February 7 & 8 1956

Ennis, Montana

Not here, not now, I cried in my nineteen-year-old head.

I was stirred from sleeping under the moon and stars near the base of the lake when I heard the sounds of heavy boots approaching my tent. I knew then, at that very moment, I was about to face the inevitable, knew that if it came—when he arrived—that it was coming as soon as we settled in for the night.

None of the others knew was my rationale. I had given myself away to the second oldest of the three Blackfoot Indians by accidentally staring at him too long. Something that had become painstakingly obvious when he grabbed at his bulging crotch through his worn chaps when he saw me looking, even when I didn't even know that I was looking. So, in essence, this moment was no surprise. Especially when my tent was peeled open, and he stepped in to find me playing dead, stripped down to my red wool long johns.

He climbed in beside me, as gentle as he could without trying to bring the tent down. He was tender wrapping his arms around me without saying another word. And I welcomed his heat, his affection. But instead of his hand going down to the surge that was my throbbing cock, anxious with angst and anticipation, I felt his had go up to my mouth, covering it with his dirt-dusted hand.

I stirred, not pretending to be sleep anymore, in a struggle to fight back because in my mind it was suppose to be much more romantic than this. He cursed something in Kiawah, something that I simply didn't understand. I knew then that it wasn't the "him" that I was expecting, the middle of the three men. The "him" that I spent most of the day eyeing. Because the "him" that I wanted was the only one that humored me with his sketchy English.

Me and this guy tussled in the tent.

I fought back hard against him, but he was too powerful for me, holding me against his body while his freed hand worked opened me, holding me against his body while his freed hand worked opened his buttoned fly and worked off the convenience flap to my long johns.

There was no time to think, I had gone as far as I could fighting him.

Oh shit, I cried in my head, this was it. This was my fate tonight, and I had no choice but to accept it.

And in one brutal plunge, the Blackfoot bastard plunged into me with no lube other than the spit-coat he added with his calloused hand.

I winced at the pain. Always did. It was bad. Though, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it should have been with the tip of the head barely making any leeway to stay inside of my tight hole.

He then said some more stuff in Kainah—some more shit that I couldn't understand—before I got the ultimate hint that he wanted me on my stomach or on all fours. I didn't understand this—at first. And I guess I wasn't fast enough to meet his urgent demand.

He grabbed me, flipped me over like a fucking flapjack, cursed me some more in his native tongue, and took another brutal and fluid plunge into me. But this time, however, I felt him—all of him—and all of the pain that was missing before—skewered into me without money or forgiveness.

It felt like my hole was being split open by fire.

In spite of the insurmountable pain, I found the will to fight back. I almost succeeded in getting up and leaving his grasp. But he proved to be wittier than I was. He had me by the shoulder, pinned to the ground. He wasn't about to let me and I was doomed not to break free. He was gritting and groaning through his teeth every time he found a new barrier inside of me to break. The more I continued to fight back the more relentless he was, knocking the bottom out of me. So I tried my best just to get use to his plunges into me since I no longer had control over anything else. But even that, in my most compromising moment, he proved to be too big for me to get used to, as my muscles softened into mush, just enough to be yielding. If that wasn't enough, the swat pouring from him seeped into my tight hole, setting me afire to find some sweet drop of relief to his otherwise spit-shined dry humping.

He rode me like a crazed stallion, letting me scream my fucking head off to the high heavens every time he buried that monster to the hilt, indebting me to his dominance.

Before it was all over with, though, I was enjoying him just as he was enjoying me, trying to milk him with my loosening back with every lust-filled stroke. And when our truss finally came to an end with him flooding out my insides with his brilliant seeds I was almost saddened.

It was over—so I thought.

As soon as he dismounted, I was mounted again by two others tent-raiders that were destined to fill my guts with their spunk until I finally passed out when each of the three Blackfoot Indians dipped their dicks in the other's sloppy seconds.

The night passed, and I woke up around about noon the next day.

It could have all been but a dream, I thought the next morning. As I started to move though, I knew that something was wrong. I felt a draft through my undone convenience flap, and my butt chute was so open and so disgusted with their slimy seeds that I couldn't even walk straight when I finally tumbled upright.

I was too embarrassed to come out of that tent, in fear of what else could have been in store. But none of the three men said anything to me after I came out, except only to laugh among themselves when the three of them saw me looking at them as I spewed my pent-up spunk to the ground.

When we got back home, however, I convinced my pa to fire those bastards.

June 19, 2006

Beaverhead County, Montana (near Lima)

"Don't," Jane, my second wife of the last thirty-six years, protested by scrunching up her lovely face.

She prided herself on believing that she knew me best. That she knew everything about me, especially what I was thinking at any given moment. For her part, she was usually right. This time, however, she would not have a clue.

"What?" I mumbled.

"I can see it in your eyes, Hank Ballard. You're going to try and give 'em hell. You got to remember that they're the ones who're helping us."

They were the ones helping us. It was not hard to concede to that fact. I mean, honestly, I was the one who had to sign along the dotted line to give the private fossil company permission to excavate my land for dinosaurs, land that had been used for generation for the sole purpose of ranching.

"I wasn't even studying them bastards," I said with a genuine honesty, looking out at the shirtless being making his way towards the water pump at the back of the house.

It was hard not to stare. The young man had a familiarity about him that made me uneasy. He was nothing more than a lad, a skinny and hairless little brat, barely big to have leapt from his papa's lap. His light bearded face suggested that he was going for manhood, and his college buddies vouched for him saying that he was of drinking age.

"Why don't you go out there and make nice with them?" Jane asked.

Nice with him? My mind played with me.

Jane added. "Offer them something to drink or something?"

I could have responded to this, but said nothing to the like. I simply waited for the shirtless boy to return to the excavation site, too embarrassed that he had given me his name days earlier. In the fashion of trying my best to ignore him, I basically forgot.

When I got outside in the warm summer heat, I decided to stop by the stable to pull out one of my prized horses and ride back there to the site. It just seemed much more gallant than walking back there, and it proved to be highly effected watching everyone rise to their feet.

"I don't mean to disturb you, but my wife thought it would be quite proper of me to ask whether any of you would like something to drink, something to eat, or something?"

Almost as if he didn't hear her, Manny approached my horse, and started patting it along its neck, and said, "You have some beautiful horses, man."

My first instinct was to smile, being that the house I was on was the son of one my most prized horses, Clyde. Instead, I frowned, at the lack of respect I felt that I was given.

"I'm not your 'man', I'm your sir," I corrected him in my sternest of tones.

As a man that had passed six decades in good health and was nearest my seventh in the safe fashion, I felt that I deserved at least that reverence. And when I saw that Manny got the point, I added, "Secondly, this isn't just any horse, this is a pure-bred Andalusian, native of Spain."

"I know," he said, wiping the corner of his tear-stained eyes with his forearms.

"Dust," I murmured to him.

"Yeah," he said, deepening his voice as he constantly blinked his eyes at me. "It's burning like heck."

"That's what happens when you mix dirt and sweat around your eyes. C'mon," I said, reaching out my hand to him and hoisting up onto my saddle in front of me. "I'll take you back to get cleaned up."

The ride back to the homestead was barely a mile away, but in that short trip, I gained great insight into my new friend. He was the grandson of a charro (Mexican cowboy), and his father used to be a world-renowned veterinarian that owned several horses, including a couple of Andalusians. That was before his father died, but not before his father had promised to take him riding when he got older.

August 19, 2006

Madison County, Montana (near Hogback Mountain)

"Got everything?"

I was sitting atop the Son of Clyde, my newest prized horse, when I saw Manny doing a quick run-through of his handwritten list of all the items he had saddled to my black quarter horse.

After a couple of months and some days, Manny had become somewhat of a permanent fixture around the house when he wasn't on site, discovering more fossils of baby dinosaurs and ancient insects. It soon became obvious to Jane and me, that in spite of his incredible work in the field, Manny was growing homesick, being so faraway from his hometown of Cuidad Juárez, just on the other side of the Rio Grande. His conversations always started out innocently, reminiscing about his mother and home before growing a certain fondness for my horse that somehow connected him to his father and grandfather and their work.

Of course, Jane was the first to go out of her way to meet him emotionally, telling him about her day s as a Canadian cowgirl, which she later twisted my arm to tell him about my days in the rodeo to losing my own father shy of my twentieth birthday. For the oddest reasons, I broke down and told him about the two herd runs I made to Miles City on the other side of the state: one alongside my pa and another I did with some Blackfoot Indians when he got sick with pneumonia.

"Checked that little list of yours?" I asked, checking his list for the umpteenth time.

"I believe so," he said.

And from our stories, that was how we got here, at the foot of Hogback Mountain, after I promised to take him out riding before he went back home for the start of fall semester.

"Did you leave anything around the campsite?"

Since we made it out this far, twenty or so miles away from home, I was proof positive that whatever he left or was going to leave would surely be back in Lima. Or if nothing more, something that we could have easily picked up once we came back through.

"I swear you are worse than the little missus!" I cursed, a half-hour later after he jumped on his horse and followed me alongside the national forest.

Even though I was crazy enough to ride a horse virgin all the way out to Miles City, I did make a point for us to end our mark around Ennis, sitting near the base of Lone Mountain, another thirty miles ahead on the other side of Virginia City.

For the most part, Manny and I rode in silence, taking in as much of the breathless scenery as we could. Whenever I felt up to hearing one of his homespun stories of being the son of white Latin veterinarian and his mother, the daughter of one of the riches, ranch-owning charros in the world, he indulged me. While in the spirit of sharing, I told him some of the old stories that I had heard about my grandfather and his father, and so on and so fourth, about giving to take heads of cattle and sheep from Virginia City to Miles City and back, sometimes making special trips to Ft. Buford in North Dakota, at points where the old trails ended.

With the help of racing the horses from time to time and taking the straightest route possible, we made our thirty mile trek to Lone Mountain just shy of sundown, were we set up came for the night.

It was after we ate dinner and the night was settling in around the campfire that I told Manny about riding out here with my father, the one and only chance I got.

"I could've come out here with him with I was about fourteen or fifteen, but my grandfather, who was still living at the time, wasn't having it. He said he wanted me to stay in the books and mind my schoolteacher, who happened to be his fourth or fifth wife. Honestly, though, I think he wanted to keep me at home because he wanted to visit a rumored cathouse along the horizon without worrying about me spilling the beans."

"He was the one that died when you were sixteen?"

I nodded my head. "By then, I was already finished with schooling, so I missed out on joining them then. And when I was seventeen, I was down in Denver attending college."

"So, when you turned eighteen, you were back at home and joined your father."

"Yep," I smiled at the campfire, remembering that it was then that he bought me my first new saddle with the prize money he won from saddle broncing the year before. "Though, he honest to goodness didn't really need me. The years before my grandfather died, my pa hired five Blackfoot Indians. And by the time I came into the fold after I couldn't afford another year in school, he cut his workers down to three."

I said nothing more after this, thinking and reminded that it was not far from here that it happened, a little over fifty years to be exact. It had been so many years that I nearly forgot about them, or it.

"So, when you were nineteen," Manny beamed. "It was just you and the Indians."

"Yeah," I murmured. "That was the year my pa came down with pneumonia."

"That must've been fun. I mean, even though you didn't come out and say it, it sounded like your father was the oddball out in the group. While he held onto being a Christian, it sounded like your grandfather and those Indians were always out for a nice furrow—if you will."

I left this alone, too, and told Manny that it was probably best that we turned in for the night considering that we had a long, hard ride. A ride that we promised to double back once daybreak arrived.

August 20, 2006

Ennis, Montana (near Lone Mountain)

The tent grew hot that night.

It grew intensely hot, immensely hot, unlike the likes of the cold chilly night before had brought. And though I was awake, sweating like a wrongdoer that had just got caught in the act, I had my eyes closed tight reliving certain flashes of that night fifty years ago.

As awful as it sounds, I soon got into it, my slaughter, my rape, by squeezing my hole as tight as I could against him, urging him to cum. When he finally did, burying his seeds inside of me, he got up off me and spat at the back of my head as if I was some stupid nineteen-year-old whore that he just screwed for the fun of it.

But before I could get a better sense of what had taken place, he returned to his place on top of me. So, I thought, as he entered me in the same brutal fashion he just recently left, rough and detached. But the musky scent of this guy left me to believe that he certainly was another. And I became certain of this once he tried to balance himself with one hand on my shoulder, he was heavier, and his choppy rhythm seemed more calculated than his predecessor.

Once he finished with my ass, he left the tent, and then in their native tongue egged the other one to climb into my tent. He did—but unlike the other two, he closed the tent blocking out the moon and stars and them from seeing what he was about to do.

Instead of just going at it, my hole fucked and slimed, he turned me over slowly onto my back. Even though the tent was a dark as the night, I could make out his face. I saw him, the middle one that should have been the first and the only one.

He gave me an apologetic smile, letting me know that he had no control over the situation and that he wanted me to know that his Blackfoot brothers hadn't ruined me for him. But he worried—I saw it in his face—whether or not they had ruined me to the point of not enjoying him after my ordeal.

To this, I reached up, pulled him on top of me, and began kissing him.

Our make-out session was long and slow but passionate nevertheless. We were trying to grab hold of each other, slick with sweat, as our moves could not have been better choreographed as he was pressed fully into me, in the thick of the slimy mess that made my hole especially slick for him.

He fucked me. But unlike his Blackfoot brothers, he wasn't unforgiving, seeming to make sure that for every stroke he put into me that I was okay. He fucked me for a very long time, finding the courage to go harder and deeper each and every time before it became nothing more than his heavy balls beating against my ass.

I cried out, with him pounding against something inside of me that made me want to lose control. But before I did, he screamed and his hot powerful load had jetted inside of me and joined in with the rest of the gang.

We disengaged; or rather I push him off of me. He thought it was something wrong, but it wasn't, something just grabbed a hold of me, and I did the same with him, sucking off his softening dick tasting all of them.

For that moment, it was just him and me, that was before the other two came back into my tent and discovered us, forcing me to suck off one while the other took my ass again for a second time until everyone had taken their turns and I had passed out.

When I found the courage to open my sweat-burned eyes, Manny laid in his sleeping bag unperturbed by the heat or my recollections. Of course, he had no reason to—with my recollection that is. But as I looked at Manny as he slept, in the dark, he once against had that familiarity about him that made me uneasy. He reminded me of the second Blackfoot to enter my tent that night, the one that held me down with his hand. Except Manny was skinny and still boyish-looking while the second Blackfoot was short and stout with a whiskery-thin mustache but with the same sort of baby face feature that favored the two.

I climbed out of the tent, as gentle as I could without bringing the whole thing down and then closed it back behind me. Going by where the moon was in relation to the mountain and stars, it was well passed midnight. A few steps later, my sweat-drenched body was dried by the chilling air. Though, it failed to do anything else other than bring to my attention an aching erection that guided me through the dark.

The moon and the stars were shimmering off of Ennis Lake by the time I realized where I had wandered off to. I almost didn't recognize the area, since it had changed, yet remained the same over the past fifty years. With the exception of the paved road nearby and some other landmarks, I probably wouldn't have eyed the spot, the campsite, of where my life took its turn, just only a few yards away from we were camping.

The recollections of that night flooded my head again, and I was horny simply because of it. The spontaneity of that night, the taboo of it all was the thing that still burned in my loins after all of these years, in spite of the reality behind it all.

Before I knew it, I was massaging my crotch through my jeans. A few minutes after that, I had my fly open and I was jerking off with no care in the world to the late night lake. I was just about to climb up to the point of no return when I heard Manny drop down to his knees, and he started sucking my cock.

"Oh, boy," I mustered up, trying to find the words to get him to stop. But the words weren't coming at all. His mouth felt so fucking incredible that I was unsure if I really wanted him to let me go.

"This is wrong," I said, when my big head outthought the little head. I plucked my cock out of his mouth. "What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?"

Looking up at me with shame in his eyes, Manny said nothing. He was probably too nervous, too humiliated, perhaps. "I was just helping you out."

"Helping me out," I spat.

"Yeah," he said rather quickly. "Last night, you mumbled in your sleep about some hole being slick for him. And tonight you said something about wanting him to suck you off."

I tried to make sense of it all, but with the help of a few misplaced words it could have made sense, remembering that both of my wives said that I had a nasty habit of talking in my sleep.

"I'm old enough to be your..." I let my words die.

He stuck out his tongue and licked the tip of my head, and said, "But, you're not."

He took me into his mouth again. Before I could give another protest, he called me by name, and started massaging my balls in his mouth.

He deep throated me masterfully, reaching for my head to grab the back of his head teasing me in and out of his throat as if he wanted me to fuck his mouth. I did, and before long I felt as if I were going to cum then and there.

"This is wrong." I admitted to myself, not because of the sheer obvious reason, like I was married, and that he was some young punk, and I was some old fart. But because I was anxious to cum, and my choices were to either cum on his face or down his throat.

So I created another choice, and I grabbed him by the hair and pulled him off of my dick again.

"What's wrong now, Hank?"

"Nothing...except," I murmured partially embarrassed.

I nodded, as if he could see me in the darkness. But it seemed that he got my point just the same, taking one long last lick at my dick and led me back to the tent.

"I think we'll do better in here." He said, plopping his body down to the ground of the tent. "You want me on my back or on my stomach?" And again, before I could say anything else, he interrupted, "I would like to be on my back, you have the sort of face that I want to look at when you're on top of me."

"The sort of face?" I asked.

"Yeah," he breathed hard, "that handsome, older guy face of yours." He practically ripped off my shirt when he added, "Did you honestly thing I rode back with you because I got sweat in my eyes that day? Or I had to make that many trips to the water pump? No offense to Jane, but she isn't that great of a cook."

Jane, I thought.

I quickly put her out of my mind. I had Manny right here, and I had already let him suck me off—I had already gone this far.

Before I had clearly made up my mind on exactly what I was going to do, I felt the cool tingle of lube against the outside of him puckered hole. He had this planned all along, I thought. I pushed in, was a little experienced, as he ground his hips against my pelvic bone and begged me to fuck him. So I did. And to the surprise of both of us, I fucked him with such passion and fervor that it felt as if I were three men attempting to conquer one hole, or rather milking three loads out of the same hole.

Not mine, his.

Manny shot his first and second loads as generous lube for me to use on his sweet little fuck spot, as I forced him to stay impaled on my cock through the duration. So that by the time his third load came, he was barely able to muster up a dribble while I called out to the high heavens, shooting my first heavy load deep inside of him.

By the time morning came, I was fired up again, just as I was when I was nineteen, and I fucked Manny in what was left our juices as sort of a wakeup call to get him going. Of course, it should go without saying that an unannounced dick in a tight ass in cause for a rude awakening, but a welcomed awakening nonetheless, especially when it was followed by him licking our cruddy loads off of my dick.

After that, we caught our breaths.

We reappeared out of tent, into the day light, ate breakfast and returned to our horses without another word passing between us. No talks of his grandfather the charro or his later father the veterinarian or anymore stories of past cowboys and ranches.

It was just us, just silence.

The way should be.

August 22, 2006

Beaverhead County, Montana (near Lima)

When we returned to the ranch a couple of days later, my heart sank at the thought of Manny heading back to Mexico. But I kept my humble words, vowing not to say a word to him as he boarded his shuttle back to their motel, fearing that if I said anything more, I would confess the torment and abandon that I felt that night, fifty years ago, and that he meant more to me than just an awesome fuck. He closed a significant chapter for me in his life.

But my eyes, as Manny left, did talk, apparently louder than I wanted because as Jane and I waved at the shuttle van taking him and his friends away. Jane, who always believed she knew what I was thinking at any given moment, looked over at me and said, "I hope that little fix of your last you for awhile 'cause while those three old Indian friends of your don't mind going to get you that horny goat weed in town, I can't find nobody else who is willing to get you some of those little blue pills!"



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