Date: Sun, 28 Jan 2024 10:58:42 -0600
From: Sweetheart <rocococock@gmail.com>
Subject: Roscoe (Part 3)

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The music of The Stallion swung up through the floorboards of Roscoe's
room as he whittled away at a stick, making it into a sharp point. He
enjoyed this sort of thing, killing time with one sharp thing, making
another, softer thing just as sharp. It was something he inherited from
his dad, this idea that he needed a weapon on him at all times, and he
felt it couldn't hurt in a place like this. His dad had shown him how to
make spears, arrowheads, torches, and anything they could make with
sticks and stones.

The saloon sounded busy tonight and Roscoe had already had one more
client than yesterday, collecting an already larger amount of money. That
army man had told some of his troops about Roscoe and his cock sucking
abilities, especially how far he can swallow a man's dick. He'd
swallowed two loads from two different soldiers at that point in the
night, each of them only discernable to him by the amount he was handed
after. Before he could finish fashioning his shiv out of wood, a knock
came at Roscoe's door.

It was another solider, blonde, and young, maybe a few years older than
Roscoe. He wasn't heavily decorated with medals or ribbons, but he held
his cap over his heart, showing Roscoe respect and courtesy that he had
not yet been given by a client.

"Hello, sir, please, come in," Roscoe said, taking a step back and
letting the young man in.

The man said nothing, and sat on Roscoe's bed, looking up at him with a
virtue that suggested he didn't quite know what he was looking for.

"No need to be shy, soldier, tonight I work for you," Roscoe said,
kneeling before the blonde man and putting his hands on his knees, giving
him a seductive and kind smile.

"Will you kiss me?" the man said, causing Roscoe to recoil, not out of
rejection, but apprehension.

He thought for a moment before taking a seat next to the man, who was
starting to look more and more like a boy. His eyes were bright and big,
like a child's, and he didn't have the thick stubble that a man should
have. Roscoe leaned closer, studying the soldier's face, and putting his
hand on the man's thigh. Turning to Roscoe, the two made eye contact as
the soldier awaited Roscoe's response.

Only an inch from the man's face, Roscoe whispered "I will kiss you,"
leaning in, closing his eyes, and planting his warm lips over the
soldiers.

It was a sweet kiss at first, the two pressing their soft, pink, smooth
lips into each other's, passing a singular shared breath between them.
As he kissed the kind stranger, it occurred to Roscoe that he'd never
been engaged in an act of passion such as this, he'd only performed the
duties of pleasing men, never to indulge himself in this way. Letting his
tongue gently emerge from his lips and into the soldiers, Roscoe felt his
cock become hard, never before tasting the mouth of another man. It
didn't taste as he thought it would, it was almost without flavor but
contained a sweetness and an acidity that was the undeniable taste of the
human body. The soldier opened his jaw to fully accept Roscoe's
explorative tongue, letting the boy wrap his tongue around his and pull
it into his mouth.

The kiss grew in intensity, Roscoe's jaw opened as wide as the soldiers,
his hand gripping the young man's blonde hair. The soldier ran his palm
over Roscoe's smooth face, gripping him at the neck and sucking his
tongue out of his mouth. Roscoe moaned into the man, returning the
spirit, and nibbling on the soldier's lips, testing his limits. The
soldier ran his hands through Roscoe's hair, gripping the back of his
head, almost as if to get their faces as tightly pressed together as
possible.

The kiss continued, the two embracing and running their fingers down each
other's backs when Roscoe felt the bottom of the man's shirt and pulled
it up. The young soldier lifted his shirt, exposing the light hair
beneath his arms and the chiseled, beefy chest of a young man. He had no
chest hair, only a trail of golden spirals that disappeared into his
trousers. Roscoe felt the man's chest and stomach as they continued
their kiss, wrapping his arms around the man.

Gripping Roscoe's slim body, the soldier began to remove his shirt,
lifting it above the boy's head until the two had their bare torsos in
tandem. The embrace became electric as their warm skin touched, reminding
Roscoe of warm butter melting in a pot of water.

The young soldier became stronger, harboring a confidence that he lacked
when he first arrived, dominating Roscoe's body, getting on top of him,
and lying him back. Roscoe's dick pulsed as he felt the man's weight on
him as their kiss continued, the excess saliva between their mouth's
dripping to the back of Roscoe's throat. He felt very feminine in this
position, a man overpowering him, and he found he quite liked it,
allowing himself to whimper in a high register. The man ground his hips
into Roscoe's, rubbing their stiff groins together, his ass flexing with
each thrust of his body. Roscoe felt the man's large, muscular back and
placed a hand on his ass, feeling his muscular cheeks flexing beneath his
pants.

They had been engaged in their kiss for a while now, something like an
hour, and the two of them were covered in their own slobber, their cheeks
flushed and pink. The young soldier gently kissed Roscoe, releasing his
lips from his own, and staring into the boy's eyes.

"You're very pretty," the soldier said, stroking Roscoe's face with
his thumb.

Roscoe nestled into the young man's palm, overwhelmed with the feeling
of admiration that he was so unfamiliar with. The man reached into his
pocket, pulling out all of the coins and bills he had to give.

"I hope it's enough..." he said.

"It's enough," Roscoe said, cupping the man's hand and kissing him on
the cheek.

The man stood to leave, turning to look at Roscoe before he disappeared
into the dark hallway. Roscoe fell back onto his bed, trying to let his
heart rest after the experience, palming his hard dick in his trousers.
If he was honest with the man, he would've thanked him and refused his
money, for Roscoe felt that he come close to the idea of "lovemaking"
for the first time. He'd heard it said before, though could never
understand what it meant, only knowing love in his father and their
explosive and chaotic life. Roscoe never understood until now the great
peace that one is bathed in when there is passion, and perhaps even love,
in a moment of intimacy.

Just as the boy felt he could drift asleep, another knock came at his
door. Frankly, a bit disgruntled to have yet another client, Roscoe
reluctantly stood and walked to his door, opening it quickly. His face
fell and the hair on his neck stood as Roscoe met the unyielding gaze of
Officer Steele.

"Hello, son," the man said, standing in Roscoe's doorway.

"Officer," Roscoe said, standing tall as if he had an authority of his
own, "how may I help you?"

"May I enter?" the officer said, his face almost as expressionless as
it was earlier that day.

"I suppose," Roscoe said, unsure if he was in any position to refuse
the man's company.

Roscoe stepped back as Officer Steel stepped forward, watching how the
light from his gas lamp curled over the hollow cheekbones of the
policeman's face. His handsome masculinity was striking, and Roscoe felt
deflated in his presence, fearing the power the man had over him. As the
man strode further into the boy's bedroom, he turned, shutting the door
behind him. Roscoe was terrified, only ever being shot at and cuffed by
police, to now be standing alone with one. If he'd learned anything in
his lifetime of corruption, it was to never wear his heart on his sleeve,
always maintaining a cold and vacant expression.

"How may I be of service to you, sir," Roscoe said, to suggest to the
officer that this was nothing more than an exchange of services to the
boy.

"I'm not here for that, son. I think you know that. Please, have a seat
on the bed," the man said, a demanding truth in the way he spoke.

Roscoe did as he said, though reluctantly, his mind racing with how the
officer seemed to know every thought he had, every secret he kept. The
man removed his hat, placed it on the bedside table, and took a seat next
to Roscoe. The man had black hair with a slight wave that was combed back
with some sort of pomade to hold it in place, giving it a sheen and a
smell of pine. His eyebrows were thick, just as the pencil-thin mustache
above his lip was, his general look suggesting he kept himself quite
groomed. His jawline was sharp and angular, his neck strong and tight
with caramel-colored skin. He looked unlike any other man Roscoe had ever
seen, he was a European man with a royal accent, his uniqueness striking
to the boy.

"What's your name, son?" the man asked.

"My name is Roscoe... And you, Officer Steele?" Roscoe said, asserting
himself as unafraid of the man, though he wasn't sure what exactly he
had to fear.

The officer exhaled a chuckle at the young boy's firmness and distrust
of him.

"My name is Winston. Officer Winston Steele, a pleasure to be of your
acquaintance, Roscoe," Officer Steele said. "Do you have a surname,
son?"

"I do not," Roscoe said, in truth, because if he did, his father
changed it so many times that he would never recall what it was.

"And is this your family, here at The Stallion?" the Officer asked.

Roscoe pursed his lips, having had enough of the policeman's questions.
Roscoe looked to his feet, both in refusal and in remorse, as the pain of
his father leaving him was still raw and bleeding.

"Are you from London, Winston?" Roscoe asked the man, ignoring his
question.

"Yes, son, I am. I've been stationed here by my superiors, to try and
get a hold on the recklessness of the American West."

"And what do you want with me, officer?" Roscoe asked, looking into the
man's eyes.

The man swallowed, his sharp Adam's apple bobbing, as he met Roscoe's
gaze. The two sat in silence for a moment, the man's deep brown eyes
opening to swallow the boy's attention. Roscoe felt a turning in his
stomach as he peered into the face of the handsome man, almost carelessly
admiring his beauty. Officer Steele seemingly returned Roscoe's
interest, studying the boy's face, either in admiration or to delay
having to answer the boy's question.

"Well, son, I think it'd be best if I tell you plainly; I can see you
are not interested in any foolishness, and it is my duty to respect
that," Officer Steele said, turning his body to face Roscoe's.

"You see, Roscoe, there has been a series of robberies, homicidal
robberies, over the last few years, and I am tracing the footsteps of the
outlaws responsible in hopes of finding their whereabouts. The trail was
hot, several witnesses describing a team of crooks, the rumor being a
father and son."

Roscoe looked to his feet again, his stomach sinking with the weight of
guilt, knowing that he was the outlaw the handsome officer was looking
for.

"I haven't seen anything, if that's what you're asking, sir," Roscoe
said, knowing he couldn't hide his truth from the officer.

"Alright, son. Well, if you come across anything, or hear anything, you
can find me here," the man said, handing Roscoe a small card, which read
"Officer Winston Levi Steele, the Rough Rider Inn."

As the man stood and turned to leave, Roscoe held the card between his
fingers.

"Maybe I'll see you around, Winnie," Roscoe said, gallantly bestowing
the man with a pet name of his choosing.

The man stopped, turning his head back to the younger boy, a look
somewhere between disbelief and humor on his face; it was as if Roscoe
had shaken the officer to his core with his casualty.

"Goodbye, Roscoe," Officer Steele said, turning and leaving the room.

Roscoe stared blankly at the wall, the smell of Officer Steele still
filling the room with tobacco, liquor, and pine, the intoxicating smell
of a man. He read the card several more times, studying the man's
handwriting, feeling for some reason like every detail of Officer Steele
was as exciting as one's first cigarette. He wanted to know everything
about him; his favorite books, what his bedroom looked like, if he liked
the beach or the mountains, what he looked like naked. Roscoe's mind
flooded with romantic possibilities and the anxiety of slipping up and
revealing who he was to the officer, a crook, an outlaw, a criminal. As
Roscoe felt his eyes grow heavy, he prayed to God he'd see Officer
Steele again, begging to be struck by the handsome man's gaze once more.


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