Goin’ Down In Four Horse Crossing

© 2017


Jonathan Longhorn

Copyright © 2017 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.

Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of age.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don’t ruin your life or your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.

Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge, which you can find here: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html. The story itself is about the movie being watched by characters in several of my stories in which an alien warlord bent on revenge, ‘has his way’ with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.

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Chapter 2


That’s how all this got started.

That’s why he was standing here now—muscles aching … sweat soaked … covered in dirt and freshly mown grass from out on the practice field. Well, what grass there was. It was the ‘dog days’ of Summer. In Texas. Grass? Uh, huh. Right.

God—the water felt amazing as it pummeled against his tired body. The feel of it caressing its way over bulges and ripples, down crevices and under ‘hangs’ and ‘dangles’….

It was good. It was all good. And, the steam. Oh, yeah—the steam. He couldn’t forget about the steam. Soaking and saturating. Opening pores and brain cells. Permeating every muscle, every inch, every fiber of his body—his very soul; all the while rising higher and forming a thick shroud around him.

Eyes … on … him….

They were in the showers, too.

He rolled his eyes as he shoved his face into the streaming jets of water and allowed a whispered snort to slip through his lips.

What else was new?

There were always eyes on him. It didn’t matter where he was at any given time—football stadium … baseball field … wrestling mats … in the pool at the Natatorium. Eyes. Everywhere. Eyes, on ‘him’ no matter the time or the location … the circumstance. They were there in the classrooms, the science lab, the halls, the parking lot … at home. Hell—they were on him at the grocery store, the drive-in … the theater … the bowling alley … church.….



Always watching him.

Always studying him.

Always looking ‘at’ him.

Always looking ‘to’ him.

Right now. Here. In the pelting waters of the showers. Eyes were on him.

He knew that if he turned around fast he would catch them. The eyes. More than a dozen pair, still—after the majority of the guys had already headed out. Eyes, lingering. Scanning him from head to toe—and back. Studying him. Devouring him. Wanting him for one thing, or—another. Or, another still.

Eyes following his fingers as they scrubbed and stroked and palmed across his body. He knew they were watching him. They ‘always’ watched him.

His left hand trailed down … down … down, and—around. Fingers soaped up and then trailed one after the other into the deep valley of the most mouth-watering ass in the school, after making several looping swirls over the twin mounds of granite cheeks. His fingers sailed into that valley and worked their way along its depth. Its width. Its full length; they met the base of his nut sack and then reversed course upward to where his tailbone met the opening of that valley and, then—dipped back inside. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down, and—up.

He smirked at a thought. He wondered what they would say … what they would ‘do’ … the gasps he’d hear if they saw his middle finger circle and dip, slide into his pucker with each pass of that finger train.

Sometimes he was embarrassed—even at home in his own personal space. ‘His’ shower and no one else’s. How many finger trains? How many times? How many ‘years’? He had grudgingly convinced himself long ago that it was a cleanliness thing. Like his ears. What was it with a mother’s obsession about her son’s ears?

Did you scrub behind your ears?

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. And, he scrubbed his asshole too. In case anyone wondered. Apparently nobody did. Or, maybe they were afraid to ask. Or, more likely—they were afraid of the answer. That finger always felt so good, sailing into the depths of that marble encased valley. He did his level best to ignore how good that felt. His finger circling his pucker. Circling and jabbing. Jabbing and circling. Rutting over it, around it, into it….

Those eyes.

He knew they were watching this intimate moment with his finger train. They were watching. Some—wishing it was their fingers making that trek through ‘that’ valley. Their middle finger, kissing and caressing the lips of his pucker. Some—absently licked their lips, hidden there behind the cloud of mist of their own shower. Licked, and wished. Wished it was more than fingers caressing that body. His body. His stunningly perfect body.

He slowly turned under the unending flow of water and began to rinse. His hands followed the streams and rivers—rinsing … rinsing … rinsing….

The eyes followed too. Like two visual surfboards, they rode those rivers across his drop-dead, gorgeous–as-fuck face. They surfed through his pits—pausing ever so briefly to admire ‘that’ view. Yes, even his pits were perfect and enticing—inviting. He could swear that he even heard a lip lick, or—five—as this or that shower occupant gazed at his pits.

Well. Except. ‘Lip licks’ didn’t really make any noise for anyone to hear.

Those eyes picked up speed as they zigzagged across the rivers and streams while they cascaded down the most perfect chest any of them thought they had ever seen. They raced downward, still—now surfing along the ridges of his 6-pak. A ‘6’ that was edging ever closer to an ‘8’ with each passing day. They followed water and fingers helplessly now. Drawn like a moth to a flame. To his crotch, to his thick cock. And to his heavy hanging balls.

He wondered if they wondered—was it manscaped or was it simply that perfect naturally? Considering the rest of his whole package, it was probably Mother Nature’s doing down there, too. He was the only one that knew. Not even his best friend Sutton knew. Hell, how many times had Sutton asked how he did it. What was the regimen? What products did he use? He just grinned and shook his head and changed the subject or sauntered away.

Eyes were on him.

He knew that eyes were on him. Right there. Right then. Devouring him. Wanting him. Needing him. Silently pleading with him to open his own eyes and see them—see them and trade a gaze, a long look, a nod … a chin up … a ‘sup….

Suds safely swiped away from his eyes, he slowly opened them. Yeah—they had been watching him. They had been devouring him for one reason or another, or—another.

Heads dropped.

Some, looked away quickly, but—not quickly enough.


Bodies spun around diving into their own streams of pulsating water.


Innocent, but—guilty as Hell.

Eyes were on him.


Even here … in the showers.

Watching him.

Wanting him.

Silently but so very loudly begging for his attention. For his acknowledgement. For his … blessing … his recognition.



On … him.

Even in the relative silence of the showers. Deafening roars.

He made it a point to stop, fist bump and buddy hug as he exited the showers. He knew them. Every last one of them. Some were ‘just’ teammates. Others, more. He acknowledged every last one of them. By name. Tight friendship circle or not, they had all grown up together in this small town in the middle of a rural county at the crossroads of North/South-bound and East/West-bound Interstates. Few of them were ’new’. But, he acknowledged them all, everything with a grin of confidence and leadership and maybe a moment of inspiration? He was unsure but he tried.

Here, in Four Horse Crossing, Texas—he was Lancelot—a position that he had been dragged silently kicking and screaming into more than ‘sought out’. This was his realm. It was his duty. It was his responsibility. It was his birthright. Whether he wanted it or not.


Eyes everywhere.

He felt them, even now—as he sauntered down the main aisle and then hung a left and down two, to his own locker. He nodded, fist bumping as he made his way, with the few remaining teammates who were in various stages of primping and dressing.

He traded the greetings and acknowledgements.

The head pats.

The chest thumps.

The butt slaps.

He acknowledged them all, accepted them—

It was his duty.

It was his responsibility.

It was his birthright.

Locker door open, he dropped his towel on the wooden bench.

He glanced up toward one end and then down to the other. There were the three teammates that had been huddled in the far corner of the showers. The three of the few that had lingered behind everyone else. Lingering in the mist and spray and steam, there—with him. Though not in his tightest-knit friend group, they were all good-on guys. He knew they, too, were watching him as he scrubbed and shampooed and rinsed and….


Them, too—Bobby, Nate and Jake.

Now, here in the metal jungle of the lockers, they were watching him. They were nodding. They were talking softly. He offered a jut of his chin and a smile—they froze. They blushed. They smiled and thumbed up and chin-jutted back at him.

He turned to the cavern of his locker and found his comb as he spritzed his favorite cologne across his chest and abs. Next, he took his deodorant in hand. Three swipes in each pit. Any more than 3 swipes and he felt like a reject from a wax museum.


On him.

Three pair, now. Only three, now. Everyone else was gone.

Three pair of eyes.

Watching him.

Studying him.

Whispers and nods.

Nods and whispers.

Eyes were on him.


He shook his head slowly as the snow white tee slipped over his head, and—down. Thankfully, his jock was exactly where he’d left it. Otherwise, he’d have to open yet another new 3-pack he kept in his gym bag. Lately they’d had a habit of walking off by themselves. Not the new ones. Never the new ones. Always ones that he would wear for a while and then just when he was about to take it home for washing … it would vanish into thin air. A much more frequent disappearing act than he could explain. Especially to Mom. So he just bought his own ‘spares’. Why anyone would want his used, well-worn, stinky jock was beyond him. Even his little brothers like to swipe them from his hamper. Darned if he knew why.

He listened to them talking casually amongst themselves; he heard bits and pieces. Food seemed to be the major, repeating topic. As he slid into his jeans, the talking stopped briefly. He didn’t even have to look. He knew.


Their eyes were on him.

As he walked down the next aisle toward the doors that opened out onto the student parking lot, he heard one of them say … ‘maybe we should ask him if’…. His head cocked. Ears perked up. Ask him? Ask who? Ask what? ‘Maybe he would’? ‘Did they think that he…?’

Ask him what?

He would what?

Did they think that he … what?

He didn’t know.

The heavy metal doors banged closed behind him, the echo bouncing off the walls of the now nearly vacant locker area.


Staring at the door that he had just disappeared through.

He … was … gone.


As his truck idled in park and he waited for a slow-moving freight train to pass by and clear his way, Brandon considered his options on the other side of the tracks. A ‘Y’ at the next intersection 1/4 mile down the road offered him several options: ‘left’ would take him down the road to his family farm. No mother. No father. No sister. No brothers. All, gone to visit the grandparents for the long weekend. He loved his grandparents dearly and he knew that their time left as a whole family unit was gradually growing smaller. But, he had begged off ‘this’ time. ‘This’ trip. Surprisingly, his mother had said it would be okay.

If he took the branch to the right? Food. He could go for food. He could choose what he wanted. Mmm…. Food.

He moved on to think about the overheard conversation back in the locker room. Bobby, Nate and Jake had been making Friday night plans—which after some discussion had settled into the agreement that a late, late movie at the Stagecoach Megaplex was the winner.


A movie.

The last car of the freight train was approaching the crossing now. Brandon laughed softly at the graffiti plastered on the side of that freight car. An extraordinarily well-detailed boner and set of balls was painted in all their glory. Amazingly well-detailed: the mushroom head, veins along the thick shaft, full pendulum balls…. Detail right down to a geyser of cum spewing from the slit in that huge head accompanied by a lava-like stream that ran down the thick shaft and dripped from those balls.

Brandon let out another snort of laughter as he watched the cumming boner disappear around a bend in the tracks.


Why did a 20’ long boner on the side of a train car make him suddenly start thinking about spring rolls? Mmm…. Spring rolls and beef bulgogi and Kimchee…. Which naturally—‘naturally’ in his mind, anyway—led to fresh baked bolillos. A beef bulgogi and Kimchee sandwich on a fresh bolillo. Chased down by a half-dozen spring rolls and a pitcher of lemonade.


Brandon steered right at the ‘Y’. Food won out.

He stopped by Ms. Ernestine’s Confectionaerium and Baked Goods Shoppe. Good timing. Billy ‘Kermit’ Knox was just pulling some bolillos out of one of the massive ovens. Kermit grinned broadly when he looked up to see who was coming through the door. They fist bumped and buddy hugged and Kermit sent Brandon on his way with a half-dozen of the rolls, plus a bonus half-dozen in case he got a gnawing later on. There was also a to-go box with a large serving of strawberry cheese cake that was ‘on the house’. Kermit knew that his grandmother wouldn’t mind but she didn’t have to know ‘everything’ all the time.

Bread rolls and cheese cake safely snuggled on the passenger side floorboard of his truck, Brandon headed down the road toward Mrs. Park’s Seoul of Texas Korean Restaurant. Mrs. Park’s eyes lit up when she saw him walk through the door. She knew him well. She knew his tastes. She started a double order of beef bulgogi in the Wok and then began to scoop Kimchee into a large container. In between, she made him a fresh batch of Spring rolls and sweet chili dipping sauce.

Mrs. Park’s teenaged son, Shaun Lee shook his head as he handed a glass of iced tea to Brandon while he waited for his order. Shaun Lee glanced through the service window for a brief moment and then turned back to Brandon.

“It’s a good thing that I am in love with you, Gilchriest. She’d adopt you over me in a heartbeat and I’d be out on the street. If that happened? I’d have to kill you.”

Brandon grinned back as he leaned into a buddy hug. He knew that Shaun Lee’s ‘in love’ comment was more accurate than most might accept. Shaun Lee was gay. Everyone knew. He was so flamboyant that he was just shy of a pink and chartreuse flamingo with rainbow ribbons and sparkles streaming out of his butt. He was also one of the best looking guys Brandon had ever seen.

‘In love’. Offended? Hell no. If a gay guy thought that Brandon was hot then that was a heck of a compliment in his books. Like an ultimate compliment. He was totally flattered. He knew that Shaun Lee would like a lot more than the hug—a lot more ‘naked’ to say the least, but the hug was good. He even held fast for several long moments before finally pulling away.

“If you really want to kill me,” Brandon said with a grin—nostrils flaring as the scents started to pour through the service window from the kitchen. “Please wait until I devour my order.”

God—that smelled good.

Shaun Lee grinned as he head-to-toe’d Brandon’s amazing body. He had taken enough showers with him over the years to know exactly how perfect this specimen was. Everywhere.

“Well, I ‘could’ grant you a stay of execution but I doubt that you would accept my terms of unconditional surrender.”

Brandon felt the color flood his face. For a brief moment—very brief—he wondered what Shaun Lee’s terms would entail. Somehow, he figured that he would never be the same again after his surrender. He figured Shaun Lee would ravage and devour every inch of him more than once if given the chance.

“If you ever decide to hit the wild side? Even a one-time thing? ‘Please’ give me a shot,” Shaun Lee whispered as his hand drifted down those powerful shoulders and followed the ‘V’ of Brandon’s back—precariously close to his much-lusted over butt cheeks. “I promise I will give you a night that you will never forget.”

Brandon laughed again. Blushed deeper. Wondered what a night like that would….

Just as they released their friendly hug, Mrs. Park came through the swinging steel door and rattled off something in Korean. Shaun Lee sighed and rolled his eyes before he grabbed menus and marched off to greet some new arrivals at the front of the dining area.

Twenty-five minutes later, Brandon stood at the kitchen island in just his boxers. He piled bulgogi and Kimchee onto one of the split open bolillos. He bit into his creation—knowing his mother would go into hysterics if she saw that heaping sandwich. His mouth exploded with its own happy dance as the concoction consumed his senses. After a 3rd monster bite into his sandwich, he paused to feed the drooling mouths of the two animals that were watching him—waiting for some morsel to drop out of the bottom of the sandwich and hit the floor.

He lifted Leopold the killer Chihuahua up to the counter beside the sink—his mother would go ballistic at that move—he opened a packet of moist beef medley with gravy and poured the contents into a bowl. He set the bowl in front of Leopold, with a kiss to the bridge of the dog’s nose; the pup danced his appreciation before settling in for his food time.

Next, Brandon turned his attention to his rescue Dalmatian. He shuddered to think that beautiful dog would have been euthanized the next day had he not decided to give him a forever home. He scooped two large mounds from the canister under the sink and put it in a stainless steel bowl and then mixed in 2 cans of beef stew for dogs. Several low ‘woofs’ told him to hurry it up. He looked over his shoulder to see Bixby standing by the spot on the floor where the bowl usually sat. He was waiting. Not so patiently.

“Coming, Master.”

The dogs taken care of, for now, Brandon returned to his bulgogi and Kimchee sandwich. He glanced at the screen of his cell phone when it chimed out a text message. Sutton. His best friend. He was ‘sure’ that he was gonna get some from his gf tonight. Brandon shook his head and sighed. He was not gonna get some from her tonight or any other night. She was in it for the ‘arm candy’ thing and nothing more.

“You’d have better luck with Shaun Lee, bro.”

Leftovers properly stored in containers, labeled, dated and in the fridge, he headed for his bedroom to lay out clothes and then hit his bathroom for a shower and primp and prep time for his big night of freedom.

Author’s Note: Please send your comments, thoughts, and ideas to Jonathan Longhorn using jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com. Please start the “Subject” line with the name of the story so I don’t toss your email as spam.

Thank you to those of you who have taken the time out of your day to write me about my stories. The thoughts, comments, and feedback are VERY much appreciated.

My other stories on Nifty can be found using the Nifty Prolific Authors page: http://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#jonathanlonghorn