by
R. Keith Peck
(c) 2008 R. Keith Peck
The purpose of this story is to cause hard, intense orgasms. Morals are ignored. It features sex between creatures not always of the same species and between members of same and different genders. Sex practices in this story have, like life itself, been fatal.
If you live under the authority of a government which denies you the right to read this story for any reason whatsoever, I would like to pose a question: why do you accept moral guidance from an entity the chief tools of which are murder, war, imprisonment, and torture? Think for yourself. You can do no worse than your leaders.
This story may be reproduced on any non-pay website so long as the author's name and copyright notice remain unchanged and there is no alteration to the text itself. (Age verification systems are considered non-pay). If you make money by serving this story, the author wants compensation, the nature of which is negotiable. In either case, the author would like notification that you're using this story.
The powerful scent of young sperm filled Billy Joe's room as he peeled off his jeans. The smell reminded him of the breeding paddock, where his father's stallions served mares. His jockeys were sopping wet with gelatinous fluid. Pseudopods like snot hung from the white cotton. The smooth skin of his thighs shone as if burnished with baby oil.
Ruefully, he held up his jeans. They had to be washed. A huge V-shaped wet patch stained them, from crotch all the way down to both knees. It didn't irk him much that he'd ruined this pair. They weren't his favorite. They were relatively new, a month or two old. He hadn't grown into them yet. They didn't cling to his body. They were loose in the butt and in the crotch. Unsatisfying.
He fetched a pair of fresh white jockeys from his drawer, tossed them on his bed, then shimmied out of the soaked briefs. Shooting a quick glance at the window -- he always felt someone was looking at his humongous equipment -- he reassured himself that no one was really looking. He slipped into the fresh pair, tucked himself into place, patted his nuts to reassure himself they were still there. And ready. Oh yeah, they were ready. His cock rolled, lengthened and stretched a little in his jockeys, like a lazy cat lolling in warm sunshine on a cool spring day. He was of an age when one orgasm wasn't enough.
He sniffed his cum-soaked briefs. Then he flipped them and his jeans into his trunk, slamming the lid. A slight smile lit his face. For action later.
That orgasm had caught him like a tsunami. A real ballbuster. Orgasms were no stranger to Billy Joe. He'd learned all about them with Singing Rain, his bestest friend in all the world. He knew how to jack off. And he knew what thoughts, what images, busted his balls.
Fucking huge cock. Sperm. Gigantic balls. Hairy flesh.
A vision: His father, humongous cock sawing back and forth, foreskin retracted.
His cock began to tent his briefs. It was like that for Billy Joe.
A vision: Alexandra's cunt, gaping --
Stop it, he told himself. The pony. Singing Rain said we could go on a pony ride and --
He dug out another pair of jeans. Older jeans, tighter jeans, heavily washed, faded, threadbare, thin. His favorite pair, he verged on outgrowing them. They had seen much action. Knees frayed, showing his skin. Button fly. The butt on these jeans held the curve of his own ass even when folded in a drawer. And the crotch, and the thigh, had molded themselves to his cock and balls.
Billy Joe was growing. Changing. In all sorts of ways.
He stuffed his shapely body into the jeans, buttoned the fly, and turned.
Young and unconsciously narcissistic, he looked at himself in the mirror. What would someone else see, looking at Billy Joe? Would that someone else admire the big bulge his balls raised in his jeans? Billy Joe hoped they did. He thought it fucking hot.
A picture: Strange nostrils, moist, sniffing at his crotch, lips flaring, big square teeth revealed.
He touched his balls, stroked them to way he did when he sat at his desk at the rear of Miss Wilder's algebra class.
Would that someone else admire the ridge on his right thigh, reaching down his leg almost to his knee?
A picture: huge lips, dripping syrupy saliva, a gaping mouth revealing big square teeth, a tongue the size of a Doberman's head extending to slurp on his sweaty teenmeat.
He knew it was freakishly long. Since puberty, and since his thatch of brownish hair had sprouted round the base of his shaft, his cock had grown to such dimensions that his body, still boyish, seemed to be nothing more than a two-legged life support unit for that mindless, ever-horny, never-satisfied organ.
Would that someone else like his ass?
A sound: a whinny.
Because that's what he really wanted someone else to admire. His butt. His butt meant everything to him. It resembled two raindrops kissing. Rounded, firm, muscular, stretching the denim almost to the breaking point. He liked his ass. High. Jutting. Proud. He ran his fingertips down the seam splitting his buttocks, his breathing quiet and anxious. As always he softly stroked the worn denim over his tight ring as if it were a colt, skittish and untamed.
He yearned for the day when someone, something, touched that pucker.
They had to like his ass. Because if they didn't -- Billy Joe didn't know what he would do.
The sun rose over the east pasture. Or did Dad say eastern? It seemed important that Billy Joe remember this exactly. Should he go back and ask Dad?
Alexanda, whickering, her cunt gaping, Caballo's gigantic cock sawing at her, rivulets of semen coursing over his hard shaft, hooves pawing the hay, Caballo's sweat-streaked body, his head cast back, eyes staring heavenward, his muscles, Dad's gigantic cock, sperm like a fountain, grunting human and horse.
A tiny streamer of precum soiled his virginal briefs.
No. It would not be a good idea.
He went downstairs. Their house wasn't large. Large enough for four, there was plenty of space for both Billy Joe and his Dad. His dad was not ostentatious like some of the people he knew, who had to have houses that dwarfed the palaces of the Medicis and the Hapsburgs. A log cabin, updated for the new century. They even had DSL. There was much wood, and thick red carpets, and brass.
There was a portrait of Mom hanging on the wall above the fireplace. Easily visible from the front door and from the living room.
She used to tell him stories. Of the long rides she took with Dad when they were courting -- and yes, she used that obsolete word, for she was of North Carolina extraction, though, as she had often remarked, she'd travelled and escaped the bonds of the insanity born-and-bred Southerners inflicted on themselves. Of her grandfather, who had been a New Orleans shipping magnate back in the days when T. Roosevelt made South America safe for the good businessmen of the U.S.A. -- less so for the South Americans. Of classy balls, where men and women danced cheek to cheek, and sipped mint juleps, and discussed what the church association should do.
Yet, to Billy Joe, there always seemed to be something missing from her tales. She would dance around certain subjects. Her tales were like cadavers minus their hearts. He was sure she knew what she was doing. He had even asked her once, after listening to one story and sensing the absense, if there was anything else she could tell him. He remembered Mom pausing, hmm-ing, looking down at him, and saying with a Mona Lisa smile: Ask me when you're older.
That couldn't happen now.
There was a yard of tough grasses, shaded by emory oaks. Their house stood atop a small rise, giving it a vantage point from which much of Dad's land could be seen. The other ranch structures -- the guest house, currently empty; the stables; the barn; the silos; the pump house; Leathermaker's house -- lay down the slope. The asphalt ribbon which ran into town zigzagged through cactus, curved around a mesa and vanished into the distance.
They were alone here on the ranch. They were like princes of their own realm.
A man hoed at the greenery fringing the house. Duncan was a lanky, tall Scotsman who had, as he said with a humorous wink, somehow gotten lost after a right turn on the way to Albuquerque. Billy Joe, when he was younger, used to imagine Duncan in a kilt, but as he'd grown up decided he liked Duncan's current attire better: tight jeans, plaid shirt open to the navel, revealing a forest of reddish chest hair, leather belt, boots. Today it was clear from the scent that those boots were coated with horseshit. They smelled like the earth after a drenching rain.
And as Billy Joe descended from the house, his eyes followed the boy.
Duncan leaned on his hoe. "You look real nice in those jeans, Billy Joe."
"Thanks," Billy Joe said shyly.
"Where's your Dad?"
"I-- I--" It was hard to speak clearly. "I think he's still in the stables."
"Umm," Duncan nodded slowly, as if it took time to digest this thought. "Did you see him?" Though his tone was innocent and carefully neutral, his eyes leered.
"Y-- uh, yeah." Something prompted him to move his hands in front of his crotch, shielding it from Duncan's gaze like a boy just caught skinny dipping with his bestest friend.
Duncan nodded. His eyes imperceptibly flicked downwards. "Umm." He scratched his crotch. "You ever play in the stables?"
"N-- no."
"Have you thought about it?"
Have I thought about it? Billy Joe took a deep breath. He knew the answer to that question, but he was afraid to say the words For he knew if he did so he would cross a threshold, and there would be no turning back. Duncan asked that question a lot. And every time Billy Joe got a boner.
Today was no exception. Yes, he knew the answer:
Yeah, I've thought about it. And I've thought about a stallion --
But he would not say it. He wasn't ready. There was a heavy weight, crushing him. He sensed a nexus -- that, by admitting what he wanted, the potentiality for certain things would end, and other things would be become inevitable.
"Have you?" Duncan persisted, his tone now inquisitorial.
"I-- I-- don't think D-- Dad would like that," Billy Joe stammered.
Duncan snorted. His eyes held some degree of pity, of commiseration, of -- brotherhood?
Yes, Billy Joe knew, Duncan might be a brother, in an uncommon sense. He had to know what Dad did in the stables.
"Come here," Duncan said in a low voice. He crooked a finger at Billy Joe. He extended his other hand, rough palm upwards, as if he intended to cup Billy Joe's nuts.
The air trembled as if lightning were about to strike down from the cloudless sky.
It was too much. Billy Joe ran.
Duncan's eyes lingered possessively on those youthful denim-clad asscheeks as Billy Joe fled towards Leathermakers. Poor boy. To be so conflicted over such a simple thing. Such was youth. What a hot ass.
#
Leathermaker had always been a part of Billy Joe's life. He was a fixture on the ranch. Leathermaker claimed to be a full-blooded Mahican. When white people pointed out the Mahicans had been exterminated, Leathermaker would merely spit and say: If I do not exist, what is that running down your face, MOTHERFUCKER?
He was that kind of man. Relentless. Dauntless. Unashamed. Anachronistic, as he if he'd walked out of Le Morte D'Arthur or the Iliad. A samurai, a myrmidon, a knight. A man who lived by a code of honor, a sense that one's behavior was governed by higher things, not the queasy platitudes of modern morality. A man more loyal to his soul than to his country. A man loyal to Billy Joe's Dad.
A man to whom Billy Joe could be loyal.
Leathermaker had built a house on the outskirts of the cluster of buildings forming the heart of Caballo's ranch. Neat and trim, it had started out rather small -- a front room, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a basement. As Leathermaker gathered concubines and his family grew, the Mahican was forced to clap on additional rooms and, later, entire wings. It had taken on a ramshackle air, though it was clean, freshly-painted, and surrounded by juniper and desert flowers. Shelter was provided by a circle of young ponderosa pines.
Behind Leathermaker's house rose a red barn where he quartered his own herd of horses. It wasn't as elaborate as Caballo's, but it served the same purpose.
One of Leathermaker's sons stood on the porch of the house. Crowned Deer was several years older than Billy Joe. Unlike his father Crowned Deer was short, though broad-chested and scalloped with hard muscle. He wore a plaid shirt, open to his waist, tight jeans, boots, brown leather belt, and a red bandana. Long glossy black hair streamed down his back. He was deep in conversation with three Anasazi, obviously from the reservation adjoining the ranch.
When he saw Billy Joe trotting through the pines, Crowned Deer waved and grinned. He came down off the porch, leaving the other three to watch.
"You looking for Dad?" asked Crowned Deer. His smile was friendly. He appreciated Billy Joe's body, though he had not -- yet -- come to know it.
"Uh, no," Billy Joe said. "Singing Rain." He glanced towards the porch.
Two of the Anasazi were young, their shirtless lean bodies gleaming with sweat, their long hair bound behind their neck with rawhide thongs. They wore loose jeans which showed a large expanse of their groins and there crevice of their butts.
"He's back there with Dad," said Crowned Deer, inclining his head to the left, where a path made its way around the house towards Leathermaker's barn.
"Uh ... OK." It was the other who commanded Billy Joe's attention, distracting Billy Joe from the habitual feast he usually enjoyed of Crowned Deer's powerful body. The elder. Their king.
The third Anasazi's hair, like the others, was black, but strands of grey were woven into it. It fell past his shoulders, well below his nipples. His powerful chest was still toned and firm, but he was not a young man, and had not been a young man for many, many years. His face was lined like stone ground by wind and water. His eyes were pools of oil, liquid and bottomless. He stood, flanked by the other two as if they were pages, arms folded, staring enigmatically down at Billy Joe.
Something about this old man mattered to Billy Joe. Billy Joe wanted the old man to approve of him. Of the bulges displayed by the tight denim molded to his flesh. Of the things he thought of, the images he pictured, when he was alone in his room, jacking off.
From far away came the cry of hawks. The pines shivered in a sudden breeze. The old man said nothing. But his eyes never left Billy Joe.
Crowned Deer, noticing who commanded Billy Joe's attention, said: "That's ---" and he spoke a word in an Anasazi language. "You can call him Shaman."
Slowly, Billy Joe bobbed his head in greeting.
Shaman remained a statue, unknown and unknowable, crownless yet crowned.
His shirtless companions, less regal more human, hooked their fingers into their loose belts, lowering their jeans until a line of black pubic hair looked out.
"Hi," Billy Joe ventured, and gave a feeble wave.
The shirtless ones nodded and grinned. White teeth against golden skin. Black hair, black all-seeing eyes.
Shaman was a mountain, gazing indifferently down at a boy's world. His silence, his liquid eyes, were powerful weapons.
An urge gnawed at Billy Joe. To climb out of his jeans, turn around, and present his ass to that silent old man staring at him. Not to moon him. No. To entice him. To get him to fuck him.
"So ..." Crowned Deer said slowly. "What's up with you and Singing Rain?"
"He said your Dad got him a new pony."
Crowned Deer grinned slyly. "Yeah. Dad did. Singing Rain really likes this one. You wanna see him?"
"Yeah! Can I?"
"Sure!" Crowned Deer again inclined his head to the left. "They're in the barn."
"Cool! Later!" Billy Joe trotted off.
At the point where the path turned he glanced back. The four Indians had coalesced again on the porch, and were in an animated discussion. Except for Shaman, who faced Billy Joe, silent, eyes seeing those things in Billy Joe the boy was too afraid to speak.
A large back yard separated Leathermaker's barn from his house. Gambrel-roofed, painted red with white trim, the barn itself seemed extracted from another age, another culture. Leathermaker had a sense of irony: from the hoist used to haul bales of hay into the hayloft hung the effigy of a cowboy, complete with checked shirt, jeans, gunbelt, boots, and ten gallon hat. Stuffed with straw, the mannikin often fell when a storm blasted across the ranch. Leathermaker always restored it to its place of dishonor.
Bright afternoon sunshine illuminated the barn's exterior. The open door, however, was a black maw to the shadowed interior. Billy Joe couldn't see anything inside. Baled hay sat on either side of the opened door, while loose hay was strewn thickly before it. He made his way silently across the hay, not intending to be surreptitious, just wanting to sneak up and surprise Singing Rain.
Some ten or twenty feet away, Billy Joe heard the voices.
"Oh, yeah, son, now lick it right there."
A deep voice, masculine and powerful, with a foreign accent. French, Leathermaker claimed. Billy Joe remembered Leathermaker telling him that he'd been raised in France, near someplace called Lacoste.
It was not a human which replied. Something grunted. Deep and seismic, as if the earth itself twitched. The sound resonated in Billy Joe's asshole, as if it naturally belonged there.
What's that? Billy Joe thought. Is Singing Rain doing it? He talks about it all the time. But is he really doing it?
Billy dropped into a crouch, sidled to one side, slipped behind the baled hay, and listened.
Leathermaker growled, "Oh, yeah, son, you see how it flexes? How it jumps?"
"Yeah, Dad! Yeah!"
Singing Rain's voice was high and clear, and to Billy Joe's ear unaccented. He was always enthusiastic about whatever he was doing, and that enthusiasm often enlivened his voice.
"That means he likes it." A pause. "You got a delicate touch with your tongue, son. He appreciates it. Ummm. Nice."
Pictures flooded Billy Joe's head. Leathermaker's boss body. Singing Rain's slender form. His Dad's big cock, throbbing in front of Singing Rain's face -- Billy Joe fondled his hardon through his jeans. It was back, springing into fearsome life, erecting in his briefs, warring with the denim, throbbing down his thigh.
Could it be true? Would he see it? The way he'd seen his Dad with Alexandra? Singing Rain and Leathermaker. All he had to do was look around the post into the darkness. Could it be happening? So easy to envision so many things in the blackness inside the barn.
"Now, Singing Rain," Leathermaker said. "I want you to hold it. Right here, behind the head." He chuckled, nurturing, caring, lusting. "Yeah, when it gets excited it jumps around like that. Hold on! Hold on to it!" There was a thumping noise, like someone slapping a warm salami on a hamhock. "Grab it! Grab it! Grab it!"
"Got it, Dad!" Laughter again, like the tinkle of shattered glass. "Fuck! It's thick."
He leaked. Billy Joe leaked precum into his denim, hearing that word on Singing Rain's lips. It wasn't that he'd never heard it before -- Billy Joe and Singing Rain were normal teenaged boys -- it was that word uttered in the presence of Leathermaker. Transgressive. The precum stain spread until it was the size of a half-dollar.
"You feel how hard it is, son?"
"Yeah, Dad, it's hard!"
"That means he wants to fuck."
That word again. Billy Joe began stroking his meat through his jeans.
"OK," Leathermaker said. "Now open your mouth. Breathe on it. He likes to be teased. Breathe on it, son. Breathe on it."
Billy Joe closed his eyes. It felt as if something hot and moist steamed before his lips. A phantom cock. Who -- or what -- did it belong to? Singing Rain's wasn't the size of the one he envisioned. Leathermaker's? Billy Joe had never seen the Mahican's, but since Leathermaker was a friend of Caballo's, it must be huge. Caballo's? Billy Joe knew his Dad was hung in a gargantuan fashion. And thinking of his father's cock, hanging there before his lips, caused a surge of precum to rush out of his cock into his jeans.
But what if the cock were blunt, with a prominent pisshole dripping fluid, and the shaft was dark, and emerged from a sheath, hanging between hind legs?
Billy Joe breathed on the phantom shape, working his cock through the denim.
Something shifted nervously in the darkness inside the barn, a heavy living weight that did not speak, but grunted.
"That's it," Leathermaker said. "Feel it jump?"
"Look, Dad! It's leaking!"
"Taste it, son. No, no. Don't gobble it. Use your tongue. Tease him. Yeah. That's it. Lick that pisshole." A deep satisfied chuckle. A sigh. "Good boy. Good boy."
The awesome, awful seismic noise rolled past Billy Joe like a panicked mustang herd.
"Keep that up, son. He likes it." Leathermaker chuckled. "You see? He's dripping now. Look! It's running all over the floor."
"Yeah, Dad! Yeah!" Singing Rain's voice seemed muffled, as if he'd been guzzling heavy cream. "Jesus! He's starting to thrust, like they do when it's time to -- "
"Yeah, son, he wants to be inside." A pause. "Now. Let me remind you how to do that."
Billy Joe's palm stroked his cock as if it were some anxious pet needing to be soothed. Forbidden thrills coursed through his body. His heart hammered, and his lungs gulped air. It was a repeat of what had happened to him when he'd stumbled on his father and Alexandra.
He didn't want to blow another load into his jeans. So he ripped open his fly, stood up, shimmied his jeans down below his knees, then squatted back down. The teen's huge cock bobbed in the air, strings of precum flailing like tentacles.
A picture: Singing Rain's lithe, slender body, kneeling on the hay, his skinny erection jutting out, Leathermaker's parted lips --
The sound of gulping came from inside the barn. It sounded like gluttons at a feast.
Now the picture was clear. Too clear.
Phantom lightning crackled on the underside of Billy Joe's nutsack, stabbed through the hot coal seemingly burning just inside his rectum. It was inevitable, like a wave. The pressure, the need, the drive. Gasping, Billy Joe jabbed a finger up his butthole, worked it hard. He exploded. Enormous gouts of sperm blasted from his cockhead. Fans of teen jism doused the baled hay.
Fearing discovery, he choked back his orgasmic cries.
"Oh, Dad." Singing Rain's voice, sounding wistful as if some long imagined moment had transpired, penetrated the electric fog of Billy Joe's orgasm. "It looks so good going inside you."
Another eruption fountained from Billy Joe's cock. Harder and stronger than anything he'd previously known, he couldn't suppress the urge to moan.
But now a heavy thumping noise emerged from the barn, and it seemed to have disguised his ululation.
"Wow, Dad! I didn't think you could take it so deep!"
The sound of choking. Then the sound of someone spitting copious and thick phlegm. More thumping. Frantic swishing as if someone were swinging a flyswatter.
Leathermaker's voice was hoarse. "Now you try it, Singing Rain."
"Really?" The tone was awed, as if Singing Rain had seen God Himself.
"Really! OK. Kneel. That's right. Kneel down." A pause. "Ah, you're teasing him again!"
"He's jumping around like crazy, Dad!"
"Keep a good grip on him. Hold him steady! Use your arm, son, put some strength into it! You don't want him scraping on your teeth."
"Got 'im, Dad!"
"Good boy. Now open your mouth. Wide. Wider. Wider, Singing Rain. That's a lot of meat. This isn't some boycock you're going down on. Yeah. That's it. Work up some spit. Heh. You didn't need to try hard, did you? Yeah, boy, you're excited. Good. So's him. Now swallow. Make sure your throat's good and wet."
The sound of spitting. Then: "His balls are getting real big, Dad!"
"He likes you, son. He really likes you. Let him settle down a bit."
The noise coming from the stables sounded like someone tap dancing with coconut shoes.
Leathermaker said, gravely: "Put the head in your mouth."
A picture: Singing Rain's pink lips, glistening with spit, the soft black down on his upper lips matted with sweat. His bright eyes, warm and happy, gazing upward, adoring Leathermaker's hard body. Leathermaker's big cockhead, sliding between those lips --
This one struck him like a lightning bolt out of a clear sky. Shards of cum blasted from Billy Joe's throbbing cockhead, again drenching the baled hay. Billy Joe gasped with each pulse.
He found himself on his knees, panting, his eyes focused on a bale of hay. He'd shot so much semen it glistened and pulsed like some giant amoeba.
Why them? Billy Joe thought. Why me? Why is it never me? I want it so badly --
The rumbling. Something heavy shifted in the stable. A sharp report, like a foot stamping with impatience.
"It's a mouthful, isn't it?"
Billy Joe didn't hear a reply.
"Yeah! Good boy! I'm proud of you, son! Stretches you, doesn't it?"
A choking sound seemed to be the reply. Harsh, excited shuffling sounds punctuated the moment. Heavy breathing.
"You're lips look so pretty like that!"
Billy Joe crept to the bale, stuck his tongue out, began to slurp up the strands of his own sperm knotting the hay. His hand moved on his shaft.
"Now work your tongue ... feel that? Where it flares? I left you something to taste. Find it! You taste it? Tastes great, doesn't it, boy? Oh yeah. That's the way. Let him move, son. That's what he wants to do. Just let him rock back and forth in your mouth. I taught him. He knows how. He won't give you too much, not more than you can take, not more than you want. Yeah. Whoa! That was a hard one, boy, yeah, I saw your cheek bulge." Leathermaker's voice dropped, talking to his son in a low, passionate voice. "Now, move down on him, son. Slide down. Take him into your throat. You know how. I taught you that too, heh heh! Gulp it. Yeah. Breathe through your nose. Gulp it. All that practicing you've been doing with me is helping you, isn't it, boy? Yeah, swallow him. Swallow him on down. Oh son, yeah, he loves that. He likes it! Oh yes! Oh yes! All the way! Yes. Good boy. He likes that a lot. Feel him move in your throat, son?"
There came a flurry of noises, sounds all mixed together. A rumble, a whicker, the sound of a young boy laughing in his throat with a full mouth. Heavy footfalls.
He had to see. Billy Joe had to see it. He would die if he didn't.
He stood, tugged his jeans up to his hips so he could shuffle forward. Leaving his fly unbuttoned his cock thrust through like an elephant's trunk drooling white, stringy snot.
Carefully, like a spy, he eased his way towards the door post. Sensitive to noise, he heard each grain of dust as it crunched beneath his boots. He held his breath. Had they heard? Were they looking? Was Leathermaker coming towards the door, scowling --
Peering round the door post, he looked into the dark gaping maw. Into the barn. Stygian. Like the darkness in the story his mother had read to him once, the one with the swinging scythe-like pendulum, and the dark, rank well gaping in the middle of the narrator cell. Primeval. The eternal stuff that existed before the Universe exploded in hot fire eons ago.
He still couldn't see anything. His eyes were adjusted to the blazing light of the desert sun. Not even shapes moved in the inky darkness.
"Oh yeah, son, he's really moving now ... run your hand all the way. All the way down the shaft. See where it comes out of the sheath? Touch him there."
Sounds were clear now. From deeper within the barn came the snorting and huffing of Leathermaker's stallions and mares.
As the seconds ticked by, however, forms begin to appear in the blackness. Black forms against black velvet, but Billy Joe sensed their movement. A large shape from which came the sound of deep breathing, a small shape crouching beneath it, a third shape kneeling beside the small shape.
Billy Joe's cock vibrated like an arrow notched in a drawn bowstring.
"Now, reach on back. Come on! Stretch those arms! Good, Singing Rain. Cup his balls. In your hands. One in each palm. Don't worry about holding onto his dick. He won't ram it too deep. He's a good one. Cup 'em. Cup 'em, Singing Rain. Feel how hot they are? They're full of jism, son, he wants to put that jism in you."
At last, Billy Joe could see. Shapes materialized out of the shadows as if they were ghosts who had just poled themselves into the land of the living across Styx's dreamlike flow.
There was Singing Rain, his buddy, his friend, slender and golden skinned. He was beautiful as the taste of honey. He crouched beneath the huge shape, his back towards Billy Joe. His black hair streamed like liquid obsidian down his back. He wore a buckskin breech-clout, tied round his narrow waist with rawhide. It covered his buttcrack, yet his exposed cheeks glistened with sweat.
He was sucking off a pony.
The pony was a palomino, with a golden coat and thick, cream-colored mane. He stood maybe 13 hands high at the withers. His neck was thick and muscled. His legs were a bit on the short side, and he reminded Billy Joe, in some odd way, of a tank. Certainly that was from the pony's appearance of solid, rooted power. Perhaps that impression was also due the pony's cock, a dark shaft at least eighteen inches long, thrusting from between his hind legs, reminding Billy Joe of a gun.
The pony thrust vigorously into Singing Rain's mouth.
Singing Rain, spit dripping onto the hay-strewn barn floor, braced his legs against the palomino's motion. His hands caressed the humid, fragrant space between the pony's thighs and scrotum. His cheek bulged as the pony's flared cockhead thrust against it.
Billy Joe's jaw dropped.
The palomino's cock was easily big around as Singing Rain's slender teenaged arm. A splotch of angry pink like raw flesh adorned the shaft near the flared head. His foam-flecked balls, the size of bunched fists, swayed as the stud sawed at Singing Rain's succulent lips.
Billy Joe heard Singing Rain humming contentedly, the pony grunting softly.
Leathermaker, tall, broad-shouldered, with a deep chest like a pair of bronze shields, knelt on the stable floor next to his ponycocksucker son. His fist flew up and down his gigantic erection, thrusting aside his own buckskin loincloth. His arms, corded with muscles, resembled a Burmese python in the process of wrestling a deer to the death. Freshets of pungent sweat coursed over his body. His dark amber skin was smooth and free of hair, save for the thicket growing round his fence post of a cock. Black hair fell like an obsidian waterfall down his back. Tendrils like octopus tentacles clutched at his hard buttocks.
Billy Joe shifted his foot, scattering small pebbles onto the planks of the barn's floor.
Leathermaker's head turned. His eyes, dark as a moonless winter's sky, bore into Billy Joe's own, as if this moment was foreknown to him.
"Well, hello, Billy Joe," said Leathermaker. His lips curled into an easy grin. His fist slowed to a more deliberate pace on his cock.
Billy Joe felt like a grenade with the pin pulled some nine seconds ago. Boundless energy surged in him, seeking escape. His pubic hair felt like wet turnip greens against his hand. No breath remained, either for him to choke or to speak with.
Singing Rain spit out the pony's cock, turned his head. His pink lips glistened. Saliva, and precum. Equine precum. A sex fluid of the beast. "Come on in, Billy Joe! This is Thunderhoof, my new pony!"
Thunderhoof rumbled, lifted one forehoof, dropped it definitively to the floor. He turned his eyes on Billy Joe, and curled his lip, showing large, square teeth. His slimy tongue, gray and dripping, wagged obscenely.
"I, uh, I'm sorry --" Billy Joe stammered.
"It's OK. Come here," Leathermaker said. He patted the floor next to his powerful, naked thighs. There was a soft look to his eyes as he beckoned Billy Joe inside.
Billy Joe surrendered. He went into the pit, cock leading the way.
Thunderhoof stamped a fore hoof on the floor. Snorted impatiently. Twitched his cock against his belly. Droplets of his precum fell like rain onto Singing Rain's chest.
Leathermaker laughed. "OK, Singing Rain. Back to work on Thunderhoof." He looked at his son with naked love in his eyes. "A boy can take teasing too far."
"OK, Dad!" Singing Rain opened his mouth and stuffed Thunderhoofs' shaft inside. His throat gulped
The beast rumbled its appreciation. Its haunches twitched once or twice. Then one huge thrust jabbed half of the cock down Singing Rain's throat. The golden boy accepted it without gagging, though his eyes bulged.
"Come here, Billy Joe." Leathermaker again patted the floor.
Billy Joe knelt. Leathermaker's powerful scent enveloped him like a protective fog. Soothing. Raw. Enticing. You could only smell a funk like his when you sniffed a pocket-pussy that's been stuffed with the steamy jism of a US Navy submarine crew.
"Watch Singing Rain," Leathermaker said.
He did. The bulge of the pony's flared cockhead sawed up and down Singing Rain's throat.
"If you want, Billy Joe," Leathermaker said softly, eyes shining, "you can get out of those clothes." He grinned. "We won't tell your Dad."
"Uh ..." What was it? What was he supposed to say? "The sun rose over the east pasture."
Leathermaker nodded slowly. "OK, Billy Joe. OK. Then you definitely need to get out of those clothes." Leathermaker's eyes roamed Billy Joe's flesh. "You're getting pretty ... sweaty." He sniffed the air, like a dog who's just caught of whiff of fresh sausage. "Did you cum watching us?"
"Yeah." Billy Joe was sweaty. Drenched with it. The crotch of his jeans swam with it -- or maybe it was jism -- and his shirt was a salty sea from his armpits on down.
"Yeah," said Leathermaker. "I can smell that too." He leaned over, sniffed the funk rising from Billy Joe's armpits. "You smell good, Billy Joe."
Billy Joe stripped. Hard cock bobbing, he peeled off his boots, his jeans, his briefs, his shirt, just the way he and Singing Rain did down at the creek when they were alone. Only this time Leathermaker was there. And his gaze feasted on Billy Joe's white flesh as the boy exposed more and more of it. Billy Joe felt it, like twin hot spots moving slowly over his skin. Starting on his cock. Descending to his swaying balls. To his chest. On each of nipples. And yes, finally, on his bubble butt.
It pleased, and excited, Billy Joe very much, knowing Leathermaker appreciated his butt.
Even Thunderhoof seemed to whinny his appreciation when the naked teen knelt.
Leathermaker's bronze, callused hand squeezed Billy Joe's thigh. The hot male flesh sizzling on his sensitive skin was different from when Singing Rain touched him. Leathermaker was a man. Singing Rain, a boy. A world of difference.
"Look at my son, Billy Joe" Leathermaker breathed into Billy Joe's ear. "Sucking off that pony." Something hot and wet briefly touched the rim of Billy Joe's ear. "I can tell it turns you on."
"Yeah," Billy Joe whispered, watching Singing Rain feast on the pony's long dong. "It does."
"You can beat your meat, too." Leathermaker's breathing was loud. "And scream bloody murder when you cum."
In a gurgling rush, Singing Rain pulled off Thunderhoof's cock. The pony's shaft throbbed eagerly, and humping hips sought to drive it back inside the boy's welcoming body. Singing Rain giggled, said, "Oh, he's loud when he cums, Dad!" then dove once more on the pony's cock, working it deep.
"Singing Rain." Billy Joe tried to sound admonitory. But his panting, his anxious fisting of his cock, rendered the effort futile.
Leathermaker nodded. "It's OK if you're loud, Billy Joe. We're all on the same side, here."
What a wonderful thing to hear. It was rare to hear that phrase used meaningfully.
"How many times did you come when you were outside?" Leathermaker asked.
"Twice ... outside your door."
"Cum any more today?"
"Yeah." Fascinated by Singing Rain's lips, he watched inch after glistening inch of hot pony cock probe into his friend's mouth. What did it feel like? What did it taste like? Thunderhoof's smell, powerful and bestial, made Billy Joe's head spin.
"Where?"
"In Dad's stable."
Leathermaker chuckled. "With Alexandra?"
"You knew?"
"Of course. Alexandra's a hot fuck."
Billy Joe's cock dribbled. "Really?"
"You should try her out." Leathermaker glanced at Billy Joe's cock. "She'd like you. A lot."
The thought -- it was as if he had been standing at the edge of a sea, looking at across the vast rippling plain towards the distant horizon, wondering what was there -- and suddenly, beside him, was a boat, and a tall bronze helmsman.
"Do you do this a lot?" Billy Joe asked.
"Me?" Leathermaker briefly stopped masturbating. His gaze turned away, towards the tack hanging from pegs on the wall. He mused for a moment. "Oh. I'd say so. Something most every day, I'd think."
Singing Rain lustfully absorbed Thunderhoof's cock all the way -- kissing the pony's fleshy sheath each time the pony thrust. Belches exploded around the invading shaft, but Billy Joe's boyish friend sustained his rhythm.
"Do you think you might want to learn how to suck pony cock, Billy Joe?" Leathermaker's fist resumed moving on his shaft. Soft moist sounds came from his groin.
Something in Billy Joe's brain shimmered, and it seemed as if deep, bass drumbeats rolled across a phantom interior landscape. It seemed that he had been viewing the world through a wall of glass bricks -- a flawed wall, one possessing some subtle distortion which altered how he apprehended the real world. Somehow, someway, that flaw was gone. It was as if some invisible hand had rearranged the bricks.
Now he could see.
He was who he was. To be anything else was a lie.
"Yes," he whispered.
Leathermaker's eyes focused on his son's lips, shiny with ponyjuice. "Singing Rain's doing pretty good. You hear that, boy?"
Singing Rain, thoroughly involved in sucking Thunderhoof's big shaft, managed an enthusiastic nod, though it was hard, for the pony's cock pegged him deeply.
Leathermaker gripped his foreskin just aft of his cockhead. He pulled it back slowly, displaying his peach-sized cockhead. His pisslips opened and disgorged a dollop of syrup. It drizzled into his cupped palm. "Play with his balls, son. Play with his balls. All males like that." His eye shifted towards the muscled form of his best friend's son. "You like cock, don't you, Billy Joe?"
"Yeah," the teen breathed.
"Taste this," he said, and held his palm before Billy Joe's lips.
Like a dog, Billy Joe lapped it up. The man's precum tasted far stronger than Singing Rain's ever had, and Billy Joe had guzzled his friend's precum since Singing Rain could produce it. It had a faint bleach smell, like sperm.
"You like?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Singing Rain!"
Leathermaker's son looked at his father, but his lips and throat continued working Thunderhoof's cock.
"Pull off a second."
Singing Rain frowned, but complied. Thunderhoof had flared while in Singing Rain's throat, so it took some effort to get the pony's big cockhead out of Singing Rain's small mouth. "Dad!" Singing Rain admonished. "He was about to get it!"
"Hang on a second." Leathermaker reached forward. Cupping both hand beneath Thunderhoof's bobbing shaft, he collected a handful of pony precum as if he were gathering sweet water from a mountain spring.
He held it before Billy Joe's face.
It didn't look any different to Billy Joe. Except for the amount. Few human males could ejaculate what Thunderhoof had so casually dripped. But it smelled like an animal. Unwashed. Natural. Pungent. Raw.
Electricity coursed through him when he dipped his tongue into it. The taste was impossible to describe. Sans pareil, it was pure equine, and outside of normal human experience. The elixir wrought visions of male unicorns conjoined erotically, of white horses fucking young Elf boys, of men crawling over a fence to seek their pleasure in the pastures beyond, while a gibbous moon promised madness and delight.
"You like it?" Leathermaker asked.
"Yes."
"A lot. I can tell." Grinning, Leathermaker gripped Billy Joe's cock, lubricating the boy's shaft with the equine precum. "Here. Jack off with this." He held onto the teen's cock far longer than he needed to, working the pony's slippery fluid along the gigantic shaft.
Desperate to stave off the incipient nova growing in his balls, Billy Joe seized his cockhead, pinching his urethra, until the threat of orgasm faded into grey soup.
"Yeah," Leathermaker said, "It does that." To Singing Rain: "Work him good, son. Work him good."
Singing Rain seized Thunderhoof's cock, opened his mouth wide, and stuffed it into his face. He gagged, spit it out, leaving the glistening horseflesh bedecked with worm-like squiggles of mucous. But he was indefatigable. He jammed his face down on it again. Soon his delicate nose feather-touched the pony's sweaty sheath.
"Now," said Leathermaker, "watch Thunderhoof get his nut."
Singing Rain responded with furious activity. An enormous length of ponycock plunged into and out of his throat. Thunderhoof pumped furiously at the Singing Rains's shiny lips, hunching his hips slowly but powerfully. Ropes of thick mucous draped the equine shaft. Singing Rain's sparse armpit hair clung like wet lint to his skin; his cock, half as long as the mighty breeder that was his Dad's, stood proudly from a groin barely thatched with pubic hair. His pisslips gaped, cupping a clear liquid gem. His narrow thighs, muscled like a marathon runner, bulged with the effort as he held himself steady against Thunderhoof's pounding. Reverently he toyed with the pony's balls.
Something light touched Billy Joe's spine, just above his asscrack. Like a feather, or a fly, or a breath. He responded -- rising out of his kneeling position just a little, bending forward slightly. Exposing his swampy valley.
He looked at Leathermaker. The man grinned, his fingertips gently stroking the boy, slowly tracing out a route that led to that unexplored valley of delight.
"Does this bother you?" Leathermaker whispered.
"No," said Billy Joe. "No. It's nice." He said it like a prayer.
Singing Rain moved his body against the palomino's thrusts, diving down on the fat shaft, gorging himself on it. From his eyes radiated the luminance of a boy greatly pleasured. From his lips poured the spit of a boy greatly experienced in the arts of oral ecstasy.
Billy Joe, knowing full well where he'd learned it, found his gaze shifting from Leathermaker's big prong to Thunderhoof's godlike cock, and wondering what it must feel like to be crouched under a beast the way Singing Rain was.
The pony, more earthy, grunted, pawed the ground, sawed away at the young throat engulfing its cock.
"Watch close, Billy Joe," Leathermaker said. His stroking fingers descended lower, slipping across smooth, virginal skin into Billy Joe's asscrack. To his son Leathermaker called: "He's getting there, Singing Rain! Remember what I told you! If you want to taste him when he comes, make sure he's in your mouth or he'll pump it all right into your stomach!"
"Does ... horse jizz ... taste good?" What a bizarre question to ask. But today had been a bizarre day. This ... and his father, with Alexandra. His hand flew on his cock, and he rose a little higher, forcing Leathermaker's teasing fingertips lower, deeper -- towards his crack, and the awesome hunger lurking beneath.
"Jism always tastes good," Leathermaker crooned. "But horse jizz is best."
And with that, Leathermaker's fingertips reached Billy Joe's pucker. Lightly, tentatively, like the down blown from a dandelion.
And there it was. That feeling. That feeling Billy Joe had been reaching for since his balls first swung low between his young, growing thighs. He moaned, tears glimmered in his eyes, and he whickered the way Alexandra had when his father plugged her sloppy cunt.
"Jism," said Leathermaker, his eyes on his son as Singing Rain enthusiastically devoured Thunderhoofs' cock from sheath to flared head, "doesn't always go in the mouth." He plunged his forefinger into the tight pucker.
"Oh ... oh ... oh." Billy Joe forced himself back, against the finger. The intrusion wasn't painful. It was heaven. He was a natural, taking it deeper, needing more.
Then the moment arrived.
The palomino bellowed. His flanks heaved. Timbers shook. Horses in their stalls further inside the barn thrust their heads over their doors, looking at the ruckus Thunderhoof raised in the midst of the three humans.
"Pull back, son! Pull back!" Even as he shouted these words he slipped two fingers inside Billy Joe's asshole. Yet his attention was fully on his son, and his cock was a tuning fork vibrating in harmony with the sexual energy radiating from Singing Rain's and Thunderhoof's illicitly conjoined flesh.
With a tremendous slurp, Singing Rain slid his lips down Thunderhoofs' shaft, releasing the foam-flecked ponyballs as he did so. His eyes widened enormously. His cheeks bulged. The ponyshaft, where it stretched Singing Rain's purplish lips, flared like a mushroom cloud boiling over a ruined city. The boy's jaw stretched, and stretched, and stretched, like an anaconda trying to consume an elephant.
Again Thunderhoof cried out. His flanks twitched. His feet danced. His balls jiggled like jelly in leather sacks.
Singing Rain gurgled, working his throat. There was something in his eyes, as if he looked into a faraway space. The pony reared, but Singing Rain held on, swinging his feet out of the way as Thunderhoof crashed down onto the barn floor.
"He did it!" Leathermaker's joy rang off the ceiling. He looked Billy Joe in the eyes. "He did it!" Leathermaker drilled his fingers into Billy Joe's prostate.
A flood of viscous white fluid boiled out of Singing Rain's mouth. It looked as if he spilled milk onto his face. Twin rivers flowed on either side of his chin, joined into one on his Adam's apple, cascaded down his naked, heaving chest. The tide coursed into the boy's groin, drowning his sparse pubic hair. Hot, steamy ponyspunk poured onto the floor, spreading in a wide pool
"Ah! Ah! Ah!" Leathermaker cried. Raising up on his knees, he pointed his cock at his son. His blurred hand on the bronze shaft brought him to his peak. A gout of sperm exploded outwards, a long rope of fathercum, and crashed into his son's sweaty, sweat-stained flanks. His hips pumped as he fired his heavy load.
Mesmerized, Billy Joe stared at Leathermaker's cum, mingling and merging with Thunderhoof's jism. Overwhelmed by the pony's studly flow, it was as if a small mountain brook merged with the Mississippi in flood.
Now it was Billy Joe's time.
Leathermaker's fingers, stabbing deep inside him, brought him over the edge. His head fell back. His jaw dropped. And he screamed like an eagle diving on prey. Teenage jism erupted from his pisslips, sizzling, slathering the floor with his young potency.
"Gagh!" Singing Rain spat out Thunderhoof's cock. The flared head squeezed between the boy's lips, bursting out, shooting a thick, white, gluey substance all over Singing Rain's delicate features. Singing Rain reached down and jacked his own cock with palms still stinking of Thunderhoof's balls. His load fountained upwards, bursting like fireworks on the palomino's heaving belly.
Thunderhoof continued discharging onto the boy's slender, heaving chest, snorting, stamping shivering.
The smell of semen, bestial and human, filled the stables like the murk from a swamp.
It seemed like years passed before Billy Joe was aware again. His asshole chewed hungrily on Leathermaker's fingers.
"Relax," Leathermaker breathed, chest heaving.
"Huh?"
"Your butthole. Relax it. I can't get my fingers out."
Billy Joe breathed deep. He imagined taking a huge dump. Reluctantly, that wonderful intrusion withdrew.
Leathermaker staggered to his feet. His cock slumped, but still possessed tumescence. It lost neither length nor thickness. A fearsome tool, something Alexandra would enjoy, nonetheless it was smaller than Billy Joe's awesome shaft. And certainly it didn't compare to what Thunderhoof sported between his hind legs. Or what Lancelot had -- which Billy Joe had seen when that stallion served at stud. Or Galahad's cock. Certainly not Arthur's -- for nothing could match the king. Billy Joe had always been in awe of that stallion's tool.
Nonetheless, Billy Joe wondered about Leathermaker's cock. Would it fit? Inside him? What about Thunderhoof's? What about Lancelot's?
So many possibilities.
Leathermaker patted Singing Rain's head. "Good one, son. You're a good boy." He bent down and kissed Singing Rain's ponyjism-streaked lips. His tongue worked, tasting the equine goo. Father and son panted hard against one another. "Now you run up to your house and have your sister start dinner."
Singing Rain, all smiles, sprung to his feet. "You bet, Dad!"
"And don't take a bath. I want to sleep with you just how you are."
"Sure, Dad!" Singing Rain turned his bright gaze on Billy Joe. "You like my new pony, Billy Joe?"
"Yeah," Billy Joe nodded. "He's ... uh, hot."
"Yeah! He is! We're gonna have a lot of fun!" Like a hare the boy raced from the stables. His naked ass glistened with sweat.
Leathermaker looked down at Billy Joe. "OK. You go and tell your Dad what happened."
"Tell Dad what?" Billy Joe asked softly.
"What you saw here. Every thing. All of it. Thunderhoof. Singing Rain." He grinned. "Me. My fingers."
"He won't --" Billy Joe broke off.
Leathermaker frowned, confused. In a moment, it cleared. "Billy Joe. He doesn't mind." A pause. "Promise me."
"OK. I promise."
"Good."
Leathemaker turned away. Walking back into the barn, he eyed each horse in turn. When he reached the stall he sought he undid the lower door, opened it, and whistled sharply. A black horse thrust his face at him. Leathermaker gently grasped the bridle and led the horse out.
Billy Joe gasped.
It was Leathermaker's new Arabian. Sixteen hands tall, he lifted his tall spiritedly. He tried to rush forward, but Leathermaker hauled him back.
"Steady, boy," Leathermaker admonished.
The black Arabian's cock swung like a dream of lust from his sheath. Smegma -- not much, though -- crusted the shaft just behind the head.
"You like?" Leathermaker said to Billy Joe.
"He's beautiful."
"Hmm." Leathermaker attached a lease to the Arabian's bridle, secured the horse to a post. "He is." Absently, Leathermaker began seeking something on the shelves. "Run along, Billy Joe. Talk to your Dad."
Billy Joe didn't move. The Arabian's shaft was stiffening. The horse's eyes followed Leathermaker's muscular bulk, fixated on the man's muscled ass.
"Aha!" Leathermaker picked up a can of lard from a shelf. Opening it, he dug out a huge dollop and smeared it between his buttcheeks. Billy Joe watched the Mahican thrust four greasy fingers up his own hole.
Leathermaker turned. Seeing the boy, he said, "Now, Billy Joe." And he meant it.
Billy Joe raced out of the barn, still naked, leaving his clothes on the hay-strewn floor.
Great ass on that boy, Leathermaker thought, cock stiffening as he approached the stallion, reaching up to release the lease and free the stallion for action. Stupid, though.
The Arabian neighed. Sniffing at Leathermaker's sweaty flesh, his lips curled, exposing big teeth. A wet sound like salami beating on a hamhock filled the barn.
Gonna be sore, Leathermaker thought. And grinned. "Come on boy, do me proud!"
To be continued ...
(c) 2008 R. Keith Peck All Rights Reserved
Author may be reached at araddion@gmail.com (email address as of August 2008)
Some other stories by R. Keith Peck (available on Nifty and/or elsewhere) :
"Headbanger's Ball" - also published in Stallions & Other Studs, ed. Scott O'Hara, 1995
"The Stallion Rides" - also published in Stallions & Other Studs, ed. Scott O'Hara, PDA Press, 1995, and in The Stallion Rides and Other Erotic Horse-Mansex Stories, Leyland Publications, 2004
"Equus and Elf" - also published in The Stallion Rides and Other Erotic Horse-Mansex Stories, Leyland Publications, 2004
"Gone Fishin'"
"Confusion is Nothing New"
"Through Man a Mighty River Flows"
"Cockfighting" - published in Boys in Heat, ed. Richard Labonte, Cleis Press, 2008.