Ross stood on the front porch, eyes squinting in the harsh midday sun. Off in the distance he could see a trail of dust billowing up from behind a car traveling along the long drive to the house. He sighed and shook his head, took his hat off and ran one strong hand through the gray hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck.
He was a powerfully built man, at about 6'4", with long legs, broad shoulders and a deep chest. His arms were a good 18 inches around, half the circumference of his waist. His years of working in the harsh plains of Western Oklahoma, Red Carpet Country, giving him the lean, yet muscled build of an athlete still in his prime. While other cowboys eventually went to pot, worked hard at not working hard, Ross continued to get out and do the labor, his hands brown from the sun on one side and red from the dirt on the other.
He watched the dust trail coming, still probably about 5 miles out, slowly making its way. Ross let his hand fall to his side and stepped off the porch, headding to the barn and the tractor. They'd need pulling out, he figured.
Alan drove slowly down the dirt road, trying as he might to avoid the ruts. He was talking, his son Chase was sitting in the passenger seat not listening.
"Ross is an old friend, an old friend," Alan said. "Knew him in the war. He was a goddam war hero." Alan paused, thinking back to those days, Italy, that big, rawboned sonofabitch from Oklahoma running up the hill, bullets flying,nothing but lanky limbs and tall body weaving through the hellfire.
"Have I told you about that? Have I told you?" Alan looked at his son. Chase was staring out of the window, his face locked up tight like his mother's used to get when she didn't agree with something Alan had said. Brows and jawline, nothing else. Shock of soft blonde curls, blue eyes averted. Alan watched Chase's hands twitch and flutter in his lap. "Well?"
Chase took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes sir. Italy. Ross took out a machine gun position single-handed. Killed--"
"Killed two goddam Germans with his bare hands," Alan crowed, "but only after he killed three of 'em with his rifle. It jammed."
Alan smiled and then there was a bump, and a crunch, and then they were sitting still in a cloud of their own dust, the '55 Chevy nose down in a washed out spot in the road.
"Well goddam," Alan said quietly.
Ross found them walking, Alan in his grey suit, sweat pouring down his face but his silk tie still done up tight, and Chase sloping along beside him in jeans and a white t-shirt. Ross smirked a little from the vantage point of the tractor seat as he looked past them at the Chevy sitting nose low in the washout.
"Howdy cowboy," Alan said, grinning.
"I see you still drive the same," Ross said, stopping the tractor and switching off.
"Pretty much," Alan laughed, holding out his hand. The two men shook hands solemnly. Alan gestured at Chase.
"This is Chase, Chase this is Ross. Step up and shake the man's hand."
Ross leaned down from his seat and held out his hand. Chase stepped up as instructed and they shook hands, Ross's huge hand engulfing the younger man's. Alan beamed happily.
He winked at Ross. "What's for dinner?"
It took some doing, but they were able to pull the Chevy out of the washout. Alan drove the Chevy back behind Ross on his tractor, chattering the entire time, telling about the time Ross had gone into the whore house in Rome and bedded every one of them "on a bet." He grinned at Chase. "We had the girls report on whether he got it up each time and sure enough he did and then some."
Chase was only half listening, his eyes on the broad back of the man atop the tractor in front of them, his own hand clenched at the memory of that calloused hand engulfing his warmly. He took a deep breath and looked out of his window angrily.
The ranch house was a simple structure, a box with a porch, a single room with a sink and counter to one side, a fireplace to the other and two old, over-stuffed chairs in the middle. The back of the house had a small bedroom and a bathroom to one side. Several chickens ran around the front yard and an old dog hobbled up to sniff at Chase's outstretched hand. It gave him a quick lick, looked suspiciously at Alan, who was yammering on about old war buddies, before hobbling to a chair on the porch. With a surprising amount of energy it hopped up onto the chair, curled up and fell fast asleep.
"His name is Spike," Ross said, nodding toward the dog. Alan was still talking, trotting out memories of past glory. He didn't notice that Ross was ignoring him and looking at Chase kindly.
Chase gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement and looked away. They went into the house and Ross sat them down before he began rattling around in the kitchen.
"I want to thank you for your help in hiring the boy, Ross," Alan said.
"It's quite alright," Ross shrugged as he began cutting up chunks of meat. "Lord knows I could use a hand around here."
"You need a wife," Alan proclaimed.
"Not really," Ross said. "You do before I do."
Alan sighed. "Goddam I guess." He squinted at Chase. "You mind if Chase goes out to look at the horse barn?"
Ross looked over his shoulder at Chase, nearly catching the boy staring at him. "Go right ahead."
Chase blinked, saw Alan's look of expectation and stood up. "Subtle," he murmured under his breath.
Alan chose to ignore him. When Chase was out of the door he shook his head.
"Don't know what to do with that boy," he said.
"How about nothin'?" Ross replied quietly. "I mean he is, what, 16 or 17?"
"Nineteen," Alan said. "Nineteen!"
"He's his own man," Ross said. "Not much you can or maybe should do."
"It ain't that easy. He can't hold down a job, he was beat up and kicked out of college for..." Alan went silent. Ross looked at his old friend and saw the emotion on his face. "...for lewd behavior."
Ross threw some beef chunks in a cast iron pan. He let Alan tell his story.
"Seems that he followed another boy into the men's room and propositioned him. The other boy beat him up, rightly so I imagine. Another boy came in and heard the tussle in the stall and joined in. Wailed on him pretty good. Then reported his behavior. He was-"
Alan paused for a moment, clinching his jaw. "He was arrested for homosexual acts. Luckily the other boy's father is a client of mine and he wasn't about to dip his toe into that publicity but...homosexual acts. He's a goddam faggot."
He looked at Ross. "I know you know, I sent the letter, I told you he was a fairy, he needs an education on being a real man, and that's why. Engaging in homosexual acts. A goddam pervert."
"I don't know how I can help," Ross said.
"You can show him how to be a real man. I can't get through to him. He just stares out into the distance, at nothing." Alan grimaced. "I guess I think he needs a role model."
Ross leaned forward a little and looked out of the window. He could see Chase standing by a corral petting the old bay mare, his slim body straight and strong, very different from the hunched boy who grumbled at his father. Poor kid, Ross thought. He clinched his jaw.
"I'll see what I can do," he said, his low voice rumbling.
"Thanks buddy," Alan replied, sighing in relief. "I know you'll turn him into a real man."
That night Chase slept on a sleeping bag, Alan on an old Army cot, and Ross in the small bedroom at the back of the house.
Chase lay quietly, staring at the ceiling, his father sleeping soundly nearby. He was thinking of those hands. Hands that had killed. A big calloused, strong hand that held his like it would hold a bird. Yes, it could crush its fragile bones but it was gentle.
He imagined that hand gripping his hip, cupping his ass. Chase squeezed his eyes tight, fighting the urge. It was the reason he was here in the first place. The urge.
It was the urge that made him follow that senior into the bathroom, followed the tall, blue-eyed handsome young man into the stall. The urge that had him on his knees, unfolding, yes UNFOLDING, that monstrously lovely cock that would have no hope of fitting lengthwise in much of anything, his mind ablaze as if the heat of its pulsing shaft transferred through his grip and straight into his brain.
His mouth agape, watering, as he stroked the python into an angry state before the hand that gripped the back of his head guided him, brought his eager mouth and the throbbing snake together.
The urge made him groan as precumcoated his mouth, as the warm, musky scent of a man permeated his being.
The tall senior growled, thrusting deep, holding Chase's head cruelly, seeming to enjoy his gagging sounds, seeming to revel in the feel of the younger boy's nose pressed into his pungent pubic bush. He pulled out, enjoying the sight of his spit cover cock sliding between the pretty blonde boy's full, girlish lips. Then in deep, into the throat, the kid gagging again.
Then the bathroom door opened.
Chase went from choking on that impossibly hard shaft to having his head slammed against the stall wall.
"What the fuck, faggot!"
Chase looked up at the tall senior who was frantically buttoning up his jeans, his eyes glassy with fear.
"What's goin' on in there?" The boy who just entered the bathroom stood puzzled in the middle of the room. He leaned down, seeing Chase Down on all floors, dazed, half under the two foot gap between the bottom of the stall wall and the floor.
The tall senior slammed open the stall wall, his face filled with panicked, righteous anger.
"This fuckin' cocksucker crawled under the wall, looking to to suck my prick while I was pissin'!"
The other boy's eyes narrowed. He took it all in. Tall, athletic, popular senior, skinny, downright pretty, effeminate boy on the ground looking, well, guilty.
The tall senior snarled at Chase and swung a foot at him, connecting with his chest. The boy collapsed, the air forced out of his lungs. He barely felt the two drag him from the stall, barely felt the blows reigning down on his head and shoulders.
Chase lay in Ross's house looking up at the rustic beams. He wondered if Ross had a gun handy. He felt he could put it to good use, to make the pain go away.
The next morning Alan drove away slowly, this time concentrating on the rutted road. Ross stood beside Chase watching the car slowly recede into the distance until it was nothing but a column of dust in the morning light.
"Do you know why I'm here?" Chase asked, his clear voice cutting into the silence.
Ross shrugged, waiting.
Chase looked at him. "Because dad thinks I'm a fag."
"I suppose it matters what your father thinks," Ross said, "but what do you think?"
Chase smirked. "I figure I'll be beaten into manhood by daddy's hero friend from the war and if I survive it I'll be expected to eat pussy and beat up cocksuckers."
Ross didn't say anything. He stepped off the porch and walked off toward the barn.
"Where you going?" Chase asked, stepping down off the porch.
"Into town. Gotta get supplies."
Chase followed him slowly. Once in the truck Ross waited patiently until the younger man got in. Then he pushed the floor starter, bringing the old Jimmy 3/4 ton to life.
The ride into town followed Alan's column of dust. When they got to the main road, though, they turned west instead of east where Alan had gone as he headed back to Oklahoma City. As they drove they were quiet until finally Chase spoke up.
"Funny thing about my dad," he said.
Chase smirked. "He told me once that a real man doesn't let his weapon get dirty and jam. He told me at the range he insisted I go with him to and just after my gun jammed."
"Oh?" Ross glanced at Chase. The boy was staring out of his window, his head turned away. He suddenly looked at Ross.
"Then he tells me his hero friend from the war killed two Germans with his bare hands because his gun jammed. Explain that logic."
"I don't follow," Ross said, puzzled.
"Why am I not a real man? Because I didn't kill any Germans after my gun jammed?"
"Well, first of all, that story is a bunch of bullshit," Ross said.
"So your gun didn't jam?"
"It jammed. I killed three Germans and it jammed."
"What about the other two?"
"They weren't there," Ross said. "You're father was busy with them."
"He killed them?" Chase leaned toward Ross, staring at him to see if he was joking.
"Yep," Ross said with a quick nod. His face was grim, downright mean looking, and Chase gave a little shiver.
"Your father came up that hill with me. There was a machine gun in this farm house, three Germans with it, pinnin' us down. We skipped on up, somehow not gettin' shot. Staying behind rock walls and the like. At the farmhouse door I kicked it in and we went through. I went up stairs to take care of the machine gun. He started to follow but another fella came in from the back door. Alan shot him. I kept going while Alan watched the back door. I heard another shot or two. I didn't know it but that was another fella coming in and your father shootin' him and him shootin' your father. By the time I burst into the upstairs room the officer was ready with his Luger. Shot me."
Ross had said it all matter of factly, without emotion.
"And you shot all three?"
Ross nodded. "Then my gun jammed. Your father got a bronze star, just like me, with a 'V' for valor. Just like me."
"Why doesn't he...why does he say YOU killed them?" Chase asked.
Ross looked at Chase. "Maybe he doesn't see it like I see it. Maybe he didn't want to be there at that moment, killin' those boys. 'Cause that's what they were. Boys."
Chase sat back, his mind spinning. He blinked a little. "Well, how do you see it?"
Ross shrugged. "Differently," he said simply. Then he started whistling under his breath, looking out at the wide open prairie surrounding them. "Beautiful day isn't it?"
Chase nodded, but he couldn't see the prairie grass and the morning sun. All he saw were two young men, fighting for their lives, each coming away with wounds beyond what you could see.
"Hey boy where you get them girly clothes?"
Chase stood in the town mercantile his list in his hand. He had been more interested in the hand writing on the list than the words themselves. Strong, broad strokes of the stubby pencil, clutched in a specific hand, attached to a specific arm and specific body. He turned at the sound of the gruff voice behind him and was confronted by a heavyset farmer in coveralls. He was swaying in the canned goods aisle, blinking drunkenly down at Chase.
"I thought you was a lost lil girl, was gonna get ya unlost," the man said, grinning. "But here you are, a faggoty little boy."
Chase took a step back, his heart beating in his chest.
"I'm sorry sir, I-"
"Don't be sorry, lil boy, just don't be sashayin' 'round these parts like yer advertisin'." The man took a step forward.
"Hey there Samson, maybe you should let the boy alone."
Chase let his breath out, not realizing he'd been holding it. He leaned over to the side a bit and saw Ross moseying up the aisle behind the farmer. The farmer turned around, swaying.
"Well, well, well," he sneered. "If it ain't the county's most eligible bachelor. Have ya decided to give up on other men's wives and take up lil boys there Ross?"
Ross didn't say anything. He stepped aside a little, giving the farmer room to leave. Chase's eyes widened at the look on Ross's face. Tough. That's what he was. Pure tough.
The farmer seemed to see it that way, too, and he gave a little laugh to hide the pause he obviously felt.
"Have it your way," he said. He staggered down the aisle, Ross giving him plenty of room.
Ross walked up to Chase, looking him up and down. "You okay?"
Chase nodded. "I'm used to it."
Ross nodded. "I think we're done anyway."
Chase held up his list, waving it.
Ross smiled a little. "Hell, I saw you daydreaming and already bought all that stuff. What goes through that head of yours?"
Chase took a deep breath. "Nothing."
The ride back was uneventful, at least most of the way. Chase sat silently, mulling over everything that had happened. Ross was silent, too, doing his own thinking. He didn't dare look at the boy, didn't dare it. He had seen the look of fear on his face when that idiot Samson had confronted him.
When the truck engine was shut off in front of the house Chase turned to Ross.
"Say what you will about my dad, but I do need your help."
Ross looked at Chase. "How so?"
Chase bit his lip. "I-I don't know. I guess if I knew I wouldn't ask for help."
"Well, what's the problem?"
Chase clenched his fists. "You saw what happened. With that farmer. You know what my dad says, how he feels. I need help. I can't live like this."
Ross sighed. "We'll see what we can do," he said wearily. "Right now we got some stuff to put away, and some chores to take care of."
Ross lay on top of his covers. It was a warm night, he had his small window open and the door to the main room cracked. Out on the Army cot he could hear young Chase tossing and turning. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
The whole thing had been against his best judgement from the beginning. The moment he read Alan's letter, begging him to take in the boy for some work, to try to "teach" him how to be a better man, knowing Alan meant how to be heterosexual, Ross had felt sick to his stomach.
His own life was a lie. Is it that he should teach the boy how to lie?
Ross had cultivated his maleness from an early age. It was natural, of course. Even as he realized he found men attractive, he was the epitome of masculinity. Girls wanted him, boys wanted to be him. A sports star, a war hero, a rancher in one of the most homophobic states in the country. All built on smoke and mirrors, but smoke and mirrors based on his look, the way he walked, what was expected.
Take one look at Ross McGuinty and you didn't see a gay man, you saw a ruggedly handsome man that could have any woman he wanted and who could put any man into a hospital if need be.
In high school he cultivated the womanizer persona not by telling tales of prowess but by hinting at them. He dated girls, but always demurred when it came time to tell stories with the other boys. He perfected the art of telling a tale without saying a word.
This continued throughout his life. When Mrs. Caroline Adams came calling one day to buy a horse and she stayed overlong, hoping maybe for more than a horse, she was seen pulling off his drive onto the main road well after dinner time. That started a flurry of stories linking him with all,sorts of wives. Even the sheriff visited him, questioning his supposed dalliances with various women in town that had reputations.
While people saw him as an incorrigible bachelor with an insatiable taste for the fairer sex, he had held inside his real attraction for men.
The war was his first experience. Barely the age of consent he had shipped off with the famed 3rd Infantry Division.
The division had fought in Moracco, then in Tunisia, where many German soldiers had surrendered. He was assigned guard duty, driving for a British intelligence agent who was tasked with interrogating German officers. Albert Derbin was a suave, sophisticated Brit from a lowly southern family. In his mid-forties, he had risen in the ranks through hard work and an ability to keep secrets, including the secret of his sexuality.
Albert had obviously been attracted to the young Yankee from the beginning. He had insisted they stay in the same quarters, and Albert had a penchant for walking about naked.
"The air is good for the skin," he told Ross. He said he learned it in India, where he was the personal advisor to a young prince. Ross could only blink his eyes and look away, willing his prick to stay calm, while Albert pranced about, his rather thick endowment swinging about freely. The young man had not seen another man naked before this. Even in school the showers were in private stalls.
Each day the crazy Brit would stand nude in front of a full length mirror and do his "exercises." To Albert this meant standing with his fists on his hips and willing his cock erect. Ross would usually find an excuse to leave the room, but one day he stayed, lying in his bunk with a book in hand, watching the Brit out of the corner of his eye. He watched as the Brit's firm round buttocks twitched, as he strained to bring his prick to full erection without touch. Albert's cock swung up on cue, becoming a fat, 5 and 1/2 inch sausage pointed up in an arch.
He suddenly turned to Ross.
"Take off the trappings of this Army life, my young friend. Stand in front of a mirror and admire what God gave you."
Ross stared at him, at his almost comical stance, his prick waving about wildly. "I don't know," he said.
Albert smiled. "Come now, Ross, aren't you even a little bit curious?" He stepped over to Ross's bunk and took the book out of his hand, placing it aside. He pulled Ross to his feet and immediately began unbuttoning his uniform shirt. Off it came, then his t-shirt. Albert barely stopped to admire the muscular, hair covered chest before he was unbuttoning his pants, tugging at the belt. In a moment Ross stood in his Army issue boxers. Albert hooked his thumbs in the waist band and pushed them down the younger man's slim hips.
Ross didn't need to will himself to erection, of course, he was already there. Albert gasped as Ross's heavy cock swung free of his shorts. His eyes stayed on the boy's big cock while he knelt to push the boxers completely off.
The Brit stood up and smiled at the much taller American.
"There, now, doesn't that feel wonderful?"
Ross nodded. Albert pulled him to the mirror. "Look at how magnificent you truly are."
Ross looked in the mirror. He saw himself, tall, handsome, even then heavily muscled, his erection throbbing, dipping and rising rhythmically. Beside him the shorter, slimmer Brit stood with his own angry cock. Albert reached over suddenly and wrapped his hand around Ross's prick.
"Bloody hell," he breathed, "I can barely get my hand around it." He pulled the foreskin back, watching the thick, velvety head swell as it emerged. Ross watched it all in the mirror. Albert bent down and licked the head and Ross gasped, his feet widening their stance. Albert cupped his balls with one hand, obviously enjoying the weight of them.
"So tight," Albert said. "You'll cum soon, I imagine." Suddenly Ross felt the eager Brit's mouth engulf his cock, the tongue swirling on the underside, the gripping hand pumping the shaft, pulling down until the foreskin was completely pulled back.
Ross nearly fell to his knees. He reached down and put his hand on Albert's shoulder to steady himself. The feel of his skin was maddening. He ran that hand down the Brit's back, enjoying the feel of muscles working under the skin as Albert bobbed his head, fucking Ross's cock with his wet, warm mouth.
Albert pulled back and let go of Ross's throbbing prick. "Wet your finger, fuck my ass with it," he said, then his mouth was on the cock again. Ross did as he was instructed, wetting his middle finger with his mouth then reaching down to the Brit's ass. He delved inside, finally finding the soft give of the older man's sphincter. He pushed in, slowly, enjoying the tight, hot feel of the anus gripping his finger.
Soon, with his finger plunging into the Brit's ass and his cock being plied very nicely by the Brit's mouth, Ross gave a shudder. His skin tingled, a shock wave of ecstacy flowing through him as he shot his load into Albert's mouth. The Brit swallowed the entire load, moaning as he did.
Ross staggered back when he was done, his finger plopping out of Albert's ass. The older man stepped close to his new lover and gave him a kiss on one flushed cheek.
"Don't think you're done," he murmured.
Ross shook his head. Albert stepped to his cot where he sat down. He spread his legs, his hard cock standing up proudly between his smoothly muscled thighs. Albert pulled Ross's arm until the boy went to his knees in front of him. He put both hands behind the American's head and pulled his face down to his cock. Ross grabbed the thick rod with one hand and sucked it into his mouth. A creamy, bitter pearl of precum salted his tongue as the head of the Brit's steal-hard cock filled his mouth.
The Brit rolled back, lifting his knees to his chest. Ross gripped his hips, sliding both thumbs between the ass cheeks to press against the still wet anus. Albert moaned, pushing at the top of Ross's head. The cock plopped out of his mouth and Ross followed the Brit's lead, sliding his tongue down the cock to his taut sac, then, with Albert's encouragement, he lifted his hips until the older man was on his shoulder blades, his legs spread wide. Ross plunged his face into the wide open cheeks, finding the pulsating anus with his tongue.
Albert squirmed about as Ross fucked him with his wet, drooling tongue. The young soldier's cock was once again hard and ready. He pulled the Brit's hips down to the edge of the cot. Holding onto his hard cock he pointed it up, allowing a string of drool to drop down and coat the purple helmet.
Then, with eager aim, he positioned himself at the Brit's door and drove in. The older man buck up against him, gasping in pain and ecstasy. Ross pounded into him brutally, as if he needed to take the other man savagely or not at all. He felt, for those moments, like a rutting bull elk, ready and willing to fight and mount anything he could.
Before too long Albert was cumming, shooting his cream onto his own chest. The rhythmic squeezing of his anus sent Ross over the top and he thrust deep into the Brit, his hips slamming against Albert's straining buttocks as he unloaded his seed deep.
Back in the present Ross lay in his bed remembering that first experience, and the many afterward, when the crazy Brit showed him the many techniques he had learned from the "prince of India."
When the Brit finally left and Ross rejoined his regular unit, he had gained some valuable experience, and memories. Ross never saw Albert again, and years later had found out he had died of fever in Burma after the war.
He realized he was holding his cock, stroking it slowly. He thought of Chase. Such a beautiful young man. Perfect bone structure, full lips. Taut round bottom. Ross let go of his cock and tried to think of something else. Samson maybe, that bigoted bastard.
But then he thought of this morning when the boy had looked so relieved to see him. He had wanted to knock Samson out, gather Chase in his arms, kiss away his fears. His hand found his cock again and he began to stroke. He imagined Chase leaning against the barn wall, his slim back arched, his round butt out, looking over his shoulder.
"Come on Ross," said fantasy Chase, "teach me how to be a man."
In his fantasy he crouched down behind the young man, gripping that perfect ass, pulling the firm cheeks apart, diving in face first, his tongue swirling over the tight hole. His hands fondling cock and balls, caressing soft skin over taut muscles, listening to the moans coming from those perfect lips.
With a grunt Ross came, a stream of hot cum splashing onto his chest, he gritted his teeth as another spurt shot out, landing in his flat belly, then another, shorter stream fell down atop his thumb. He continued to stroke as the cum stream flowed from the tip, down the length of his cock, over his thumb to pool at the shaft's base before it slowly ebbed.
He lay breathing heavily, hoping he didn't make too much noise. Glancing up he caught a movement at the cracked door. Ross jumped up, cum coating his front and he swept open the door. Standing there with a look of shock and embarrassment was Chase. He held both hands at his crotch, over his boxer shorts. His eyes glided down Ross's body hungrily, taking in the thick gobs of jism that matted his chest and belly hair.
"Fuck," Ross said.
"I-I'm sorry," Chase said. "I-I heard a noise."
.....to be continued...