by Alison Tyler
Buckle Fucker
Rakelle Valencia
I had been sucked down into the chute jerking my head up in desperation, searching for help, to find that she was all business. Her hands clawed my thick, protective vest with the same tenacity as the others. Hands that lifted me upright, back onto the bronc, and I had wished I could feel them on my skin. Her hands were strong, professional, serious, determined. I knew this in seconds as they gripped my thick, Kevlar vest. And I thought I knew what kind of woman she would be just by her hands.
Those long fingers had instantly intrigued me. The digits led to muscular yet feminine hands with veins pulsing in excitement. The pointer finger on her right was crooked with a thin, white scar marking flesh from nail to knuckle. A woman’s working hands fascinated me so. I wanted to run my tongue along that scar, caress it, follow its trail, draw the marred appendage into my hungry mouth. And I had chastised myself because my brain was in the wrong game at that moment.
Shaking my Stetson-covered head, I tried to get back into my ride, envisioning how the bucking horse would twist and writhe beneath me, this one first going to the left away from my hand then knowing to slam right when I began to overcompensate. Of course I wasn’t planning to overcompensate. I had been planning to walk the edge and get her to buck out straight and strong, picking up points by stroking long, dotted lines with my spur rowels.
The mare was hot and fresh, not yet used hard at this level, which meant she was a wild card, not consistent. I’d ridden her before, and she was an honest bucker with a few tricks up her sleeve that would become known as her routine romp when she worked more.
The red mare tossed her tangled mane in angst then lathered into a captured frenzy, banging the steel panels, making me need support once again to keep from falling underneath those large hooves. A cowboy down in the chute is dead, or at least hurtin’ enough not to be makin’ any rides at that rodeo. I stabbed my toes on the rails and wiggled behind a bit, out of the sweet spot, until the horse settled. Hands were all over me still, keeping me safe, voices urging me on.
Our eyes met. The rugged, lady cowboy on the chute crew had greenish-brown eyes that just about melted my watery blues, and I had hoped she knew that I was thanking her for her help, for her hands. She smiled with only half of her face, a cockeyed grin. I was careful not to nod as that would throw the gate open.
I’d been riding horses since I was a kid and only recently had I given myself over to trying the bred broncs, bred for bucking. I’m not too sure that the whole idea sits well with what I like. I mean, where I come from, we ride horses to gentle ’em, to get ’em good and broke. But hell, this rodeo deal gets me laid.
Unfortunately, I was thinkin’ on that and not on the ride under me as I scooted into my rigging, pressing the smooth, tight, bulging crotch of my Wrangler jeans against my hand, wiggling into the sweet spot once again. I stretched out good, having contact, spurs to silky shoulders, for when I came out of the chute. I nodded, tucked my chin and threw my upper body back, lining out from the point of shoulders with both rowels.
I remember that it was a terrific start, very classic for a hop or two. I remember that I had forgotten who I was on, searching my head for a name when my brain went elsewhere, remembering that I hadn’t caught the woman’s name, the chute crew, lady cowboy’s. But I shouldn’t have been thinking about her.
I got too lost in daydreaming like a moon-eyed schoolboy over that cowgirl, and couldn’t come up with any thoughts on this particular horse’s routine. I’d had it at the forefront of my mind once. Now there was nothing. Right when I needed to know this horse the most…
Well, that red, bucking mare switched on me. I promptly caught air between my denim-clad ass and the red, hairy carnival ride, and I knew immediately what that meant. When the stadium audience viewed sunlight betwixt me and a bronc, I’d be gettin’ off fast. Sure enough, that bucking mare asked me to leave, hard.
I didn’t make the buzzer. In fact, I had barely made four and a half seconds. It wasn’t the hang time that hurt, it was the landing. There wasn’t going to be any trophy buckle for anyone to polish off of me tonight. Might as well collect my rigging and head out.
Climbing the chutes to exit the arena, I was thinking on how much I would be missing that weight strapped to the front of my midsection, moving with me, yet causing just enough friction for me not to forget it was there, all the while trying to remember the damn name of that red mare.
“Maria,” she said, that chute crew, lady cowboy breaking into my thoughts.
“Nope. Wasn’t anything as pretty as that. More like Buckle Fucker,” I replied in a frump, dragging my rigging over the stock rails, landing on the pleasure side of the fence, the business aspect left behind in four and a half seconds.
“Well that’s a new one. I don’t believe I’ve ever been called that before. At least not to my face.” She shuffled and pretended to huff with that slanted grin. “The mare’s name was Two Steppin’. Do you dance?”
My gritted, stubbed fingernails picked at the tape securing the rosin-pasted glove. “Only in the arena with a four-legged partner.” What I should have said was “yah, sure, any time, anywhere,” but I was pretty soured with myself, not to mention embarrassed at that point.
Watching my struggle in unraveling the tape, she reached to unzip the shock-absorbing armor engulfing my torso and ran her hands over my chest, one down my stomach and past my belt, ever-so-slowly. Stiff batwing chaps hit the cement aisle of the grandstands, tottering on their own to remain erect, before giving up and collapsing in an expensive heap of multicolored hide. My glove dropped to join them as this Maria twisted her long, thin, strong fingers into the front of my striped Cinch shirt, popping several of the pearly snaps.
When her lips touched mine I was still dazed. My hands went to either side of her waist feeling the thick, tooled leather that I trailed with clammy digits to an engraved hubcap the size to fit a sports car. I jerked the silver plate like opening a can of tonic. Instead of the fizz I heard the roar of the crowd, reminding me that we were center-stage of the stands.
I felt my ears get hot, knowing that my face must have reddened brighter than that flaming mare I had just come off of. Lust welled within my head and grew within my Wranglers but I hitched her buckle back up and bent to grab my gear.
“Where ya going, cowboy?” she asked.
“Back to the hotel, ma’am.” I tipped my hat in the most gentlemanly manner.
“Can I come?”
A grin ripped my face apart to a crease greater than a river gorge through the Grand Canyon. “As many times as you want,” I replied and chauffeured her to my dented pickup truck, making doubly-sure that the door had latched properly closed.
She was forward. I liked that. And she was no road whore. I’d seen some that were battle weary—you know, rode hard and put away wet. I stayed clear of those.
I’d seen Maria around many of the rodeos. She came from good, hard-working class, blue collar. My guess would have been that daddy was a stock contractor. How else would a lady have been working behind the chutes?
In my room, I dropped my gear and popped her buckle again, sliding the leather from its keeper. She stared me in the eyes, capturing my stubbled jaw in her palms to drag me in for a kiss. My tongue was trying to probe hers when she shoved my shoulders downward with insistence, directing me to my knees.
The hubcap was real. This lady was a team roper from what I could read of the engraving blurred in my vision, being too close to the end of my nose. She was a header I guessed. Maria unsnapped the fancy silver plate the rest of the way and peeled it from the leather strap, dropping it with a clink upon my rigging. Her slender fingers entangled snakelike into my short, brown hair, knocking my Stetson to the worn rug, shoving my face to the copper-colored button of her jeans.
The smell of wash-detergent and horses and leather and musk appealed to my nostrils as if baiting me in. I reached for the riveted button with a jerk of both hands and ha
d the gritty, little zipper down before she clasped my wrists and hog-tied them by the leather strap of her belt. When I looked, I knew my eyes had begged of her. She wavered, releasing her hold, the two of us peeling her slim-fit Wranglers to stack higher on her boot tops.
I felt her fingers in my hair again, smashing my face to her shaved, trimmed pubic strip. Maria jutted her pelvis forward, opening her lower lips along with her long legs, flattening my nose into her silky flesh. My tongue stabbed out at her, rewarded by a squeak then a low, rumbling groan. I lapped at her slit like it was an ice cream cone on a hot, muggy July day, clawing between her legs with my wrists still bound at her full asscheeks.
She started riding me as if she were at a jog on a hot-blooded quarter horse. My face was the seat of her saddle, my hair was the mane of her gelding or the horn of the pommel she held on to. And I could so go with that scenario because what I really wanted were those clenching thighs hugging my ears to finish the scene.
I tugged at her captured boots, jeans wringing the leather uppers to create manacles that I fought against in her behalf. My insistence and the awkwardness of my trapped wrists tripped her, throwing us both off balance, Maria landing without injury upon the late ’60s, early ’70s avocado-colored bed covering.
It was fortunate that my recent meager rodeo winnings did not allow for a large suite. The rundown hotel sported rooms no bigger than a box stall, the bed, with its well-bleached, well-starched sheets, demanding most of this space. All of this made it easier to remain on my knees, no floor length to cover as I crouched by the side of the bed throwing long, naked, white, smooth legs over my shoulders.
I love the smell of women. I love the taste of them, the feel of them. I love to please them, especially when I can hear their whispered thanks, their moans and groans of appreciation, their grunts of gratitude. I love women, all types, shapes, sizes. All women. The mere sounds of Maria panting and squirming in delight made me reach for my swollen crotch. Dust-covered, sweaty jeans stood sentinel against calloused palms, resisting my haste to stroke myself to a quick, spewing cum. I struggled, ripping and pulling at pants and jockstrap to spring my throbbing hard-on.
Once loosed, I humped at the quilt hanging from the side of the bed, grinding against the firm mattress and the seam where it met the box spring. I needed something more than my own dry, bound hands, but my body was stuck in place, my mouth refused to give up its territory on a whim.
As my prick jumped on its own accord, I thrust two fingers into Maria, and her hole gave in warm wetness, dribbling creamy slickness down her crack toward a puckered, darkened anus which kissed at wandering fingertips as delicately and deliberately as she had kissed my lips at the rodeo.
Maria shrieked in spasms and sat bolt upright, yanking me from between her moistened legs by my ears. Her hands shredded through my striped Cinch shirt; the snapping, almost cracking of those little pearly white closures rang like firecrackers, and satiny legs fell free from my shoulders.
Gooseflesh rose over my chest with the caress of her strong hands. My body was unaccustomed to the touch of a forward woman, a muscle-laden, ranch-hardened, determined woman. Maria’s hands took what they wanted, much like the woman herself. And I had known, somehow, that she would be like that. But that was no solace for my aching, rigid prick.
She tweaked at my nipples, nearly sending me flat to the floor, and sucked my mouth earnestly. Maria wrapped firm fingers around my engorged dick and plied me with strokes of friction, skin moving alive and hot in her palm over and separate from the blood-filled tissues inside.
My body collapsed away from her touch, my cheek slapping the flesh of her lap, my lungs gasping for air, stomach concave, jerking my erection from her grip. It was too much, way too much. Her powerful hands dominated my entire being and I would have to waive control to take the ride.
Maria clasped both sides of my head like a vise and licked her tongue about my lips as she rocked backward, flat to the bed, dragging me with her. Legs engulfed me. Knees hooked onto my hips. Ankles crossed over my back. My elbows at her ears. With one massive hug, Maria had my cock lined up and driven into her.
Wind whistled through her pouty, swollen, sensuous mouth as if she had just dipped into the water of a soaking, soothing bath. I ground my teeth and grunted much as I had when I hit the arena dirt with a dull thud of pain and frustration. I couldn’t do this, although I told myself that I could in my head. I mean, I could, but the whole thing was going to be over quick. I probably wouldn’t even make four and a half seconds.
I was barely holding on, thinking of anything else that I could to make this ride last when my ass rang out with the slap of her hand. I pulled back in reaction, putting air between me and the saddle. I knew it was over. Time to get off.
One of Maria’s hands clawed into the back of my neck, the other smacked my tense, undulating buttocks again, and again.
My throat growled until it was raw with fire, my body pumped uncontrollably with wave after wave of jism unloading into her, into Maria. It wasn’t my dick that came, it was my entire rugged, worn body pounding and riding to a motion not of my making.
I knew my asscheeks were reddened. I could feel the warmth of their glow. No matter how many years they had been hardened in the saddle I knew that there was always that ride that would sore them up. For me, that ride was Maria.
Noticing too late that her hands had both descended to my hips as her legs fell open, the toughened cowgirl marked me with fingernails to my shoulders as if spurs were rolling over a bucking horse. At the same time, her pussy clamped on to my softening prick threatening with contracting strength to cut it off. I drove into her. Maria let out a cry that made sweat trickle the rain gutter between my shoulder blades and she writhed and twisted in carnal pleasure beneath me.
In the morning she was gone. I rolled out of bed to unceremoniously fall in a heap on the threadbare rug, rubbing first one chafed wrist then the other, surprised by the feeling of being rode hard and put away wet. Shaking my head into focus, my vision was teased by the shiny, hubcap-sized buckle holding down a little note torn from the bedside hotel pad: GOOD RIDE. YOU EARNED IT. Grabbing the buckle I read the engraving: CHAMPION HEADER.
It Ain’t Always Easy
Tom Piccirilli
This is where things get a little funky.
She reaches into the nightstand drawer and finds the handcuffs. You know what’s coming but it’s already in motion, and despite the sharp prodding under your heart you realize you’ve got to ride it out.
So, okay—
She lets loose with a low gurgling noise that’s supposed to make her sound like a shocked Sunday school teacher. Actually it sounds like something LeeLee the computer-literate gorilla at the San Diego Zoo makes when she’s in a hot mood and typing out FUCKME FUCKME FUCKME on her little palm pad while chasing the handlers around her cage.
LeeLee’s a monkey of strong wants. She’s been on the news every night this week, with zoo officials promising to fly in a mate for her from the central highlands of Zaire. The nervous handlers look violated and in need of extensive therapy.
The window’s open just enough that the car alarms, shouts, sirens, and other midsummer street noise draw your attention. The breeze circles the room and pats the nape of your neck like the soft hand of your last lover.
Actually, she never patted you there and didn’t love you and didn’t have soft hands, but you compensate with a vivid imagination and maudlin sentimentality.
This one, her name’s Kathleen. You know her from the neighborhood and you’ve scoped each other in the bar scene before, but tonight something clicked. The right amount of liquor, the lack of choice in the crowd.
So—she’s got the handcuffs and she’s twirling them around on the chain, eyebrows arched like she’s expecting you to explain yourself.
Like you’ll say, Hey, I’m into the bondage scene, baby!
Like you’ll say, Those old things? I’ve got a pair of fur-lined restraints in the cl
oset!
Like you’ll say anything except, Those cuffs, they were my father’s. He was a cop. He died on the job. Heart attack, not like he was shot trying to stop a bank robbery. I keep them around for reasons I don’t comprehend. I didn’t much like the man, and he probably thought less of me. His badge is in there too. It’s not gold, he never made detective.
You keep a tight lip and try to grin at her. It doesn’t really work. Your charm is lacking more and more these days.
Instead, she’s waiting and losing patience. You stare at each other for a few more seconds. As if it was all rehearsed many times before and you’ve missed your cue, she makes the horny gorilla noise again.
You might have your hang-ups but you need some affection too, and the craving is on you in a rush and you reach for her. This one, she moves aside and gives you a wide leering smile. You jumped too fast and now she knows she’s in charge. It never comes down to who’s strongest, but who’s weakest.
She tells you to roll over on your back.
You can either buck the situation or go with it. You’ve gone with so little over the years that abruptly you feel like doing something you’ve been told to do.
Fine. You roll onto your back and you see that she doesn’t really know what she’s doing either. She frowns like she’s trying to figure things out step by step, and tells you to take your clothes off.
So now you’ve gotta get up, get naked, and then get back on the bed and roll over on your back. When you’re a square wedge of vanilla, this shit ain’t as easy as it looks on the videos.
Kathleen, she puts one cuff on your right wrist and then notices that you don’t have a wrought-iron headboard she can just stick the chain through. Either she closes the other cuff on your left wrist, which really isn’t doing too much in the foreplay department, or she has to improvise.
You’ve got to give it to her, she’s making a valiant effort. She tells you to get off the bed and lie on the floor.
