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"Don't come until I'm all the way in you," I pleaded. There was no way I was going to miss
feeling the convulsions inside Marco's glory hole while he was shooting off.
"Then give it to me fast!" Marco panted.
My hips arched forward, trying to gently force the last few inches into an already overstuffed
cavern. It would have been possible, I suppose, to brutally push the rest of my manhood in, but I
didn't want to hurt him. Chances were I'd never get to tangle with him again if I screwed up now.
So I wound up not quite entirely inside Marco when I felt his hot juice explode all over my busy
hand. His entire body went limp with the force of his orgasm, and if it weren't for my prick buried
deep inside his ass, I'm sure the cowboy would have crumpled to the ground.
Marco's ass muscles tensed so tightly when he came, I was sure he'd bruise my prick. But despite
the slight pain, the combined pleasure of watching Marco climax, hearing his Spanish prayers to
heaven, and feeling the incredible heat inside his chute was making it high time for me to unleash
my own load.
"Here it comes," I announced. My sticky hands left Marco's
prick to glue themselves to his narrow hips. Each stroke came faster and faster, went deeper and
deeper. "I'm gonna come in your ass just like you wanted."
"Just like I wanted," Marco echoed. Somehow he managed to make his ass even tighter, as he
reached around to grab at me, trying to pull me deeper inside his hungry hole.
Just then I exploded, feeling the condom swell with my hot load. It's a good thing I had a grip on
the base, or Marco's hungry ass would have swallowed it whole when it started to slip.
Afterward, we stood, dressing ourselves in the still moonlight. Diablo had finished his business
and was placidly munching clover not fifteen feet from us.
"Think he enjoyed the show?" I asked,
"Maybe," Marco replied. "He's a good bull the type I used to fight in Spain." He grinned, white
teeth flashing in the moonlight. "That's the dream I thought I would have forever, you know?"
"So what happened?"
"Over there, I got caught being gored by the wrong kind of bull, you know? They don't put up
with that I had to leave. Over here," Marco smiled, boldly running his eyes over me, "no one
cares what kind of horns stick you."
SECRETS OF THE GWANGI
Steve Berman
Tuck Kirben had never hidden from danger once in his thirty-four years not when he outrode a
wild twister in the Kansas territory, not when that crazed Chinaman with the hatchet had wanted
to settle a gambling score, and certainly not when an entire saloon full of men had been ready to
lynch him after learning what he'd done on the piano the very night before. But damn it, he now
found himself hiding underneath a rock outcropping like a snake without its rattle and with only
half a fang.
From where he crouched, he couldn't see any of the gwangi, as T. J. called the fucking things, but
Tuck knew they soared above, just waiting to pick him off like he was some scampering
jackrabbit. Sweat rolled down Tuck's body, and his unbuttoned soiled shirt stuck to his chest and
back like a second skin. Even as the sun set, the jungle valley held the heat like scorched Texas
dirt. He cursed that map that had promised silver veins as thick as a man's arm; if there was any
ore down here, he doubted
they'd ever live to find it. He wiped his brow beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Salt stung his eyes
and sweat dripped onto the coarse paper, as he scribbled in his journal. That old school-marm
who'd done taught him letters would be all hobbled if she ever read his words.
He heard the crunch of gravel from behind him, reached for his pistol and nearly shot poor T. J.
full of lead. He offered the vaquero a sorry grin of apology. Tuck had traveled down to Mexico
looking to challenge the infamous Tiago Josue Sanz to a gunfight. He had found the man holding
court in a vast cantina. T. J. had pushed the painted whore off his knee and accepted the
challenge. But first tequila. Though he'd been bottle sharp since knee high, Tuck had never drunk
so much in all his days, matching the dreadfully handsome tawny-skinned devil glass for glass.
Finally, somewhere between toasts to el de atras and ir a un entierro, Tuck had found himself
wanting more to fuck T. J. than shoot him. The vaquero had eyes like Spanish missionary
chocolate, and his carefully groomed mustache ached to be messed by fierce lips. The painted
stripe, red like fire, running down T. J.'s tight pants had taunted Tuck.
When they had stumbled out of the cantina together, full as ticks, trying to walk and too stubborn
to collapse, Tuck half dragged, half sweet-talked the Mexican man back to the edge of town.
Behind some sagebrush he fought him to the ground. No six-shooters were needed, only the red-
hot iron unshucked from his opponent's wool pants. He tasted every inch of T. J., sucked down
his mecos like it was marrow and he was a starving man. The stuff was fine as creamy gravy on [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]