Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Alva's Town ( Chapter 2 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Manga-Chick 
“Get up,” he said in disgust. “Junior says one more, for the night. An’ he better have his money.”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 02.28.2006 | Updated On: 02.28.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.1K | Visits: 431 | Status: Completed
“Get up,” he said in disgust. “Junior says one more, for the night. An’ he better have his money.”
Non Anime: Static Shock Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural / Horror / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 02.28.2006 | Updated On: 02.28.2006 | Pages: 5 | Words: 8.1K | Visits: 431 | Status: Completed
Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence...Just be prepared for the amount of violence and utter chaos.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.
Warning! Lemon ahead!
Chapter Two:
Alva's Town
The stallion stood nearly eighteen hands high. Tan, with long black ‘socks’, a thick neck that proved intensely strong, and hair that shifted from black to wisps of off white. He possessed a strong body that held considerable weight, and was quite trustworthy in helping his owner round up cattle. He was also prone to biting anything that moved, and found it fun to knock other horses around. The stallion was overly proud, stubborn, but magnificent in appearance. Quite a prize among those that appreciated horses, and oftentimes, a pain in the ass (sometimes literally) to Hotstreak.
“You fucking piece of shit horse! Fucking nag! Goddamned black ass son of a bitch honkin’ horse! I fuckin’ hate you! I hate your stupid–!”
Virgil Hawkins was half falling out of his saddle as he guffawed, said stallion prancing nearby, whinnying carelessly as his owner continued to scream obscenities from the creek nearby. It was late afternoon, and the pair had just finished stringing up the last of the broken south end fence when Charger (his given name, but Hotstreak mostly called him ‘Mutt’ or ‘Bitch’ or some other derogatory name that happened to cross his mind) decided he wanted to piss off his owner and dump him in the creek.
Virgil’s horse, Sparky (aptly named for fits of gassy and spectacular shitty moments) pranced alongside Charger with a sort of whinnying neigh. He was a purebred Arabian, quick and deft when Virgil needed him, and quite gorgeous in his own standing. Just as stubborn as Charger, but more gentler, Sparky proved faithful and loyal to those he was familiar with. Virgil watched the bigger stallion carefully, as Charger was known to bite, kick, or shove another rider no matter whom it was just for amusement. Charger used his bigger bulk to knock Sparky aside, Virgil pausing in laughing to calm his darker horse down as the gelding began to kick at Charger.
To save himself, he jumped off, Charger nipping at Sparky. Hotstreak emerged from the creek, grumbling as he waved his hat through the air in an attempt to dry it. His dark jeans were now black in appearance, and his shirt clung to him with a sort of annoying tendency. Virgil looked at him and laughed again.
“You needed that bath, homie G!”
“Shaddup before I toss you in there. Now that I smell all fresh and clean-like, I kin smell you.”
“Don’t be jealous of the hard-working man smell...”
“Heh...fuck you...heh.”
“It’s gonna rain in a few days,” Virgil noticed, looking up at the dark clouds that seemed to continuously loom in the distance. He propped his hat back, wiping sweat from his skin with the sleeve of his shirt. The faded yellow bandanna that he wore around his neck was used to wipe away the collected dust and moisture around his jaw line. “Snow should be comin’ along, too.”
“It’s still too hot for snow. ‘Sides, we get the worst of it in February, anyway. It’s only August. ”
“It ain’t THAT hot! Man, I got to usin’ a blanket lately! Summer wasn’t that hot this year. Plus, pops been complainin’ about his knee aching,” Virgil said with a tired sigh, both of them looking over to see Charger biting on Sparky’s haunches.
“Knock it off, you piece of shit dick horse! When’s he comin’ back from the saw mill? He gonna be there for a few more months?” Hotstreak then asked, pulling off his boots and upending them.
“You’ve got wicked stank ass feet, dude,” Virgil observed.
“Suck my toes, asshole.” Hotstreak lifted his foot to wiggle his toes in his direction.
“No way! I’d choke on them hooves of yours!”
They laughed briefly. Virgil thought about his father, who spent a majority of his time at the saw mill that processed the timber from his land on the north end of his property. It was a two days’ ride from the ranch, and Robert tended to live in that area during various times of the year. The older Hawkins knew he could depend on the men and his only daughter for keeping the ranch running smoothly in his absence.
“Nah, he’s coming back by the time we leave, man. You ready for a cattle drive?”
“Nothin’ else to do. ‘Sides, I’ve been really wanting to get into town.”
“Like, oh my god, me too! I need me a woman, mainly.”
“Hawkins, you wouldn’t EVEN know what to do with one!”
“Hey! I peeped in on you before!”
“WHAT?! You fucking pervert!”
Virgil was laughing once again. “Naw, man, just kidding. Like I would ever want to see you humpin’ on some chick. You’d be all like a dog, man. Just...argh, roawf! Roawf! ...Wait a minute, it don’t go there, do it? Man, hold on. I need to start over...”
Hotstreak started laughing as Virgil started humping the air.
Charger suddenly began bucking wildly, snorting as Sparky focused on a point away from him. Both men quieted, hands reaching for the low slung guns at their respective hips when a man’s laughter rang out from beyond the area where the two horses stood.
“Man, you two are fuckin’ rugged!”
From out of one of the grassy knolls nearby, a lone man emerged, dressed only in a loin cloth, long dark hair swinging freely with the afternoon breeze. He was chuckling loudly, teeth displayed in merry amusement. He had a rifle slung behind him, and wore a simple breast plate strung from weasel bones. He was Hotstreak’s age, easily recognizable by the scar that crossed his hawk-beak nose, half an ear missing on his right.
“Here I was, all practicing my coup skills, and you two fuck me up with your stupid off-ness, man. Can’t keep myself from being too mysterious and sneaky an’ shit when you two are being fuckin’ dumb...”
“What you all spyin’ on us for, man?” Virgil exclaimed, reaching out to bump fists with the Indian. “You know we all boring an’ shit.”
“I thought you two were going to get all serious and man up. But you two are just as rugged as before, man!”
Hotstreak laughed, slapping his open palm. “Where’s your entourage? You all alone out here in the wild? Some white guy might come poppin’ caps with ya all alone!”
“Not with you two here to protect little ole me!” The Indian, Kills-Many-White-People, laughed again. “Sides, you two can scare them off with those stupid words of yours. Yanno? What ya’ll doin’ way out here? Your cattle’s out thataway...”
“Man, we’re just fixing the fence. The wood needs ta get replaced, but we don’t got the supplies, yet.”
“Oh, ennit, huh? Look at that...huh. Prolly them deer folk, man. They all crazy, nowadays.”
“Man, I don’t wanna hear about no stupid animal people!” Hotstreak complained. “I get these nightmares that just don’t go away, sometimes, after hearin’ that shit. Then I get all paranoid at night, when I’m all by myself and vulnerable and all alone...white guys have issues, man. ‘Specially me.”
Kills-Many-White-People laughed, Virgil chiming in. He clapped his best friend on his shoulder, earning a punch in the chest for doing so. “You should hear him, Kills. ‘Oh, shit! Virgil! There’s some wolf men after me!’ He’s all whimpering in his sleep, man. It’s fuckin’ hilarious.”
“Stone, you’re such a baby. Ain’t no such thing as wolf men–there’s only buffalo women, yo. You gotta be careful when you see one. You think all these nasty thoughts about her, you gonna end up like nothing, man. Just like the legend says.”
“I don’t believe in that,” Hotstreak scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“Believe it. It true. They say that Jesus walked the land, but who remembers seeing him?”
Virgil laughed, reaching out to catch Sparky before he joined Charger down the creek. Sparky snorted in protest, and stretched his neck out to nibble on Virgil’s hat.
“What you up to anyway, man?”
“Aw, we’re moving camp. Setting up towards winter grounds, now.”
“This early?”
“Yeah. Snow’s comin’ earlier and earlier these days! Global warming, man.”
“...whatever the fuck that is,” Hotstreak muttered.
Kills-Many-White-People laughed. “Ennit, huh? My great grandfather saw it in a dream, once. Now the chief’s all paranoid that we too low on the ground. Gonna start heading up the mountains, he says. I was like, bullshit! Ain’t lugging no one hundred teepees up some damn mountain...”
“Where’s your sister?” Hotstreak asked, wiggling his eyebrows. “She staying faithful?”
“She ain’t seein’ no fuckin’ white boy, yo!” Kills-Many-White-People scoffed. “She all racist and shit! Sides...she said she saw you with some guy in one of her dreams. Says you all loved up with him. That’s when she turned all racist.”
“‘With some guy’?! Aw, man, all you Indians be trippin’...”
“C’mon, man! We listen to those things! They all save lives, an’ shit. Gotta be true. Gotta be all... you know...respectful of what we’re given! ‘Sides, if she seeing you with some guy, man, prolly for the best.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cuz everyone knows you can’t even satisfy a lady!” Kills-Many-White-People laughed and slapped hands with Virgil, who chimed in. “Even Virgil knows that!”
Virgil abruptly stopped laughing to look at him suspiciously.
“Ah, fuck you guys! Fuck you!”
“When you got done with Kicking Horse’s sister, she was all tellin’ people that you didn’t go for long! Thought she was atop of a wild horse an’ got just as sore!”
“Fuck you! That ain’t true!”
“You hurt his feelings, man. Look at him. All bashful now that his secret’s out,” Virgil cooed, laughing once more when Hotstreak tried to kick him.
Kills-Many-White-People laughed, turning to walk away. “See you guys! Next time, when I see you two, ya’ll better stop all that weird ass bullshit you guys always laughing around, about.”
“What ‘weird ass bullshit’?” Hotstreak hollered after him. “Wasn’t it you guys that smoke that weed stuff just to talk to some dude?!”
Virgil laughed again. “Man...you all bitter an’ shit, Francis. No wonder they be callin’ you ‘Hotstreak’. Ain’t cuz of yer temper–!”
“Don’t be callin’ me by that fuckin’ name, Virgil! Fuckin’ hate that name!”
“All right, all right! But, seriously–if Spotted-Deer been havin’ those dreams, you better get all worried, man. Ain’t she the one that had those dreams of you havin’ kids with that chick?”
“...Coincidence.”
“And Flys-In-The-Sky...when that one been havin’ dreams of you breakin’ your leg that one time?”
“Man, fuck that, it was sabotage! I was framed!”
“And Punches-With-Many-Fists TOLD you he was dreamin’ about you gettin’ the clap from that whore from downtown! Then what? You got it!”
“Man, fuck that! That always happens! You got it, too!”
“Yeah, well, just sayin’...sometimes those weirdos get it right.” Virgil then studied him as Hotstreak whistled for Charger, the stallion hurrying over, ears flicking around anxiously. “Actually, kinda sounds weird, but...I can see you with a guy.”
“Man, Hawkins...think you got too much sun, nigger. Let’s go home. See if Sharon cooked up that meatloaf she been promising.”
“Ah, god, that shit’s DA BOMB! For once in her pathetic life, she gets it right! Last one back has to give Sharon a foot rub! YEE HAW!!!”
010101010110
The week began with a day of rounding up what cattle Robert wanted sold. Hotstreak, Virgil, Adam and a few other hands left the ranch to search out the animals, and drove them back to the ranch to wait for the men to pack up for the trip. Loading up on supplies for the ride to and from, the men then headed out, driving the nearly one hundred and fifty head through uncharted territory to the nearest available town. It was a long drive, but full of laughter and banter that the men were known for. Halfway through the trip, Kills-Many-White-People and several of his friends joined the crowd to joke about various happenings within their social circle and throughout the territory.
There were many stories about towns throughout the West suddenly dropping communication with the outside world, but many were figuring with the rush into unexplored territories, and the many stories of gold in the mountains, that they were being abandoned just as quickly as they shot up.
By the time they drove the cattle into town, into a correl located just outside the limits, the men were tired, but eager to receive their payment for the price of cattle, and the extra money Robert had left for their pay. Many of them had plans for the various saloons, women and personal supplies, Hotstreak and Virgil included.
They rested the first day, then headed out that night, separating to visit various places. The two younger men hit the saloon closest, which was owned by Alva. Eager for drink and women, the men were considerably happy that the place was in full swing by the time they arrived. The laughter, candle light and nocturnal activity by those enjoying drinks and broads seemed to spill out of the place each time the doors opened and shut.
Hotstreak walked in first, narrowly avoiding a fistfight between two Spanish women, men cheering them on with mugs of beer and money. Virgil laughed and followed closely behind them. Both men were noticed quickly–their height was often rare for today’s men, standing over six feet tall, and it was rare for a white and a black to be together, equally. They were noticed, grimly examined for any sort of trouble, then acknowledged as a couple of out of towners eager for some relaxation. While a few people knew who they were from working with Robert, the pair weren’t that well known, as they tended to stay out of town and out of trouble. Hotstreak usually stayed low to avoid being noticed for anything he had left in his past.
Once they were out of the path of activity, Hotstreak pushed his hat high above his forehead, to look around the saloon curiously. He was wearing one of his best shirts–a dark red and brown combination that Sharon had fixed from him, the material imported from New York. It fit his shoulders in a way that defined the width, and showed off his lean form, fitting well into a new pair of jeans that were tucked into a black pair of boots. He had his hat in place, as well as his gun belt, slung low on his hips. Virgil was dressed almost in the same manner, but with a dark blue and yellow shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a buckskin vest with light fringe on the back. He’d left his hat at home, preferring to gather his dreads to tie them back at his neck.
Virgil shifted restlessly before giving a small, impatient whine.
“Some manly whiskey first, then I guess I’ll decide which one’s prettier,” he said with some final decision, frowning as he watched a coy white girl eye him from the lap of one of the men nearby.
Hotstreak snickered, looking at the available girls that were wandering the floors, working their visible assets and adding to the noise with their forced laughter.
Frankly, none of them were very interesting, and he decided that perhaps this wasn’t the place to get his fun.
“There’s a newer place up the street, man,” he said, patting Virgil’s chest with the back of his hand, drawing his attention. “Let’s go up there and see what’s up, first.”
“We just got here! Let’s git somethin’ to drink first, THEN head over there! Dunno, maybe they got some better lookin’ girls, there...lookit that one...I’ll be smushed!” Virgil laughed, pointing at Patty. “But I’ll bet I’ll be callin’ her ‘momma’ by the time I get through drinkin’!”
“That one right there looks like Spotted Deer, man. She prolly only ten years old, man! Lookit her!” Hotstreak said, giving an annoyed expression at Mirage as she trailed through the floor with her tiny frame and baby features.
“That’s...disturbing...the one with the red don’t look that bad...maybe I’ll try her.” Virgil eyed Teresa for a few moments, then wrinkled his nose. “Nah, never mind. She looks mean, dude. She’d have my balls in those talons of hers and make me call her ‘daddy’.”
“Heh. Looks expensive, man. You might need more than five dollars wit’ that one...”
“Man, fuck you!” Virgil said in a delighted way, grinning. “Well...I’ll start the round. You buy the next. Ho?”
“Ho.”
They made their way to the bar, and Virgil bought the first round. One round turned into two, then three, then, when Virgil found interest in a poker game across the way, Hotstreak sat at the bar and nursed drink after drink as he waited for the younger man to come back. It was funny, how he got along so well with him. Virgil was only twenty, but he acted so much younger. Hotstreak himself was twenty-three, yet, but he knew his appearance made him look older than he actually was.
The night continued on with beer after beer, visit to outhouse after another; he considered taking up on one of the girls’ offer–Jessie did look appealing with her exotic, Latin looks–but he wasn’t interested in paying the price they offered.
Alva sure is a greedy sumbitch, he thought after shooing her away. While he knew he could visit Maria on the other side of town, he really wasn’t up to running into her husband if he happened to be home. That relationship had started the first time he’d arrived in this territory; while she was married, her husband worked the rail lines, and she often got ‘lonely’ and ‘bored’ while he was away. She was a fun lay, but he wasn’t in love with her.
Not that he’d want to fall in love.
It was halfway through the night when he began to feel extremely lethargic. Hotstreak was sure he had too many beers, which was why his eyesight grew blurry, and he felt suddenly very tired and exhausted.
Before he could even consider what it all meant, he was distracted by the smell of lavender, something that reminded him of pretty girls and wide meadows. But then, something else caught his attention, because the boy that was suddenly standing next to him looked either that, or a very masculine girl.
He lifted his head, trying to ignore the wave of nausea that hit him at the movement, then peered at the androgynous person closely, trying to figure out what he was seeing. Dressed in very tight blue jeans, with a light blue and lavender plaid shirt, the boy/girl displayed a bony collarbone and a thin neck, their skin soft and pale in a sense that amazed him. The collar was pulled so that the open material hung loosely around the junction of their neck/shoulders, something that instantly drew the eye and made one wonder if they were that color all the way down.
They were slender, small and tidy; he drunkenly figured that the top of their head would barely touch his chest. Sitting up, still staring with a sense of drunken puzzlement, he began to realize that the shoulders were too wide for a girl’s, that the hips were too slim. He lowered his head to look underneath the brim of a brand-new hat, seeing a rounded jaw that was tightly clenched, eyes rimmed with kohl, and a sort of indifferent expression on a boyish face. He was momentarily startled in that a male was wearing color on his face–especially around his eyes. The more Hotstreak looked, the more he realized that the boy’s eyes were more gold with the accentuation of the black liner, throwing him for a drunken spin.
The boy looked at him, then, startled in that he was being looked at so closely. Then his expression turned guarded, anxious, his eyes darting way with a touch of insecurity.
The smell of lavender was coming from him, Hotstreak realized, sniffing covertly.
A little more certain of what he was seeing, he relaxed once more, exhaling heavily as he rested his chin into his folded arms atop of the bar.
“Man, that’s a crazy getup,” he muttered, loudly enough to be heard by the boy and the bartender, drawing their attention. Why couldn’t the room stop spinning? He didn’t think he drank THAT much, to be wasted before the night was even halfway over. And where was Virgil?
“Think you had a little too much, pardner,” the bartender said cheerfully, lifting the mug up and away from Hotstreak’s loosely curled fingers. “I think my friend here has a room for you to pass out in.”
“S’okay,” Hotstreak muttered, waving away the suggestion, never seeing the bartender’s firm nod at the boy that stared at him apprehensively. “None–got one of my own.”
“His is closer, buddy. Here, he’ll help you. ‘Sides, if you pass out here, think of the sheisty bitches that’ll come by and rob ya for what ya got on ya. Don’t want THAT, wouldja?”
Hotstreak felt his face crinkle with thought, then straightened up top the barstool, frowning as he started to sluggishly pat his pockets, making sure he was still armed and that his wad of money was still where he’d left it. He slid off the stool, then, nearly knocking over a couple of men that were propping each other up as they headed toward the doors. He began looking the crowded room for Virgil, but the candle lit room and his own drunkeness hindered his search.
He felt steadying hands on his side as he started to walk forward, swaying a little too much. He ended up knocking over a girl with a tray into a table of poker playing men, causing them all the shout aloud and protest. He couldn’t be THAT drunk...it usually took him awhile to get this plowed. Without nary an apology or regretful action, he rose from the table, registering that the boy was trying to help him stand.
“Fine, fine, jush...jush a little while,” he muttered, letting the kid swing his arm over his shoulders, propping him awkwardly. For a moment, he felt himself sway to the left, nearly dragging the boy with him until he was forcefully hauled forward, encouraged to walk.
Meanwhile, Richie was gritting his teeth, struggling to get the big, smelly man to walk with him as he made uncertain steps toward the stairway. It took a lot of pulling, shoving and encouraging to get the big redhead to follow him up the stairway and pass the thick curtain. His mind was already working on distracting himself from what he had to do; he was sweating slightly in his strenuous efforts, and feeling his stomach work that now familiar clench of nerves and regret.
Jerry, the man that was now permanently placed outside his room, helped him with opening his door and closing it behind them once they were in. With a heavy exhale, Richie shoved the big redhead onto his lumpy bed, frowning as he then struggled to turn him onto his back. It took awhile, making him grunt and work just to get him to turn.
He had to be over two hundred pounds, Richie figured, swearing quietly when the man nearly fell out of his bed.
He then sighed quietly, hating what he had to do as he stared down at the broad body before him. The bartender, Ted, tended to mix some of his drinks with a potent sort of drug that rendered some customers sluggish, drugging them into thinking that they’d had too much to drink.
It was easy for Richie, then, to sweep in and convince the drunken customer to his room, to ‘entertain’ and satisfy him as quickly as possible before they grew clear headed enough to realize what they were doing. Most men, when awakened naturally from their drugged state, weren’t too happy to realize that they’d allowed a young male to arouse and satisfy them. Ted didn’t pay too much attention when he drugged his customers, so Richie was caught a few times when he was in the midst of working. It was never pleasant when he was caught, and he was always tense and rushed when he began working.
Since that night when Casey and the others had taken their turns on him, he’d felt more defeated. More accepting in that this was his life, now. Measures were taken to keep a closer eye on him, and once word leaked to the others on what he could do, more men were willing to take the chance of visiting him. For the first two days after that night, he was sure he’d seen Hell; his body screamed with torture and horror whenever someone chose to use him in that manner, and his mouth was more than sore and tired when put to work.
Nearly a week after, he finally gave in to watching the girls work their customers–hiding in their closets, or behind paper room dividers–and learned from them on how to please their men. It had been unbearable at first–mimicking what they did when they took smelly, disgusting dicks into their mouths, and learning to ride and buck whenever a man wanted him from behind. But the more he practiced, the more the pain seemed bearable, now.
He never enjoyed anything; he couldn’t see how the girls could fake their enthusiasm, their silly orgasmic noises–he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy such acts when he’d learned first hand how hateful and hurtful the acts truly were.
But Ted had taken pity on him, as he had with Mirage a few years back. After taking his free turn with Richie, he told the boy about the drugs, and worked out a plan with him. He’d drug the customers, and that would give Richie the chance to work them before they fully awakened. It was ‘up to him’ what course of actions he wanted to take with his customers, and even suggested stealing a few bucks from a man or two. Take their valuables to give to Junior. It was rotten, uncharacteristic, but it was much better than being forced. With a heavy heart, Richie had taken that chance, and Ted had worked with him since.
Now, faced with this big redhead, Richie figured he’d better work fast. He’d seen his hands, and didn’t want them beating on him when he awoke.
He took off his hat, setting that aside, then slipped off his boots. He forced himself numb so that he wouldn’t have to feel his guilt or disgust in these actions, and stilled himself for a moment so that he could control his sudden shaking. Exhaling deeply, he then crawled onto the bed, straddling the bigger man’s hips.
He was snoring away, passed out, and Richie frowned at him as he worked at his belt buckle. He quickly removed the gun belt, setting that on the floor before resuming his work on his jeans. All he had to do was make him cum; that’s all he had to do. But he abandoned the task and began patting his pockets, searching for money or valuables to take and hide before the man woke up. He found a wad of cash in his left boot, and counted out the amount with considerable unhappiness.
This man had probably worked hard to earn it, and here Richie was, stealing it just so that he could escape a beating.
He felt horrible about every act of stealing he’d done, but he feared beating even more. He pocketed at least half of the cash, to separate one pile for Junior, and another as a secret stash for himself. To use in his next escape attempt. He put the rest of the cash back, then continued with unbuckling and unzipping his jeans.
The moment the bigger man began to shift, Richie stilled, then quickly bent forward, to kiss his jaw line softly, appeasing him without words as he waited to see if he’d awaken, or fall back asleep. He felt relieved when the man stilled, then sighed with a tired sort of air, face shifted away from Richie.
Richie continued to pull the material down his hips, struggling to pull them down toward his knees, frowning as he held his breath. Men were so smelly–some tended to avoid the bath rather than taking one before arriving here. He had a thing about cleanliness, and was almost obsessed with it, himself. If he felt a man smelled too bad, he’d take what he could from him, distract him with silly hand jobs and then insert a finger into his customer’s anus to press on the prostate, to make the man come. He’d learned that trick from Patty, who was quite devious in that aspect. Some men were too confused on what happened to them to realize what he’d done.
Once he had the man’s jeans down around his knees, listening to his snores, Richie stood over him, and quickly shed his own pants, tossing them over the edge for quick grabbing access in case the man awoke while he was halfway through. He left his shirt on, because it was pointless taking it off. With a small sigh, he once again straddled his hips, and began working on the buttons of the man’s shirt.
Once he began revealing the broad expanse of the man’s chest, he felt his stomach clench. Not with the usual roil of nerves and apprehension, but because this man was so cut and defined. He had a sort of strength to him that was appealing. He had cut pectorals, sprinkled lightly with hair, his nipples flat and tan colored. His stomach was just as cut, rising slightly with every breath, defined with slightly raised panes of muscle. With some captivation, Richie dipped his finger into the rigid depths that cut between the planes, tracing the hardness lightly with his fingertip. He marveled at the way the man’s stomach sucked in slightly at the touch, muscles hardening with a fascinating display of strength.
From his navel down grew thick hair that was considerably darker than that of his head, slipping into a thick bush curled pubes that cradled a thick, uncut dick and smooth, round balls.
Richie felt his face flush with color, burning with such intensity that he stopped what he was doing to appreciate the sight before him.
This man worked with his shirt off, he was sure of it. His skin was tanned a rich color and ended in a perfect line around the cuts where his torso met his thighs. The pale skin there was still darker than his, though, as he compared the inside of his wrist to the crease where thigh met body. He settled carefully over his thighs, feeling that flush sneak past his open collar and dust sections of his back and chest.
The room was quiet save for the noises that crept in from the loud activities of the saloon, and from the snores that emitted regularly from the big man. He knew he should get to work; to get this man aroused, do his thing really quick, and have him dressed and resettled at the bar, but it wasn’t often for him to see this sort of masculine beauty. The men that he served were usually quite smelly and repugnant, with thick bellies or gaunt frames; there were some that had muscle such as this, but he’d been distracted by their meanness to appreciate it.
He licked his lips, exhaling quietly as he stared down at the cowboy’s chest, watching as it rose and fell with each breath. Shifting slightly, he gazed in open wonder at the man’s face, reaching out to push his shirt open so that he could run his hands over his muscled sides, shivering slightly at the touch. He straightened slightly, lowering one hand onto the broad chest, tracing his fingers over the expanse with a curious sort of air. Hard muscle, warm skin, the light prickles of hair under his palm made his stomach shiver in that strange way once more. He lifted both hands to run them over the man’s skin again, brushing his nipples with his thumbs, making them pebble.
When he realized how much he wanted to taste them, he had to lift his hands off of him, the foreign thought puzzling him. He hadn’t the desire, before–and the very thought made him blush intensely once more.
He had green eyes, Richie realized, looking onto his face, shifting onto his hands and knees over his body.
He’d seen them in the bar’s light, peering at him drunkenly. This man had a strong, square jaw, a wide mouth and thin lips, a patch of hair carefully tended to just below the bottom. Richie touched that as well, lightly running his finger over the small patch, marveling at the stiffness and the care that had been used to maintain that certain area. He then carefully touched the high cheekbones and the angular lines of his forehead. He could see a vein throbbing calmly on the right side of the man’s forehead, and carefully ran his fingertip over that, as well. He found himself marveling over the thickness of his hair, lightly running his fingers through the cascade of red, touching his ears. When he looked back at his face, he stared at the furrowed, dark eyebrows, and marveled at the soft tips of his closed eyelashes.
Green eyes...
He could feel the exhaled breath on his chin, and he, after a moment’s hesitation, bent his face slightly to catch some of that airy movement against his skin. Leaning in closer, he could smell traces of aftershave and pungent male sweat. He winced, but found himself closing his eyes as he pressed his cheek against the other’s face, feeling the prickly stubble that scratched at his skin. He smiled slightly at the feel, just rubbing his cheek against his stubble, listening to him snore.
He then straightened, to look down into his face, smoothing away shaggy, dark red hair. He had a visible tan line from his hat on his forehead. His hair smelled of sweaty musk and leather. Richie inhaled deeply of it, then coughed.
With another small smile, Richie lowered himself to touch his lips to the man’s collarbone, inhaling more of that wonderful man scent. He kissed softly on the warm skin, trailing down to his chest, tickling his own chin with the chest hair he’d encountered.
Then he jerked himself straight, wondering what he was doing. Quickly, he shifted, swallowing hard as he grew level with the thick, uncut dick. Making a face, he hopped off the man and his bed, and scrounged through the candle lit darkness for his washing bowl and rag. He quickly wet the rag and hurried back, watching the sleeping man carefully as he began to gently wash his dick, determined to make it more pleasant for himself. He was careful to clean the foreskin, dipping his finger in and pulling it back, methodically cleaning what his mouth would touch, afraid of getting sick on this wonderful specimen.
The man didn’t really stir, just kept snoring, and Richie tossed the rag to the side. Then, with some hesitation, he settled himself back over him, and promptly began using his mouth to awaken his erection. It took some time, but when the straining length was full and hard, Richie wiped his mouth with a sort of disgusted expression.
He hated this act no matter how drugged the man was, or what it did to please the customer.
He then worked enough saliva to spit down onto the sleeping man’s cock, wetting it thoroughly so that he would have no need for the pot of scented oil that he used for lubrication. This act always made him tense, and he made himself breathe in and out in a sort of relaxation technique, then settled over him. He was already stretched, thanks to his first customer of the night, and so he lowered himself slowly onto the heated dick with a low exhale of air.
Once he was firmly seated atop of him, hunching forward slightly to rest his hands on the big man’s hips, he realized that the man was starting to stir. A little scared, he froze, eyes locked on his face as he felt his hips shifting underneath him, feeling his cock twitching and fattening within him. There was the now expected explosion of pain and uncomfortable fullness, his spine alighted with darts of irritation. But he’d learned to ignore all his own discomforts in favor of his customers, and squeezed his ass tightly, massaging the length with his body, and shifted his own hips, rocking slightly with an expression of unease.
The man groaned, shifting, his chest heaving with another low sound, his hips shifting to push himself more into Richie’s body.
The blond winced, holding onto his position tightly, then gave a sound of distress when his hips were grabbed and held firmly, the man awakening with some coherency to start thrusting up into him. Richie didn’t feel any pleasure–just uncomfortable fullness as he struggled to make his body work with the thrusting. The big redhead had his head tossed back slightly, groaning again as his fingers tightened on Richie’s hips.
Then, before Richie could get into the rhythm, he felt the telltale splash of cum splatter his insides, and he gave a whimper as he forced himself off the thick, twitching dick. The man didn’t seem to care, still too far off in his drugged haze to realize that the warm body had left him before he even finishing cumming.
Anxiously, Richie left him to find his wash rag, crouching to clean himself, trying to remove all traces that a man had left his seed in his body. Customers hated entering a body that was touched by the warm traces of another man’s cum.
Then, a little satisfied in that he removed what he could, he dipped the rag into the washing bowl, then hurried over to start cleaning up the man’s sperm splattered pubes and stomach. He still felt bad in that the man was still drugged, even worse when he’d used him in such a way.
But the thing that kept him moving was the thought of Junior beating him, and he worked quickly. He dried what he’d cleaned, then started to struggle with his pants, pulling them back up his thighs. The man was just so heavy, that he grunted and struggled to do so. By the time he’d managed to get his pants into place, he was panting again. Richie climbed off to pull on his own pants, his knees shaking as he did so. He kept glancing over at the big man, stealing appreciative glances as he fastened his pants. He left his shirt untucked as he quickly climbed over him once more, buttoning and latching. He pulled his gun belt on and around him awkwardly, fastening it a little too tightly because he was a little scared in that those six shooters would be used on him.
He gave a startled sound as big hands clamped over his wrists, and he was pulled over the man, hearing him groan, “C’mon, girl, one more. Promise I won’t go fast, this time...promise...”
Embarrassed, but finding the comment a little funny, Richie struggled to get out of his grasp. He gave an awkward yelp as the man rolled over him, pinning him to his own bed. Fright overtook him for a couple of moments before he heard the resuming of heavy breathing and slight snoring. He rested there for a moment, feeling a heavy tug of his eyelids. He still wasn’t used to the schedule, and he did have trouble sleeping, on constant alert that Junior and his cronies were going to visit him, again.
He laid there underneath the bigger man, surrounded by his man scent, pinned by his heavy weight, and felt...almost content. Almost secure. As if this man could block out all his troubles and all his worries, and keep him safe and sound. He closed his eyes in misery, relaxing just slightly underneath the strange sensation. Tears burned at the back of his eyelids, and his chest constricted painfully. He wanted to go back home so badly...to stop this nightly continuance of torture and humiliation.
He wanted the safety of his mother and father, again.
His fingers curled into his blankets, and for a brief moment, he almost began to cry, his body throbbing with the now familiar stretching of his anus, the tingly sensation of having been invaded. But he struggled to keep himself composed, feeling the big man suddenly shift, arm curling around his waist.
Suddenly, he was suffocating, unable to draw in breath–it wasn’t from the position, but from the fact that he’d taken too long. He shouldn’t have taken his time in looking at this man, earlier.
At that very moment, Jerry began pounding on the door with a low grumble. Richie felt the man jerk against him in surprise and realized with some horror that if he’d heard that sound, then he was more than aware to realize what had happened. He froze, every limb locked tight as he felt the big redhead shift on him.
“Th’ ‘ell?” he heard him grumble, lifting his face from the back of his neck. “Th’ fuck? Go ‘way! Sunnofvabeeach...c’mon baby, go back to sleep. We’ll make ‘nuther kid in da’mornin’...”
Richie made a face, finding the comment absurd. Despite himself, he had to wonder if this man was married, or just possessed a mistress of some sort. It just made him feel very down in that he wouldn’t have a chance at that sort of lifestyle. If he ever left this place, who would ever want him as a husband?
This made his throat tight, and his eyes burn once more.
The man shifted again, and Richie heard his quick inhale of breath. Jerry pounded on the door once more, grumbling at him to hurry up. At that, the man shifted off of him, and Richie quickly rolled out from underneath him, jumping to his feet. Looking over, he saw the redhead blink in a dazed sort of manner, then focus on him.
For a few silent moments, he watched those green eyes study him, recognize him, then fill with a sort of horror that Richie saw commonly in those that had, in a few moments, realized what had been done to them. And the man was shifting off the bed in a flurry of outraged movements, lunging at him with a fairly enraged and drunken snarl.
Without much of a choice, Richie simply dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, protecting his face. No customer wanted to see marks on his whore, but he could hide bruises easily with his shirt. He felt fingers ensnare within his hair, and he was yanked upright, into a sitting position. He gave a frightened gasp as one large hand snaked between his legs to grope his privates. Not for anything arousing; just to check to see what was there. His head was slammed off the wall as he heard the man give an enraged shout.
“No way! No fuckin’ way! Ain’t–! NO! Fuckin’–! This is fuckin’ bullshit!” he screamed in horrified disbelief. He was suddenly touching himself, then feeling along his backside, as if he could discover any damage done to him by this boy. Finding nothing, his hands touching his groin and recognizing the familiar pull of a previous orgasm, he gave a disbelieving snarl.
But Jerry was already moving into the room, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the door, coaxing him in a sort of gentle voice to leave. Richie continued to keep his position until after he heard the door shut, the two men shouting at each other outside. His shoulders started shaking first, until his entire body felt tight with rigid vibration, his stomach roiling with regret, helplessness and disgust. He hated what he had to do, but it was admittedly better than to have a man sober and conscious, to hurt him purposefully. To have a man unconscious and unable to hurt him left him feeling guilty and evil, but only because he would prefer to remain unscathed. It was wretched, filled with rotten consequence, but he just had to do it. He had to do it.
By the time he managed to get a hold of himself once more, inhaling shakily and with a trace of tears, the door opened again, Jerry looking at him.
“Get up,” he said in disgust. “Junior says one more, for the night. An’ he better have his money.”
Richie said nothing to him. The man would have his money.
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark.
Warning! Lemon ahead!
Chapter Two:
Alva's Town
The stallion stood nearly eighteen hands high. Tan, with long black ‘socks’, a thick neck that proved intensely strong, and hair that shifted from black to wisps of off white. He possessed a strong body that held considerable weight, and was quite trustworthy in helping his owner round up cattle. He was also prone to biting anything that moved, and found it fun to knock other horses around. The stallion was overly proud, stubborn, but magnificent in appearance. Quite a prize among those that appreciated horses, and oftentimes, a pain in the ass (sometimes literally) to Hotstreak.
“You fucking piece of shit horse! Fucking nag! Goddamned black ass son of a bitch honkin’ horse! I fuckin’ hate you! I hate your stupid–!”
Virgil Hawkins was half falling out of his saddle as he guffawed, said stallion prancing nearby, whinnying carelessly as his owner continued to scream obscenities from the creek nearby. It was late afternoon, and the pair had just finished stringing up the last of the broken south end fence when Charger (his given name, but Hotstreak mostly called him ‘Mutt’ or ‘Bitch’ or some other derogatory name that happened to cross his mind) decided he wanted to piss off his owner and dump him in the creek.
Virgil’s horse, Sparky (aptly named for fits of gassy and spectacular shitty moments) pranced alongside Charger with a sort of whinnying neigh. He was a purebred Arabian, quick and deft when Virgil needed him, and quite gorgeous in his own standing. Just as stubborn as Charger, but more gentler, Sparky proved faithful and loyal to those he was familiar with. Virgil watched the bigger stallion carefully, as Charger was known to bite, kick, or shove another rider no matter whom it was just for amusement. Charger used his bigger bulk to knock Sparky aside, Virgil pausing in laughing to calm his darker horse down as the gelding began to kick at Charger.
To save himself, he jumped off, Charger nipping at Sparky. Hotstreak emerged from the creek, grumbling as he waved his hat through the air in an attempt to dry it. His dark jeans were now black in appearance, and his shirt clung to him with a sort of annoying tendency. Virgil looked at him and laughed again.
“You needed that bath, homie G!”
“Shaddup before I toss you in there. Now that I smell all fresh and clean-like, I kin smell you.”
“Don’t be jealous of the hard-working man smell...”
“Heh...fuck you...heh.”
“It’s gonna rain in a few days,” Virgil noticed, looking up at the dark clouds that seemed to continuously loom in the distance. He propped his hat back, wiping sweat from his skin with the sleeve of his shirt. The faded yellow bandanna that he wore around his neck was used to wipe away the collected dust and moisture around his jaw line. “Snow should be comin’ along, too.”
“It’s still too hot for snow. ‘Sides, we get the worst of it in February, anyway. It’s only August. ”
“It ain’t THAT hot! Man, I got to usin’ a blanket lately! Summer wasn’t that hot this year. Plus, pops been complainin’ about his knee aching,” Virgil said with a tired sigh, both of them looking over to see Charger biting on Sparky’s haunches.
“Knock it off, you piece of shit dick horse! When’s he comin’ back from the saw mill? He gonna be there for a few more months?” Hotstreak then asked, pulling off his boots and upending them.
“You’ve got wicked stank ass feet, dude,” Virgil observed.
“Suck my toes, asshole.” Hotstreak lifted his foot to wiggle his toes in his direction.
“No way! I’d choke on them hooves of yours!”
They laughed briefly. Virgil thought about his father, who spent a majority of his time at the saw mill that processed the timber from his land on the north end of his property. It was a two days’ ride from the ranch, and Robert tended to live in that area during various times of the year. The older Hawkins knew he could depend on the men and his only daughter for keeping the ranch running smoothly in his absence.
“Nah, he’s coming back by the time we leave, man. You ready for a cattle drive?”
“Nothin’ else to do. ‘Sides, I’ve been really wanting to get into town.”
“Like, oh my god, me too! I need me a woman, mainly.”
“Hawkins, you wouldn’t EVEN know what to do with one!”
“Hey! I peeped in on you before!”
“WHAT?! You fucking pervert!”
Virgil was laughing once again. “Naw, man, just kidding. Like I would ever want to see you humpin’ on some chick. You’d be all like a dog, man. Just...argh, roawf! Roawf! ...Wait a minute, it don’t go there, do it? Man, hold on. I need to start over...”
Hotstreak started laughing as Virgil started humping the air.
Charger suddenly began bucking wildly, snorting as Sparky focused on a point away from him. Both men quieted, hands reaching for the low slung guns at their respective hips when a man’s laughter rang out from beyond the area where the two horses stood.
“Man, you two are fuckin’ rugged!”
From out of one of the grassy knolls nearby, a lone man emerged, dressed only in a loin cloth, long dark hair swinging freely with the afternoon breeze. He was chuckling loudly, teeth displayed in merry amusement. He had a rifle slung behind him, and wore a simple breast plate strung from weasel bones. He was Hotstreak’s age, easily recognizable by the scar that crossed his hawk-beak nose, half an ear missing on his right.
“Here I was, all practicing my coup skills, and you two fuck me up with your stupid off-ness, man. Can’t keep myself from being too mysterious and sneaky an’ shit when you two are being fuckin’ dumb...”
“What you all spyin’ on us for, man?” Virgil exclaimed, reaching out to bump fists with the Indian. “You know we all boring an’ shit.”
“I thought you two were going to get all serious and man up. But you two are just as rugged as before, man!”
Hotstreak laughed, slapping his open palm. “Where’s your entourage? You all alone out here in the wild? Some white guy might come poppin’ caps with ya all alone!”
“Not with you two here to protect little ole me!” The Indian, Kills-Many-White-People, laughed again. “Sides, you two can scare them off with those stupid words of yours. Yanno? What ya’ll doin’ way out here? Your cattle’s out thataway...”
“Man, we’re just fixing the fence. The wood needs ta get replaced, but we don’t got the supplies, yet.”
“Oh, ennit, huh? Look at that...huh. Prolly them deer folk, man. They all crazy, nowadays.”
“Man, I don’t wanna hear about no stupid animal people!” Hotstreak complained. “I get these nightmares that just don’t go away, sometimes, after hearin’ that shit. Then I get all paranoid at night, when I’m all by myself and vulnerable and all alone...white guys have issues, man. ‘Specially me.”
Kills-Many-White-People laughed, Virgil chiming in. He clapped his best friend on his shoulder, earning a punch in the chest for doing so. “You should hear him, Kills. ‘Oh, shit! Virgil! There’s some wolf men after me!’ He’s all whimpering in his sleep, man. It’s fuckin’ hilarious.”
“Stone, you’re such a baby. Ain’t no such thing as wolf men–there’s only buffalo women, yo. You gotta be careful when you see one. You think all these nasty thoughts about her, you gonna end up like nothing, man. Just like the legend says.”
“I don’t believe in that,” Hotstreak scoffed, rolling his eyes.
“Believe it. It true. They say that Jesus walked the land, but who remembers seeing him?”
Virgil laughed, reaching out to catch Sparky before he joined Charger down the creek. Sparky snorted in protest, and stretched his neck out to nibble on Virgil’s hat.
“What you up to anyway, man?”
“Aw, we’re moving camp. Setting up towards winter grounds, now.”
“This early?”
“Yeah. Snow’s comin’ earlier and earlier these days! Global warming, man.”
“...whatever the fuck that is,” Hotstreak muttered.
Kills-Many-White-People laughed. “Ennit, huh? My great grandfather saw it in a dream, once. Now the chief’s all paranoid that we too low on the ground. Gonna start heading up the mountains, he says. I was like, bullshit! Ain’t lugging no one hundred teepees up some damn mountain...”
“Where’s your sister?” Hotstreak asked, wiggling his eyebrows. “She staying faithful?”
“She ain’t seein’ no fuckin’ white boy, yo!” Kills-Many-White-People scoffed. “She all racist and shit! Sides...she said she saw you with some guy in one of her dreams. Says you all loved up with him. That’s when she turned all racist.”
“‘With some guy’?! Aw, man, all you Indians be trippin’...”
“C’mon, man! We listen to those things! They all save lives, an’ shit. Gotta be true. Gotta be all... you know...respectful of what we’re given! ‘Sides, if she seeing you with some guy, man, prolly for the best.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cuz everyone knows you can’t even satisfy a lady!” Kills-Many-White-People laughed and slapped hands with Virgil, who chimed in. “Even Virgil knows that!”
Virgil abruptly stopped laughing to look at him suspiciously.
“Ah, fuck you guys! Fuck you!”
“When you got done with Kicking Horse’s sister, she was all tellin’ people that you didn’t go for long! Thought she was atop of a wild horse an’ got just as sore!”
“Fuck you! That ain’t true!”
“You hurt his feelings, man. Look at him. All bashful now that his secret’s out,” Virgil cooed, laughing once more when Hotstreak tried to kick him.
Kills-Many-White-People laughed, turning to walk away. “See you guys! Next time, when I see you two, ya’ll better stop all that weird ass bullshit you guys always laughing around, about.”
“What ‘weird ass bullshit’?” Hotstreak hollered after him. “Wasn’t it you guys that smoke that weed stuff just to talk to some dude?!”
Virgil laughed again. “Man...you all bitter an’ shit, Francis. No wonder they be callin’ you ‘Hotstreak’. Ain’t cuz of yer temper–!”
“Don’t be callin’ me by that fuckin’ name, Virgil! Fuckin’ hate that name!”
“All right, all right! But, seriously–if Spotted-Deer been havin’ those dreams, you better get all worried, man. Ain’t she the one that had those dreams of you havin’ kids with that chick?”
“...Coincidence.”
“And Flys-In-The-Sky...when that one been havin’ dreams of you breakin’ your leg that one time?”
“Man, fuck that, it was sabotage! I was framed!”
“And Punches-With-Many-Fists TOLD you he was dreamin’ about you gettin’ the clap from that whore from downtown! Then what? You got it!”
“Man, fuck that! That always happens! You got it, too!”
“Yeah, well, just sayin’...sometimes those weirdos get it right.” Virgil then studied him as Hotstreak whistled for Charger, the stallion hurrying over, ears flicking around anxiously. “Actually, kinda sounds weird, but...I can see you with a guy.”
“Man, Hawkins...think you got too much sun, nigger. Let’s go home. See if Sharon cooked up that meatloaf she been promising.”
“Ah, god, that shit’s DA BOMB! For once in her pathetic life, she gets it right! Last one back has to give Sharon a foot rub! YEE HAW!!!”
010101010110
The week began with a day of rounding up what cattle Robert wanted sold. Hotstreak, Virgil, Adam and a few other hands left the ranch to search out the animals, and drove them back to the ranch to wait for the men to pack up for the trip. Loading up on supplies for the ride to and from, the men then headed out, driving the nearly one hundred and fifty head through uncharted territory to the nearest available town. It was a long drive, but full of laughter and banter that the men were known for. Halfway through the trip, Kills-Many-White-People and several of his friends joined the crowd to joke about various happenings within their social circle and throughout the territory.
There were many stories about towns throughout the West suddenly dropping communication with the outside world, but many were figuring with the rush into unexplored territories, and the many stories of gold in the mountains, that they were being abandoned just as quickly as they shot up.
By the time they drove the cattle into town, into a correl located just outside the limits, the men were tired, but eager to receive their payment for the price of cattle, and the extra money Robert had left for their pay. Many of them had plans for the various saloons, women and personal supplies, Hotstreak and Virgil included.
They rested the first day, then headed out that night, separating to visit various places. The two younger men hit the saloon closest, which was owned by Alva. Eager for drink and women, the men were considerably happy that the place was in full swing by the time they arrived. The laughter, candle light and nocturnal activity by those enjoying drinks and broads seemed to spill out of the place each time the doors opened and shut.
Hotstreak walked in first, narrowly avoiding a fistfight between two Spanish women, men cheering them on with mugs of beer and money. Virgil laughed and followed closely behind them. Both men were noticed quickly–their height was often rare for today’s men, standing over six feet tall, and it was rare for a white and a black to be together, equally. They were noticed, grimly examined for any sort of trouble, then acknowledged as a couple of out of towners eager for some relaxation. While a few people knew who they were from working with Robert, the pair weren’t that well known, as they tended to stay out of town and out of trouble. Hotstreak usually stayed low to avoid being noticed for anything he had left in his past.
Once they were out of the path of activity, Hotstreak pushed his hat high above his forehead, to look around the saloon curiously. He was wearing one of his best shirts–a dark red and brown combination that Sharon had fixed from him, the material imported from New York. It fit his shoulders in a way that defined the width, and showed off his lean form, fitting well into a new pair of jeans that were tucked into a black pair of boots. He had his hat in place, as well as his gun belt, slung low on his hips. Virgil was dressed almost in the same manner, but with a dark blue and yellow shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a buckskin vest with light fringe on the back. He’d left his hat at home, preferring to gather his dreads to tie them back at his neck.
Virgil shifted restlessly before giving a small, impatient whine.
“Some manly whiskey first, then I guess I’ll decide which one’s prettier,” he said with some final decision, frowning as he watched a coy white girl eye him from the lap of one of the men nearby.
Hotstreak snickered, looking at the available girls that were wandering the floors, working their visible assets and adding to the noise with their forced laughter.
Frankly, none of them were very interesting, and he decided that perhaps this wasn’t the place to get his fun.
“There’s a newer place up the street, man,” he said, patting Virgil’s chest with the back of his hand, drawing his attention. “Let’s go up there and see what’s up, first.”
“We just got here! Let’s git somethin’ to drink first, THEN head over there! Dunno, maybe they got some better lookin’ girls, there...lookit that one...I’ll be smushed!” Virgil laughed, pointing at Patty. “But I’ll bet I’ll be callin’ her ‘momma’ by the time I get through drinkin’!”
“That one right there looks like Spotted Deer, man. She prolly only ten years old, man! Lookit her!” Hotstreak said, giving an annoyed expression at Mirage as she trailed through the floor with her tiny frame and baby features.
“That’s...disturbing...the one with the red don’t look that bad...maybe I’ll try her.” Virgil eyed Teresa for a few moments, then wrinkled his nose. “Nah, never mind. She looks mean, dude. She’d have my balls in those talons of hers and make me call her ‘daddy’.”
“Heh. Looks expensive, man. You might need more than five dollars wit’ that one...”
“Man, fuck you!” Virgil said in a delighted way, grinning. “Well...I’ll start the round. You buy the next. Ho?”
“Ho.”
They made their way to the bar, and Virgil bought the first round. One round turned into two, then three, then, when Virgil found interest in a poker game across the way, Hotstreak sat at the bar and nursed drink after drink as he waited for the younger man to come back. It was funny, how he got along so well with him. Virgil was only twenty, but he acted so much younger. Hotstreak himself was twenty-three, yet, but he knew his appearance made him look older than he actually was.
The night continued on with beer after beer, visit to outhouse after another; he considered taking up on one of the girls’ offer–Jessie did look appealing with her exotic, Latin looks–but he wasn’t interested in paying the price they offered.
Alva sure is a greedy sumbitch, he thought after shooing her away. While he knew he could visit Maria on the other side of town, he really wasn’t up to running into her husband if he happened to be home. That relationship had started the first time he’d arrived in this territory; while she was married, her husband worked the rail lines, and she often got ‘lonely’ and ‘bored’ while he was away. She was a fun lay, but he wasn’t in love with her.
Not that he’d want to fall in love.
It was halfway through the night when he began to feel extremely lethargic. Hotstreak was sure he had too many beers, which was why his eyesight grew blurry, and he felt suddenly very tired and exhausted.
Before he could even consider what it all meant, he was distracted by the smell of lavender, something that reminded him of pretty girls and wide meadows. But then, something else caught his attention, because the boy that was suddenly standing next to him looked either that, or a very masculine girl.
He lifted his head, trying to ignore the wave of nausea that hit him at the movement, then peered at the androgynous person closely, trying to figure out what he was seeing. Dressed in very tight blue jeans, with a light blue and lavender plaid shirt, the boy/girl displayed a bony collarbone and a thin neck, their skin soft and pale in a sense that amazed him. The collar was pulled so that the open material hung loosely around the junction of their neck/shoulders, something that instantly drew the eye and made one wonder if they were that color all the way down.
They were slender, small and tidy; he drunkenly figured that the top of their head would barely touch his chest. Sitting up, still staring with a sense of drunken puzzlement, he began to realize that the shoulders were too wide for a girl’s, that the hips were too slim. He lowered his head to look underneath the brim of a brand-new hat, seeing a rounded jaw that was tightly clenched, eyes rimmed with kohl, and a sort of indifferent expression on a boyish face. He was momentarily startled in that a male was wearing color on his face–especially around his eyes. The more Hotstreak looked, the more he realized that the boy’s eyes were more gold with the accentuation of the black liner, throwing him for a drunken spin.
The boy looked at him, then, startled in that he was being looked at so closely. Then his expression turned guarded, anxious, his eyes darting way with a touch of insecurity.
The smell of lavender was coming from him, Hotstreak realized, sniffing covertly.
A little more certain of what he was seeing, he relaxed once more, exhaling heavily as he rested his chin into his folded arms atop of the bar.
“Man, that’s a crazy getup,” he muttered, loudly enough to be heard by the boy and the bartender, drawing their attention. Why couldn’t the room stop spinning? He didn’t think he drank THAT much, to be wasted before the night was even halfway over. And where was Virgil?
“Think you had a little too much, pardner,” the bartender said cheerfully, lifting the mug up and away from Hotstreak’s loosely curled fingers. “I think my friend here has a room for you to pass out in.”
“S’okay,” Hotstreak muttered, waving away the suggestion, never seeing the bartender’s firm nod at the boy that stared at him apprehensively. “None–got one of my own.”
“His is closer, buddy. Here, he’ll help you. ‘Sides, if you pass out here, think of the sheisty bitches that’ll come by and rob ya for what ya got on ya. Don’t want THAT, wouldja?”
Hotstreak felt his face crinkle with thought, then straightened up top the barstool, frowning as he started to sluggishly pat his pockets, making sure he was still armed and that his wad of money was still where he’d left it. He slid off the stool, then, nearly knocking over a couple of men that were propping each other up as they headed toward the doors. He began looking the crowded room for Virgil, but the candle lit room and his own drunkeness hindered his search.
He felt steadying hands on his side as he started to walk forward, swaying a little too much. He ended up knocking over a girl with a tray into a table of poker playing men, causing them all the shout aloud and protest. He couldn’t be THAT drunk...it usually took him awhile to get this plowed. Without nary an apology or regretful action, he rose from the table, registering that the boy was trying to help him stand.
“Fine, fine, jush...jush a little while,” he muttered, letting the kid swing his arm over his shoulders, propping him awkwardly. For a moment, he felt himself sway to the left, nearly dragging the boy with him until he was forcefully hauled forward, encouraged to walk.
Meanwhile, Richie was gritting his teeth, struggling to get the big, smelly man to walk with him as he made uncertain steps toward the stairway. It took a lot of pulling, shoving and encouraging to get the big redhead to follow him up the stairway and pass the thick curtain. His mind was already working on distracting himself from what he had to do; he was sweating slightly in his strenuous efforts, and feeling his stomach work that now familiar clench of nerves and regret.
Jerry, the man that was now permanently placed outside his room, helped him with opening his door and closing it behind them once they were in. With a heavy exhale, Richie shoved the big redhead onto his lumpy bed, frowning as he then struggled to turn him onto his back. It took awhile, making him grunt and work just to get him to turn.
He had to be over two hundred pounds, Richie figured, swearing quietly when the man nearly fell out of his bed.
He then sighed quietly, hating what he had to do as he stared down at the broad body before him. The bartender, Ted, tended to mix some of his drinks with a potent sort of drug that rendered some customers sluggish, drugging them into thinking that they’d had too much to drink.
It was easy for Richie, then, to sweep in and convince the drunken customer to his room, to ‘entertain’ and satisfy him as quickly as possible before they grew clear headed enough to realize what they were doing. Most men, when awakened naturally from their drugged state, weren’t too happy to realize that they’d allowed a young male to arouse and satisfy them. Ted didn’t pay too much attention when he drugged his customers, so Richie was caught a few times when he was in the midst of working. It was never pleasant when he was caught, and he was always tense and rushed when he began working.
Since that night when Casey and the others had taken their turns on him, he’d felt more defeated. More accepting in that this was his life, now. Measures were taken to keep a closer eye on him, and once word leaked to the others on what he could do, more men were willing to take the chance of visiting him. For the first two days after that night, he was sure he’d seen Hell; his body screamed with torture and horror whenever someone chose to use him in that manner, and his mouth was more than sore and tired when put to work.
Nearly a week after, he finally gave in to watching the girls work their customers–hiding in their closets, or behind paper room dividers–and learned from them on how to please their men. It had been unbearable at first–mimicking what they did when they took smelly, disgusting dicks into their mouths, and learning to ride and buck whenever a man wanted him from behind. But the more he practiced, the more the pain seemed bearable, now.
He never enjoyed anything; he couldn’t see how the girls could fake their enthusiasm, their silly orgasmic noises–he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy such acts when he’d learned first hand how hateful and hurtful the acts truly were.
But Ted had taken pity on him, as he had with Mirage a few years back. After taking his free turn with Richie, he told the boy about the drugs, and worked out a plan with him. He’d drug the customers, and that would give Richie the chance to work them before they fully awakened. It was ‘up to him’ what course of actions he wanted to take with his customers, and even suggested stealing a few bucks from a man or two. Take their valuables to give to Junior. It was rotten, uncharacteristic, but it was much better than being forced. With a heavy heart, Richie had taken that chance, and Ted had worked with him since.
Now, faced with this big redhead, Richie figured he’d better work fast. He’d seen his hands, and didn’t want them beating on him when he awoke.
He took off his hat, setting that aside, then slipped off his boots. He forced himself numb so that he wouldn’t have to feel his guilt or disgust in these actions, and stilled himself for a moment so that he could control his sudden shaking. Exhaling deeply, he then crawled onto the bed, straddling the bigger man’s hips.
He was snoring away, passed out, and Richie frowned at him as he worked at his belt buckle. He quickly removed the gun belt, setting that on the floor before resuming his work on his jeans. All he had to do was make him cum; that’s all he had to do. But he abandoned the task and began patting his pockets, searching for money or valuables to take and hide before the man woke up. He found a wad of cash in his left boot, and counted out the amount with considerable unhappiness.
This man had probably worked hard to earn it, and here Richie was, stealing it just so that he could escape a beating.
He felt horrible about every act of stealing he’d done, but he feared beating even more. He pocketed at least half of the cash, to separate one pile for Junior, and another as a secret stash for himself. To use in his next escape attempt. He put the rest of the cash back, then continued with unbuckling and unzipping his jeans.
The moment the bigger man began to shift, Richie stilled, then quickly bent forward, to kiss his jaw line softly, appeasing him without words as he waited to see if he’d awaken, or fall back asleep. He felt relieved when the man stilled, then sighed with a tired sort of air, face shifted away from Richie.
Richie continued to pull the material down his hips, struggling to pull them down toward his knees, frowning as he held his breath. Men were so smelly–some tended to avoid the bath rather than taking one before arriving here. He had a thing about cleanliness, and was almost obsessed with it, himself. If he felt a man smelled too bad, he’d take what he could from him, distract him with silly hand jobs and then insert a finger into his customer’s anus to press on the prostate, to make the man come. He’d learned that trick from Patty, who was quite devious in that aspect. Some men were too confused on what happened to them to realize what he’d done.
Once he had the man’s jeans down around his knees, listening to his snores, Richie stood over him, and quickly shed his own pants, tossing them over the edge for quick grabbing access in case the man awoke while he was halfway through. He left his shirt on, because it was pointless taking it off. With a small sigh, he once again straddled his hips, and began working on the buttons of the man’s shirt.
Once he began revealing the broad expanse of the man’s chest, he felt his stomach clench. Not with the usual roil of nerves and apprehension, but because this man was so cut and defined. He had a sort of strength to him that was appealing. He had cut pectorals, sprinkled lightly with hair, his nipples flat and tan colored. His stomach was just as cut, rising slightly with every breath, defined with slightly raised panes of muscle. With some captivation, Richie dipped his finger into the rigid depths that cut between the planes, tracing the hardness lightly with his fingertip. He marveled at the way the man’s stomach sucked in slightly at the touch, muscles hardening with a fascinating display of strength.
From his navel down grew thick hair that was considerably darker than that of his head, slipping into a thick bush curled pubes that cradled a thick, uncut dick and smooth, round balls.
Richie felt his face flush with color, burning with such intensity that he stopped what he was doing to appreciate the sight before him.
This man worked with his shirt off, he was sure of it. His skin was tanned a rich color and ended in a perfect line around the cuts where his torso met his thighs. The pale skin there was still darker than his, though, as he compared the inside of his wrist to the crease where thigh met body. He settled carefully over his thighs, feeling that flush sneak past his open collar and dust sections of his back and chest.
The room was quiet save for the noises that crept in from the loud activities of the saloon, and from the snores that emitted regularly from the big man. He knew he should get to work; to get this man aroused, do his thing really quick, and have him dressed and resettled at the bar, but it wasn’t often for him to see this sort of masculine beauty. The men that he served were usually quite smelly and repugnant, with thick bellies or gaunt frames; there were some that had muscle such as this, but he’d been distracted by their meanness to appreciate it.
He licked his lips, exhaling quietly as he stared down at the cowboy’s chest, watching as it rose and fell with each breath. Shifting slightly, he gazed in open wonder at the man’s face, reaching out to push his shirt open so that he could run his hands over his muscled sides, shivering slightly at the touch. He straightened slightly, lowering one hand onto the broad chest, tracing his fingers over the expanse with a curious sort of air. Hard muscle, warm skin, the light prickles of hair under his palm made his stomach shiver in that strange way once more. He lifted both hands to run them over the man’s skin again, brushing his nipples with his thumbs, making them pebble.
When he realized how much he wanted to taste them, he had to lift his hands off of him, the foreign thought puzzling him. He hadn’t the desire, before–and the very thought made him blush intensely once more.
He had green eyes, Richie realized, looking onto his face, shifting onto his hands and knees over his body.
He’d seen them in the bar’s light, peering at him drunkenly. This man had a strong, square jaw, a wide mouth and thin lips, a patch of hair carefully tended to just below the bottom. Richie touched that as well, lightly running his finger over the small patch, marveling at the stiffness and the care that had been used to maintain that certain area. He then carefully touched the high cheekbones and the angular lines of his forehead. He could see a vein throbbing calmly on the right side of the man’s forehead, and carefully ran his fingertip over that, as well. He found himself marveling over the thickness of his hair, lightly running his fingers through the cascade of red, touching his ears. When he looked back at his face, he stared at the furrowed, dark eyebrows, and marveled at the soft tips of his closed eyelashes.
Green eyes...
He could feel the exhaled breath on his chin, and he, after a moment’s hesitation, bent his face slightly to catch some of that airy movement against his skin. Leaning in closer, he could smell traces of aftershave and pungent male sweat. He winced, but found himself closing his eyes as he pressed his cheek against the other’s face, feeling the prickly stubble that scratched at his skin. He smiled slightly at the feel, just rubbing his cheek against his stubble, listening to him snore.
He then straightened, to look down into his face, smoothing away shaggy, dark red hair. He had a visible tan line from his hat on his forehead. His hair smelled of sweaty musk and leather. Richie inhaled deeply of it, then coughed.
With another small smile, Richie lowered himself to touch his lips to the man’s collarbone, inhaling more of that wonderful man scent. He kissed softly on the warm skin, trailing down to his chest, tickling his own chin with the chest hair he’d encountered.
Then he jerked himself straight, wondering what he was doing. Quickly, he shifted, swallowing hard as he grew level with the thick, uncut dick. Making a face, he hopped off the man and his bed, and scrounged through the candle lit darkness for his washing bowl and rag. He quickly wet the rag and hurried back, watching the sleeping man carefully as he began to gently wash his dick, determined to make it more pleasant for himself. He was careful to clean the foreskin, dipping his finger in and pulling it back, methodically cleaning what his mouth would touch, afraid of getting sick on this wonderful specimen.
The man didn’t really stir, just kept snoring, and Richie tossed the rag to the side. Then, with some hesitation, he settled himself back over him, and promptly began using his mouth to awaken his erection. It took some time, but when the straining length was full and hard, Richie wiped his mouth with a sort of disgusted expression.
He hated this act no matter how drugged the man was, or what it did to please the customer.
He then worked enough saliva to spit down onto the sleeping man’s cock, wetting it thoroughly so that he would have no need for the pot of scented oil that he used for lubrication. This act always made him tense, and he made himself breathe in and out in a sort of relaxation technique, then settled over him. He was already stretched, thanks to his first customer of the night, and so he lowered himself slowly onto the heated dick with a low exhale of air.
Once he was firmly seated atop of him, hunching forward slightly to rest his hands on the big man’s hips, he realized that the man was starting to stir. A little scared, he froze, eyes locked on his face as he felt his hips shifting underneath him, feeling his cock twitching and fattening within him. There was the now expected explosion of pain and uncomfortable fullness, his spine alighted with darts of irritation. But he’d learned to ignore all his own discomforts in favor of his customers, and squeezed his ass tightly, massaging the length with his body, and shifted his own hips, rocking slightly with an expression of unease.
The man groaned, shifting, his chest heaving with another low sound, his hips shifting to push himself more into Richie’s body.
The blond winced, holding onto his position tightly, then gave a sound of distress when his hips were grabbed and held firmly, the man awakening with some coherency to start thrusting up into him. Richie didn’t feel any pleasure–just uncomfortable fullness as he struggled to make his body work with the thrusting. The big redhead had his head tossed back slightly, groaning again as his fingers tightened on Richie’s hips.
Then, before Richie could get into the rhythm, he felt the telltale splash of cum splatter his insides, and he gave a whimper as he forced himself off the thick, twitching dick. The man didn’t seem to care, still too far off in his drugged haze to realize that the warm body had left him before he even finishing cumming.
Anxiously, Richie left him to find his wash rag, crouching to clean himself, trying to remove all traces that a man had left his seed in his body. Customers hated entering a body that was touched by the warm traces of another man’s cum.
Then, a little satisfied in that he removed what he could, he dipped the rag into the washing bowl, then hurried over to start cleaning up the man’s sperm splattered pubes and stomach. He still felt bad in that the man was still drugged, even worse when he’d used him in such a way.
But the thing that kept him moving was the thought of Junior beating him, and he worked quickly. He dried what he’d cleaned, then started to struggle with his pants, pulling them back up his thighs. The man was just so heavy, that he grunted and struggled to do so. By the time he’d managed to get his pants into place, he was panting again. Richie climbed off to pull on his own pants, his knees shaking as he did so. He kept glancing over at the big man, stealing appreciative glances as he fastened his pants. He left his shirt untucked as he quickly climbed over him once more, buttoning and latching. He pulled his gun belt on and around him awkwardly, fastening it a little too tightly because he was a little scared in that those six shooters would be used on him.
He gave a startled sound as big hands clamped over his wrists, and he was pulled over the man, hearing him groan, “C’mon, girl, one more. Promise I won’t go fast, this time...promise...”
Embarrassed, but finding the comment a little funny, Richie struggled to get out of his grasp. He gave an awkward yelp as the man rolled over him, pinning him to his own bed. Fright overtook him for a couple of moments before he heard the resuming of heavy breathing and slight snoring. He rested there for a moment, feeling a heavy tug of his eyelids. He still wasn’t used to the schedule, and he did have trouble sleeping, on constant alert that Junior and his cronies were going to visit him, again.
He laid there underneath the bigger man, surrounded by his man scent, pinned by his heavy weight, and felt...almost content. Almost secure. As if this man could block out all his troubles and all his worries, and keep him safe and sound. He closed his eyes in misery, relaxing just slightly underneath the strange sensation. Tears burned at the back of his eyelids, and his chest constricted painfully. He wanted to go back home so badly...to stop this nightly continuance of torture and humiliation.
He wanted the safety of his mother and father, again.
His fingers curled into his blankets, and for a brief moment, he almost began to cry, his body throbbing with the now familiar stretching of his anus, the tingly sensation of having been invaded. But he struggled to keep himself composed, feeling the big man suddenly shift, arm curling around his waist.
Suddenly, he was suffocating, unable to draw in breath–it wasn’t from the position, but from the fact that he’d taken too long. He shouldn’t have taken his time in looking at this man, earlier.
At that very moment, Jerry began pounding on the door with a low grumble. Richie felt the man jerk against him in surprise and realized with some horror that if he’d heard that sound, then he was more than aware to realize what had happened. He froze, every limb locked tight as he felt the big redhead shift on him.
“Th’ ‘ell?” he heard him grumble, lifting his face from the back of his neck. “Th’ fuck? Go ‘way! Sunnofvabeeach...c’mon baby, go back to sleep. We’ll make ‘nuther kid in da’mornin’...”
Richie made a face, finding the comment absurd. Despite himself, he had to wonder if this man was married, or just possessed a mistress of some sort. It just made him feel very down in that he wouldn’t have a chance at that sort of lifestyle. If he ever left this place, who would ever want him as a husband?
This made his throat tight, and his eyes burn once more.
The man shifted again, and Richie heard his quick inhale of breath. Jerry pounded on the door once more, grumbling at him to hurry up. At that, the man shifted off of him, and Richie quickly rolled out from underneath him, jumping to his feet. Looking over, he saw the redhead blink in a dazed sort of manner, then focus on him.
For a few silent moments, he watched those green eyes study him, recognize him, then fill with a sort of horror that Richie saw commonly in those that had, in a few moments, realized what had been done to them. And the man was shifting off the bed in a flurry of outraged movements, lunging at him with a fairly enraged and drunken snarl.
Without much of a choice, Richie simply dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, protecting his face. No customer wanted to see marks on his whore, but he could hide bruises easily with his shirt. He felt fingers ensnare within his hair, and he was yanked upright, into a sitting position. He gave a frightened gasp as one large hand snaked between his legs to grope his privates. Not for anything arousing; just to check to see what was there. His head was slammed off the wall as he heard the man give an enraged shout.
“No way! No fuckin’ way! Ain’t–! NO! Fuckin’–! This is fuckin’ bullshit!” he screamed in horrified disbelief. He was suddenly touching himself, then feeling along his backside, as if he could discover any damage done to him by this boy. Finding nothing, his hands touching his groin and recognizing the familiar pull of a previous orgasm, he gave a disbelieving snarl.
But Jerry was already moving into the room, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the door, coaxing him in a sort of gentle voice to leave. Richie continued to keep his position until after he heard the door shut, the two men shouting at each other outside. His shoulders started shaking first, until his entire body felt tight with rigid vibration, his stomach roiling with regret, helplessness and disgust. He hated what he had to do, but it was admittedly better than to have a man sober and conscious, to hurt him purposefully. To have a man unconscious and unable to hurt him left him feeling guilty and evil, but only because he would prefer to remain unscathed. It was wretched, filled with rotten consequence, but he just had to do it. He had to do it.
By the time he managed to get a hold of himself once more, inhaling shakily and with a trace of tears, the door opened again, Jerry looking at him.
“Get up,” he said in disgust. “Junior says one more, for the night. An’ he better have his money.”
Richie said nothing to him. The man would have his money.