by Tom Graham
It’s only a forty-minute flight from Honolulu to Kona, on the Big Island, so I flew out early Saturday morning, picked up a rental car at the airport, then drove to the festival. I’d taken some care in getting dressed, wearing a Chicago Homicide T-shirt that read, OUR DAY STARTS WHEN YOURS ENDS, a tight pair of jeans that accented my butt, and worn cowboy boots.
I watched the parade, noting Kalani James as he pranced by me on his palomino pony. He wore jeans and a light-blue chambray shirt, scuffed brown cowboy boots, and a bright red lei of scarlet lehua flowers. He had a shock of dark hair, a killer smile, and biceps that rippled as he shook the palomino’s reins. He looked my way. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I felt little electric shocks go shooting through my body.
A little later I watched Kalani come in first in the quarter-mile race, and snapped a digital picture of him accepting his award. After he stepped down from the dais, I made a point of meeting up with him. “Hey,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “You rode a great race.”
“Thanks,” he said. Our eyes locked again, and he smiled. We introduced ourselves, and I used the display on the back of my camera to show him the picture I’d taken. “Hey, that’s great,” he said. “I’d love to get a copy of that.”
I offered to email him one, but he said, “I’ve got a computer at my place. Maybe you could stop by and download it.”
From the glint in his eye I could tell the picture wasn’t the only thing he was interested in. “Sure,” I said.
He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to be back here at four for the roping competition. But I’ve got a couple of hours free. If you’d like to…”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve got a car in the lot.”
He shook his head. “Pua’s faster,” he said, “for where we’re going.” Pua, which means flower in Hawaiian, was his palomino’s name. I followed him to where he’d tied her up. In a quick motion he’d jumped onto her back then gestured for me to follow.
I wasn’t quite so graceful, but I got up behind him. “Give me your hands,” he said over his shoulder, and I began to reach around his waist. He took my hands and placed them firmly around his waist. “You just hold on tight.”
I scooted up so that my dick was right up against his ass, and he shook the reins. Pua took off at a trot until we cleared the festival grounds. With another shake and a little action in her flanks, she picked up the pace.
Kalani was warm and sexy, and a mixture of his sweat and aftershave filled my nostrils. My dick loved the friction of riding up against his ass, but my butt was bouncing along like a dribbled basketball, and I was deathly afraid of losing my grip on Kalani and sliding backward over Pua’s tailbone.
We cantered up a slope, then down a country road. Ten minutes later Kalani was reining Pua in as we approached a doublewide trailer on a gorgeous piece of countryside. “It’s not much, but it’s home,” he said. As we came to a stop, I loosened my death grip on his waist, and he jumped off, saying, “I liked it when you were holding on to me. You’re gonna have to do that again real soon.”
I tried to get off the horse as gracefully as he had, but I ended up stumbling and sliding off and right into Kalani’s arms—which come to think of it, was just where I wanted to be. We kissed for the first time then, under the warm sun, with Pua breathing heavily next to us.
The kiss was tentative at first, just our lips meeting, but as I wrapped my arms around him and felt out bodies mesh together, our lips opened. His face was a little sandy against mine, but the scrape of his light beard only incited me to kiss him more deeply. I was conscious of the twenty places were our bodies touched each other; the way his hand rested lightly on my shoulder blade; the warm pulse of his living, breathing dick against my leg.
Finally, Kalani pulled back. “Come on, let me show you what’s inside.” He took my hand and led me into the trailer. “I’ll skip most of the tour for right now.” He led me through a door to the right, into a bedroom with a double bed under a bright-red Hawaiian quilt.
“More scarlet lehua,” I said, before Kalani turned and started kissing me again.
The next few minutes were a frantic blur, both of us struggling to get out of our clothes as quickly as possible while not breaking the kiss. We fell onto the bed with our pants around our ankles, both of us stuck in cowboy boots that wouldn’t come off so easily. But it didn’t matter—we rolled around on the bed together, our stiff dicks rubbing against each other as we kissed and panted for breath.
I’m a strong guy; I don’t really work out, but I surf, run, and Rollerblade, and I’ve got a pretty good body. Kalani was an equal match for me—six-pack abs, ropy biceps, and strong calves and thighs, from all that riding. His body was smooth, like mine, with a dusting of chest hair, tufts under his arms, and a wiry black thatch around his groin. He had a dolphin tattoo on his back, just above his buttcrack, and a thin, wavy scar around one kneecap.
Finally, Kalani pulled off and scooted down the bed a bit to take my dick in his mouth. I was so worked up that almost as soon as his warm lips touched my stiff rod, I knew I would come. I warned him, and he pulled back, finishing me off with his hand as I spurted up over his fist.
He flipped over onto his back, and I got to work on his dick, licking it from top to bottom, tonguing the piss-slit, then deep-throating him. His body tensed, and he made whimpering sounds—my cue to finish him off with my hand the way he’d done for me.
Then there we were, lying next to each other on the bed, both of us catching our breath, both with a handful of cum and jeans twisted around our cowboy boots. “Man, that was hot,” he said, finally. “We both went off like rockets on the Fourth of July.” With his free hand he pulled his pants up a bit, hopped off the bed, and walked across to the bathroom. I did the same.
After our hands were clean, we were able to disentangle our jeans and boots. A warm breeze wafted through the open windows of the trailer, caressing our bodies as we lay next to each other. We traded life stories then. I told him I was a homicide cop in Honolulu, and he explained that he was a carpenter during the week and a rodeo cowboy whenever he could be.
Pretty soon he looked at the clock. “I’ve got to get back for the roping,” he said. “Will you stick around?”
“I’ve got a ticket for the last flight out tonight, but I can change it to tomorrow.” A deep kiss and a quick caress from my crotch to my chest told me he was happy with that idea.
We rode back to the festival together, and this time I was able to get off Pua’s back without falling, before Kalani cantered off to the roping competition. His team was slow, though, and didn’t win anything—which was just fine with me, because it meant he was back at my side that much sooner.
We walked around the festival together for a while then ended up at the two-step dance. We joined the men’s line next to each other, and it was fun trying to match my rhythm to his.
“Come on,” he said, when a song—probably the fifth or sixth—ended. “Let’s get something to eat then head back to my place.”
There was a huge luau at one end of the festival grounds, and we ate our fill of kalua pig, chicken long rice, poi, shark-fin soup, sweet and sour spareribs, and Portuguese sausage and beans. Though my stomach was groaning, we had to have dessert: pineapple, banana, and mango ice cream. Finally, when neither of us could eat another bite, Kalani said, “I’ll ride Pua back to my place—on the road, this time, and you can follow in your rental car.”
Driving up to his trailer, I started yawning. Too much excitement, too much food, I thought. Would I be able to get it up again, or would I fall asleep as soon as my body hit that double bed? I must have dawdled a bit, because Kalani disappeared inside the trailer, then reappeared a couple of minutes later wearing only his chaps.
I walked up to where he stood in the doorway of the trailer and kissed him. I was about to drop to my knees and take his dick in my mouth when he said, “Come inside, cowboy. And this time take off your boots.”
I followed hi
m to the bedroom, and he sat back on the bed in his chaps and watched me strip. I was hard even before I got my boots off—just seeing his lean, muscular chest; the leather chaps with their big round opening; and of course his sleek, hard dick staring at me. Though I felt my blood rush, I tried to take it slow—what good is having a killer body if you can’t show it off sometimes? I teased and tantalized him a bit, exposing first one nipple then the other, then taking off my shirt. I unbuttoned my jeans and let them sag open, giving him a glimpse of pubic hair, then turned my back to him and eased them over my butt, sliding my boxers down with them.
I looked at Kalani over my shoulder as my pants dropped to the floor and I stepped out of them. “Man, you’ve got a great ass,” he said. “Come here and sit on my dick.”
“You want me to ride you, cowboy?”
He reached for the bedside table and then ripped open a condom, which he slid over his stiff dick. He squeezed some lube into his hand and rubbed it up and down his pole, all the while staring into my eyes.
I couldn’t resist any longer. I climbed onto his bed and positioned my ass in front of him. “Grease me up, boy. I’m ready to ride.”
The lube was cool, but as his finger worked it up my ass it warmed. When he pulled out his finger, I squatted over his dick and lowered myself onto him. It hurt a bit at first, but I went slow. Once my ass was accustomed to him, I moved up and down, faster, building a rhythm. My calves locked onto his around the leather chaps, and my thighs strained, but I didn’t pay them any attention—I was focused on the sweet feeling of his dick riding in and out of my ass, clenching my muscles around him, moving faster and faster as he made those little moaning noises again.
He was really crying out by the time I felt him release into me. I slid off his dick after he stopped panting, and lay there next to him. “Somebody’s still hard as a rock,” he said, reaching over to stroke my dick. “We’re gonna have to do something about that.”
Kalani ripped open another condom and slid it over me, then rubbed lube over me with a gentle, almost feathery movement. I worried I’d come again fast if he kept that up, but he didn’t. Instead he stood and moved over to the bureau, which he grasped with both hands. Then he bent over. The chaps cupped his ass, leaving it open for me like a special present on Christmas morning.
I squeezed some lube onto my finger, but before I stuck it up his ass I bent down to give him a tongue bath, gripping the sides of the leather chaps. In and out my tongue shot, loosening his muscles and making him squirm again. “Oh, man, stop teasing me,” he said at last. “Fuck me. Stick your dick up my ass now.”
As I said, I’m a cop, and our motto is “Serving and Protecting with Aloha.” It was time for me start serving, and I did—I served my dick right up his tight slippery ass. He was whimpering again, but I didn’t know if it was pain or pleasure, and I didn’t care. I drove my dick up his ass until my nuts banged against his skin then pulled almost all the way out and drove it in again. I braced my hands against his shoulders and plowed him until my whole body erupted with the force of my orgasm.
Suddenly I could barely stand. It was all I could do to pull out of his ass and stumble to the bed. “You all right?” he asked, looking over.
“You killed me.” I moved my hand over my heart. “Fucked to death. But man, what a way to go.”
Kalani laughed and jumped on top of me, and we wrestled for a while. Finally, we settled in for the night, spooned against each other, his limp dick nestling in the curve of my ass. I hoped he didn’t have anything planned for Sunday, because I’d booked myself on the last flight back to Honolulu, and I knew I wanted to try those chaps on myself.
FACING THE MATADOR
CB Potts
I hadn’t wanted to spend Saturday afternoon fixing fence, but that damn bull had broken out again. I couldn’t really blame Diablo. The poor bastard was hell-bent on getting some tail, and there was precious little of that in his corral.
Every chance he got, he’d push down the fence and head down the road to the Bar S. I’d have to once again round up a few reluctant assistants, clamber into the pickup, and try to retrieve him—not easy when he was in the throes of love with some comely heifer.
Of course, I could build better a fence—confine my wayward stud with the latest in barbwire technology, coupled with the stinging shock only electric fencing can provide. But that would be expensive—and it would probably keep Diablo in. And if that happened, when would I get to see Marco?
Marco had been at the Bar S for three years, and for every day of those three years, I had lusted after him. When I closed my eyes at night, I saw the long, brown curves of his body—I heard the musical lilt his accent lent to the most prosaic of sentences. Under the guise of an interested ranch owner, always looking for more hands, I’d found out everything I could about Marco. I knew he was quiet, that he kept to himself. I knew he could ride a horse like nobody’s business and that he had a way with animals that was a marvel to behold.
What I didn’t know was Marco’s secret history. My first clue of his previous identity came on yet another bull-retrieving mission. Sure, it was a pain in the ass, but it’s also important to remember that an irate bull is a few hundred pounds of hoofed death. I’d never had Diablo’s horns polled, so with one good swipe of the head my bull could disembowel a careless cowboy. One didn’t tangle lightly with a critter like that!
I hadn’t discovered Diablo’s latest escape until late in the evening, when I was going out to the barn to retrieve a forgotten T-shirt. Bachelor or no, sometimes you’ve just got to do laundry. Walking through the twilight, I turned to greet my prize stud and found the corral empty.
“Son of a bitch!” I cursed. It was payday, and most of the hands were off on their weekly drinking binge. If I wanted to get Diablo, I was on my own. To top it all off, the crew had taken the truck with them.
It was a few miles to the Bar S, and by the time I’d arrived, the moon shone brightly. The light allowed me to spot Diablo right away—and to let me see he wasn’t alone.
Usually a bull with loving on his mind does nothing else, but Diablo was acting funny. He was circling the pasture, occasionally darting toward the middle and then away, his churning hooves pounding clouds of dust up to heaven.
Trying to figure it out, I edged closer. That’s when I saw Marco, standing in the middle of Diablo’s vision and holding a red T-shirt. He’d snap that garment, drawing Diablo back to him time after time, taunting the raging bull. Each time, Diablo charged, and each time, at the last possible moment, Marco moved inches out of his path. I couldn’t count the times flashing horns barely missed Marco’s tender abdomen, couldn’t number how often Death almost collected the sexy ranch hand.
Despite the terror of the situation, the life-or-death choices every second held for Marco, I found I couldn’t interfere, couldn’t turn away. It would only take one shout, one quick loop of the rope, and this whole scene would stop. Instead I stood, eyes riveted to the scene, my prick growing uncomfortably hard inside my jeans.
Frustrated, Diablo pawed the ground. His head lowered until his snout brushed the sage grass. Marco shifted his hips, eyes locked with the raging bull. For an eternal moment they just stared.
Then Diablo charged. With nearly a ton of angry beef bearing down on him, Marco didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even blink. The distance between them closed until it was ten feet, five feet, two feet, one…
And then Marco vaulted into the air, twisting his body to narrowly avoid Diablo’s deadly horns. He had the grace of a gymnast combined with the skill of the finest rodeo performer. He landed behind Diablo and gave the puzzled bull a smack on the flank.
Frustrated yet again, the bull left in search of easier conquests. I left the safety of the fence and stood inches from Marco.
“You know that’s fucking nuts, what you just did,” I raged. “You could have been killed.”
Marco laughed, teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Not today, my friend, not today.” H
is smile deepened. “Sometimes you have to take risks. It’s a rush to get what you want.”
“Is that what you want?” I countered, exasperated. “To be gored by my bull?”
“Not by your bull, perhaps,” Marco replied. His gaze dropped to my bulging jeans. “But something else could be interesting.”
My mouth went dry, and my legs turned to jelly.
“What do you mean?” I stammered. Could the object of my fantasies actually be interested in me?
My answer came soon enough, as Marco’s fingers undid my belt. He slid his hand inside, wrapping around my rock-hard prick.
“What do you think I mean?” he asked. “Do you have any ideas?”
I nodded, silent with desire.
Marco smiled. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” Before I knew what was happening, the hot ranch hand pulled my pants down till they were bunched around my boots, wrapped my rod in a thin coat of latex, and slid those sexy lips down to my balls.
“Sweet Jesus!” I breathed. My prick raged inside Marco’s talented mouth. His tongue did tricks I didn’t know were possible—circling my tool like a constricting snake, squeezing an already overstimulated organ.
I slid back and forth, trying to stuff even more down Marco’s throat. At first he took it willingly, but after a few of my enthusiastic thrusts, he gripped my hips. The forced slowing of the pace made each moment more enjoyable, and I felt my juices about to erupt.
“I’m gonna come,” I announced, not caring who heard me. “Come in your mouth.”
“No.” Marco quickly pulled his head away. “You’re gonna come in my ass.”
I reached for his blue-black hair, intending to draw his talented mouth back to business. “I can do both.”
