his thrusting hips and impaled herself deeply on his throbbing cunt-splitter in one smooth lunge. "Fuck yeah, just like that. Giddyup, horsie!"
Flora bounced and shook atop Jack's bucking hips - bucking like a wild bronco, like a concentrated earthquake. Whap! Slap! Unh unh unh! Her breasts swayed furiously with her rolling, rocking rhythms. She pushed up, almost rising off him, almost (but not quite) losing connection, before slamming down on him, pubes against pubes, wham!
Jack's hard hands gripped Flora's hips like great insistent claws. He pushed her to a slightly different angle; his curved cock hit new areas inside her, brushed against her clit, impacted her G-spot, threatened her cervix.
She came again. And again. "Oh fuck! Oh god! Oh holy Mary! Oh fuck! Oh shit! Ohhhh..." She spasmed like an epileptic.
This was fun but enough was enough, Jack thought. He clasped Flora tightly and rolled them over while still firmly embedded in her. Into the classic missionary posture, her arms and legs spider-wrapped around him, his oak-hard baton beating into her as she pulled him tighter, closer, deeper, and he fucked harder, faster, a roaring blur, a pounding piston of pleasure - and a hot, roaring release.
"Yaarrrr!!" Jack sounded more like a pirate than a cowboy.
"Ahhhhhh!!" Flora screamed into the night like a banshee.
Laughter rolled up the cliffs from the Widow Martin's cabin. Their coupling had apparently not gone unnoticed. Jack grinned at Flora.
"Guess we told them boys, didn't we, gal?"
"They're all just little boys. You're the only big boy around here!"
"Plenty big enough for y'all, it seems, ma'am."
Flora slapped at her big brother's arm.
"Y'all can drop that ma'am shit, y'know, boy. Don't need to be so formal."
Still wrapped together, Jack held her tight again and rolled them on their sides. They lay connected at both ends, genitals joined, mouths locked in an endless kiss. Jack slowly stroked his rejuvenating cock in and out of his sister's vagina. Her swallowed gasps revealed her continuing pleasure.
They performed a long, slow, sideways fuck. Flora's orgasms washed over her like a warm tide. Jack managed to fill his little sister's womb again.
Night wind off Mungo Mountain cooled their sweaty flesh. Taut muscles eased; Jack slipped wetly from Flora's depths. She reached to stroke his face.
"Oh big brother, I love you so much! Ever since I rode here and found you, I've just been so happy! But y'all know I gotta go back to Jake, be a good wife for him. I can do that, some nights. But some nights, I just gotta be with
you
. Oh Jack, what am I gonna do?" She wept softly.
Jack caressed his sister's jaw and neck. He kissed her wet cheek.
"You better get clean and get going, girl. C'mon, let's wash up."
A rock-pool amid the sun-warmed boulders held enough water for a skinny-dipping scrub-down session. Brother and sister washed each other with care and fevered kisses.
They climbed from the pool, naked bodies gleaming in the afterglow. Standing together, the thin mile-high atmosphere left them air-dried in mere minutes. A soft breeze carried sagebrush perfume and far-off mournful coyote songs.
Night-birds under a full moon mocked them as they reluctantly dressed. Flora threaded the trail to her horse, and back home to her insensitive, boring husband. Jack mounted his sorrel mare and rode to his lonely line shack. The siblings' minds reeled with passionate memories. These stolen moments were precious and rare. How long could they continue?
