Best Erotica
"Moonlight Ride" a sex story by Gregory Davison
December 2005 Short Story Contest Runner Up
Hell, the more I stare in the mirror behind the bar, the less I like what's starin' back. Look at me, I'm sittin' here in the Cowboy Bar on a saddle for a barstool for chris' sakes, listening to cowboy music, wearin' my cowboy hat and boots. I'm a damn third generation Wyoming rancher and I feel like a total fraud, about as real as a cigar store Indian.
In fact, on my what - fourth, fifth beer, I find myself sinkin' more and more into a funk. So, like -- not to go all Oprah -- but, yeah, it feels good to talk. Truth is, it's not all bad. Funk's not. Comes with some clarity -- like one of them days out on the meadows when the clouds lower and thicken only to suddenly part and shoot a few brilliant rays all the way to the sagebrush. You know, the kind you see all the time in those wall-sized western wildlife paintings or on the side of a local bus. That type of clarity. In my case, the clarity came a few beers ago like a 2x4 hit of reality pointin' to where I went wrong. I mean to the exact minute. It happened right here in The Cowboy Bar.
I inherited a working cattle ranch at the age of 37. Okay, so far -- not the stuff that "Dr. Phil" is made of. Well, everybody knows workin' ranches in resort areas ain't cuttin' it these days due to high property taxes and low beef prices, so I go the dude route. Not a bad choice, considerin.' Wranglin' dudes on a otherwise legitimate outfit is respectable -- been goin' on in the west for over a hundred years. So far, so good, still have my dignity, and the bottom line is much improved. I also can't help but notice that the big rock ladies who stay on the ranch seem to take a shine to me -- always asking for private riding lessons, two to a horse.
'Nother beer? Yeah, thanks. It's definitely the next step wherein I screwed the pooch, so to speak. As I now review it, hindsight being 20/20, I overreached a bit when I took a struggling but respectable working spread with a decent track record wrangling dudes and expanded it to include an escort service. Yep, es-cort ser-vice. More specifically, an upscale purveyor of the companionship of genuine, boot-scootin', tight-jeans-clad, bandana-wearin,' cowpokes.
Italy Boy by Max Totten
Hell, at the time, I thought I was just adaptin.' Like my Granddaddy after the blizzard of '33 or my Dad when beef prices tanked in the mid-fifties. Changin' with the times was what I thought I was doin.' After all, we live in a time when cowboys have laptops -- although you don't hear 'em singin' about 'em. I remember thinkin', Claude, like it or not, it's a digital age of quick change and short stays. Anymore, folks rarely want the full-week horseback/fishin' package, even with the float and bloat tossed in. And there is little call for fresh beef, at least in the conventional sense, among your health-nut, surgically enhanced, socialites moving to Jackson from the state of Superior. So, what's that leave? As I seen it at the time, that left Beefcake. Folks want a short, sweet, thrill ride with pictures to prove it. Cowboy Escorts seemed to fill the bill.
Know what? Truth be told, CE was doing pretty good for a time, what with local folks' inclination to live and let live, and throw their support behind de-criminalizin' weed and other victimless crimes. Shit, place used to be called Jackson's Hole - even that's pretty sexual if you think about it long and hard. A certain tolerance for mankind's natural thirst for sleaze can be a good thing for the local economy. Look what it's done for Nevada.
So, in two shakes of a mare's tail I build up a nice stable of young studs who are initially, to a man, thrilled to learn they'd get paid to get laid. Or, I should say, paid to get all "boyed" up and waltz around the square, be hosted to a hundred dollar meal and tip their hats and say, "Yes ma'am, can I get that door for ya, ma'am?" -- what with the sex being not really part of the deal and only occurin' when the boys feel appreciated, pampered and in the mood -- as consentin' adults, that is.
So, it's all workin' pretty good. That is, until my little birthday surprise. Oh, I don't really blame Maggie. She meant no harm. Me and Mags, see, we go way back. Since kids, we been friends, co-conspirators, co-workers and lovers, but never sweethearts, per se. Maggie don't go much for long-term relationships. No man's ever been able to get her broke in. She needs to get laid, she pretty much cuts the stud she has her eye on outta the herd for a good ride and then sets 'em loose again. It's a nice arrangement for all concerned.
Looker? Shit! Mags is a long-legged beauty with a mane of chestnut down to her perky ass. And I mean perky. That ass flares to the side, as a female's should, but it also rounds out from her belt to the back of her thighs. Maggie has ripped arms from ranch work, always exposed below sleeveless blouses, shoulders showing a peep of bra strap in a "dusty rose," or "dark chocolate," or "lacy lavender," or some such exotic color that screams Victoria's Secret. You can see I done my research with the catalogs. Now, where was...oh, yeah...Mags has a narrow, muscular back that should rightfully not be a sturdy enough cantilever for her button and eye-poppin' rack. That Maggie is a hell of a mare and then some. Mags on the dance floor, doin' the swing, cuts a swath like a thresher through a hayfield. Men, and women mind you, damn near get whiplash watchin' her prance by on the arm of whatever lucky fuck she jerked off a barstool.
Maggie approached me in just that manner, right here last fall, roughly six months ago. I was sittin' and sippin' not more than three saddles down the bar, band sawin' and stompin,' when she hooks my elbow, smiles real sweet but intense and drags me onto the dance floor. I do my level best to keep up and not get injured 'til the music ends. I give her a little gentlemanly bow and turn back toward my beer. She grabs my belt in the rear, hauls me around, tosses her mane toward the center of the dance floor, and spins me off again with the next tune. After four such go rounds, me suckin' wind, she's in a high flush. Sweat glistened at her hairline with dampness along her back bra strap, the horizontal one. She was, as we say, rode hard and put away wet. Woman was in a mood. She whips off her cowboy hat and gets real close to my face blasting out air like a perfumed blowtorch, if there's such a thing. Then she shifts and nuzzles in real close to my ear and says -- shit, I'll never forget what she said. Beer eight or nine, or whatever's got me real focused, and I remember exactly what she said because it was one of those pivotal moments I was tellin' you about back around four or five. She whispers in a bold voice, like an orgasm, "I want you...(no problem there, been done before)...and...I want..." she pulls back, brushes her hair off her forehead, tucks a "moist mango" bra strap back up under the shoulder of her blouse and snuggles up again for the kill, ...your whole herd of studs." (Whoa...there's six of us, countin' me). "And I want you all...at one time... (she flattens her hips against the "glad to see ya" bulge in the front of my jeans and tosses her arms around my neck like a lariat.)...in the town square."
Fuck, that was a tall order. Mags, it seemed, had developed a powerful need for companionship. "And...(she slips both hands down and grips my ass, pulling me against her and deflatin' any remainin' air pockets left between our two sweaty bodies)...price is no object."
Maggie explains to me that she been savin' up and fantasizin' about this adventure all summer up in the high country while workin' the herds. Why, she asked, should all the rich bitches who aren't from here get the best stock and have all the fun?
Was she, I pondered, goin' for some extreme cowboy fuckin' record or something? I immediately started doin' the math in my head. What? No, not countin' the money. I hadn't even begun to think about that. The logistics. I was calculatin' total input. One mouth, two hands, a pussy and an asshole. That's five -- there're six of us. Well, it was as if she'd read my mind. She smiles, she grins, she winks, she leers and then and with both hands reaches around me again and slaps my ass cheeks hard, pulling them as far apart as my tight jeans will allow.
"While your studs are doin' me, I plan to do you." (I musta looked perplexed, cuz she went on to explain). "With a strap-on. That makes six with one blow. Well, one blow -- job, two hand jobs, dual ass fucks and a pussy reamin' -- in the town square, the place thousands of tourists pose every year under the elk antlers arches. Horny thought, huh?" She winks again. I can pretty much guess I was lookin' as stunned as the annual buck-naked streakers at the Demolition Derby after the cops round 'em up and Tazer 'em -- and at a loss for words.
Maggie starts to giggle and pushes me away. She points at me and bends in hysterics. That's when I realize I been had. Turned out, the being had, had only just begun. Oh, did I tell you Mags is the Sheriff's daughter? Sometimes, when I'm drinkin' I forget important details.
Anyhow, Maggie is laughing her ass off and suddenly all five of my boys gather round me. Shit, I'm sorry. Did I tell you, Cody, Ashton, Durango, Dallas and Hidalgo were all here that night. The boys all laughin', Maggie having the best time of 'em all. They circle up around me like a bunch of girl scouts at a campfire and start stompin' their heels and clappin' their hands in cadence. Turns out the boys and Mags had cooked up this whole pot a beans as an early birthday surprise and prank on me and I'd bit, big time.
Let me cut to the chase here. They take me back in the private room over there past the grizzly bear -- the one with the stuffed buffalo dé-cor -- and we do the birthday toasts with shots of tequila, a choice I now regret. The boys all pull out gifts, the usual birthday silliness: pine cone toilet paper, porcupine penis bones, moose poop Chap Stick, that sota shit. Maggie is just sittin' and grinnin' -- something definitely up her sleeve, if she had one.
She lurches up at the end of the table, sways just slightly and gets everyone quiet. She reaches into a saddlebag and, sure as shit, pulls out a strap-on -- fire engine-red dildo with black straps. She points that thing at me and announces that I been pretty much mountin' things since I was old enough to be tossed up on a horse's back. She allows as to how I been mountin' girls since 7th grade, a fact, she says, she can verify first hand. Says it's time for the fucker to become the fuckee. Should give me em-pathy for my clientele and livestock. I'm thinkin' we might oughta call 911 for the boys -- they all was like to bust a gut. She tosses me the device and concludes her elegant little presentation in that deep husky voice I've come to know so well.
"So, go fuck yourself, cowboy." (as I reflect back, that woulda been gettin' off easy). "Better yet, wha'd'ya say I take you for a little ride in the park? Are you man enough?" (There it is, my destiny in one short challenge.)
Well, bein' urged on by the boys and bein' a man who tries to be sensitive and em-pathetic, I reluctantly agree. Agree, knowing I could always bail on the mounted-mounting-the-mounter thing at the last moment after enjoyin' the fore-play.
So it's around 1am in the mornin' when we all leave the bar and cross the street lookin' like we was tryin' to keep our balance on a fast movin' flatbed. We enter the square and seek out the darkest corner behind a tall spruce beside the war monument. The five boys huddle around Mags and me in their long wide dusters, blocking all but some very romantic moonlight, backs turned, like the gentlemen they are.
Maggie, unlike a lot of women, requires no preliminaries. Her mouth is on me, around me, swallowin' me fast as you can say, "unzip." Then she's standin' again and we struggle with each others silver belt buckles and boots. Shirts stay on in the event of a hasty retreat.
The boys keep their promise and look away while playing wall -- sort of a "Monkey see no...Monkey do no..." kind of a thing. Maggie steps out of her jeans. Suddenly, my knees feel weak. In the middle of the town square, in the middle of my boys all I can sense is the overpowering presence of Maggie. Don't you think women are powerful? Fuck, I love women. I can find something to love in just about any woman and Maggie has it all. She's the Encyclopedia of Female: the ass, the belly, the breasts, the eyes, the hair, mind, mouth, strength, thighs, vagina and zit. Yeah, zit, smallish one high on her right breast. First noticed it in the bar. Well, you wouldn't believe me if I said she was perfect. All but. One small zit shy.
So there we are. I'm takin' her all in and it feels like I'm facing the Devine. Against the tan of her flat belly and shapely thighs her "whipped cream" string bikini panties are shinin' in the moonlight, like they're lit from within. I don't get why, but I don't ponder it too long, neither. Then they're off and in the grass. Pussy's shaved to a narrow landing strip. Her breath comin' fast and hard. Is there anything sweeter than a woman, naked that wants you? I felt totally awe-struck. Still standing, she kisses me real hard and sucks my tongue into her mouth slick as a oyster. I reach between her legs which she opens a shade more. I open her lover lips with one hand and roll her nubby clit like a marble in grease with two fingers on the other hand. Mags is wet and ready. She moans. She strokes me firm from base to cock-head. I moan. Cody looks over his shoulder but quickly turns back. Our knees buckle simultaneously and we slide down to my duster on the ground. Like a starved man on a deserted island, I want to bury my face in her tropical fruit. I pull her legs over me so she's spread above. As I lash my tongue from her clit to her rosebud, I feel her mouth take me all the way and her fingers explore around my rim. We lick, we suck, we bite, we fuck. Maggie, on top, comes twice but stops me just short of cresting every time I ride up the hill. I suddenly realize she's savin' me for the gallop home. She stands up, reaches in her bag, straps on and lubes up. Maggie, in the moonlight, semi-naked, with a flaming red hard-on, is a sight I will never forget.
Now, I need to rein in here and make one thing clear. With me, in the ass department, it's always been, ride around the perimeter all you want, but no trespassing allowed and violators will be prosecuted. No bones about it. In short, penetration, every since I was a little buck, except as the penetrator, was not something I even thought about, and I'm pretty broad-minded for a Wyoming ranch boy. But a gift is a gift and I was taught not to look a gift horse in the mouth. And Maggie was openin' me up to newer and deeper experiences.
I assume the position. She throws a leg over me, her thighs grip my flanks. She humps her slippery pussy up and down my buttocks and lower back and starts whipping my ass with her hat. All I can think is, thank God she's not wearin' spurs. I feel her dismount, crouch and aim. I try to relax but it's hard. She slides in, easy as you please. I'm surprised to feel a kind of pleasant, full sensation. The plastic balls nudge up against the base of my sack. Bless her heart, she's gentle. Doesn't rush me at first. Then she reaches down and flicks a switch. The damn thing vibrates and I can feel it rattling my teeth, but in a good way. Her tempo picks up and she reaches around and strokes my cock in time with her piston action in the rear. She lets out a whoop like she's on an eight-second ride on a Brahma. Well sir, long story short, I suddenly feel a rush. A deep gut type of connection I never knew existed or was possible. I felt my orgasm creep up from my curled toes and fan out all the way up my spine to the hair standing on the back of my neck. The bulls eye centered somewhere between my asshole and pulsating cock. "Pulsating cock," see, there I go, try as I will, I can only describe my coming that night in a gush of stupid-ass words, like in a skin mag. But truly, I'm writhing in a ec-stasy of spasm rollin' over spasm -- each one more powerful than the one before. That cowgirl musta milked at least a pint of non-dairy creamer outta me. I can tell she's comin' again, too, although I don't fully get the mechanics of it. Either that or she was lookin' to convert -- what with the number of times she called on Jesus.
My vision blurs, the square swirls into a circle. My legs and arms shake like an aspen tree. Lights flash all around my squinched eyes. Blue ones and red ones and intense ones like spots. The Park is suddenly brighter than at the annual Christmas tree lightin.' Then, I hear the unmistakable sound of Maggie's Daddy's booming voice and my long story got short in a hurry. I knew right off I was fucked. And I was.
The embarrassment and public humiliation aside, suddenly local authorities take a great interest in all my business dealings, being certain to inspect my barns and guest cabins almost weekly and shutting down the escort service permanently. My cash cow -- dried up and butchered.
Truth be told, one good thing came out of all that heartbreak. That night, Maggie changed my sexual orientation. Now, don't give me that look, I'm not out cruisin' for boys. No way. Just lookin' for a woman like Maggie but whose Daddy's not in public office or wears a gun. A gal with looks, energy, imagination and smarts like Mags, and with a fresh set of Ds. What? No, not knockers -- batteries.
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Copyright December 2005, Gregory Davison
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.
Originally published December 2005 - "Naughty or Nice"