“Relax and let me have it. It always goes better when you relax.”
Fourteen-year-old mulatto Dex--short for Dexter, the massa’s name on the plantation upriver from New Orleans, the name the massa gave all his male by-blows from slaves--willed himself to relax and take the big cock to the hilt before the gambler began to pump--which is the way the Frenchmen liked to fuck boys. Sydney Latrobe, the French gambler, was bigger than massa’s son had been when he had initiated Dex. Latrobe was otherwise very slim and didn’t have much in the way of hips, but once his tight trousers were down off his legs, he hung down toward his knees. This was unless he was hard and then he stuck out like Pinocchio’s nose.
The mulatto Dex was a really nice little piece, all creamy chocolate and something Michelangelo would want to sculpt if he was in the American West of the mid 1800s and was sculpting beautiful boys he later fucked. And the sweetness of Dex’s body had managed to keep Latrobe’s cock as erect as Pinocchio’s nose whenever he stripped off his trousers ever since Latrobe won Dex in a card game.
They’d been on the road west for two months. Latrobe had fucked Dex every night Latrobe could get enough privacy for them. Dex had lost his anal virginity a mere three months previously when massa’s son took him out riding to a grassy spot on the bank of the Mississippi River in a remote part of the plantation, saying he wanted to show Dex something. What he wanted to show Dex was that his cock was hard and he wanted some place to stick it and then to pull it out and show it again and then stick it once more--and so on until Dex stopped crying and just lay there taking the hard cock inside him again and again followed by the flow of the son’s spunk. Massa’s son had been vigorous but he hadn’t been built like the French gambler was. Dex still hadn’t accustomed himself to the thickness and length of the French gambler.
They were in a room at a hotel in Laramie, Wyoming, ready to take a stage coach the next day. Latrobe was headed for California, where gold has been struck, gold that he could acquire through his talents with cards. The cards had been why he’d been driven out of New Orleans and pursued half way to the Northwest Territories. Dex had been won honestly in a card game. Latrobe initially hadn’t thought the fourteen-year-old, albeit a milk chocolate beauty of exquisite small proportions, was worth taking as collateral on a bet, but when he was told the Dex took cock and had a tight, sweet channel, Latrobe was intent on winning him and he had.
The first night, Dex, who had taken not quite six inches of pencil-thin cock from his master’s son previously, took eight plus thick inches from Latrobe, again and again and again. It was only when he’d been close to unconsciousness that the mulatto boy had relaxed enough to take all eight inches. But it was his tightness, shyness, and Dex’s ability to respond as a virgin each and every time that had made Latrobe obsessed with him, so that, as he raced away from New Orleans and a charge of cheating, he jettisoned almost everything--but not Dex.
Good sex with a boy was almost as important for Latrobe than a winning hand at cards. And, besides, when Latrobe wasn’t using Dex, he could rent him out. Dex was a slave. He’d always been owned and told what he was going to do. Other than the new form of taxing work, being prostituted to men was not a change in Dex’s status in life.
Latrobe was on his back on the single bed. Dex was intended to sleep on a pallet at the side of the bed in the cramped frontier hotel room. But, for now, he was straddling Latrobe’s pelvis, facing him, skewered on six and a half inches of Latrobe’s cock, and leaning back with his hands gripping the Frenchman’s knees.
With a low sob Dex relaxed his channel, opening to Latrobe’s forcing invasion. Stopping at the above-six-inches penetration, Latrobe grabbed Dex’s ankles and forced his legs together on an angle above the Frenchman’s head. Latrobe wanted Dex’s passage constricted when he gave the boy the final two inches. Latrobe wanted as tight a channel as possible when he went to the hilt and then started to pump.
Dex almost collapsed back onto the gambler’s thighs. With a laugh, feeling that Dex was giving it up to him, Latrobe cupped the small of Dex’s back in his free hand to hold him up. He felt himself sink another inch up into Dex and then another, filling out to nearly nine thick inches. He could feel Dex’s channel wall muscles yield to him and ripple over his hard, thick cock. Moving his hands to Dex’s waist on either side, letting Dex part his legs enough to hook them on his shoulders, Latrobe began to lift Dex up and slam him down on the cock, lift him up and slam him down. Dex yielded all to him, whimpering and concentrating on opening, not split inside. Lifting him up, slamming him down, lifting him up, slamming him down.
Until now, Latrobe had his knees bent and his thighs together, arresting how far back Dex could arch his back in his complete collapse of all self-support. Latrobe widened his stance and Dex fell back between the Frenchman’s thighs, his shoulder blades and the back of his head touching the surface of the bed and rubbing as Latrobe kept releasing the pressure on the boy’s waist and then pulling him in on the buried cock hard. Releasing and pulling.
With a cry, Dex released his seed from his pert boy’s cock. Latrobe laughed and continued to pump a couple of minutes before he too jerked and spouted seed deep inside Dex once, twice, three times. He pushed his slave, Dex, off the side of the bed onto his pallet, leaving the boy to groan and pant and to hold back his tears. This was his life. He had no choice. He was the slave.
That was brought home to Dex again within a couple of minutes when there was a knock--more of a pounding--on the door to the room and a half drunk voice called out, “I hear you got a cocksucking darky boy in there with services for sale. I’m a lonely man. A lonely man with gold in my pocket.”
“Just a minute, sir,” Latrobe called out. “I think we can be of assistance to you.”
He rolled out of bed, gave Dex a “give me no trouble” look that was met with downturned eyes of submission, and Latrobe went to the door. Shortly afterward Dex was being herded down the hall to another room and Latrobe was counting his newly acquired money.
The miracle was that Latrobe could turn over on his side in his bed and go blissfully to sleep even though Dex was crying out down the hall, through the thin walls of the hotel, while a cowboy bent him over the bed and fucked him roughly from behind.
The stagecoach leaving from Laramie for further west was full, but Dex wouldn’t have been allowed to ride inside anyway. He was a darky slave--although not much darker from the sunburnt cowpokes roaming around Laramie’s pack-dirt streets. Dex was relegated to riding on the roof of the coach, hunkering down between wooden chests lashed to the top. In front of him sat the driver and a cowboy riding shotgun--with a rifle at the ready. They were going to be going through some territory contested by the Cheyennes. The savages hadn’t actually stopped a coach and massacred the passengers yet, but they had harassed the coaches and picked off more than one driver or man riding shotgun. In front of the stage were four harnessed sturdy and fast horses.
They were some twenty miles out of Laramie when the painted war party of Cheyenne braves started to track them. The savages’ horses were smaller and not as powerful and endurance hardy at the stage coach horses, but as the stage entered a canyon, other mounted warriors came pouring down from the side at them. The driver whipped up the horses, as the man riding shotgun began firing off at the mounted braves.
With a lurch, the stage picked up speed and shot out of the end of the canyon. The lurch caught Dex off balance, and he went off the top of the coach, landing behind it in a mound of sand at the mouth of the canyon as the coach and the second pursuit of Cheyennes took off across the plain.
The warrior party that was following the coach from behind rode up and saw Dex lying there, stunned but not seriously harmed, on the ground at the mouth of the canyon.
When Dex came to, he was off to the side of the trail, on his back, his arms and legs stretched out, his wrists and ankles staked out. Five grinning young, muscular, braves were off their horses and standing around him. All they were wearing other than paint and beads were fringed rawhide loincloths. Then they weren’t wearing these anymore. They were all hung and in erection.
Dex realized that he was naked just before the first of the braves came down on his knees between Dex’s spread legs, grasped his buttocks, pulled the boy’s pelvis up to his, and thrust his hard cock up into Dex’s channel. The brave’s cock was greased up with something and Dex had been taking an assortment of men, so, other than the fear of what happened afterward, being gang banged by five hung savages wasn’t the ordeal it could have been.
It apparently wasn’t the ordeal the braves thought it would be either, as they seemed surprised that the boy was taking their cocks in stride and making them come rather than suffering the splitting of his insides and expiring while they fucked him.
He was still alive, panting and moaning when the fifth brave had fucked him and ejaculated. Plan B seemed to be scalping him while alive and either leave him for dead or stab him to death, as two of them were unsheathing nasty-looking knives.
Luckily one of the braves with a knife had second thoughts about what was next when he knelt by Dex’s head, because, having been the first to fuck Dex in the ass, he had recovered his libido and erection. The erection was conveniently near Dex’s mouth, so the brave took time out to help himself to a blow job from Dex. Having done this, the other’s wanted blow jobs to, except for one who wanted to fuck Dex in the ass again while the others were getting sucked. With little alternative and still hoping to be saved--especially if he gave the warriors a good time--Dex did a good job of sucking the cocks and also of moving with the brave who was fucking him in the ass.
And Dex’s added round of servicing did save him. As Brave Number One was preparing to saw off Dex’s scalp, the sound of gunfire arrested the warrior’s attention. The Cheyenne were quite respectful of the guns the white men were bringing into the West. They were jumping up on their horses in no time flat and racing away from the canyon mouth.
Their haste was such that they left their rawhide loincloths behind. Dex was only able to lift his head to see that his own clothes had been cut to shreds, before his store of adrenaline wore out and he dropped his head and sank into unconsciousness.
When Dex became fully conscious again, he was in a long-framed bed, with quilts under him and quilts over him. He was naked. The sounds he was hearing were unmistakable. He’d heard them a lot recently and had made a lot of them recently himself.
He was in some sort of log house--just one room but it was large as rooms were in those days. There was a door and two windows on one side and blank log walls on the other three sides. A kerosene lamp that was set on a wood table in the middle of the room cast a dim glow across most of the cabin but didn’t reach into the corners or completely to the back walls. No light was coming in from the windows or door, all of which were covered haphazardly by oil cloth. So Dex ascertained that it was night.