The man, thirty-two-year-old wiry, hard-bodied cowboy Frank West, had just what was necessary exposed—his flannel shirt flapping open and his jeans bunched down to above his knees, but he still wore his boots, his spurs jangling from his effort, as he crouched on top of the boy and fucked him. The boy was fourteen-year-old orphan and “do whatever” at the Longhorn Saloon in the one-street cattle town of Bramblewood, Kansas, Jack James. Jack was naked, on his back, on the creaking bed in the small room on the second floor of the saloon, where he and the more-in-demand female whore, Katie, took men’s cock, according to the preference of the paying man.

Jack’s legs were spread and bent and his pelvis was raised to the thrusts of the man taking him in a vigorous missionary fuck. The boy’s back was arched, his hands running in under the cowboy’s open shirt and up to clutch the man’s shoulder blades. Other than the smokey smell of him, it was a good fuck for Jack. The man was muscular, if spare of meat. He had a thick cock and a strong stroke. He wasn’t bad to look at in the face, either. And he wasn’t beating the boy while he was fucking him.

The boy would have made approving sounds for the cowboy anyway, as this went with the service. But Frank was, in fact, fucking Jack good and Jack was enjoying it. He’d been doing it at the saloon long enough that he was resolved to being a gay submissive and this was good enough sex for him. And this, plus serving some whiskey, sweeping out the saloon, and going on errands around town was keeping the boy, abandoned here by his family on their drive west, alive, with a roof over his head at night and two meals a day.

He panted hard, and moaned deep. The man was reaching climax. He was pumping hard, causing the bed to squeal and the brass headboard to thump rhythmically against the wall. Frank was virile and vigorous. Anyone standing out in the hall would know it was about over. Rising up on his knees, Frank grasped Jack’s ankles and wishboned the boy’s legs raised and spread in a V for victory—a victory for Frank. Groaning, straining, Jack dug his fingernails into the man’s back. Here, just for a few seconds Jack was in heaven, skipping along the clouds.

“Do, it! Give it to me!” Zooming up into heaven. Here it comes. Here it comes.

Frank rose up over the boy, rolling Jack’s pelvis up more, arched his own back, turned his eyes wildly to the ceiling, and tensed, thrust, jerked, shot a load, tensed, jerked, and shot another load. Jack gasped a long, drawn-out “Yesssss,” as the hot cum filled him, and he collapsed back on the bed—conquered and mastered.

Quick as a rabbit, Frank rolled off Jack and the bed, readjusted his clothing, and was out the door. He’d paid for a half hour. He could have pumped for seven more minutes. Jack lay there a few more minutes, legs spread and bent, Frank’s cum dribbling out of his ass, cheek pressed to the bed, eyes looking at the blank wall across the room but not focusing on anything, and keeping his panting and arousal going by fisting his own cock and stroking himself off.

That one—the second one of the day—had been pretty good for Jack. None of it was so bad—not the sex part. Some of them smelled like skunks, of course. And most of them didn’t know how to do it good. The cowboy was old from Jack’s perspective, but he wasn’t bad looking, he had a hard body, and he had a cock to die for. This cowboy—this last one here—he knew how to do it good.

Purring, Jack stretched out, luxuriating in the last few minutes of Frank’s time, before groaning, rolling off the bed, and going back to work downstairs in the saloon.

Jack was on an errand, walking down the boardwalk toward the drug emporium, when Frank lurched out of the bank office, gun in one hand and a leather bank pouch, spilling banknotes, in the other hand. Frank gave a wild look around for where, if anywhere, the danger was coming from. Jack was within a few steps of where Frank landed when he spun out of the bank building, so Jack immediately became cover and hostage fare.

Frank grabbed the boy, holding him in front of him, and backed to the side of the bank building and then quickly down the alley to the livery in back, where he had his horse hitched, provisioned, and ready to ride. Leaping up onto his horse and pulling Jack up in front of him in the saddle, Frank hoofed it out of town and down a path in the line of trees alongside the creek going through the town and flowing west rather than on the more obvious road out of town.

They rode at a gallop for several minutes along the creek, with adrenaline flowing and Frank clutching Jack tightly in front of him. As the danger decreased and the excitement began to wear down, Frank became more aware of the fourteen-year-old boy, his back to Frank’s front, being rocked by the gait of the horse. Frank’s fear, adrenaline, and excitement began to flow into another form of arousal as he became aware that this hostage he had picked up was the same sweet little piece he’d laid in the second-floor bedroom of the saloon just a few hours earlier.

He hardened as the horse’s movement changed from a half gallop to a canter and then a gentle rocking motion. His erection was pressed into the boy’s back. Jack was aware of it too, and he was breathing heavily and panting low. Frank was focusing more on the boy nestled in front of him on the horse’s back than on any need to keep moving away from the town.

“Hey, you’re the little piece I laid a few hours ago,” Frank said.