Date: Fri, 2 Jun 2017 16:23:34 -0400 From: Orson Cadell Subject: Off the Magic Carpet 14 Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/off-the-magic-carpet/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between young-adult and adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming. ***** "Buff, I never speak for my hands. I never speak about personal matters to others, neither. I'll say this as, let's say general observation. Sowing a few hints just *might* yield a big ole crop of fun. You know, with the right soil and the right.... rain?" I never before nor since seen that cowboy move so fast. I smiled to myself. Yepper, a right satisfying day. ***** Off the Magic Carpet 14: So Many Birthdays By Bear Pup ***** Slim managed to organize things so's we got the 501 hay in, dry and safe. Hell of a crop, too! We had to pull a good quarter of it to our sheds and barns as it overwhelmed the 501's storage. And it was mainly alfalfa, which that year looked like it might even be a cash crop. I spoke to Gunny and Slim and the former rode over the Altamira farm to ask about options. I didn't feel inclined to go to the Co-Op. As every year, right at the brutal peak of summer, school loomed. Sammy started throwing his fit a bit over a week out. Was a man now. Do a man's job. To hell with school. Got to work for a living. Don't need it anyway. Just nonsense. All that and more. I quietly pulled Kent aside. "Son, can you do me a favor?" Kent was over the moon to do anything for me. He'd just gotten a letter from his brother, Glen, praising the great job he was doing. Kent laid it all at my feet and those of Slim. He'd have lassoed the moon if'n I'd asked. "Can you start talking about how you're looking forward to the dances and dating at school? And the sports and friends? That dropouts can't go? Can you do that for me, Kent?" The big hoss got a slow, shy smile. He shot a glance at Sammy and it got wider. That night at the shit-shoot, Kent started talking to Bull and Smitty about dating. How to ask, how not to get slapped, how to know when you had a chance for a kiss without crippling injury to his pride (or tenders)... that kinda thing. He dropped phrases, 'school dance' and 'after the game' and 'cheerleaders', in there like little ticking bombs. Sammy had been listening with half an ear but got more and more into the conversation and was quite enthusiastic. Brimming with plans, Sammy was soaring. Kent got this really sorrowful look on his face. "Oh, Lord, Sammy. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't talk about that. You know, with you going to work and all. I'm, well, I'm sure there's other ways to find dates and such. Bull, Smitty? What's it like dating after you, well, you know, leave school and start working?" Oh, the tales of misery and woe. Apparently, every girl in the state crossed her legs permanently upon leaving school. Actually, that part was damned near true. A girl might play the field a little in school, but could not afford even the appearance of doing so afterwards unless she was 80% certain she could get a husband from the deal. The growing look of absolute horror on Sammy's face was priceless. Kent eventually suggested they talk about something else, "cuz it seems right cruel to talk about in front of, you know...?" The next day, Sammy came in puffed up like a rooster demanding to know why Kent had all his school supplies and I'd bought none for my own son. I silently handed him a nice canvas-and-leather riding satchel stuffed with everything he needed. The look I got made me proud. Only a good dad could get such a look of utter loathing at having ruined a perfectly good bout of righteous indignation after a son went to all the trouble to work one up. God only knows how Stu and Gunny worked it up, but that Wednesday night was a party. I'd silently thanked God and any number of saints that my birthday had slipped under the radar a week earlier on the 13th. What I didn't know was that Baxter's was on the 19th and both Smitty and Doug would turn 23 that very night, Wednesday the 20th of August, 1947. The first hint that something was up was Gunny standing guard over a set of boxes as we trooped in for supper. The meal was sumptuous by ranch standards, with a separate salad, soup and a meal of Tenderloin grilled alongside planks of potatoes and half-ears of corn. When we were replete, Stu stepped into the cool room and pulled out a massive cake, complete with our four names. Oh, and small, round range-fire of candles. Gunny smirked as we realized there was one for each of our *individual* years in the ring around the outside of the layer cake. That's right, 107 fucking candles blazed like mad, wax pouring down from the combined conflagration onto the frosting. It took the whole troop to blow the fucking things out and Bull the Smartass at one point suggested burning a fire-break on the tablecloth just in case. The cake, though, was insane. It glowed with butter and lemon and the frosting was rich with butter, cream and sugar. It was devoured, melted wax and all, within minutes. Then Gunny started on the presents. I had noticed "BD Prs." In the ledgers I'd looked through, but the amounts were always small and I never asked. Turned out that Gunny arranged to useful and humorous presents for all the hands every single birthday and at Christmas as well. Smitty and Doug each got very nice roping gloves of tough hides in the right places and luxurious rabbit-leather inside. Smitty got a tin of fancy saddle soap and Doug a spray-bottle of hat-oil to care for his really quite nice hat. They both beamed with pleasure then stopped, appalled when they simultaneously opened the last one. Doug got an industrial-sized can of hemorrhoid cream and Smitty got one for treatment of 'saddle sores'. The guys laughed so hard, Bull was on the floor next to Sammy, rolling like puppies. Baxter got a stunning new saddle pommel chased with silver and his eyes glowed. He got the strangest look on his face when he opened his second package. I was a long strip of leather with a handle on one end and a clip on the other. He suddenly blushed purple and sent Gunny a frankly-murderous look and shoved it into his pocket and refused to say anything else. Got a look later. 'BULL' was banded into the leather at the end of the leash where the clip was attached. He hadn't spared me, either. My first was a pair of frankly-beautiful chaps. I'd planned to buy some before we had to seriously start roping cattle, but these were stunning. Traceries on every edge looked like climbing vines and the fit was incredible. I was really overwhelmed and it showed. The next box, though, brought me up short. I noticed that every face was turned to me with interest, so I knew something was up. Inside was a big tin of Ex-Lax and a very small bottle called 'Genuine Spanish Fly. Gty Effective'. I looked a question to Gunny. "Well, boss, we talked it over and we agreed unanimously. You need to loosen up {nodding to the laxative} and have some fun {nodding to the aphrodisiac}." The whole assemblage dissolved in mirth as I stood there, dumbfounded and more than a little mortified. I finally got it and laughed with them. Everyone was in fine and high spirits as the shit-shoot finally broke and the last of the smokes extinguished. I made my way to bed utterly contented. Sammy and Kent would be riding off to school on Monday. Both ranches were running smoothly and efficiently, and I had had a really wonderful belated birthday. I finished my evening ablutions and made it to the bedroom, frowning a little at the silence from my son's room then realizing I could hear the low murmur of voices from Kent's another door away. They were wonderful together, and I silently prayed they would stay that way. They were, for lack of any other phrase, good for each other. I dropped my robe and crawled into bed and screamed, or tried to, as a big hand covered my mouth from behind. "You got another present tonight, boss." The voice was Gunny's but with an edge and a tenderness I'd not heard before. "Sammy and Kent are at least a room or two away and Slim knows anyway. You done great things for these cowboys and you got nothing but blue balls in return. That ends tonight, Sergeant." I tried to scream in a whole different way as he forced me onto my back and began to lick and gnaw at my nipples. His hand left my mouth and went on a more-important mission. He'd left off chewing my lust-infused nipples and Gunny replaced them with pinching, teasing fingers. I moaned long and deep and needful as his mouth found my cock. He went deep just twice then pulled back and started to lick everything, balls, taint, shaft, pubes, everything. I was actually whining when he licked his way back up to my face. I was moaning so loud it was echoing as he played the dog, licking my face and eyes and ears and neck, driving me absolutely wild. All the time, his scent -- a mix of the vile cheroot and thick man-musk -- taunted me. I writhed around under him as he kept moving up. Gunny pulled me into a deep kiss, tongues battling. I thought I felt something on my cock and realized it was the hand that wasn't holding my head in the kiss. I swallowed a grunt from Gunny and returned it as a howl of pleasure and need as I felt him impale his ass on my prick, first the head, then he started to hunch, curling himself toward me then away, taking another inch each time. Gunny finally released the kiss and moved his mouth to my ear. "Yes, Sergeant, they still sell Propert's Dubbin." We began to push together, talking turn on the force and the release. Gunny's was lusty and virile, but there was more here. I slowly realized the difference as we moved together, like a dance. For the first time since the night before I'd left for the war, the last time Beth and I had been together in that way, I was making love. And someone was making love to me as well. Something broke inside me when that thought struck me and I started to cry. I don't know how. I just know that Gunny knew. He knew everything I was feeling. He slowed and kissed my cheeks gently, siphoning away my tears. He moved back to my ear, "I love you, Sam. We all do, but me most of all. For this night, I'm not Gunny; I'm your Carl. You're not Sgt Reilley; you're my Sam. Make love to me Sam, please?" It was like something else broke, in me then, a need as powerful as the tenderness and love had been moment before. I flipped us and began to make love to Gu-- Carl with all my heart and soul. I kissed him deeply, with a passion I thought I'd lost so many years before. I fucked him just as deeply, long, slow strokes interspersed with powerful, long-dick thrusts. Carl was as vocal a lover as I was, tell me what it felt like, moaning his praise of my manhood and what it did to him. I cried out as he did things with that ass I'd never felt, dragging me inexorably toward my eventual rapture. He suddenly grunted through an intense and spasming orgasm and captured my head and neck, dragging me into a deep kiss as I felt his seed gushing our bellies. He caught his breath and I began to hit that spot over and over, the same one that had triggered his release. Carl's voice got higher, shrill and needy. Mine got louder and more insistent. Carl screamed this time as a second orgasm took him, bucking and thrashing beneath me. His ass milked my cock and I threw my head back and let out a strangled scream as my balls pulled tighter than they'd ever been, desperately trying to pump themselves out of my cock along with the sperm they'd waited so long to deliver. That night, as my 33rd birthday faded into the second day of my 34th year, I made love to Carl three more times, each more special than the last. Form that day to thins, Carl and I never slept apart except when one duty or another called us in in different directions. There were those who marveled at the 'widowers' who'd build such a contented life on the ranch without the comfort of women, but still got by. We just smiled. Sammy and Kent were inseparable. They dated girls, both of them, and did so frequently. Sammy raged for a month when Kent announced that he was going into the Army for four years while Sammy went to college, then mourned for six more when they were first apart. Kent was there for Sammy's graduation, and they moved into the Old Homestead when Kent's enlistment was up. A year later, one or the other started going into town with Melissa Sparks, a girl they'd both dated in school and who had also gone off to college and city life, only to decide she didn't really like it. What she liked was Sammy, and what she liked was Kent, and she was a mess having to choose one over the other. Finally, the guys broke down and told her everything, expecting her to declaim them on every church-step in the West. They were shocked when she was overjoyed. Technically, she married my son a year later, but we all knew she married them both. Carl and I moved into the Old Homestead when Sam III was born, the of their brood second after Glenda, a beautiful little babe who took after her father, Kent. Carl, Beth and Matthew followed in quick succession. Glen came home from the service and went to work for Boeing in Wichita, coming frequently to stay. That was the year a group of six men approached me about the bottomlands. There'd been a lot of talk about how to tame the watershed and the state wanted to build four dams on our land. The men had a different idea. One larger dam with the resulting lake as the centerpiece of a scout ranch. We sold them virtually the whole watershed except for the half-mile closest to the farmstead. It cut out almost a third of the original ranch plus the 501. Slim, Bull and the Lohman boys came to us about the same time with an offer to buy the part of the 501 that the scout ranch, newly dubbed Quivera, would have otherwise nearly cut off from the rest. We still run it more or less as a single operation, but those four built a nice new steading. We trade holidays and birthdays as to which house we stay at. And we have never once missed a birthday in all these years. That left the trio, Archie-and-Ollie and Buff, and the Smitty-Doug couple to run the ranch with me and Carl. We, well, we lost Stu just four years after that August night. We went to get up from a nightly shit-shoot and found Stu sitting, smiling, with a cigarette burned to the filter in his hand. He'd died in the midst of us, exactly where he'd have wanted to be. We laid him to rest in the old family plot instead of the town cemetery. From that day to this, the old oak there has never failed to be full of birds, and anyone who goes there in sorrow or worry or shame returns subtly healed. So, in the only way that matters, Stu never left us at all. ***** The End ***** Thank you sincerely to those readers who encouraged this story. Your ideas really made a difference.