Gay Erotic Stories

by siktici (C)2017

All characters are 18 or older. Any references to "daddy" and "boy" is for role-play. Please request permission from the author to republish this story in whole or in part. Send comments and constructive criticism to siktici@rcn.com.

I didn't want to be a cowboy, but I certainly wanted one to fuck me. So, to honor those sojourners of the dusty trails I wrote this.

When settlers in the 1870's first used "dude," to refer to pasty-faced Easterners coming to The Rockies, they took notice of men with a distinguishable lilt (I have no doubt), of men with a different spring in their step, of men who had secrets settlers didn't know, and of men Rocky Mountain cowboys would never suspect.

A 2K Easterner, I differed from my ancestors in that I didn't have secrets. But I DID look, however, for the same things: fantasy cum impossibility, related to getting fucked by a cowboy named Boots, Hoss, or Chance.

For the doubting, I did have an interest in all things western, but I had been too infected with purpose and promptness. They exacted a bill my body wasn't equipped to pay. While most were going to this dude ranch for the experience, the activities, or just the fresh air; I was going to reclaim my identity and my health.

"Hey, folks!" An old cowboy, tall in the saddle, rode up in prairie coolness. Waving his hat to all, he dismounted and personally greeted about nine of us: “Candy...Candy Butler...Howdy...Candy...You must be David," he beamed, "Long trip?"

I took too long to answer; he moved on.

He was magnificent, a description reserved for exceptional beasts, but apropos for this cowboy. He was big, beefy; with a barrel chest fitting snugly in a festive western shirt and with powerful thighs in equally snug Wranglers. A six-six, two-hundred-plus ball of energy, he flashed sky-blue eyes; recessed in a crimson, weather-beaten face. And with a crushing handshake and dimpled-mustachioed smile, he charmed my pants off, which as I said was the plan.

"So, long trip," he asked again.

"What?" I asked leaning in.

He smiled, widened his eyes, and directed the crowd to waiting ATVs. "Let's get to the house, folks. Time for lunch!"

"Shit!" I said and followed an old couple with my head lowered.

"Great lunch, Candy," came from the crowd among belches and farts. While high-noon passed to high-tea, I went for a walk. Candy said keep on the trail, but I wanted to hide my shame in the shadows. In a clearing between the tree canopies, I could see the sun and clouds paint pastel scenes into evening. I hadn’t realized I been gone so long, but I couldn’t shake the image of that tall cowboy fucking me into inspired positions at all points of the dude range. I saw a particularly dark gathering of shadows over an old stump, well off the path and--

"I wouldn't do that, cowboy," Candy warned and lit a joint.

I jumped.

Leaning on a tree just left of the stump, Candy asked, "A bit skittish, young feller?" After taking two impressive draws, he passed the joint to me.

I refused, protocol dictated it.

"Hey, you need this more than me, son," he said and extended the joint closer.

Who was I kidding? I took a few impressive draws of my own and handed it back to an equally impressed Candy. "Haven't seen a man suck a joint like that since the seventies," he said, besieged by some severe hacking.

We talked as men with the knowledge of more than joint protocol and we confirmed what we already knew.

"I knew as soon as I spied ya—Look, when a man travels alone all this way to play cowboys and Indians, he’s a widower or a queer—or both.”

I cringed.

"No offense, just never could stomach 'gay,'” he explained and wrinkled his face for emphasis, "I hear you young guys throwin’ that around, but in my day, any name had to mean tough."

I nodded but really didn't understand.

"Guys like me hear 'gay' and see some guy walking along carryin' a parasol," he said and drew on the joint before handing it to me with his pinky raised.

I laughed into smoke-inspired cackles, prompting him to join. It was chronic weed.

So, when the smoke and our highs cleared a bit, he made his move. "After dinner and our fire-side welcome, why don't you drop by my cabin for belt and one or two of these,” he said, pinched out the roach, and put it in his shirt pocket. "You got it, cowboy," I said and tipped an invisible hat. We both laughed and headed back to my group. On the way, he slowly slid a hand from my shoulder to my asscheek. I smiled. The campfire was an altar of recessed concrete, surrounded by a circle of deadfall. Everyone gathered with twigs to skewer marshmallows and weenies. Candy began a cowboy ditty in a slightly mournful tenor. Everyone heard cowboy talent but I heard queer pain. He sang about getting doggies along and a trail made lonelier by a cowboy’s lost love. Everyone heard passion but I I heard longing. I wanted to alleviate that longing—if only for a little while, and I wanted to give him a measure of comfort—no matter how my time with him turned out. But I was getting ahead of myself, and I knew that doing so, could lead to unimaginable pain. So, I reevaluated Candy’s invitation and pulled on the reigns. Besides, I really did want to try some more of that weed.

A short, red-clay road gradually rose from the ranch to a stony roundabout that sat on a mound and ended in front of Candy’s cabin. Sitting between two massive boulders, his cabin sat on the mound in a way that paralleled his solitary life.

The night was chilling, and stars sparkled like gems as I followed the road up to his cabin. Light shone from one of two windows. A fountain lowly bubbled in the middle of the stony roundabout, as night creatures warned of my approach. I was so intent on kicking a small rock up the road that I didn’t see Candy, sitting on one of two stone benches that cornered each side of the cabin.

“If I were a snake, Cowboy,” he began and struck a match.

“I’d be dead, right?”

“Depends on where ya got bit,” he said, lit a joint, and shook out the match.

After a generous draw, he stretched away the day and handed the joint to me. “Here, free your mind,” he said and moved into the cabin. “I brought out cigars, dried fruit, and such. Thought you could use a good belt,” he offered and pointed to a nicely prepared table covered with a frizzed cloth, a fat candle at its middle, and two shot glasses.

“It’s pretty strong stuff; hope you got the gut for it,” he said and tipped clear liquid into both glasses.

He seemed nervous; the bravado long gone from earlier. Awkward silence hung between us for a few beats before, we lunged and ignited. We couldn’t hug tighter, couldn’t kiss deeper. Our breathing labored, our chests heaving, we parted long enough to breathe before plunging to into lust and longing.

Our bulges pushed like rams, our cocks spared in their respective packages like caged warriors, and we held on to each other, as if letting go would mean forever.

“You don’t know how much I wanted you,” I said between kissing his face and neck over and over.

“Yeah, I do,” Candy said and carried me into the next room.

We abandoned our clothes, still refusing to let go, still fearing it would all end.

But once we freed ourselves, I found Candy’s impressive cock, uncut and sticking from his bushy crotch like an embedded horn. I took it into my mouth and worshipped its immensity, sucked on its fleshy thickness, and moved to the center of my oral fixation.

Candy was equally ravenous. Moving onto his back and pulling my cock into his mouth, he moved me into submission without saying a word. I didn’t have time to be impressed, there was so much of this big cowboy’s cock down my throat that I struggled to handle it. A hunger I never felt took me over. I hungrily slurped up, gaged in, and stretched over Candy’s cock with such passion that I couldn’t control my efforts.

“Whoa, son,” Candy said and softly stroked my back. “We got lots of time; besides, ya just might make me cum a bit too soon.”

“Oh, no, Candy, I don’t want that,” I said, in a too high octave, and before I could say more, he pushed my head back down.

Demonstrative, masculine-ly adept, and expertly maneuvered, his motion from my cock to my hole sent shudders from my head to my toes. His tongue, wet and savvy, found unexplored flesh, push it aside and moved into depths I didn’t know existed. I was in rapture.

“Get up on all fours,” he commanded.

“Okay, Cowboy,” I said in slurry seduction.

“Call me Candy, son,” he said with a tenderness that melted me.

In that moment, I became his boy.

“Okay, Candy, I’ll do whatever you want, I said between the intense sensations of his efforts. “Do what you want with my body, Candy; it’s yours.”

“Well, work my ole cock some more, son, while I think of how I’m gonna take that man-cunt.

He sampled my hole, first with two fingers, then with three. “Yeah, that hole’s pretty relaxed. I knew it would be,” he said in a tone that only could be described as a mixture of lust and appreciation. “Okay, son, get up here at the edge,” Candy said and moved to standing behind me.

I put my head into the confusion of the bedding, and felt the familiar slathering of lube. His big and warm hands generously slathered the lube and periodically squeezed and kneaded my flesh into an unfamiliar slackness.

As I felt his cockhead press for entry, he moved his hands around my torso, and whisper, “Now let ole Candy in, son.”

He moved with a rhythm reminiscent of a moseying horse, passing shimmering cacti in a cloudless desert. My hole was the cloudless desert and Candy’s cock was the moseying horse in this Sonoran scene. The scene rippled, replaced itself, then dissipated. More desert images came to my mind as Candy continued the luxurious rhythm. “It’s been so long, son, since I had a deep hole to massage, since I had a real man to enjoy,” Candy said and began to increase the rhythm. Then I heard the music, I hadn’t noticed it when I first arrived, but this time it became a soundtrack to the idyllic scene in my mind.

“Oh…oooh…mmmn,” suddenly came from some place in my bombarded ass. I had been so enraptured in the tranquil scene that I had suddenly notice the pummeling Candy heaped on me. That was not to say his efforts were unnoticeable; on the contrary, his efforts powered the desert scene visited on me by some unseen force.

It all seemed symbiotic. Candy had traveled to a pleasurable place in his effort and I had traveled to my desert pleasure because of him. And no words could articulate the encounter, as such moments go beyond my reason, go beyond my ability to describe perfection.

Perfection, however, was fleeting at best, and we moved back to Earth. “Oh, son, old Candy’s gonna fill you full cum,” he said, eyes tightly closed, his fingertips digging into my ass cheeks. It seemed he could go no deeper, but he proved me wrong when he hooked his arms under my pits and pulled me into his crotch.

Never having felt the branding of man-seed enter my hole, the sensation of the first gush from Candy felt other-worldly and intensely pleasurable. Subsequent gushes smashed with excitation and made my entire body quiver. Then I came in projectiles of ropey cum shooting from my piss slit as I fought to maintain my position.

“Ah, yeah, son, hold still, now,” Candy said as he pitched and buck through the last of his orgasm.

And after the last drop of our orgasmic explosions subsided, Candy moved us to recline in recovery to allow our lungs life-sustaining air.

“Candy?” I asked as I swirled his chest hair with my finger.

“Yeah, son?”

“After what you just did, I don’t think you’ll be able to get rid of me.”

After chuckling a bit, Candy said, “Well, I can put away my rope.”