Date: Sat, 8 Jul 2017 16:50:17 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Ashes and Dust 1

This story as well as all characters, settings and events are pure fiction
that exist nowhere but these 'pages' and the imagination of the author. If
any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky
fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author
with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable (contact the author at
orson.cadell@gmail.com). Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know
what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in
the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how
good you've got it.

This involves sex or sexual situations between males above the age of
consent for when and where it is set; if that is illegal for who/where you
may be right now, fuck off. Go watch TV (where far worse happens in every
episode, but that's just rapes, tortures and mass murders, nothing as
terrible as, you know, guy-sex). Also, please note that all my stories
exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a
fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your
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Feedback is important to me, but if you get off on flaming people, please
know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and weave you
and your comments into my next story to the point that you cry like a
little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

*****

Ashes and Dust 1: Welcome to The Star

by Bear Pup

*****

Dust. Everywhere I looked was Dust. Fine Dust in the sunbaked, yellow air.
Heavy Dust on the trail, puffing around the hooves of Gypsy. Dust, Dust and
more Dust. I fucking *hated* Dust. Still do, truth told. Dust on the
horizon. Dust in my nose and that of Gypsy. Dust in my eyes and hers. Dust
suspended in the hot sun. Dust in a haze behind me. Even memory is nothing
but Dust. I could hear the minister as if the man were next to me still.

"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto
himself the soul of our dear brother Hyrum [my Da] here departed: we
therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
*DUST to [fucking] DUST*; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to
eternal life..."

Dust. Da was just that, now: Dust.

Well, no, not really; not in the soggy ground of Sabine Parish. To be fair,
ya cain't blame the minister. Ain't no book of prayer got 'mud to mud' in
there. And that ain't even considering the 'eternal life' part. The very
idea that Hyrum Anderson Nash would live on in any Christian future was
proof positive that something was very, very wrong with God's Creation. An
evil, viscous, hateful, using bastard, if there really was Justice, would
be fed to gators and gulls, not buried with soldier's honors under a
granite marker.

Not that it mattered. The granite was the long-placed massive marker-stone
at the middle of the Confederate Memorial Cemetery and the money to carve
that bastard's name was paid by the Confederate Widows. God knows the evil
man left no money for me. Or for Sally. Thank -- well, not God, a-course,
but thank somebody -- that I'd paid for Gypsy and her tack with my own pay
after I reached my majority or they'd'a taken her with everything else I
owned. At least Sally got herself set. John Slattery (they had tried to get
rid of the name Slaughter with some success) had real prospects, and my
sister married the man for them.

I'd been on my own two years when that bastard, aka my Da, passed on. The
last beating I endured, and the last time I listened to that malevolent
monster rut on my sister, was when I was fifteen. But the law caught me up
when he died and I had to prove with real paper that his creditors had no
claim on me or mine. I'd been doing fine, a stockyard job and an income and
a room of my own. But what a difference six weeks make. They had letters
the bastard'd done writ sayin I owed him money, and the law took every
penny except the paycheck I held in my hand, Gypsy and her tack, and the
clothes on my back. I didn't have paper to prove how I'd bought anything
else. So, three weeks ago I rode west with $14.37 in my pocket and... Dust.

I skirted the seductive call of Beaumont, Galveston and even the smaller
Houston. I'd had my fill of towns and no desire to even see a city. I was
down to $3.81. Finally dipping under four dollars meant one thing: This
here little outpost was where I would find work. And where was 'this'? Hell
if I knew. For all I cared it was called Dustville, Texas. There was a
hand-lettered signpost reading, 'Bastrop Road'. I took that as a True
Sign. I was done with a right 'bast'ard who 'strop'ped me for my whole
life. Bastrop Road worked... just fine.

I was a bit surprised. There wasn't a hint of an Inn or a Saloon. After
fifteen minutes of wandering the dirt streets and seeing nobody but a few
faces at windows, I finally hitched outside'a Ernst General Store & Drug. I
found that this was basically *the* business, with a counter where drinks
were served along with patent medicines, dry goods and durn near everything
that weren't alive nor made'a leather.

I didn't see any beer signs and guessed it might be Dry country, so I asked
for a 'Ginger'. In civilized areas, it would be either ginger beer or
ginger-and-rye. I sighed deeply as I tasted ginger and bubbly-water, maybe
tonic? I pushed the six cents across the counter. "Anybody looking for
hands?"

The dried and cracked face tried to smile. She was probably forty,
forty-five at most. Her face could have passed for sixty and her eyes for
sixteen. "Texas is a hard place, son. Yeah, there's work, but not easy. The
only ones lookin this time a year is The Star. They..." her voice hitched a
bit, hiding something but I couldn't tell what, "have some trouble keeping
hands. Those that stay are there forever; those as don't are gone in the
week."

"The hands -- the ones as stays -- come here to buy?" A subtle way of
asking, are they paid enough to have pocket money? She knew damned well
what I meant.

"Here and ever-where else." Her eyes sparkled; yes, they were paid and paid
well. She reached out her hand, "Emily Smits. My husband owns this
place. Welcome to New Aalen."

"Jessie Na--" In the space of an eyeblink, I realized that, for the first
time ever, I had a chance to finally get from under the evil man who
planted me in my mother's womb. To finally cut all ties with Hyrum Anderson
Nash. My mind flashed for a way to continue that word, "atchez,
ma'am. Jessie Natchez. Pleasure ta meet ya."

Her look went to steely flint in an instant and her voice could have frozen
the baked air. "Welcome, Jessie. Sorry but I gotta ask. Anybody gonna be
riding up looking for Jessie Na-something-else? I have to look for me and
mine, son. You bein chased?"

I looked her full in the eyes and felt them probe deeply. I opened every
door of my soul to that look. "No ma'am. Nothing chasing me but dust. Ashes
and dust."

*****

I finished my nasty ole ginger-water and thanked her. She already given me
markers to find my way. It wasn't far outta town, maybe an hour's hard
ride, two at a walking pace. I saw no reason to push Gypsy in that heat.

The five-piece T gate was where I expected it. The brand was unexpected.
'The Star' was apparently 'T-something Star Ranch'. Five sharp
chevron-points appeared where the corners of a star would be with a
cross-bar 'T' in the middle. I saw barbed wire stretching off in either
direction, and that it was dark and stained. That meant that the
fence-cutting warfare one heard of further west wasn't a problem here. I
nodded at the thought.

The gate was simple and well-tended, held with a stockgrower's lash to the
left (I'd'of expected it on the right). I loosed it, walked the now-slack
fence back, walked Gypsy in and retied it as close as possible to the same
tension as before.

There was only the one track. As it was Texas, I knew I'd see buildings...
eventually. Probably by the hour or so. As it was, I was in something of a
bowl right then, climbing slightly. People always think of Texas as flat,
and it is. But it's the kind of flat that ripples and bulges just enough to
trick ya. You could spend a day chasing the horizon, or catch it in ten
minutes and both would look the same.

I rode perhaps twenty minutes then froze, Gypsy following suit below
me. "How bout you just stay there, son. I'd hate to have to shoot you."

The voice was high, clear and calm, but brooked no dispute. I sat and
didn't even try to look round to see the source. I just spoke to the Dust
in front of me, "Sorry to intrude. I'm Jesse Natchez and I'm told you might
be looking for hands. Miss Smits tole me? At the store?"

"Turn round, son, so's I can sees ya."

I turned slowly and carefully, keeping both hands clear, in sight and on
the reins. Gypsy just snickered at me. I could tell from her voice she
already liked whomever was at the other end of the conversation. The man
was leaning against a tree, part of a waving treeline line that made no
sense. I found out later there was an underground river, something I'd
never heard of, under that part of The Star. He'd been chopping away at a
stray cedar, bane of the west, that had hid itself among the useful trees.

The man was... a long, tall drink of water. Easily six-six of ropy muscles
and sinew, shoulders wide and hips narrow; if there's been any fat in that
body, the Texas sun had rendered it out long ago. I smiled inside when I
looked at him. The brown chaps, the sand-colored shirt, the deep-blond hair
and moustache, the tanned arms, the straw-colored Stetson -- he was the
color of Dust. Everywhere I turn, more goddamned Dust.

"Well, if'n Emily tole you how ta get here, two things is true: You're
probably a good man and you can find your way blindfolded through a
maze. That woman can't give directions to her own outhouse. Whar you from,
Jessie Na-a'a-atchez?" Damn and tarnation, I needed to work on that!

I didn't even bother to lie this time. "Many, Louisiana. On my own now. Da
passed. Sister married. Got nothing but Gypsy," I patted my beautiful and
wonderful horse, "and a willingness to work. Can you use a man like that?"

The man stared at me for longer than was comfortable and, without breaking
eye contact, reached for the axe he'd set down and hefted it. He finally
turned and it was as if a physical link had broken when his eyes left my
own. "Head on up. Ask for Randy and tell him Gary will be in by supper."
With that, he turned and began to chop at the thick, touch cedar again, as
if I was a closed chapter of an old book.

I sat for a while, nonplussed, then turned back and let Gypsy plod along. I
was a bit shocked that she decided to prance and trot as if showing off for
the dusty cowboy. I clucked her back to normal, making no bones about the
fact that I was annoyed. Her response was poignant, potent and pertinent;
with a massive and aromatic fart, she slowed to a walk.

*****

The next two ripples of land went quickly and I finally topped the
miniscule rise that showed me the main house and the rest of the core of
the ranch. Just as barns are born red and farmsteads are white clapboard
with black shutters, ranch houses are fieldstone and whitewashed shingles;
The Star was no exception. I smiled a bit as you could clearly see each
generation's change to the rambling structure. Overall, though, the effect
was very pleasant, like an oak that spread over meadow.

I clopped up and was surprised not to be challenged. There was a hitching
rail with a horse-trough under a wide eave that would give Gypsy some
much-deserved shade. I loose-tired her reins; Gypsy never went anyplace
without a damned good reason. I knocked on the screen door; the inner was
open to try and tempt any lost and wandering breeze that might happen past.

I jumped a foot when the answering voice came from behind me -- again!
"Nice horse. Rare to see a real medicine hat around nowadays." Gypsy's
white face and neck with the rich, brown 'hat' on and around her ears is
what drew me to her.

I spun and froze. The man spoke calm and slow, but he also held his shotgun
in a way that clearly said he had not yet decided whether or how to use
it. "G-G-Gypsy's a good'un. I, uh, I'm, J-J-J-Jesse, sir." Guns have always
made me nervous, at least when pointed in my direction. "Um, G-G-Gary will
be in for supper? You Randy, sir? He s-said I aught to ask for Randy?"

"You armed, son?"

"N-No..."

"Then that pinto's lucky to alive with all the rattlers around this year."
The gun swung away as if he'd never *really* been aiming at me. "Yee-ah,
I'm Randy. So, Jesse, I'm guessing you're lookin for work. You work a
cattle-ranch before?"

"No, sir. But I worked the stockyard and know which end got horns. I'm okay
with the rope and learn quick. Stronger'n I look."

"Hard not to be," he muttered and I blushed. I'd never been big and at 17
it was looking pretty sure I never would be. 5' 8" in boots and 110 after a
full meal, I was small and skinny. But I hadn't lied. Everything I had was
muscles but the clothes still hung on me like a washing line.

Randy puffed out a long sigh. "You got yourself a week, Jesse, to prove
you're worth feeding, then we'll take about pay. Go round t'other side to
the chuck-house. Tell Cookie to getcha settled," he sniffed and I cringed,
it had been more than a couple days since I afforded a bath, "and
washed. And judging by those near-empty satchels, I'm guessing clothed as
well. Makes no matter. Gary keeps us clothed so's you don't have to worry
bout paying it from your pocket. Oh, and tell him Gary'll be in for
supper. Go on, son."

"Um, sir? Can I brush down Gypsy, first? It's been a real hot ride."

That got the first real smile. "Well, ya got your priorities right, at
least. Gahn. Go get settled. I'll take care of Gypsy here." I eyed the man
warily, but Gypsy was already nuzzling him as he stroked her neck, and that
horse was a damned sight better judge of people that I was.

"Yes, sir." I turned away and could hear him and Gypsy nickering at each
other like gossips. The kitchen, or chuck-house, was a big ole extension
off the far end of the zig-zagging ranch house.

I knocked and got a "Yay-ah?" and took that as permission to enter. Inside
was dim and brutally-hot, lit by the screen doors at either end and a
series of long windows up under the eaves that drew the baked heat of Texas
in by forcing out the steamy heat of the kitchen, cooling it marginally and
nowhere near enough. "So who are what are you?"

The voice was round and filled with mirth, much like the man who spoke with
it. I sucked in a breath. I finally made out from the gloom an absolutely
massive black man, grinning broadly. He was stripped to the waist which I
had to say fit the steamy heat in this hellish room and had a spray of
flour across his chest and on his hands. He had a good-sized belly on him
but was smooth all over, big arms thick with muscle.

"I'm, uh, Jesse? You C-Cookie?"

"Good guess as I'm standing in a chuck-house covered in flour." He smiled
and it was like a new window of light had opened. He had a wonderful
smile. "Yore here, so you'se met Randy. Which mean he told'ja to come
over'n have me get'cha settled," Like Randy, he sniffed, "and bathed and
clothed as well. Okay. Yep. Got things that'll fit'cha. Hell, purt near
anything'd fit'cha with a tight-nuff belt. Go through there and turn
right. The long piece is the bunkhouse. I need to finish the bread and I'll
be over in a few. Pete'll get'cha cleaned up."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." He narrowed his eyes as if wondering if I was
mocking him. I understood that. Most whites (specially those with an accent
like mine) would never 'sir' a black man and precious few would thank
one. Da woulda spit at him instead. But I wasn't Da and refused to
disrespect a man who was nice to me. "And, uh, sir? Gary will be in for
supper? I was supposed to tell ya? Thanks again." I touched the brim of my
hat and stepped out the other door.

The bunkhouse was just that, a long room with bunks at the walls, one up
and one down with a wide, short window just below the upper. Between each
set was a wardrobe and beneath each lower were two trunks. A dozen bunks
overall. Seven of them had mattresses, all the lowers and one of the
uppers.

My eyes were still adjusting when a loud THUMP made me spin. A boy had just
dropped a big ole tub onto the floor at the far corner of the room. He
emptied two huge, black kettles into it from a screened ledge where they'd
sat in the Texas sun. He refilled and replaced the kettles with water drawn
from a hand-pump.

"Well. I cain't worsh ya in clothes, now can I? Get ya'self nekkid."

"...?"

He looked at me and sighed, a long and put-upon sound. He spoke in what I
always thought of as 'deaf foreigner' mode, as if speaking
SLOW-Ly-And-Dis-TINCT-Ly would make a deaf or foreign person suddenly
understand. "Take. Off. Yore. Clothes. So's. I can. Worsh. Ya." He added
mime to that and I just couldn't help but laugh.

"Guessin you're Pete?"

"Yep, and you're still dressed," he said pointedly. I laughed, toed off my
boots and started to strip. He stripped off his shirt as he said that,
showing a nice chest with a sparse sprinkling of hair. More than a boy
then, maybe close to my own age. He wore a pair of cut-off pants and his
long legs were brown like his arms, the rest a nice, firm tan.

"Where do I put my clothes?"

"Leave 'em where they fall, cowboy. Now get your ass in the tub." I started
to walk over and he stopped me, using a voice you'd use for a toddler,
"What parta nekkid don't you get?" I looked down and blushed hard. He
meant, like, nekkid-nekkid. I couldn't recall the last time anyone saw me
without drawers on. Pete made some tutting kind of noise. "Unless you'se a
woman, and a damned flat-chested one, I done seen whatever ya got under
there, cowboy. Now STRIP! I ain't got all day!"

I dropped my shorts and felt the blush creep slowly down my scrawny chest.

Pete blew out a breath in what would'a been a whistle if he'd
tried. "Woooo. Well, now. Maybe I need to take that back..." he smiled
broadly, crookedly and damned-near lewdly. I was now one solid blush from
the waist north. One of the reasons that I never let nobody see me nekkid
is, well, you know all that growth I never got on height and muscles? I got
all that and more down below. Worse, it seemed like since I got my first
hair, I ain't never been all the way soft again. I'm always plump and it
didn't take much to go past that, and quickly, too.

I made a close study of the floorboards as I stepped into the tub and went
to sit. "What, you six? Stand up, cowboy!" Pete grabbed what must'a been a
grooming brush at one time, now far too soft and worn to do much good on a
horse. I spluttered as he simultaneously dumped a kettle of sun-hot water
over me. Before I could open my eyes, he was scrubbing my hair and face,
not even having to stand on tiptoe to do so. If nothing else, it made sure
I stood still, since I knew the agony I'd face if'n I opened my eyes with
that harsh soap on my face.

He moved me this way and that in a no-nonsense manner, scrubbing my hide
thoroughly. I sighed deeply. The sensations were heavenly. I felt like
Gypsy must when I gave her a thorough grooming and resolved to take my time
with her next when I had a chance. This was wonderful and she deserved it
more than I did. He dipped the brush into the water frequently, and
occasionally applied more soap.

He got to my, well, nether parts and wasn't any more sensitive about that
than he'd been with my shoulders, bending me and spreading my cheeks to get
that soapy brush in deep. I shivered at the first touch and he nickered at
me the way I would a horse who seemed skittish. I smiled at that, a smile
that vanished instantly when I realized just what that brush in my crack
was doing on the other side of me.

I was embarrassed of my manly parts when soft; I was mortified at the
thought Pete would soon see me in all my shameful glory. He finished with
the backs of my legs and moved around to start on my front and I stood
there, horrified, knowing he'd look down any moment. I heard a quick set of
low, "hu, hu, hu" breaths but nothing else as he set to on my chest and
pits and worked his way down. The more I tried to think of anything else,
the more I realized that he was seconds away from using that brush on my,
my, my... I couldn't even *think* the words.

He bypassed it, though, and I whimpered as the brush first scrubbed either
side of my tenders then proceeded underneath as if nothing were
happening. He finally got to my feet again and stood. "YEE-YOW" was yanked
from my throat when the barely-warmed water of another kettle started to
rinse over me. I wiped my eyes open as soon as I could, spittin and
sputterin, and saw Pete smirking.

"Ya could'a told a body." I groused.

"Where's the fun in that?"

When I was rinsed I went to move and he held me firm, grabbing a wide, soft
cloth. He proceeded to wash me again, gently this time, and I nearly purred
at the feel. He took a damned sight longer than I was comfortable with
inside my crack and under-n-tween all that there and I could feel dogwater
start to drip from my shameful erection.

When he did my front, he took just as over-long with my nipples and smirked
again when he made me squeak by doing so. He did my legs then came back to
the part I was dreading most. "I c-c-can finish, Pete."

"No, ya cain't. My job. My rules." I swallowed a yelp as he skinned me back
and cleaned thoroughly and tantalizingly around my head and I started to
whimper. He did my nuts and I couldn't help but moan high in my throat. I
looked at him in absolute horror, but he just focused on his task, smiling
slightly. Then... then he started cleaning the sh-sh-sh-sh-shaft!

"P-P-P-P-P-Pete! N-N-N-N-No, Pete. Ya gotta st-t-t-t-top!"

"Nu, nu, nu, no I don't, tt, tt, tt!" He mocked and I started to
hunch. "Cain't have this big ole snake scarin the stock, cowboy." He took
away the cloth and was now stroking me with both soft, tender, silky, soapy
hands. I tried my damnedest not to, and tried beyond that not to make a
noise doing it, and failed both. I erupted in long, flailing arcs, grunting
like a bull as I blew cream half across the bunkhouse.

"Well, at least we know all the movin parts work." I leapt like I been
stung at Cookie's deep and amused voice echoed in the bunkhouse, then
squealed again as even colder rinse-water cascaded over me.

"I-- I-- I-- !" My mortified voice could not come to grips with the fact
that I was nekkid, hard, and still pulsing out the last shots from an
orgasm at the hands of a boy who'd just washed (or at least worshed) me
down.

"Cowboy, you sound like sailor, and a drowned one at that." Pete laughed.
"It's all part of the service."

Cookie sighed through his smile. "I was worried I'd find jeans that'd stay
up on your scrawny frame, Jesse. Well, at least now I know you got sumpin
ta hang 'em on so's they don't droop none. Then again, I may have to let
'em out a fair bit in the manly areas or your voice'll end up higher'n it
is already." I just stood there in speechless, horrified shock. Cookie paid
me no more attention than he paid Pete. He heaved a bundle up onto the bunk
closest to the door. "You'll kip here, across from Pete. Danny's under ya
and don't snore as much as the others. You snore, Jesse?" He looked at me
as if it was natural as rain to have a conversation with a nekkid cowboy
still dripping spunk from another man's handjob. "Well, do ya?"

<eof>

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