Farsight 1/4
by davistrell@aol.com

	Yesterday, I applied, fought for and got the job. At the local
newsrag, "The Farsight Gazette". Yeah, we got papers out here:
bi-weekly. We know what is news. And mostly what is not.
	I went into the green paint-peeling office, with clippings of
previous newstories affixed to the window. I read a couple, to get the
gist, of what it might be like to work here.
	Usual stuff: Pony bites man, Fire burned down shack, Capture of the
Outlaw, Biggy Thomas, and widow Fourscore marries, sixth husband, and the
follow up, the bereavement as the widow overexerted, and is widow
again. Molehills striving to be mountains, journalistically speaking. But
it'll be better than washing dishes.

	I was greeted by the owlish Mr.Benjamin Applejuice, the beanpole of
a man who runs the place. He's about fifty, pink face, bald of pate, with
bushy outgrowths of untidy hair sprouting from behind his copious ears. But
he seems nice, as he invites me in, and I tell him that I'm Ethan Newell,
from New York, where I wrote advertisement copy and news stories, and
showed him, the letter of reference, from Mr Omiah Caterwhaul, who ran a
magazine, bi-quarterly, and wherein he relates well of my skills. Actually
a butt-fuck magazine, tales of horny men, doing what I like to do, in the
company of other horny men. But of course Mr Caterwhaul and I don't tell of
that. He's a good old stick.

	I tell my next lie, that my clippings were lost in a fire, 'cos in
the consternation, I'd saved the daughter of the boarding house, and barely
escaped with my life. That I ran back and smothered the flames with her
petticoats.
	Mr.Applejuice seems suitably impressed.
	"Would you like tea...Jakob, make some tea for our visitor..."
	Past the window of the office, giving a quick peek in, is a
tousled-hair young lad of twenty, barely. He's got the rudimentary makings
of an unmanly mustache, strong powerful arms, emerging from his
rolled-up shirtsleeves, a chest like a bull-dog and a trim waist, and
below, well, was covered by the apron covered with inky streaks.
	"Jakob's my apprentice, sets the type, don't you know. A printer's
devil they call them, and a devil he can be."
	"Looks like a nice kid," I reply with considerable understatement.
	So instead of my usual stories of cocksucking in ranch-bunkhouses,
or ass enjoyment in the privacy of the great outdoors, I fabricate news
stories I never wrote.
	"Mr Newell, Ethan, isn't it? I like you, my boy....Jakob, our
visitor first, thankyou...you take lemon....or sugar?"
	Jakob stands, arms folded, against the roll-top desk, looking not a
little sullen, as I sip the hot brown water. I do my best to look sullen
back, but Jakob's the better at it.

	"Jakob Malley, meet Mr. Newell, he will be working here, as a
reporter. Tommorrow we will aquaint you with the town and environs, your
bailiwick as it were, but for today, Jakob, would you show Mr Newell around
the premises, aquaint him with our little establishment. And the room
upstairs you'll share."

	Share? Perks on the job, already. We finish the tour, and stand
before the long ladder, that leads upstairs to the attic. I follow Jakob
up, and, though tempted, don't poke my finger in the little ripped hole he
has in the butt-seat of his pants.

	 I went to get my haircut in preparation for the interview. And
while we were waiting, while the head in front got shorn, I struck up
aquaintance with a very nice man, one Buck Henty. He's dressed in black,
apart from the white boots, and white hat, who's band he fiddles with, as
he holds it over his lap. He's come to have his mustache trimmed. He's got
the drop-dead look one usually expects of owlhoots.
	We looked each other up and down, and before you know it, after my
hair is fashionably pudding-bowl cut, we end up back at the ranch, while
his father's away on business, looking for lost cows.
	We stood next to the fireplace, under the obligatory handlebars of
a longhorn, mounted on the rough-hewn stone.
	We sip his Grandfather's whiskey, interlocking arms as we down the
malt, and his free hand massages my butt. My hand, politely down the front
of his pants. Wherein lies expectant business,
	He's way in his thirties, his chin grayblue, his skin ruddy, his
eyes, looking directly into mine. His mustache tickles.
	"Good whiskey?" he asks.
	"Better cock..." I reply as I feel the leathery snake in my hand.

 	He downs his drink, and with his interlocked bicep, pulls me closer
into him. He throws the glass into the fire-place and I do the same. The
broken shards, crackle in the enveloping flames.
	"Light a candle Buck, the firelight's good, but we need a little
more light." says I as as the Malt, kicks in.
	A taper is lit and the candle flames on, growing large, and throws
the room into a whirlpool of shadow and light. But Buck had not moved,
apart from gripping my butt-cheeks tighter.
	"Who's the dishrag?" says a voice behind me. I turn and see a burly
individual, naked from the waist up, with a broad chest with a very hairy
covering, his head, shaved. His eyes are arched with a cruel upswing at the
corners, the nose is broken. Looks like Buck, well more like his darkside
doppleganger.
	"Harry, what are you doing home, thought you were with Paw...."
	"Stayed home with a headcold, bin asleep for ten hours, heard
giggles down here, thought I'd investigate."
	"He's Ethan, picked him up at the barbershop, cute little buggar,
ain't he..."
	"Say guys, mind not talking as if I'm not here!"
	"He's got spunk, I'll say that for him..."


	Harry, the elder of the two, sat himself down on a long chair,
sprawled, legs wide open, and at the crotch of his work pants, was an
immenseness, you usually associate with pack-animals. Buck led me over, sat
next to his brother, they made a bed with their knees, for me to lie upon.
	Buck's thighs under my upper back, and Harry has my butt resting on
his lap, with my hip bone pushing into his none too soft crotch.  Harry
held my head and put his ring knuckle to my lips ad let the finger bone
slide into my mouth, which I sucked gently, letting a finger tip, and then
two fingers into my mouth, and sucked them wetly. Harry leaned a little and
started to unbutton my shirt, opening, as if unwrapping a gift, till my
chest was exposed, then my abdomen, my belly, and pulled the shirt out of
my pants and started undoing my belt buckle, while I gave a up-lifting moan
as I sucked on the fingers somemore, pushing into, almost all the way to my
larynx. With his free hand Buck teased my nipples, bullet-headed
sharp. Meanwhile, Harry had my fly open, got my cock out, and though hard,
when he made a fist around my phallus, it was completely buried within. He
stretched it with his hand, jerking up and down, my mushroom tip, popped
out of the space between finger and thumb. Like a shy prarie-dog on
ground-hog day.
 	Harry started what looked like tobacco-chewing, and bent forward,
and let a huge beady glob of spittle to spill over my penis, making it
slick, and went back to the rhythmic hand jerks.
	"He'll do...just fine...we should take him out the next drive."
	"He'll work at night, sleep through the day...."
	"While his ass gets better...."
	I tugged at his pants top, to see if he's all mouth and brag.
	Harry, spitting image of his brother, but a reverseness, that I can
get down and dirty with. Harry, his hairy belly with a mass, a fountain of
hair, opened his pants front and the mighty organ poked out like a
rejuvenated tree-sapling. Thick, where it should be thick.
	The cruel tip, the tears in the skin, wrought by an inexperienced
surgeon-apprentice, the veins so pronounced, the skin like a vulture's
throat that dangled from his King Rooster balls.
	 I understood. My butt sighed, my ass-hole twitched.
	But with Buck at my head, I thought not of the pleasure threatening
my rear, and paid attention, to the equally thick veined cock, threatening
the entrance of my mouth.
	I twisted slightly and took all of Buck in, starting slowly,
helment swallowed, the ridge of no return, till the shaft, filled my mouth
and the tip of my tongue, till he reached the abyss of my throat, my lips
around the python.
	Then I was ambushed from behind.
	I spread wide to let him enter and with another gob of spittle he
entered my warm, dark ass-chute, making his way in, while I still slurped
up on Buck's meaty cock.
	"You're good, boy! Done this afore..."
	I had, but each time it seems as if it's the first. It hurts like
always, and the thicker it is, the more it hurts. But that's the
point. Then you feel you can't breathe, you feel like Moses is dividing the
waters, and Pharaoh's chariot rides in. I nearly fainted. Probably on
Biblical Metaphor. Writer's get laid different.

	We reached the top of the ladder and Mr Applejuice wished me and
Jakob, a fond good night. I stuck my head through the trapdoor and could
see we were in a tall narrowish attic. There was a bunk-bed to one side,
and opposite the harsh raking angle of the roof.
	Jakob, helped me up, and sort of crouching, he indicated the
bunk.It was his place and I was the stranger.
	"I'll sleep on top," he said, still sullen, but less than before.
	"No problem, I'm scared of heights, anyways."
	A couple of boxes for furniture and a hanging hurricane lamp,
burning low. Jakob, took off his shirt and vaulted to the top bed, and as
he got on, that ass positively shone as he clambered on.  I slipped onto
the bottom bed and listened while he undressed.
	There were pictures stuck on the wall; a cowboy with a walrus
mustache, and a high-pointing hat. "Who's that?" I asked.
	"Texas Dick. He's my hero. I read every one of his adventures. I
got the complete collection," and he indicated a stack of well-thumbed
dime-novels in a corner. " A real tough guy. He could shoot the eye out of
a rat at fifty paces."
	"Can I read one?" I asked.
	 I rested on the bottom bunk, just me in my shirt and a cotton
thick blanket. I was tired, it'd been a long day; might get longer.
	"Nah, but you can tell me a story before we go to sleep."
	"What about Texas Dick?"
	"Nah, a real one."
	I thought of telling him about the Henty brothers, but I don't know
if he'd like it. After all, not all men are like me. They may have balls,
dicks and asses, but may not want to share.
	Like, would he want to hear about me pounding my cock, while Harry
invites himself into my rear end as I suck down on Big Buck.
	I like that sort of a story, and let my mind go back to two nights
ago.
	Buck had moved himself into position, in front of my face, and
fucking my face as if it were a tight asshole. Buck swings his hips into my
face, then pulled out a little and swung back in again.While Harry matched
him, stroke for stroke and thrust for thrust.
	His cock's so big it'll probably kiss its brother, coming in from
the other side.
   These two were ranchers, one day would inherit the farm, be big men in
these parts. The ranch-house was big, almost european in its decor, if
buffalo parts, if native-American ever become collectible.

	"Gonna cum....jism in the hole!!!" yells Harry, eventually.
										
	By now, Harry's thrust into me one hundred and seventy-two and a
half lunges, and I'm no longer on Buck's cock, 'cause I have to
breathe. Buck is a gentleman and holds me while his brother pile-drives in
again. He cums, and two centuries later, his dick softens in my ass, and
his breathing gets hoarse.
	He pulls his cock out so he can watch it dribble on my ass.
	"Jizzin' Christopher.. " he swears, and I agree.
	"Ass, balls and all..." is the best I can muster.
	My hand goes to my dick, no-one else is gonna help, I'll have to
bring myself off.They watch, and a glob hits Harry in the eye.
	"My turn," says Buck, as brothers switch ends.
	I can't tell a story like that to young Jakob. He might not
understand.
	"Do you want me to read you a story?"
	All I have are a couple of inappropriate man-fuck stories in my
journal, and I feel the inappropriateness of reading them, out loud.
	"No, tell me a story."
	"You mean, I should make one up."
	"Yeh, but make it sound real."
	"I'll try."
	Not used to telling straight stories I began.
	"It was a few years ago, just after the war, and these two hombres,
rode together."
	"What are hombres?" Jakob asks, and I give him the whitewashed
answer.
	"Friend, buddies, hacksters, comrades, companeros. Well, one was an
ex-cavalry officer and the other was a half-breed. Still half-Indian, he
wore a buckskin jacket with wild tassels, braided his hair behind and wore
a band round his head with Navaho markings and goose-feather. The
ex-officer, sky-blue shirt, sky-blue pants, had rode with Quantrell..."
	"What's a Quantrell?"
	"A renegade band of confederates, that couldn't accept the Southern
loss. Our hero was handsome strong and brave. And became disillusioned with
Quantrell, and left. Got himself a job as a peace-officer. Then one day the
remnants of Quantrell's band showed up in his jurisdiction, they were just
a rag-tag of mealy outlaws now..."
	"Is this a true story...?"
	"Would I lie? Now no more interruptions, Jakob.."
	The bunk board above my head squeaked, as he started to settle
down. The lamp burned out finally, leaving an oily smoke smell, lingering
in the air.
	"What's the guy's name?"
	"No-one knows, not even to this day. He gave a false one afore, on
account to get the sherrif's job." I'm making this up as I go along. Can
Jakob tell. His bunk squeaks occasionally.
	"What's the breed's name?"
	"Kaagla. Now let me tell this story and shut up..! Well the bandits
started shooting in the street, wild on bad booze and cheap liquor. The
Sheriff comes out and warned them to ride off. They recognises him. There
was a brief shootout, and two die. But leaping off of a roof, one of them
downs the marshall, err I mean sheriff, and takes his gun. Kaagla who had
earlier been thrown out the bar, on account they don't like tainted blood,
sees what's happening and grabs a fiery torch and throws it at the man who
had disarmed the sheriff. The man burning, ran into the horse's trough to
extinguish the flames. But he'd dropped his gun, which the sherriff picked
up, and used to drill bullet holes in the remaining two owlhoots.
	"Cool..." interrupted Jake, and the bedboard creaked again.
	"Sssh..., but the half-broiled owlhoot, got out of the horsetrough,
screaming with pain. The Sherriff went to him, and went toward him, as the
man picked up, the flaming brand and shoved it in the Sheriff's face. He
screamed in agony, and Kaagla leapt on him covering him with a blanket,
wrenched from a horse, hitched nearby, and put out the flames. The other
man, was in so much agony, that he fell where he stood."
	"Was the Sherriff blinded?" asks Jakob hopefully.
	"No, but his eyes were horribly scarred, and had to wear a big
black mask to cover his terrible scars, from that day on.They called him
the Phantom of the Prairie. But he and Kaagla, became inseparable friends,
went to righting wrongs. He became a justice vigilante, even had a price
put on his head by the law. They had to hide by day, lay low by
night. Camping out in the outskirts, deserts, the badlands."
	"They were like brothers. Even shared the same blanket. Holding
each other in the night, as they slept."
	"'Do you trust me Kaagla,' said the masked stranger."
	"'With my life, white-wolf...'"
	"The masked man took out his Navy Colt and showed it to Kaagla, the
pretty sheen, the calibre, the length, the girth, and asked if he could put
it in his mouth. It's not loaded, he said. Kaagla took the sleek barrel in
between his lips, and allowed it to be pushed in between his lips, all the
way in. The hammer was cocked back, ever so slowly, and a finger applied
gentle presure to the trigger. The hammer cracked, Kaggla, flinched a
little, his eyes closed tight-shut. But left the barrel still in his mouth,
gripping the metal with his lips. There was no explosion. Trust had been
repaid."
	"Did the masked guy let Kaagla do it back?" asked Jakob.
	"Of course; they were hombres."
	Jakob was quiet, but the bedboard above creaked again.
	"Wisht I had a hombre," he said in a purring whisper.
	"Me too." I said, and this time, my bedboard did a little
creaking."You like me, don't you Jakob?"
	"Sure, but I don't know if I can trust you."
	"You can trust me, Jakob."
	"We could do the test, like Kaagla and the masked guy."
	"We don't have a gun."
	"Gun, schmunn..." says Jakob, no longer sullen.


	Jakob leaned over his bunk and looked down on me. Saw what I'd been
doing. He monkey-jumped off the top, and knelt by my bottom bunk, with a
twinkle, and his his hand snaked out.
	"Oh, yes you do," and his hand went to my crotch, and his hand
grabbed my phallus.
	"I got no gun," I said, but he's wrapped his hand on my dick.
	"A mighty Navy Colt, Mustang, Buntline special, blunderbuss,
shotgun gun kind of a gun..."
	And he pulled my hardon out of my hands.
	"Can you put it in my mouth?"
	"It's loaded..."
	"It better be."

	The Henty ranch, three or four miles out of Farsight, was proving
more fun than at first I had thought it would be. The two brothers, were
excellent hosts, in a sporting kind of a way.
	Harry had shot all, was now a little groggy, leaving Buck to tend
me as I was feeling a little vulnerable myself. Harry, the brother without
the good looks and bedroom manners, staggered off, leaving me to tender to
Buck's ministrations. It's now I want him to hurt me, sharply, at least
slap me across the face, and please have your wicked way. Will he take the
hint? Is Ethan a good storyteller or what?

	Jakob thinks so.
	"How'd you get that there scar? The one on yer butt; looks
fresh..." says Jakob, sounding so refreshingly naive.
	"The two interlocked circles with crosses atop?"
	"Yeah, looks like a brand..."
	"It is...."
	"Wisht I'd could get branded...."

	I didn't see Harry coming, as Buck was coming. Large rope-like
spurts of cum shot out, snaking like a lariat, scalding my belly. But he
hasn't finished, this is just beginning. Harry unbeknownst to me has taken
the poker from the fire.

	"You gotta earn a branding..." I said to Jakob, now both of us
sharing the bottom bunk.
	"What ya gotta do...?" asks Jakob, as he looks up at me, with
lights on in the balcony. He's making snake-eyes, so he knows.
	"Schtuff..."
	"What kinds 'a stuff...?"
	I played with his foreskin a while, pulling it back and forth.
	"Oh, stuff, just stuff..."
	"Sounds like I'll like it."
	"Mebbe. Only one way to find out..."
	"Show me, but, don't just tell. I heard enough of your
stories....fer one night..."

	They say 'meanwhile back at the ranch' has been overused, and I
suppose it has. But meanwhile back at the ranch....
	My legs aloft, Buck began to gyrate his hips, in a rotary grind.
	I was here, there and neither. I could almost see his cock, emerge,
burst through the taut skin of my belly. It's how it felt. The unstoppable
train, laden with goodies, gold for the rich, paychecks for the poor, meat
for a common man. His cock-thrusts relentless, my hand jerks pointless, I'd
cum, like what seemed hours before. He grabbed me by the ankles, forcing
them down, so I was split wide, folded in two, as he finished jab, jab,
jabbing into me, till I could hear his cock almost bleat, he held me round
the waist, pushing in, so I couldn't miss the cum-flood, and he pushed my
butt together, impaled upon him, as he shouted out his orgasm.

	"Tch, tch. Such language!" says Harry who at the time I failed to
notice, was carrying the smouldering orange-red tipped branding iron, that
had been heating in the fire place. It hurt. Oww, it hurt.

	"C'mon, put that finger in further..." says Jakob, who I willingly
oblige.
	"Two fingers, you're ready for two..."
	"I trust you...ohhhh..oh.."
	"You must have Indian blood in your veins..."
	He's blond as fuck, Norwegian to his backbone, which looks charming
as the knobs of his vertebrae push out. He's sorta kneeling, his head on
the bed, looking up from under his body, my fingers in the imitation of a
side-arm's barrel, plunging in, while he gets used to the idea. He grimaces
but doesn't tell me to stop.

	I yell, with no-one to hear, as my butt gets embroidered with
burning iron. I feel my flesh sizzle, smell the pungent smell, feel the
pain. I squeal, real loud as the other two laugh.
	"Don't move, don't scratch it, you'll spoil the design" says Buck,
smiling at his brother.

	"You ready?"
	"I took in three fingers, your cock ain't that big....owwww..."
	Jakob finally shuts up as we get on with the devil's work. He likes
it, and as the nights get longer, eventually I let him get on the top bunk,
and relent, and allow myself get on the bottom bunk. He's more of a man
now, and I like that. But mostly, I'm the one with the gun.

	Like I said, I like Farsight. Got me a Jakob, a job, and if I get
bored, I can always visit with the Henty's, back at their ranch.

	What Farsight really needs is a frog-jumping competition....