'Neath Western Skies, Ma!

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Ain't it funny how these things work out?
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Hypoxia
Hypoxia
929 Followers

Author's note: The following tale is mostly fiction. All sex involves live humans aged 18+. The story contains multiracial and bisexual elements, as well as the expected incest; if you object, stop reading. For readers' convenience, most non-Anglish-language communications are presented in loose Anglish translation. Views expressed may not be the author's. Information may not be totally accurate. It's just a story, folks.

*****

'Neath Western Skies, Ma!

Ain't it funny how things work out?

*****

The bulbous full moon rose like a giant pearl over the purple sage of the craggy Mogollon {MUG-ee-own) Rim. Lanky blond Jack puffed his stubby cigar and regarded the view over the Verde Valley, and his prospects.

Jackson Jericho 'Jack' James was a pike, a real one - poor white trash whelped and raised in Pike County, Kentucky. Or maybe Pike County, Missouri. Or Pike County, Ohio. Same thing. Despite that ignominious kleptomaniac trigger-happy redneck heritage - he was not-too-distant kin to Frank and Jesse James - he was a loyal, honest cowpuncher, never joining rustlers, only re-branding unidentifiable strays, and keeping his own counsel about what he saw and heard, in or out of camp.

And he saw and heard a lot.

Jack saw and heard his trail boss Clayton's wife Rosa being doggy-fucked by that slick Argentine gaucho Ernesto, the epitome of the Latin lover. Even Latin lovers are dogs. Ernesto was a slow, leisurely lover until he switched into frantic-poodle mode and pounded her without mercy, canine-like. Woof.

Jack saw and heard his trail boss Clayton having his own little affairs. A man like that should not be allowed near cattle. Sure, there were a couple little calves Jack fancied himself, but he was not going down that path. He shook his head and puffed his stogie again.

Movement on the homestead directly below Jack's cliff-top lookout caught his eye. Lights flickered. Matches were struck, candles lit and held aloft, a tide of lights, maybe a dozen, drifting to the frontier cabin's front door. Widow Martin must be pulling the old train again tonight, Jack thought. That should be quite a show, and well-lit, too.

Jack extended his collapsible spyglass and peered at the gathering. His lens kissed face after face - faces of prosperous men, respectable married men, village councilmen, aldermen in the settlement church, the local elite. Horny men. Men who would get lucky tonight, and share microbes. For a price.

Jack pulled on his cigar again and grinned as he recalled the vivid story of Mrs Merry Martin and the late, unlamented Mordechai Martin. Theirs was the stuff of legend. He was just another dusty saddle tramp with a battered Stetson, a dented Sharps carbine, a mouse-eaten bedroll, and a huge ten-pound sausage of a schlong. She was a well-worn saloon floozy with a cunt the size of Carlsbad Caverns. They were a perfect pair.

Their frantic couplings frightened the cattle. Their herds preferred distant pastures for peace and quiet.

Mordechai Martin had recently joined the heavenly choir, perishing of lead poisoning after unfortunate cards slipped from his buckskin jacket's sleeve. There had been a recent epidemic of such cases. Jack shook his head at the carelessness.

The spyglass peering in through Widow Martin's front door saw men wearing frock coats over ruffled shirts, and dressy boots, and nothing else but hairy skin and expectations. Candlelight reflected off scattered gold coins. Yes, Jack thought, the old Clarkdale Express is about to cum roaring in.

Jack's sorrel mare nickered softly behind him, a warning - something neared. Jack moved slowly, deliberately, softly cocking the hammer of his Colt US Navy revolver while flicking an ash from his cigar stub, not turning to see who was behind him but extending his sixth sense.

A dark wisp of breeze from behind brought a signature fragrance - smoky patchouli. Flora O'Farrell!

Jack twisted to view his approaching lover. Her sharp freckled face glowed in the syrupy moonlight, thick gold hair tied back in an untidy hank, blue eyes sparkling. Dusty buckskin clung to her voluptuous curves. Even in 'gator-hide Mexican boots she moved silently through the low brush. She looked used. She was rode hard and put away wet but he loved her herbal douche and spicy sweat.

Flora unrolled the cinnamon-and-blue Zapotec-weave saddle blanket from her shoulder and spread it in a small clearing in the sage. She regarded Jack, her feet spread, hands on wide hips, oval head nodding.

"Well, cowboy, ya want a ride?" she hummed.

Jack pushed himself up from his perch on a boulder. He brushed dust from his coat and chaps and smiled at the frontier temptress.

"Yes, ma'am, I do believe I could accommodate that."

"You'll have to wait your turn though," Flora drawled. She kicked off her boots and stripped the buckskins molded to her curvaceous body. "I always take the first ride."

She stood naked on the blanket's edge. Her large breasts, topped with dark silver-dollar areolas and pebbled nipples like Comanche clay beads, rose firm and proud from her strong, work-tightened, sun-stained frame. Her wild amber muff was a briarpatch Jack would lose himself in gloriously. I'll Bre'r Rabbit you, he thought.

Jack did not stand inactive while he regarded her bare-ass femininity. His coat and chaps hit the ground; worn army boots swiftly joined them, followed by denims and long johns. His cock hung thick below drooping balls. Moonlight picked out the pale, curly hairs on his long, lean body.

"And you're gonna wipe down first." Flora threw a fairly clean flour-sack at him. "Don't wanna do no dirty dog."

"Yes, ma'am, I know the routine." He thoroughly toweled-off his nethers and tossed the soft cloth back to her; she did the same.

Jack rolled his long-coat into a pillow and lay back on the blanket with one hand under his head. He stroked his lengthening cock; his eyes feasted.

"We all kind of dry, now ain't we?" Flora fingered her pussy. "I sure am. We just gonna have to take care of that the usual way, now ain't we?"

Flora stood over the blond man's trail-hardened body and smiled evilly. She spun around and knelt over his face. His tongue reached to her tangy taint as she settled onto him, his cock in her mouth, his hands on her taut ass, his fingers stroking and probing.

Jack savored Flora's damn delicious pussy, sharp like peppered jerky, wet and tart like those almost-spoilt oysters they served at cheaper taverns. Was she sweet? Fuck no! Piss and sweat and lymphatic secretions, and brains used to tan her buckskins, and fuck knows what else, like a shamanic stew minus the magic mushrooms, probably.

Flora loved slurping that thick, musty man-root deep into her mouth, filling her throat, throbbing on her tongue, spiked with a tincture of pre-cum. Her head moved up and down; her cheeks puffed in and out; her larynx moaned.

They lubricated each other quite well. Flora came twice on Jack's agile tongue- and finger-work. Jack was near the edge and Flora was approaching a third explosion when she rolled off him.

"Okay boy, time for you to be my fucking Golden Palomino, and me to be goddam Calamity Jane." She straddled his thrusting hips and impaled herself deeply on his throbbing cunt-splitter in one smooth lunge. "Fuck yeah, just like that. Giddyup, horsie!"

Flora bounced and shook atop Jack's bucking hips - bucking like a wild bronco, like a concentrated earthquake. Whap! Slap! Unh unh unh! Her breasts swayed furiously with her rolling, rocking rhythms. She pushed up, almost rising off him, almost (but not quite) losing connection, before slamming down on him, pubes against pubes, wham!

Jack's hard hands gripped Flora's hips like great insistent claws. He pushed her to a slightly different angle; his curved cock hit new areas inside her, brushed against her clit, impacted her G-spot, threatened her cervix.

She came again. And again. "Oh fuck! Oh god! Oh holy Mary! Oh fuck! Oh shit! Ohhhh..." She spasmed like an epileptic.

This was fun but enough was enough, Jack thought. He clasped Flora tightly and rolled them over while still firmly embedded in her. Into the classic missionary posture, her arms and legs spider-wrapped around him, his oak-hard baton beating into her as she pulled him tighter, closer, deeper, and he fucked harder, faster, a roaring blur, a pounding piston of pleasure - and a hot, roaring release.

"Yaarrrr!!" Jack sounded more like a pirate than a cowboy.

"Ahhhhhh!!" Flora screamed into the night like a banshee.

Laughter rolled up the cliffs from the Widow Martin's cabin. Their coupling had apparently not gone unnoticed. Jack grinned at Flora.

"Guess we told them boys, didn't we, gal?"

"They're all just little boys. You're the only big boy around here!"

"Plenty big enough for y'all, it seems, ma'am."

Flora slapped at her big brother's arm.

"Y'all can drop that ma'am shit, y'know, boy. Don't need to be so formal."

Still wrapped together, Jack held her tight again and rolled them on their sides. They lay connected at both ends, genitals joined, mouths locked in an endless kiss. Jack slowly stroked his rejuvenating cock in and out of his sister's vagina. Her swallowed gasps revealed her continuing pleasure.

They performed a long, slow, sideways fuck. Flora's orgasms washed over her like a warm tide. Jack managed to fill his little sister's womb again.

Night wind off Mungo Mountain cooled their sweaty flesh. Taut muscles eased; Jack slipped wetly from Flora's depths. She reached to stroke his face.

"Oh big brother, I love you so much! Ever since I rode here and found you, I've just been so happy! But y'all know I gotta go back to Jake, be a good wife for him. I can do that, some nights. But some nights, I just gotta be with you. Oh Jack, what am I gonna do?" She wept softly.

Jack caressed his sister's jaw and neck. He kissed her wet cheek.

"You better get clean and get going, girl. C'mon, let's wash up."

A rock-pool amid the sun-warmed boulders held enough water for a skinny-dipping scrub-down session. Brother and sister washed each other with care and fevered kisses.

They climbed from the pool, naked bodies gleaming in the afterglow. Standing together, the thin mile-high atmosphere left them air-dried in mere minutes. A soft breeze carried sagebrush perfume and far-off mournful coyote songs.

Night-birds under a full moon mocked them as they reluctantly dressed. Flora threaded the trail to her horse, and back home to her insensitive, boring husband. Jack mounted his sorrel mare and rode to his lonely line shack. The siblings' minds reeled with passionate memories. These stolen moments were precious and rare. How long could they continue?

=====

How long could they continue? Not long, as it turned out.

It was Sunday, a day of rest, a day of worship for those so inclined, and for many, a day to sleep off hangovers, bruises, and raw genitals from the prior night's orgies. Jack James took his free day in the vertical mining town of Jerome, sipping a warm draft beer while hymns croaked by ragged voices oozed from the desperate church across the steep, narrow roadway.

Jack finished his beer and figured he might as well hit Gil's general store for a few supplies. Maybe Gil would have a new supply of them fancy French tickler condoms, huh? Jack pushed through the tavern's swinging doors and hoofed up the boardwalk.

A familiar buckskin-clad figure approached. Flora! Jack's smile vanished when his sister pinched her lips and gave her head a slight shake. Their hands brushed as they passed; a note slipped into his grasp.

Jack walked behind a building to a well-used oak tree and stood to piss on it. Looking to see that no prying eyes were upon him, he glanced at his sister's note.

He knows, he read. Meet me at the usual. Now!

Jack's urine flow dribbled away. He stuffed himself back to decency and returned to the main road. Pulling a Bull Durham tobacco pouch from his leather vest and hand-rolling a harsh cigarette with the note, he struck a lucifer match on his boot sole and smoked the evidence.

"The usual" was that same rock-pool by the aerie over Widow Martin's cabin. An hour's circuitous ride convinced Jack he was not followed. His big sorrel mare picked her way carefully amid the boulders. Flora awaited them on her own black stallion.

The siblings leapt from their mounts and crushed each other.

"Oh Jack! Oh my love!" Flora cried and hugged him fiercely. "Jake knows! I don't know how, but he knows about us! He's got the Clinton brothers down from Prescott and they're going to string you up after they cut your balls off. Y'all gotta git away, NOW! Run, Jack, run!"

An approaching drumbeat of galloping hooves echoed across the cliff-tops.

"Oh Jack! They're here! Go, Jack, go! I'll love you forever! I'll never forget you..."

Flora's mournful voice faded as Jack sped into the distance. Jack heard shouts but the hoof-beats continued. The chase was on!

Jack rode desperately through the scattered sagebrush and scrubby conifers. His quirt stroked his mare's flanks, urging her onwards, faster, faster yet.

He took a hidden cutoff back to his line cabin. He needed less than a minute to stuff his meager possessions into a rough potato sack and hit the exile trail again. He regretted abandoning his pack horse and the makeshift still where he brewed hootch from cactus and agave juice, but discretion was the better part of survival, as their Pa always said before he was hanged.

Jack reined-in his gasping, sweating mare when they reached the muddy Verde River. The sluggish stream was lined with palo verde mesquites and cottonwood trees; the swim across cooled and refreshed both horse and human. They moved more slowly through the weird red rock country of Sedona.

Now, a choice: northeast up Oak Creek to Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon country; or southeast down toward Phoenix and Mexico; or eastward along the Mogollon Rim?

Jack spat a fat loogie. The trailing wind blew it due east. That was settled, he thought. Shaking the reins, man and horse moved like a Stetson-topped centaur across the rugged hills toward the Painted Desert and beyond.

=====

Jack wandered throughout the West; he had lost his taste for cowboy range-riding. Instead, he became obsessed with finding gold, silver, any paying minerals. With his trusty sorrel mare and two pack burros loaded with tools and supplies he was the very image of the peripatetic prospector.

(A prospector was called to testify in court. Asked how long he had been a prospector, he replied, "Nigh on thirty years." Later, asked how long he had prospected, he said, "Two years." Probed about the discrepancy, he ranted, "Hell yes, I been a prospector for thirty years, and I prospected for just two years. I spent the other twenty-eight years chasing my damn burros!")

Jack spent time searching for wealth on the Hopi mesas. He made no strikes but did enjoy life in his months there.

He was taken in by two sisters with a rough and tidy adobe-block home outside Walpi pueblo on First Mesa. Jack called them Sue and Rue because he lacked patience and accent to say Suyala'Ngwa (Winter Deer) and Lumahongva (Beautiful Clouds) (and Rue's lisp made her pronounce her name as Rumrahongvra). That laziness was his pike heritage.

Hopi Sue and Hopi Rue, faces round and skin bronze, were uninhibited, lithe, and clean. Their sturdy hut of stacked shale slabs rose beside a thin watercourse in their ravine. The blocked trickle formed a small pond for watering their goats, irrigating, and washing. They kept everything well-scrubbed: their home and possessions, themselves, and Jack.

And they were very oral. With Jack, and each other. And he returned their favors, and flavors.

Sue and Rue, with Jack's help, built a playroom onto their stone shack, a stony space about eight feet square filled several inches deep with pads and coverings woven from mohair, wool, cotton, yucca fiber, whatever. This formed a nice soft mattress for their play sessions.

Sue splashed Jack, laughing. She ran naked from the pool and dashed toward the shack. Jack, equally naked, tried to chase her, but giggling Rue bumped his cock and knocked him back into the water. He dunked her head and used the distraction to climb out and pursue Sue. Rue quickly followed after him. All were dry when they reached the playroom, all but their long hair.

The late afternoon sun cast long red-tinged shadows across the dusty desert landscape. Details were hidden from outside view. A tender trap was laid.

Jack ran through the shadowed doorway - and tripped on Sue's outstretched foot. He fell heavily on the pads.

Sue jumped on him; Rue was right behind her. Rue shoved Jack on his back and sat on his legs. Her tongue traced a moist path along his shaft, swirled seductively around his glans, tickled his pee-hole, and was soon joined by Sue's tongue from the other side. Fingers linked, Jack's hands behind his head held his vision on the two mouths worshiping his manhood. He sighed.

Lissom little Rue swung around to drop her pussy on his face. His tongue attacked her groaning sex. Svelte sunny Sue's mouth swallowed his lust-hardened cock, then moved to engulf his balls when Rue slurped his dickhead.

He twisted, toppled Rue onto her side, pulled his head between her muscled thighs, licked her fluffy pliable labia again, and then pressed in and tongue-fucked her, probing every patch of her depths. Sue's generous lips locked on his cock; her strong legs opened for Rue's busy mouth licking at her sister's snatch. Their triad daisy chain throbbed, rocked, and moaned like a single great happy organism.

Jack clutched Rue's taut buns. He worked an index finger into her slot and stroked her from inside. She wriggled in spirited response. He added another finger; more stroking produced more writhing. Nibbling her clit, he shifted his now-soaked index finger to her brown rosebud and slid firmly inside.

Can you say "dramatic reaction"?? Rue's scream, muffled by her sister's mons veneris, radiated with her squirming spasms. She involuntarily bit a bit too hard on her sister's love button, triggering Sue's own climactic shout, smothered by her mouthful of Jack's distended cock.

Somehow, Sue's long finger found its way into Jack's anus and stroked his prostate, just right. And Jack did cum and cum and cum, spewing hot pike sperm into Sue's happy Hopi mouth in a continuous molten stream that seemed to burn forever and ever, amen.

"Oh fuck," he groaned, "oh fuck, aláaxwush, hot damn..."

"Aiiiee, lóoviqu´s, that was nice, so nice, my sister," Sue murmured. She undulated between her lovers' fleshy forms.

"Yes, 'áamokat polóov, he's good, very good, isn't he?" Rue said. She squirmed to hold Jack and her sister. The three kissed and clung together.

Jack rolled aside. "I gotta rest for a minute, ladies. Noy kúpkat. Don't mind me."

Sue and Rue continued kissing - not tame sisterly kisses, either. Jack watched, bemused and aroused, as their mouths explored familiar bodies, twisted into human pretzels, and looped into a languid 69 with Rue on top.

Jack peered closely as Sue lapped up into her sister's tasty pussy like a thirsty wildcat. He watched Rue's heavenly juices exude and flux to Sue's ambitious tongue. Damn, that was so fucking sexy! He moved to another angle for a good view of Sue's proud pussy quivering under Rue's lively lips. Hot fuck, what a scene!

He always loved seeing women love each other like that. It was even better that he did not have to pay for the show.

A shiny drop of vaginal dew threatened to drip from Sue. Jack could not help himself. He aimed his head next to Rue's and licked it away.

Hypoxia
Hypoxia
929 Followers
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