Date: Sat, 30 Dec 2023 16:36:48 -0600 From: Sweetheart Subject: Roscoe (Chapter 2) Support Nifty! donate.nifty.org The morning light poured over Roscoe's eyes, which were encrusted with the sand that only a deep sleep can bring. His fist blindly made its way to his face, rubbing his eyes and opening them to confront the blinding sunshine. This was an unusual way for Roscoe to awaken; he was used to sleeping in creeks and under bridges, woken by the sound of gunfire or sirens and the subsequent fleeing that he and his father would have to do. But now, here, above The Stallion, the warm cotton sheets hugged Roscoe's smooth body and a fluffy quilt warmed his soul with its domestic comforts. He sprawled out onto his back, scratching his bush of brown pubes that encased his lovely soft dick and stared at the ceiling, enjoying a moment of rest that he'd only known so sparsely before. A banging came at his door, shocking him and making him jump to his feet, scrambling to open it. At the door was Madame Morgan, in a nightgown with her hair in rollers under a scarf. Roscoe had not previously spent time with women, and the sight of this matriarch in her nightly garb was quite comforting to the boy, like a grandmother he never had. "Good morning, ma'am!" Roscoe said, standing naked in the doorway. "Good morning, dear. Come, breakfast is waiting for you," Madame Morgan said, turning and walking down the hall. Roscoe grabbed a robe that hung on the door of his bedroom, wrapping its golden satin over his body, and tying it loosely around his waist so that either side crossed beneath his belly button. He followed Madame Morgan down the hall, glancing at the framed photographs on the walls that he had overlooked previously. Each photograph was of two young women and one young man, all standing in front of the Stallion with a dull expression. The frames were dated, an image for every five years, and the people in the photograph changed every half-decade. As they walked down the hallway, Roscoe looked at those who came before him, especially the men who occupied his room before he did. They were all quite handsome, and young, probably barely 18, just like Roscoe was. The women were young and pretty too, but one caught Roscoe's eye; she had glowing eyes that were sunken into her skull and lips that had a natural pout. She was very beautiful and dainty, and Roscoe couldn't shake a strange feeling that he knew her, or that she knew him. At this point, Roscoe was starting to lose Madame Morgan, sprinting down the hall and around the corner to follow her down the stairs. They walked into the kitchen that was behind the bar, and three people sat at the table, sipping coffee. One was Sir Morgan, and the other two were young women, probably not much older than Roscoe, who both looked at him and giggled at each other. "Ladies, this here is Roscoe, our new boy. Roscoe, this is Lottie and Leona, they work the brothel as well," Madame Morgan said. "Pleasure," Roscoe said, extending his hand, which was met with more laughs. Roscoe awkwardly took a seat, sitting uncomfortably as Sir Morgan greeted him. "You've made such a lovely home here, ma'am," Roscoe said, making sure to be polite to the hospitable woman as she handed him a plate of eggs and sausage. "Thank you, dear. My grandparents opened the establishment in 1875, and it's been in my family ever since," she said, pouring him a cup of coffee. "And there's always been a brothel upstairs?" Roscoe asked, eating quickly. "Yes, there has, dear. There have been many employees that came and went before you arrived. Lottie and Leona here are sisters, given to us by their mother who fell ill." "I am sorry to hear," Roscoe said, looking at the girls with a feeling of sincere sorrow. They did not answer, but they did not giggle at each other this time. "Son, a very important patron of the Stallion let us know that he very much enjoyed your company last night. Keep up the good work, you'll be the most sought-after boy in the West," Sir Morgan said, looking Roscoe in the eyes. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Roscoe said, remembering the handsome military man from last night. They all ate and chatted, the girls only speaking to Madame Morgan, who had taken on a maternal role with them. When they had finished their meal, Roscoe was informed that during the day, all of them would be engaged with chores, and he was to get to work on fixing the wooden railing in front of The Stallion. Some cowboys got drunk and took turns riding the railing like a horse, eventually snapping the thing in two. Finishing the only full breakfast he'd ever had, Roscoe excused himself to get to work. The Sun was high and hot, and the air was dry with dust as Roscoe hammered at the railing. He had completely sweat through his shirt in just an hour, stripping it off and lying it out to dry. As Roscoe worked his muscles flexed and glimmered with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead and the tops of his shoulders growing tanner with each passing minute. As he worked, he routinely felt eyes watching him, but every time he turned, he found that nobody was there. It was a strange feeling, but one that he trusted, having developed a sixth sense for being followed while on the run with his daddy. Returning to work for a moment, Roscoe whipped his body around, hoping to catch whoever was staring off guard. There stood, no more than 10 feet away, an incredibly handsome man with brown skin, a thin mustache above his full lips, and a hollow, sunken face that made his cheekbones look like knives. "Who are you?" Roscoe said, instinctively feeling defensive toward the stranger. The man walked closer, in his nice hat and tailored suit, extending his hand to the sweaty, working boy. "My name is Officer Steele, how are you today, son?" the man said, his handshake left suspended. "What can I do for you, officer?" Roscoe responded, refusing the man's question. The man laughed, looking at his feet as he took another step forward. It was mesmerizing how the shadows of his face contorted as he smiled, and it was a very handsome smile. "I'm passing through, I was hoping I could trouble you for a glass of water if you'd be so kind," the officer said, smiling again and speaking warmly, his dark brown eyes glimmering. Roscoe looked to his feet, pointing inside, saying "The woman in there will help you. Nice meeting you." As the officer walked past the boy, who stood tall and proud, he bent down so his lips were an inch from Roscoe's ear. "Well, aren't you a good boy," Officer Steele whispered, his hot breath making Roscoe's knees buckle. The man disappeared inside the saloon, and Roscoe continued his work, ignoring his bulging erection from the encounter with the handsome man. Knowing he could never trust a cop; he did his best to avert any lustful thoughts about the man. About an hour later, the officer emerged from the swinging doors of The Stallion, walking past Roscoe, and heading down the road. Roscoe watched him walk, a real dominance in the way he carried himself, his shoulders tall and his legs long, stretching out before him as he took each step. Bursting through the Saloon doors, Roscoe came in hot, confronting Madame Morgan. "Did that officer ask questions about me?!" Roscoe demanded, slamming his fist on the bar at the old woman. "No, son. He did not. And even if he did, I always protect my employees. Why, been in some troubles recently, have you?" Madame Morgan asked, raising her eyebrow, and reminding Roscoe who was in charge. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry ma'am, I just don't like cops. I can't trust them," Roscoe explained. Madame Morgan understood, returning to polishing the glassware and sending the boy out to continue his work. As he worked, he couldn't forget the image of the handsome officer and that seductive line he whispered in Roscoe's ear, "Aren't you a good boy?" Roscoe got the same chill he got when he first felt the man's hot breath, smelling of cigars and liquor, on his neck, intoxicating him with lust for the handsome man. But, with an inherent distrust of the police, Roscoe was in quite the battle between his desires and his principles. He distracted himself with chores for the rest of the day, never quite shaking the image of Officer Steele's face. As the Sun began to set, Roscoe dropped his hammer over the last nail of the railing in front of the Stallion. The dust had been blowing at him all day, his skin covered in a thin layer of rust-colored soot. The only parts of him free from the grime were the folds of skin around his eyes, hidden with every squint, and the skin protected by his trousers. Collapsing and leaning against his work, Roscoe sighed, closing his eyes, and feeling the tension of his muscles. A moment passed before Madame Morgan came out, inviting Roscoe to get cleaned up for dinner. "Thank you, ma'am, I'll just have a quick bath," he told the kind old woman. "Tub is out back, hon," she said, a perplexed look running across Roscoe's face. Walking around The Stallion, Roscoe found a rusted steel tub, a bucket, and a well. He shrugged, thinking of all the bizarre places he'd bathed while on the run with his father. At least this was an actual tub, he thought to himself. After filling the bath with the cold well water, Roscoe peeled his trousers off, tossing his linen boxers over them. He admired the hard line of grime between where his skin was protected and where it was not. The upper half of his body and the bottoms of his calves were the color of stone, and the skin on his thighs, groin, and ass were as pale and peachy as when he began his work. Lowering himself into the water, the soot dispersed, coloring the water like a cola syrup. Submerging himself, Roscoe held his breath for a full minute, listening to the reverberance of the metal tub. As he stepped out of the tub, it occurred to Roscoe that he didn't bring either fresh clothes or something to dry himself with. Scooping up his dirty linens, he scurried around the building and in the front door, past the patrons of the bar who snickered and the amused face of Madame Morgan. Slamming the door to his room behind him, Roscoe exhaled, unsure where the shame of his nudity came from given that he was the new boy toy of the town. Disregarding the awkward journey he'd just made, Roscoe combed his hair back and dressed in new, clean clothes. He wore a white linen shirt with buttons carved from bone, open past his chest, and trousers that were a nice forest green, with leather suspenders to hold them up. Walking into the kitchen Roscoe greeted Lottie and Leona, who exchanged pleasantries with him and shook the hand of Sir Morgan. Madame had made a lovely beef stew, and the five of them ate and talked, something like a family. After dinner, the girls helped Madame clean, and Roscoe helped Sir Morgan sharpen the kitchen knives. With that, Roscoe and the girls headed upstairs, ready to open the brothel for the night. Roscoe made his bed and tidied his things, still unsure what he was supposed to do besides wait. More of this story and others available on Patreon.com/RococoCock