Cowboy Up

by Shane Allison

  Billy gasps and a shudder runs from inside him through his balls and up his shaft into my mouth. He pulls out suddenly in a wet daze and looks up at the sky. I can taste precum in the back of my throat and get up to kiss Billy hard. Our cocks come together, mine propped up by the Y-fronts I only pushed down. I grind against him and Billy gasps and blows his load all over my abs. I feel the quick burst of superheated semen spill from him as his cheeks flush and his eyes roll back in his head and he gives himself over to the orgasm. He snaps back after a couple of seconds, blushes deeply, and lets me kiss him.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re the hottest man I’ve ever known,” I say, “and making you come is all I ever want.” I kiss him again, pull away, and wipe his cum into my skin. I lift my sticky fingers to my nose and sniff; it’s like bleach and teenage boys. I lick one and grin at Billy, still stroking my cock.

  Billy notices my movement and pulls his jeans back up. He holds up a finger and smiles. “I’ll be right back. Don’t stop.”

  I shrug and keep pulling my cock and licking my fingers. I turn back to look over the city and remember how it felt to have Billy explode onto me. I close my eyes and on the inside of my eyelids, see the neon cowboy Billy told me I look like. He’s grinning and spinning a lasso in three motions that repeat over and over again. One of the neon lights that make up his jeans has blown and one of his shirt lights buzzes softly. It’s the mascot for a bar down the street. I’ve never noticed before but the square jaw and muscular body are a little like mine. I’m built to be desirable.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and move to look and kiss Billy but he stops me.

  “Don’t turn around yet.”

  I wait and after a second, red, blue, and yellow light switches on behind me, combating the light of the city in front of me. I turn around and Billy is wearing light. He’s got rope lights attached to his bare body, blue on the legs, red on the chest and arms, and a big yellow cowboy hat on his head.

  “What the hell?” I grin.

  “Surprise. I thought you could use this sometime, in your show.”

  I look at the Y-fronts Billy has concealing a pink, glowing cock and point at it.

  Billy puts his thumbs under the elastic and pulls the Y-fronts up and away. He lets his big, pink, glowing cock flop out and steps out of the underwear.

  “Take off your underwear,” Billy says.

  I raise an eyebrow but comply, tossing them off the side of the building to flutter to the street below. I keep stroking my cock but it’s harder than ever now at the sight of Billy lit up like a neon cowboy.

  “I’m gonna fuck you,” Billy says, “so turn around and face the city.”

  I nearly blow right there. I’m torn between watching the city while he fucks me and watching Billy dressed as a neon god fuck me. I sit back on the ledge and pull up my legs. My hole is oiled from my body and kept as hairless as my cock. It relaxes at the sight of Billy and the neon cowboy coming toward me.

  The lights are warm against my skin. Billy’s cock juts at my hole, looking for the way in, and when it enters, the lights around it buzz like the cowboy on the inside of my eyelids. Billy drives his enhanced cock into me and starts thrusting. I gasp, my back on the ledge, legs in the air, and head thrown back to look at the upside-down city I call home. Billy keeps thrusting, but leans forward and pulls me into a kiss, lights brushing on my nipples and through my hair. He grins and his face is lit in yellow from his hat and red from his chest. His eyes are dark pits and for a few moments, it’s like the sign has come to life just to fuck me. Billy and his pink, pulsating, glowing cock thrust again and again and while I grip the edge of the building to stop us from falling and stop myself from coming, I lose all control and blow all up my chest. It flies up and hits me in the face and even slips over the edge to fall away from us. My cock throbs as Billy keeps thrusting and then comes again inside me, his liquid heat passing through my body before he pulls himself out with a buzzing plop. He falls to his blue neon knees and starts licking my hole, sucking his own spoof from it and then running his tongue up my balls and over my sticky cock, up my rock-hard abs, and up my neck to kiss me and pass his semen into me again. I drink it back and kiss him hard, letting him pull me up so we can fall to the safety of the rooftop to gasp and relax together.

  Billy smiles and turns off the neon suit he’s made.

  “You didn’t make that for me,” I say.

  Billy smiles. “You’re not the only one who wants to play cowboy.”

  I kiss Billy again, and then say, “I love you.” It’s not the first time I’ve said it, and won’t be the last; hell, I don’t even know if Billy will be the last guy I ever say it to but after he does something like this, I can’t help it and it just falls out.

  Billy looks at me for a long time after I say it. He brushes his fingers through his hair and looks at the darkened bar he works in. He looks at the dead neon lights wrapped around his body and at his own hands, entwined with mine. He looks at everything but me and I wonder if he’s ever going to say it back.

  Finally, Billy looks at me again. His eyes are warm and full of hope, a little scared and a little excited. His mouth is half-open, he seems about to bite his lower lip and his breath is shallow but even. He smiles and the lights of the casino light up his skin a thousand different colors before he opens his mouth.

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE OJETE, OR A FISTFUL OF HUEVOS

  Salome Wilde

  The town of Española was eerily silent as two figures on horseback rode in, soon after sunrise. Red’s tired eyes were far brighter than his namesake hair, a curling thatch that matched the parched earth beneath their horses’ galloping hooves almost as precisely as his eyes reflected the color of the vast New Mexico sky. Justice’s name suited far less well than Red’s, imparted on him as it was by a poor Kentucky woman whose man left her when he’d found she’d been sleeping with their twin farmhands. Despite or perhaps because of his beginnings, the boy had turned out equal parts handsome and ruthless. It was hard not to stare at the way his dark tan was set off by a mass of blond, sun-bleached hair. They made quite a memorable picture, especially for a couple of bounty hunters on the trail of a killer.

  A quiet, dry wind, setting into motion a creaking hotel sign, accompanied the muffled stamp of their horses on the dirt road into town. No one came out to greet the strangers as they came to a stop in front of the dry goods store and dismounted. Red tipped his hat back and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Justice frowned and stomped his feet, shaking thick dust from his boots before looking up and pointing to the sheriff’s office. The worn door was painted with a dark smear of blood that ended in a dried pool where a body had clearly slumped not too long before.

  As they approached, a squinting sheriff opened his door and eyed them, head to toe. “That’s close enough,” he warned, pistols shining in the early morning sun.

  Red and Justice stopped in their tracks, raising their hands in a gesture of peace. Justice spat out the stub of a cigar. Dust rose and the fringe on Justice’s coat sleeves rustled in the arid breeze.

  “We’re not here to make trouble,” Red promised, his voice low and even. It was the truth, but he knew the sheriff wouldn’t believe a well-armed pair of strangers, especially after the night of terror the town had faced.

  “Maybe you’d like to toss those gun belts my way to prove it,” answered the sheriff.

  Red pursed his lips. “Afraid not.”

  The sheriff cocked his guns.

  Justice’s fingers twitched. A bead of sweat trickled down his stubbled cheek.

  Red kept his hands high and took a single step forward. “We’ve come to help.”

  He let the words sink in, watching as the tall, grizzled lawman weighed the likelihood he was telling the truth. Out of the corner of narrow, hazel eyes, Justice spied a pair of rifles trained on them from behind a broken saloon window.

  “Help how?” quizzed the sheriff.

  “We’re after the
man who shot up your town.”

  With a tight nod and a motioning pistol, the sheriff directed the men into the office. He kept his pistols cocked as he kicked the door shut behind them. When the two were seated, the lawman leaned against his desk and offered them a choice of day-old coffee or cheap whiskey. Red helped himself to the latter, while Justice paused, removing his wide-brimmed hat, and asked for a basin of water. Too pretty for his own good, thought Red.

  “There’s water in the pitcher,” he told Justice, pointing to a table just outside the single cell that served as the town jail.

  “Much obliged,” answered Justice with a nod, rising to leave the talking, as usual, to Red.

  “I don’t like your kind,” the sheriff said, glancing from man to man as he put one gun back in its holster and kept the other in hand. He removed his hat and smoothed back the little hair he had. “Seen too much blood spilled when outlaws fight outlaws.”

  “Understood,” replied Red, before knocking back a healthy shot of the harsh liquor. He relished the way it burned, just as sure as the sun but to better effect. “But blood’s already been spilled.” He cocked his head toward the bent tin badge on the desk with a crimson-stained gun belt beside it.

  The sheriff frowned, deep furrows knotting between his brows. “Emmett Farley,” he said with a slow nod, eyes on the badge and hand on the belt. “A kid, practically, but the best deputy this town’s ever had.”

  “Dead?”

  He shook his head. “Doc says he should pull through.” There was exhaustion rather than relief in the man’s voice, thought Red. Or maybe it was just shame that the blood spilled wasn’t his own. The sheriff put his second pistol down beside him and poured from the bottle into his coffee cup.

  “How’d it happen?” asked Red, opening the wound a little wider.

  “Some pig of a bandit,” the sheriff spat. “Rode into town, made himself cozy in a game of poker at the saloon, then held up the players for the measly few hundred in the pot plus three bottles of good whiskey.”

  “Ain’t much to get shot over,” Red mused.

  “Emmett was on duty and heard the commotion. He emptied his pistols at the renegade, who was mounting his horse. Emmett was hit, once in the shoulder and once in the thigh.” He downed the contents of his mug.

  “Get any shots in?”

  “He hasn’t come to long enough to say yet, but Jake, the bartender, says not.”

  “Shame,” said Justice, returning to his teetering stool. His hair was damp.

  “Sloppy,” Red retorted.

  The sheriff looked up, steely eyed, hand on his gun. “What’d you say?”

  “Sloppy. The criminal, I mean.”

  Scratching his chin with a horny thumbnail, the sheriff nodded.

  “This Jake tell you what the man looked like?”

  “Dark, mostly: hair, skin, eyes. Black hat that matched his boots. Went by the name of Bronco.” The sheriff shrugged. “Strangers come through here on the way to Santa Fe all the time. Usually, they don’t make trouble.” He sucked his teeth. “Usually.”

  “That’s our man,” said Red. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his vest, shook it out, and offered it to the sheriff. The defiant face of Alejandro “Bronco” Vasquez glared up at them. “Been after him for months. Travels all over, robbing and looting. No amount too small.”

  “Must have a death wish,” said Justice.

  The flyer promised $5,000 for his arrest on multiple counts, including the murder of a preacher in Montana. “I’d pay that out of my own pocket for what he did to Emmett,” said the sheriff. “If I had it. Strange I haven’t ever heard of him before.” He looked over to the small cluster of wanted posters on the back of the office door, none of which had Bronco’s face on it.

  Red shrugged.

  “You think you can bring him in?”

  “Sure of it. He’ll be in Santa Fe tonight, maybe Albuquerque if he rides through. Headed for El Paso then across the border into Mexico.”

  “We’ll make sure he never makes it,” added Justice, combing his fingers through his blond mop.

  “And bring him back here?” prompted the sheriff.

  “By rights to Montana, for the reward.”

  The sheriff nodded in understanding.

  “Of course, if your town can pay…” Red knew that many a New Mexico prospector used the small town’s bank to stash their takings. Not too out-of-the-way, just enough so it wasn’t a likely target for a holdup.

  “Like I said, I don’t like your kind,” the sheriff replied to the unstated agreement. “But in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

  Red could see the thirst for revenge glittering in the old lawman’s eyes. Had the victim been anyone other than the young deputy, there’d probably have been no deal. As it was, the sheriff sent the bounty hunters on their way with a toast to their speedy success.

  The sheriff’s good wishes were heartfelt, but it was planning and experience that led the bounty hunters straight to their prey, only two days later. They knew he’d have made his way to Santa Fe, and they used the trail of drunks at the city’s edge to find the broken-down hideout where they discovered the wretch, snoring in the darkness after having shared his expensive whiskey with all and sundry and squandered the pittance he’d stolen from the Española poker table.

  Kicking in the door of the creaking, windowless shack, bucket of water in hand, Red barked a welcome. “Wake up, you filthy mongrel!”

  Justice strode in behind him, lighting a slender cigar. He used its glow to find a candle.

  In the flickering light, a naked outlaw lay on a bare straw mattress. He was groaning at the intrusion.

  “He looks like shit,” said Red to Justice, picking up the gun belt lying beside the candle and slinging it over his shoulder.

  “Smells like shit, too,” answered Justice, blowing smoke.

  Red hoisted the bucket and tossed its contents at the sprawling form.

  Bronco roared as he rose to his knees. “Go to hell, ojete,” he growled.

  “Angry cuss, ain’t he?” Justice said with a grin.

  Red approached the bed and yanked Bronco’s head back by his thick, black hair. “Listen up, borracho: there’s five thousand dollars with your name on it waiting for us in Española. So get moving before we drag you there.”

  That seemed to sober Bronco up, and fast. “Amigos,” he said with what passed for a smile on his dark, craggy face. “Perhaps we can make a deal.”

  Justice sneered. Red, however, was listening. He released Bronco’s hair with a shove. “What sort of deal?”

  “I got money,” whispered Bronco.

  “You lyin’ sonofabitch. You ain’t got shit, old man,” answered Justice.

  Calling him “old” seemed to enrage Bronco even more than being called a liar. “I’m talking to him, cabrón,” he growled, pointing. “To the man, not the boy.”

  Justice chewed his cigar as he reached for his gun.

  Red held up a hand. “Hold on now, Justice. Vasquez here says he’s got money. We’re reasonable hombres. You just fetch that money, amigo, and we’ll see about letting you go.”

  Bronco scrambled off what passed for a bed and reached beneath it. He came up with a battered leather wallet and tossed it to Red.

  “Well, look here. The man’s telling the truth.” He rifled through a small stack of bills. “Ain’t five thousand, but it ain’t hay either.”

  Justice blew smoke, peering over Red’s shoulder. “What say we keep this for our troubles, and take him in anyway.”

  Red laughed. “I like the way you think, partner.”

  Bronco spluttered a string of curse words in Spanish, some of which few above the Mexican border had ever heard. “That’s not fair!” he finally shouted in English, perhaps the most outrageous words he’d uttered yet.

  “You’re right,” answered Red, calmly. “It ain’t fair at all.” He tapped his bottom lip in thought a moment. “But you know, Vasquez, today may still be your
lucky day.” Keeping his gun belt buckled, he reached below to unfasten his pants. “Why don’t you show us a little of how grateful you’d be if we just take your money and forget we ever saw you?” He shook his half-hard shaft at Bronco.

  “Hijo de perra,” muttered Bronco, but he turned around without hesitation and offered his ass, yielding to the coercion that might save his life.

  Red spit down onto his cock and nudged Bronco’s legs apart. He spit again between smooth bronze cheeks. “Must be part Indian,” he remarked casually. “Hairless as a baby down here.”

  Bronco snarled.

  Red stopped talking. He’d understated his appreciation of the firm flesh before him, but there was no need to talk about it. He’d never had a taste for women, preferring a hard-living man with just enough hair on his body that you knew who you were fucking. Justice suited him well enough, but the eye-catching blond was a bit too pliant for Red’s rougher tastes. Vasquez was a fine trophy despite the drunkenness. He was resisting just enough to make the claiming especially worthwhile, and when he arched his broad back, Red couldn’t resist driving into him with a satisfied groan.

  “You reckon he’s makin’ it easy for ya ’cos he likes it?” Justice quipped.

  “I reckon,” answered Red, voice tight with pleasure.

  Justice approached, cigar protruding from within a toothy grin. “I’m thinkin’ he might like both ends filled.” Walking around the creaking bed, he withdrew his own stiff prick. With his free hand, he took hold of Bronco’s hair as Red had done, and stuffed himself into the waiting mouth.

  Thrusting smoothly until they’d matched their pace, the pair of bounty hunters hungrily claimed their willing quarry. Red’s eyes closed as he held tightly to dark slim hips. Justice watched his pale cock sliding in and out of Bronco’s red mouth as he puffed his cigar. Always curious, Justice took his hand off his own tool to reach beneath, where he found the desperado nearly as hard as he was. The gesture brought forth a pretty whimper that hummed all through Justice. So he kept it up as he lifted his eyes.

  Red’s harsh cry as he reached his climax urged Justice on. He chomped down on his cigar and fucked Bronco’s mouth like his own life depended on it rather than Bronco’s. While Red filled their plaything with seed, Justice withdrew, to proudly decorate the criminal’s gaping visage.