Date: Sat, 18 Mar 2017 12:12:57 -0400
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Off the Magic Carpet 4

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/off-the-magic-carpet/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between young-adult and adult men. Go away if any of that is against your
local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

Special note for this story: This is a completely fictional story with a
physical setting as accurate as I can make it. There *is no actual farm*
where I set this and, as far as I know, never has been. If you live or
lived on the lands discussed, or know anyone who did, it is absolutely not
about you or them.

*****

In any situation, the key question is, "Who did what to whom?" The
essential matter for any real man, in the Russian's hyper-masculine view,
was to make damned sure to be the who, never the whom. The one doing, never
the one done to. No matter how I twisted the events I'd seen in the barn, I
could not rationalise away the simple fact that at no point was JoJo
anything but the 'who'...

*****

Off the Magic Carpet 4: Plans, Benign and Evil

By Bear Pup

M/M; oral; anal; voyeur; sodomus-interruptus

Kansas is a study in extremes, as are several other Great Plains states. In
the winter, it was not uncommon to have temperatures well below -20°
with hard, biting wind. Today, in the late-summer bloom, the opposite was
true. It was well over 100° and the only breeze came from the movement
of the horse. The air smelt like snakes and shimmered like thunder. Nearing
noon, I reined in and let the horse graze at what we'd always called the
South Pond, even though it was more or less in the centre of the ranch.

I was hot, sweaty and everything hurt. Ass, thighs and nuts from the
unaccustomed saddle in new jeans; hands and forearms from having forgotten
how to loosely hold the reins; neck and back just to fucking torment me I
guess. I stripped down and dove in. South Pond is shaped a little like a
clamshell. The southeast corner is deep and cool with a sharp bank but the
west and north side are gradual slopes. It's a nice arrangement as you can
dive in and then just walk easily out the other side.

Now to be clear, 'cool' is a relative term in a Kansas late summer. You
probably wouldn't balk at the temperature if it were your bathtub. But when
the air is baking, though, the water is wonderful. Finally feeling human
again, I swam over to the western edge (the north is muddy but the west has
a sandy shale) and climbed out

I sighed as I let the water cascade off me, through the thicket of
tightly-curled hair on my broad chest and down to my narrow hips and
pouring like a piss-stream off the end of my uncut cock. I decided that was
not a bad idea and simply added a bit of yellow to the flow. Tiny breezes
that were undetectable whispered around the wetness on my back and legs,
cooling me further, but their zephyr-soft touches did anything but cool my
dick.

I was pumped and ready within seconds, my hefty dick hard and throbbing,
the pink snake peeking out of his fleshy burrow. The warmth of the Kansas
summer reminded me forcefully of all the loads I'd yanked from my young
nuts over the years, a few times right here in this spot. I let out a long
moan, relishing the intense and unaccustomed privacy. I'd never been a
quiet fucker and learning to cum quietly had been one of the hardest
lessons of Army life.

I reached in and began to tease inside the foreskin, rubbing round and
round the sensitive flange behind my cockhead. I growled long and deep, a
release almost as intense as the pleasure on my dick. I was so into the
sensations that I nearly crapped myself when a deep voice broke into my
reverie.

"Sergeant? I'm sorry sir, but I just don't think I stand by and see you
suffer that way. Private First Class Lohman reporting for dutymmrrggmm."

As soon as his first words were spoken, I frozen like a rabbit. By the end
of that speech, Baxter had pushed away my hand and dove deep onto my
throbbing prick. I let out a throaty groan, nearly a shout. Damn, this boy
was good! He went nearly balls-deep, no mean feat with my hefty cock, then
pulled back and tongue-lashed every part of my cockhead, foreskin and shaft
before diving into my sore balls. At that point I was whimpering until he
was back on my prick, alternating deep and slow and luxurious with shallow
and fast with a lot of tongue action.

The salesman at Anthony's had been a nice, warm, attentive hole into which
I could drop a long-held load, the first and only since I'd hit the head
after the Lake Champlain had docked. It was actually funny. The restrooms
had a long trough and a dozen stalls. Every stall was full and there was a
long line, but I doubt a single bastard sat down in them. I hadn't heard
that much moaning in a latrine since we got that shipment of slightly-off
sausage. The wall behind the commode looked like a melted wax candle in
shades of white, cream and beige, and I added my own layer. I wondered
briefly if they had to clean this john with a chisel each night. So that
was one load pumped between Dunkirk and Winfield, and this would be my
third on US soil.

Not that any of that load saw US soil. I bellowed like a slaughtered bull
as Baxter brought me to a shattering orgasm and sucked me dry. He was
strong and fit from ranch work and nothing I could do could detach him from
my increasingly-sensitive dick. I was squawking and twitching with the
torturous attention which, like a switch thrown, surged back to pure
bliss. Without even pulling off my cock once, he brought me to a second
amazing and ball-draining release.

Baxter eased me down as my knees were AWOL, and pulled me into a
cum-drenched kiss which I returned as the world's spinning slowed a bit.  I
pulled back slowly and could see a look of real concern in his eyes.

"PFC Lohman, I may put you in for a commendation, soldier. I haven't seen a
gun cocked and cleaned that well in years." I smiled in contentment and
Baxter beamed. I started to reach down to his own tight jeans and he
blocked my hand.

"That was a 'Welcome Home Soldier' present, Sergeant, one grunt to
another. Let's get you put back together and home to the big house." His
own mare was tethered near my own mount. Baxter limped fiercely and walking
obviously pained him, but he was gentle and deft as he got me into my
clothes. "No wonder your nethers were sore, sir, you know better than to
ride in new jeans. Stu was in the washhouse beating the crap outta the
other pairs you bought when I left to fetch you. Dinner should be ready
bout now." Baxter got me back on my horse and he on his; we loped off to
the house.

I couldn't help but tear up a little. We were on the path that I most-often
used as a kid after dealing with stock or mending fences. You came up a
little rise and suddenly the bright-white walls of the Big House were
glowing against the Kansas sky. Off to the left was the original farmstead,
a single-story structure of hewn logs and plaster. It was traditionally the
'elder Reilley' residence, a place for a mom and/or dad when they turned
the ranch over to the next generation. It was empty now, of course, but
maintained diligently under Gunny's watchful eye.

The rest of the buildings speckled the surrounding hill: old barn and short
shed near to the old farmstead with the obligatory outhouse; bunkhouse,
long shed (one end of which held the chicken coops), washhouse and new barn
arrayed on the other side of the Big House; old root cellar and new storm
shelter between the new and old.

The pump-house was well away; the original well not far from the root
cellar could still draw, but the water was cloudy and smelled awful. The
new well was deep, over 400 feet, driven by a windmill with an electric
pump for emergencies. The ranch had gotten 'hooked in' to the rural
electric cooperative just after I shipped off. A significant portion of the
profits had gone to leveraging that new power. Normally, wind was used to
both run the well-pump and drive the water to a cistern above the washhouse
that gave the pressure to all the 'facilities' in the homes.

Another feature that was dear to me in my youth and fuelled endless
jack-off fantasies was actually not *in* the washhouse but next to it. A
corrugated-metal shed-roof covered the showers. My grandfather had rigged
up a wide, tall, flat tank painted black that hung from the side of the
cistern. For all but the winter months when it was drained to prevent
freezing, this was a free water-heater, feeding four showerheads beneath
the shed-roof. Two posts with innumerable pegs stood to either side ready
for hang clothes, hats and boots. A platform of one-by slats formed a
draining floor. By chance or design, my childhood bedroom's window looked
straight down into the parade of cowboy beef.

Baxter availed himself of that as I saw to the horses, keeping a corner of
my eye on the showering young man. Baxter was... average. Thick brown hair
over a wide, open, friendly face. A dusting of body hair, thick at pubes
and pits and down the crack of his nice ass, a good mat between his pecs
and a treasure trail. A nice cock with a wrinkly foreskin over plump
balls. Nothing terrible, nothing spectacular, but nothing you'd say no to
either.

His 'perfect' feature, if he had one, was his mouth. The luscious and
slightly-pouty lips that had so recently brought me two amazing orgasms lit
up when he smiled. His only 'imperfect' feature was his right knee,
crumpled and crushed in the Blitz. I could see it hurt him every time he
bent or flexed. I'd seen a lot of men and boys with war wounds; this was
certainly not the worst, but it was one that would haunt him for his life.

Stu had thin-sliced the leftover tenderloin. He sauteed onions and
mushrooms into a sort of beef sauce layering the meat and some sharp cheese
over toasted bread and spooning over the sauce. He had home-fries, wilted
lettuce and fresh corn on the side. What a great meal! On a working ranch,
dinner (served a little after noon) was the hearty meal of the days except
for special occasions. Supper (around sunset) was lighter.

Beth again picked at her food and announced that she was going to lay down
through the heat of the afternoon. I went up and tucked her in with tender
kisses. She was even more pale and moved tenderly.

I spent the afternoon working through the first set of books, moving
backwards in time. Gunny was meticulous, but I found a few mistakes and
omissions, things I knew had been done or bought or sold but that did not
appear in the ledgers. This was normal for a ranch, and not suspicious. If
anything, Gunny underestimated the profits and had a nice surprise when he
edited the books at the end of each month.

What shocked me was the ending balance. Gunny was a man of the Great
Depression; I was its child. We both felt that nothing was as safe as a
cash reserve. At my recommendation, he kept enough to pay three years'
taxes in the local bank and the rest in a larger, Wichita banking
house. There was enough there to run the entire operation for over two
years, a huge sum in those days.

I started scribbling a list of things that the ranch, house, hands and
family needed or wanted. It was one I'd work on for the rest of the summer
and edit with Beth and Gunny over the quiet winter months to take action on
in the spring. Near the top of the list was something that Gunny would balk
at: a new bunkhouse. The existing one was actually older than the Big
House. We'd built on a bath and shower before I was born, after a winter
where we nearly lost a hand when a sudden blow came up turned and
early-winter light snow into a white-out. We hadn't strung the ropes yet
(used to find your way from building to building) and he'd lost his
direction. By pure luck, he'd literally walked into the side of the old
barn and buried himself in hay. A dozen yard further left and he would have
frozen as he walked.

A mechanical washhouse was next. Mangles and washboards are good, but with
electric power, why waste the time and effort? Other than that, the rest
were odds and ends. I closed up the list and went back to the books,
relearning the art of ranching.

Supper was a bacon and cheese salad, rich and filling but delightfully
chilled (I made a mental note to add a new icebox to the list). I sat with
Beth as she sewed and I read, both of us spending more time smiling at each
other's company than anything else. We hadn't had the reunion sex that I'd
been dreaming of since, well, boot camp. And you know, it was still
wonderful to be with her. She had been my first and only love, and still
was. Sex was wonderful, but her company was what held me close and made
anywhere she was my true home.

JoJo was sitting sideways in an armchair, something that Beth didn't like
but had apparently given up on correcting. He was reading a comic book,
something with a significant amount of POW and BAM. I was probably happier
in the moment than I'd been since I shipped off; far longer than that,
actually, happier than I'd been since the birth of our son. For the first
time in five years, I was home. There was no threat of war, no Great
Depression, nothing but the sultry evening air of a Kansas summer.

Tonight, I had to help Beth up to the bedroom and get her undressed, and
she was asleep while I was still kissing her forehead. I sat on the side of
the bed and watched her sleep. Her smile real and deep, her breathing
regular and calm. I was still sitting there when I heard the board
creek. Damn, I loved that board. And I'd been damned if I ever told JoJo
the secret to avoiding it.

I gave him longer tonight, knowing that he was going to be alert since he'd
been scared off the night before. I took a different route, along the
shadow of the long-shed, knowing that I'd been luck not to run into Ray the
night before as he moved from the bunkhouse to the barn. I was up and in
quietly and resumed my perch.

It was then that I hatched the most-evil plan I'd ever imagined. I nearly
cackled aloud as I realised just how horrible a human being it made me, and
how much fun I was going to have with it. I watched at the scene repeated,
but with a lot more caution and stopping to listen.

The slower pace had Ray literally whimpering with need and JoJo so hard you
could break rocks with his rather impressive spike when the kiss finally
broke.

"Oh, God, Sammy! Please. I can't take this. You gotta take me, Sammy."

My son's voice was low, not my deep baritone but certainly the voice of a
strong young man. "Well, Ray, I don't 'gotta' do anything, but I'll
consider it. Get me the rest of the way undressed."

JoJo stood immobile as Ray struggled to get my son's boots and jeans off
then his shirt. JoJo didn't move a muscle. It was clear that if Ray wanted
a fuck, Ray had to work for it.

Once JoJo was stripped, Ray threw himself over the bale with a grunt of
pain and stuck his ass up in the air. For some reason, the light from the
low-lamp was angled differently, and the terrible scars down the left side
of his back were thrown into sharp relief. The war had not been kind to my
soldier/ranch-hands.

Ray was nearly wagging his ass and I came close to laughing when JoJo just
stood there until Ray turned around. The look on the older boy's face was
priceless.

"God, Sammy! Please! What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me what you want."

"You*know* what I want. Please take my ass, Sammy! Please! I need it so
bad. You were gone and then last might you left me laying here."

"So, you want me to mount you like a bull on a cow?"

"Oh, God yes!"

"Why, Ray?" The smirk on my son's face nearly made me cream right there in
the loft. The look of pure lust and desperation on Ray, though, had me
biting my lip to keep from spraying GI batter all over the place. Ray
whined and close his eyes, torn between lust and shame. "Say it, Ray."

"I need you inside me. It's all I think about, Sammy. Your cock in my ass,
filling, pushing the cum outta me, making me moan. Sammy, don't *do* this
to me."

JoJo chuckled. "No, Ray. I mean why should *I* give you want you're asking
for. What's in it for me, Ray?"

"GOD! Sammy, anything. Anything. You can f-fuck me whenever you want."

JoJo actually laughed at that. "I can do that now, Ray."

"Um, um, um, OH! I'll eat you out. You love that."

"Ray, you do that if I so much as bend over halfway across the ranch. Come
up with something new for me, Ray." Wow, this was beyond hot. This was
teasing and torment taken to a level normally not seen below a drill
sergeant. The nice, innocent boy I'd left behind was a stud, and a
masterful one at that! My heart would have beat with pride if there'd been
any blood in my body outside my cock by that point.

"Oh, GOD, Sammy. Um, I, Um. New? Um, how bout I ride you riding Blaze?"
Blaze was JoJo's gelding. He was fast and a bit of a rough ride, but had
endurance to spare. The thought of Ray impaled on my son's rampant cock as
Blaze bumped along brought me right to the edge again. Fuck that was dirty
and hot!

JoJo smiled ear to ear and Ray sagged in relief, again wiggling that
luscious bubble-butt to lure my son closer. JoJo prowled slowly forward,
drawing a needy moan from Ray. He poured out a generous dollop of Huberd's
and took his sweet time prepping the cowboy's ass. Ray was moaning non-stop
and begging softly, promising everything from his ass to his soul for this
fuck.

Finally, JoJo coated his own rampant prong and leaned slowly into the
cowboy. Both gasped then groaned as the head popped in, and Ray whinnied
like a mare as JoJo finally pushed far enough to the older boy's love
nut. The ride started in earnest then.

My son had great skill with the teasing, but had a lot to learn about
plundering an ass. I guess I would have too at his age. His thrusts were
short and sharp, rutting more than fucking and certainly not savouring the
lovemaking. Interesting, and something to file away. JoJo's tight ass
clenched with each thrust and ever bottom-out got a needy whine or moan
from Ray.

I watched as they built to the grunting stage before knocking the hayfork
over to tumble to the barn-floor below. I could hear JoJo's cock come out
with the sound of a plunger leaving a clogged drained as they both squeaked
in startlement. JoJo didn't even pause long enough to wipe off the tacky
Huberd's before yanking on his jeans and boots and blowing out the low
lamp.

"Sammy, noooooooo!" Ray wailed, then started to sob slightly as the barn
door closed softly behind my fleeing son. It was clear that he'd been
minutes away from busting as my son's fuck pummelled his prostate. He
reached down as if to stroke himself and I thumped my foot to the loft
floor. Ray's eyes went wide and he scrambled out of the barn buck nekkid.

I rolled onto my side and it took two slow, hard strokes for me to
explode. My loads were always large, but I expected less after the two
Baxter had sucked from me at midday. I was shocked that the sight of my son
playing cat and mouse with the older cowboy had brewed up a massive
explosion of cum. I laid there gasping for breath and thought through my
evil plan. It was Tuesday. By Friday, JoJo and his cowbuttboy would be
screaming with need. I pumped another load out as I reviewed tactics for
the days to cum, er, come.

<eof>

There are few things crueller than denial for a man in the hormone-laced
rut-fest of early adulthood. But there is nothing hotter (for denier and
denied) than when the dam finally breaks. Sam's plan unfolds next.

*****

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Karl & Greg: 19 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/
Canvas Hell: 16 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
Beaux Thibodaux: 9 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/
The Heathens: 9 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Mud Lark Holler: 8 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/
Off the Magic Carpet: 4 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/
Lake Desolation: 2 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/