Man for Man
 

Lost Innocence

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"Yeee-hah!" came the shout as I walked up through the arena's main entrance onto the field, and joined the other gawkers at the gate, staring at the bold figure bouncing astride the rampaging bull, one hand held high and free the way it ought to be, his body swaying like the bull was one of the wooden toy rocking horses ridden by children. The sun was bright and warm, and the sky was a clean, pale blue, a damned fine day for a rodeo. One was going to be held this afternoon and evening, but the mid-morning is somehow better for just plain riding, it's just you and the bull and nobody gawking at you while you do it. I knew some cowboys would be there, testing their mettle. Some of them felt they couldn't take part in a rodeo without they rode once beforehand in order to loosen up their muscles. Others, like me, were here so we could deliver our livestock for the event; in my case, a beautiful up-and-coming four-year-old bull I'd named Lost Innocence.

 

Not that I had any part in this pre-rodeo rodeo, other than it was a chance to jabber with my fellow bull owners and check out the arena. A cheap, outdoor place, about what you'd expect from a second-rate town like this one. I peered out into the sand-strewn arena to see who was riding a bull and shaking up his innards before he just had to.

A bright red shirt and neck-kerchief, black chaps and black hat, that could only be Tim Conaghey, the damned fool. He was riding Meet Your Maker, too, one of the nastiest Brahmas I'd ever seen, and I'd seen quite a few of them. Meet Your Maker was bucking to beat the band, and gyrating too, but Tim rode it out the full eight seconds, and when the whistle blew, he did a graceful flying jump away from the direction of Meet Your Maker's spin, tucked-and-rolled and came to his feet, and Meet Your Maker was left to spin himself out. Clear of the thrashing hooves of the bull, Tim dusted his chaps with his hat and walked towards us like a king of creation.

Tim's face is thin and square jawed, his cheeks a rectangle of taut flesh on either side. His eyes were somewhat sunken and dark, which combined with his black hair and choice of black outfit to turn him into almost a charcoal drawing of a cowboy. His body was long and lean-legged, but his shoulders were broad and his chest curved smoothly to hang out over his narrow waist, which his equally muscled arms depended from, slimming downwards from the ample biceps to the thinner forearms and slim hands. It was like he had been built more as a work of art than a man, and when he moved and walked about, like now, it was hard to keep from applauding the performance. He moved, and the world turned itself under him, he reached out and things fell into his hand for the taking, he looked at me...and I was his to do with as he would.

He saw me...and his face lit up in an easy smile, which I had to return. I knew blamed well he was coming over to talk to me, but not because he felt any attraction to me. It was because he'd been drawn to ride Lost Innocence.

"Hey, Cashew!" He said to me. That was my handle, Cashew Jones. I'd always been partial to the nut, and for a time I had kept a large can of cashews in my truck which I'd share with people; that was when I picked up the nickname. I had given up on the cans when too many people started looking for and dipping out of it--cashews are expensive--but I still ate cashews, and used them for an icebreaker, like now for instance. I pulled out a long, thin bag of cashews from my shirt pocket and tore it open as Tim strode over, him still limping a little from the rough ride. Without asking, I tilted the bag his way and poured a small handful of cashews into his outstretched hand. Like I said, it was an icebreaker for me, better than saying hello.

"Thank you." he said, popping one of the lopsided nuts into his mouth. "Just came here to see the bulls and Marvin bet me fifty bucks I couldn't stay on Meet Your Maker for the full eight-second count. Come on, pay up." he said to Marvin McKinney, Meet Your Maker's owner, as he dumped the rest of the cashews into his mouth and held out his hand again, this time to Marvin. His other glove was still rank and streaked with the resin from the bull rope he'd been hanging onto.

Marvin looked disgruntled as he dug into his hip pocket for the money and paid him. I frowned at the grumbling. After all, a man shouldn't make a bet if he wasn't willing to pay up, I always say. Me, I never gambled, because I wasn't willing to pay! "I sure didn't think you'd last the entire eight seconds." Marvin grumbled. "Four or five, maybe, that's all anyone ever lasts on Meet Your Maker."

"So, Cashew, care to do your own bet?" Tim said to me. "I got me fifty bucks sitting idle right now, I bet I could stay on Lost Innocence the same way."

"You'll find that out tonight." I said to him. "Your first time on Lost Innocence, ain't it?"

"Yep." He admitted freely. And then, a little too casually. "I hear Lost Innocence has sent many a good man flying."

 

"Yep." I agreed. Lost Innocence was my prize bull right now; cowboys were eager to test themselves on him, and I was making my money while I could. And Lost Innocence had sent them all dismounting with their boots high in the air; nobody had yet lasted the full eight seconds on my bull. Lost Innocence had a way of bucking and then spinning which unseated a rider, and Lost Innocence seemed to realize when that had happened; he'd buck and spin again in the opposite direction the person had shifted, unsettling them further and further. If the rider tried to adjust his seat, a well-timed buck would send the rider off, and if the rider tried to stay as he was, Lost Innocence worked him on over and sent him off. Money in the bank for me, either way, Lost Innocence's record was still perfect for thrown riders; nobody had broken the eight-second barrier with him.

Tim popped a few of the pearl snaps on his shirt and exposed his broad chest; I noticed the few black hairs he had in there, and Tim's gloved hand reached in and scratched at one breast lazily, giving me a fleeting view of one coin-flat nipple. "Maybe you could give me a few pointers for my ride?" He asked me.

Everyone was following this exchange carefully. Nobody knew my bull better than I did; if I gave Tim pointers, he'd improve his ride...maybe even last the full eight seconds. Then again, it'd let me keep talking to him. "Well, I'd suggest you start by trying to stay on the bull." I said. Everyone laughed, which was what I intended.

"Got some more cashews?" Tim asked me.

"Sure." I said. Tim's hand came out and I poured some more beige nuts into that yellowish leather glove.

"I need a drink, with all these nuts." Tim said.

"I brought a water cooler loaded with ice." I conceded. "It'll be some cold water now."

"Great!" Tim unlatched the gate and swung it and the four men riding on it back and slipped out. "Let's go." He said.

My heart was churning inside of me as I led him out to my pickup. I was playing with fire here. There's a balance a bull owner has to strike with the bull riders. They're allies as much as adversaries. A good rider made the bull look good, and I was hoping to one day have Lost Innocence be part of that perfect 100 every bullrider and bull owner dreams of. But 50 of those points belong to the rider, and that was Tim. So he wasn't too out of line asking me for advice on how to ride my bull.

On the other hand, there's the attraction of the unconquered bull to a cowboy, too. A bull which had not yet been mastered drew in the crowds, which drew in the offers to have the bull appear. The money from the rodeos was small change compared to the stud fees Lost Innocence would be drawing for me one day. But not yet. My dream was to cap the perfect record of thrown riders with one who did a perfect 100, that'd be a legend that would live for decades...I could put Lost Innocence's progeny out for stud. Question was, did I want Tim to be the one who did it?

At my pickup, my cooler hung from the fender on the passenger side, fastened there by a metal strap...I was used to taking my own food and water with me when I traveled. Tim took the battered aluminum dipper which also hung from the strap by a chain and got his water and drank it, and I took the opportunity of looking at him again. His chest was his main source of beauty, I decided, it was so large and rounded, it gave his otherwise thin body a rather ethereal grace. The angles of his face were those of his bandanna on his neck, long, straight lines that angled slightly down, the line of the bandanna, the line of his jowl, the line of his cheek, the line of his eyebrow-ridge. Done, we went back and found seats in the arena itself, where some other young idiots were out exercising the bulls by riding for the empty seats.

"What'd you think of my ride on Meet Your Maker?" Tim asked me.

"A beautiful ride." I conceded. "Too bad it wasn't official. I judged it to be in the high 80's. Call it 88."

"Not in the nineties?" Tim kicked back his hat with one finger and looked at me sideways. Tim usually scored in the high eighties to low nineties.

 

"Not with that bull." I clarified. "You two were wrong for each other. I got the score I did by giving 45 to you and 43 to the bull. Meet Your Maker should have given more spin. His tempo was off, and that decreased your marks as well; it's hard to keep a rhythm of motion on a bull with uneven muscular motion. No man looks his best on a less-than-perfect mount." I said.

Tim nodded. "That's about how I scored it myself." he grinned easily. "Except I gave myself a higher score and the bull a lower one."

"It was the bull's fault." I agreed. "Of course, you can't blame the bull when it's just trying to buck you off; it's not interested in finesse."

"Lost Innocence seems to have the knack." Tim said, again, a little too casually, he was pumping me again. He pretended interest in the trick riders out there right now.

I nodded. "Lost Innocence seems to have figured out the object of bullriding. He bucked off and then trampled one of my hands when he was a year old, cracked two ribs on the guy. Lost Innocence sort of stopped, looked at us, snuffled and seemed to realize he wasn't supposed to do that. Then it was like he was thinking about being ridden and why we did it, and then it was like he had figured out it was a contest, man against bull, and he started studying how to do it the right way. Now, when a rider is thrown off, Lost Innocence is downright proud of himself and kind of struts around; the crowd loves it."

"So what is his right way?" Tim asked me.

I grinned at him. Like I said, he had some right to ask me these kind of questions. "For now, his right way is to keep sending everyone up to sun their moccasins. I got three rodeos panting to get him for the Fourth of July weekend, all because he keeps bucking everyone off and the word is getting around."

"It'd be nice if I was to ride him out for the first time." Tim agreed.

"Yep." I agreed. "Trouble is, what do you have that I'd want bad enough to ruin Lost Innocence's perfect score so early in his career?"

Tim hitched one leg up onto the seat ahead of him and dropped the other back, jutting his hips forward and emphasizing his crotch that way, turning it into a lump inside the blue jeans under those black chaps; I think he had an erection in there but I wasn't too sure. His arm went down and that caused his still-partly unbuttoned shirt to jut open, giving me that glimpse of his nipple again. "What do I have that you want?" he asked me in turn.

I couldn't help but look at his body, at his basket, my first really good look there.

"I think I have something you want." he said to me, arrogantly, like he knew the answer damned well and was ready to use it. His leather-gloved hand went down and cupped his crotch, sensually, showing it to me. "Only question here is, what will it buy me?"

I looked up into him, his face smiling not very friendly, but confidently. He knew I'd give in, he was just waiting for me to say the words.

"I...." I swallowed, started again. "If I tell you too much, everyone will know I told you."

"I don't need much." he said.

"Well." I said before he could go on. "If I give you one good hint about riding Lost Innocence...." I gulped again. "...is that going to be payment enough for you?"

"That'll do right nicely." he said to me.

I swallowed yet again. "All right. Where can we go?"

"Why should we go anywhere?" he said. "Nobody watching us way over here." He was right, the arena entrance gate was below us and to the left, only the riders out on the field could see us at all, and they were too busy. Someone was hitching up another bull.

I licked my lips and he brought his gloved hands down to his pants, button-fly jeans there, but he opened the fly easily the way a cowboy who has worn gloves most of his life can work such things, daintily. It was the same training that caused him to reach into his briefs with his free hand, to keep the resined glove away from him, a good thing, that is some nasty stuff if you get a taste of it. Pulled out his cock like unrolling a fire hose, it slithered out as he tugged on the shaft, and then the cockhead flopped out to dangle like a fish on the end of a hook.

 

"There you go, Cashew." Tim said to me. "Take a ride on it. It'll last a good deal longer than eight seconds, though." and he laughed, and his cock jerked in the potency of pride in a good joke.

I had sold my pride for this, damned if I wasn't going to enjoy it now that I had it! I didn't make no false bashfulness, I just scooted down on my knees and hunched over to him and my hand contacted that cock, and it jerked again, filled itself out while still lying limp.

His cock wasn't very clean, the mark of a vagabond rodeo rider on the two-bit circuit, living out of his pickup, eating in cheap burger joints...and riding bulls in the morning of a rodeo, in order to win a bet to make the money for the entry fee for the next event, the one that would make their fortune. Entry fee here was fifty bucks, too, just the amount he'd taken Marvin for.

Now he was taking me. Somehow, I just didn't care!

The spongy glans soaked up my saliva as I tongued it, tasted it, washed it with my spit and then sent it sliding into my mouth upon my tongue. Now the cock was a fat snake, still not real hard, but full-sized and fleshed out, and I licked my tongue over the underside of the shaft, tasting the almost oily raunch concentrated there, musky manhood but with something more...the smell of the bull permeated his crotch, a harsh animal aroma. I was inured to such smells, all it aroused in me was a love for the life I led, even driving half the night with a hopeful bull in the trailer hung on back, even sitting around an arena in its dusty unkempt plain that would become the parking grounds later on, waiting for the rodeo to begin once more.

We were alike, Tim and me, I knew that. I had a more balanced approach to it, but we both lived for the rodeo, for the chance to pit man against bull, and see who won. This man, who would ride my beautiful Lost Innocence tonight, seated upon him, trying to ride him into victory, break his spirit, douse his fire, demean his virility and thus enhance his own.

His virility. His hardness. It was mine now. That realization sent me with sudden determination into a hard dive, I lunged down onto his cock, and it caught, buckled at my tonsils, and then, as Tim gave a small "Ungh!" sound, I felt it slither on down my gullet and I rammed my nose against Tim's abdomen and my chin bopped his nuts swaying loosely in their sac, and I held it there, held all of his manhood inside myself, though it was like a fencepost had slid down my throat, his cock was hardening up now, getting damned hard.

"Shit!" Tim breathed. "You took the whole ten inches! I didn't think anyone could do that! God, damn! Mmh! Yeah! Uh!" He tried to move his body, but I was chock-a-block against him, he was helpless under me, his pleasure depended upon my moves, and would wax and wane at my will.

Only then I began to release him, disgorging the huge organ lodged in my throat, letting it slip out, coated and slimy with my saliva and throat mucus, it shone in the morning sun with diamond sparkles below my nose, and then I felt the cockhead like a caboose on a train and I clenched my lips tight, grabbed his foreskin and caused it to wrinkle up and engulf the glans, and then when the base of the glans hit my teeth, I pressed back down again and sent that cock back into its dark home inside of me.

"Ah, ah, damn! Shit!" Tim heaved. "Uh, God, but you're a damned fine cocksucker, Cashew! Ah, man, fuck!"

His body was mine, thoroughly mine now. I caught those taut little buttocks in my hands and I held onto them, one orb in each palm and I used that hold to send that prick thrilling into my maw and then used the hold as a purchase to keep it from getting away from me.

Tim's hand, the resined hand, came up and clutched at the back of my head, and knocked my hat from me, I let it fall where it would, I let him grab me with the other hand and with both hands firmly clutching my head, he began to fuck himself at me, and even then, he belonged to me, this cowboy wannabe-star, and I had his manhood within me, and it was thick, it was huge, it reeked of the smells of the rodeo and I didn't ever want to let go of it.

 

"Uh, gah, uh, shit, man!" Tim grunted as he fucked at my face, thrusting his hips hard against me, mauling and bruising my lips with his rough hunches into my mouth, his mouth dangled open, his eyes were glazed, his sharp cheeklines softened and rounded by passion. He'd started doing this because he needed what I had to give him, now he was doing it because he was a man and he was fucking my face and his cock was brim-full of jism waiting to explode out in an orgy of life. My own hands, not needed any longer, went down and found my own fly and unzipped, took out my own raging prong, began to pump at it.

"M-m-m-m-h! U-u-u-u-u-u-uh!" Tim groaned as he began to hump my mouth with a furiously fast pace. Brief bursts of hard hipwork, and then he'd pause, shift his grip slightly, and then fire another rapid stream of thrusts of his cock into my mouth. His cock was frictioning on my throat at the top, his cockhead was only getting up to there before it would be sent plunging back down in, he was deep-face-fucking me, it was like I couldn't let go of that prick, like he'd keep it in me forever, plugging up my esophagus and only letting me breathe in tiny little gasps of air, enough to keep me alive but no more.

Tim grabbed me and spun me around, I ended up sitting on my butt on the dirty floor of the stands, my back jammed painfully up against one of the seats, and he was fucking my face again, this time driving his prong down into me, and I reached up and again cupped and fondled that tight little butt, wishing it were bare here so I could send my finger down into that moist crevice and thrill the tiny tucker there into quivering life. All I could do was feel out the sewn seam there like a hard square block of wood placed there, and then it was back to the buttocks themselves, such warm globes they were, I wanted to just bury my face between them and breathe in deeply!

Tim's dong was a hot driving rod inside of me, I heard dimly the hoops and cries from the watchers for the rider in the arena, the dim smells of massed horses and cattle from the little corral attached to the arena, the rich fetid smells of barnyard life, and Tim's cock was a red fiery pillar raging into me, and his groans were taking on a high intensity of sound and fury, matched by the utter insensitivity of his thrusts into my mouth, my face was one solid bruise now from the way his hips had slapped his body against me, my nose's tip was aching and raw, but Tim was pumping at me harder than ever, and then his moans rose up and up and up...and caught, strangled and dropped low again.

And his salty load poured into me then, I nearly drowned in it and there was no question of being able to breathe now, all I could do was drink him down, drink and drink and still more came from that long pole of his, his climax went on for the longest time, and even when his cock no longer spewed his jizz into me, still he held me tight and fucked at me with his softening prong, wringing out every last iota of pleasure from his prick, keeping it up until every last erg of his energy fled his body and left him limp.

His knees hit on either side of me, and he was sitting on my lap with me still pounding my prick, and I felt that snug little set of buns of his lying against my prod, and I was suddenly clutched by my climax, with him gasping on top of me, helpless to move or fend me off, I squirted my jizz right onto those sweet little buttocks of his, drenching the seat of his pants thoroughly.

In the clench of my climax, I looked into his face, his mouth open, his face sweaty and wrung dry of passion, and he was like a child to me, a beautiful child, and he belonged to me, and I reached up as I panted with the end of my orgasm and I kissed that sweat-dappled cheek of his, and then again, and again.

Then he rose up, in some disgust, wiping at his ass with with gloved hands. "Shit, man, you creamed on my butt!" he said, his nostrils flared, his upper lip crinkled in revulsion. "God, man, all over me, and these are my rodeo duds, too, man! Fuck, what am I going to do?"

 

"I'm sorry." I told him, but I wasn't.

"Ah, it'll have to do." he said as he finished wiping off my jizz as well as he could, mostly smearing it around those two matched little joy-bumps of his.

I stuffed my cock back into my fly, and stood up, staggering and then his hand clamped on my shoulder and spun me around. "Okay, time to pay up!" he said, his face right up against mine, and there wasn't any softness in those eyes at all. "What's the secret of riding Lost Innocence?"

"I promised you one hint and I'll give it to you." I said. "When Lost Innocence gives your three hard bucks, he's about to do a jump and spin to the left, then he'll jump and spin right. Then he'll give a couple of more high bucks. That usually sends the man flying. But if you'll slide over to the right when he spins left, you'll anticipate him."

"Yeah." he thought about it. "Yeah!" his eyes were lights of flame.

"Promise me you won't make any bets on riding Lost Innocence out." I said to him hastily. "If you bet on it, people will know I told you."

"Don't worry, I won't." he said to me, and I knew then he would be placing bets on just that.

"If Lost Innocence does manage to throw you..."I started.

"He won't."

"...then give a kick with your boots to his side, and push yourself away from him as you fall. Otherwise you might end up under his hooves."

"That ain't very likely." He said. "So long, Cashew."

I waited about fifteen minutes, and then went down to find Marvin. Marvin was looking pleased, so I went over to him. "How's it going, Marv?" I asked him.

"Pretty good." he said. "Conaghey just bet me he'd last the entire eight seconds tonight in the arena on your bull. I bet him twenty, all I had on me. If I could borrow some more, I'd bet it all; he's offering everyone two-to-one odds!"

I thought about it, pulled a hundred dollar bill from my traveling stash. "Put this on Lost Innocence to throw him off clean." I said. "But don't let him know I juiced you. Do that and we'll split the winnings on this a hundred each."

"A hundred bucks for keeping my mouth shut?" Marvin said. "Sure!"

That night I watched from the stands with the other owners while Lost Innocence came out of the gate with Tim Conaghey on his back. Watched him buck high, one, two, three, a spin to the left, and then to the right...and Conaghey went flying. The clowns moved in to save him, but Lost Innocence was moving away from Conaghey's fallen form, my bull proudly making his grand tour of the arena, accepting the plaudits of the crowd. Sometimes I swear that bull was loving the applause as much as I did. When I saw that done safe and my bull back in the corral, I went back to my motel.

The knock came on my door an hour later, and I called out, "It's open. Come on in!"

The door flew open and Conaghey stamped in. "Damn you, you lied to me!" he said, furious, and nearly in tears, too.

"How'd I do that?" I asked him.

"You said you'd tell me how to ride Lost Innocence."

"You told me you wouldn't place any bets you could." I reminded him.

"Screw that!" he screamed at me, that handsome face intent with fury. "You lied to me!"

"No, I didn't." I said.

"You said you'd give me one hint about riding Lost Innocence if I...you know."

"And I did." I said. "I told you what to do when he threw you."

It took a moment for that to register, and then he was a beaten man. "I bet a thousand dollars I could ride that bull out!" he moaned. "I don't have it, any of it! What am I going to do?"

I let him stew for about five seconds and I said, "Well, I could advance you the money."

"Advance it?" He looked at me.

"On your salary for coming back to my ranch with me and being one of my hands." I said. "I'd keep half your salary until you paid me back."

"You'd do that?" he was relieved; if he'd welched on his bets, no rodeo men would have him around, no booking agent accept his entry fee. "Thanks, man!" he said. "I'll take the job. Glad to."

"Glad to have you on board." I said. "Only thing, though, is that my bunkhouse only holds a dozen beds, and they're all already taken. You'll have to bunk with me while you're on the ranch."

"Bunk with you?" he said, in a tone of wonder that turned to amazed credulity.

"Of course." I grinned at him.

"You bastard, Cashew!" he said, shaking his head. "You fucking set me up!" He was still mad, but a grin began to touch that face of his, a grimace of chagrin, the smirk that knowledge of self-defeat puts on you to mock your pain.

"You set yourself up." I pointed out. "Now go pay your debts and come on back and you can get started with me right away." I handed him the money; I'd had it all ready for him; Marvin had told me how much the bets had been.

"I'll be right back...boss." He said, his tone saying he was disgusted with the situation, but also saying he was going to do it. He stopped at the door, and said, "And you'll see I can earn my keep good, too, boss bastard sir!" And he went on out, my eyes following that bobbling ass of his that just begged my tongue to prod into it.

Try to snooker me, will he!

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Keywords: cowboys / rammed my cock / group sex / bulls / buns / butt plug / breasts / jism / thrust his cock / cocksucker / biceps / round ass / master / manhood / buttocks / bum / my butt / tight ass / fucked him / muscular / swallowed / jeans / orgasm / muscles / first time / feet / swallowed / crotch / sweaty men / heterosexual / fucked
In fictional stories it is fine to have sex without condoms, but in reality you should always use a rubber, regardless if you use Prep or not. Prep only protects for HIV, thats why other diaseases spread among Prep users that practice bareback sex.