Western Tale: Chapter 2

Next morning the sun heated that stagecoach like an oven.  I felt dirty and sweaty from the exertions and heat of the day before.  I pulled my jacket on over my underclothes, and my boots without my stockings, and climbed down from the stagecoach.  The pastor was poking at the fire, and Joe was nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning, Reverend,”

“Ah.  Good morning Miss Blythe,” he replied.

“Mary.  Please,” I said with a smiled.  “Do you know where Joe is?”

“He went off to those woods the other side of the creek, to find some more firewood.”

“I see,” I said, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in need of a wash.”  I set off for the creek.  Over the years, the creek had cut a bank out of the red earth a little way South, and that seemed like it would offer me some privacy while I cleaned myself up.  Along the top of the bank were some bushes.  As I came to the bushes, I heard singing.  It sounded like Joe.

“The Whores of San Pedro

Are older than God

And their beards tumble down to their tits.

With one single bump of her ponderous rump

She can grind your poor pecker to bits.

So, here's to the whore of San Pedro

To that marvelous fucking machine

If I had my way

You could see her today

On the cover of Time magazine.”

I peeked out from the bushes to see him standing, with his back to me, naked as the day he was born, washing himself in the river as he sang.  I was transfixed.  The sun was shining down on his blonde hair; his back and legs were taut and muscular.  I bit my lip as I watched him bathe.  But I didn’t expect what I saw when he turned around.  In all my twenty-two years I had never seen a man naked before; of course there were whispers in the school yard and comparisons with vegetables from carrots to zucchini but I had never actually seen a man with my own eyes.  

When Joe turned around, though I gasped involuntarily.  There he was, in all his glory.  And his manhood was itself standing upright, not unlike the man in the French postcard.  Now I was convinced that I knew what I had seen the previous evening.  My heart pounded in my chest and I blush to think how the rest of my body reacted to seeing him.  But I couldn’t take my eyes from him.

I knew it wasn’t right, that I shouldn’t be a peeping Tom.  Part of me wanted to turn away demurely and go back to the camp.  But part of me wanted to go down to the creek and join Joe in the river.  My upbringing got the better of me and I quietly backed away.  Then just as I turned to go back to the camp, a movement caught my eye.  There was a snake at my feet.  I shrieked and stepped back, falling onto my behind.  There was splashing behind me and Joe appeared, still naked, with his holster in one hand and his gun in the other.

“Snake,” I managed, and pointed.

Joe looked down and saw the snake, then chuckled.

“You ain’t in any danger Miss Mary,” he said.  “That there’s a garter snake.”  He had made no attempt to hide himself from me, and stood there, bold as brass with his manhood bolt upright.  I didn’t know where to look.

“Pardon me,” he said, when he saw me trying to avert my eyes, “But this snake ain’t dangerous either.”  He sniggered at his own joke.  “Suppose I’d better go get some clothes on.”

“Please,” I said.

He was standing just a few feet from where I sat, his body glistening with water, and that… that private part of his anatomy upright, red and throbbing.  Joe paused at my words, “Please what, Miss?” he said, “What would you like me to do?”

He paused, and I sat there, my eyes still averted.  The longer I sat there, the harder it was to speak, because the clearer it was that I didn’t know what I wanted him to do.  Life seemed precious after the shooting and death that the previous day had brought on us.  And fragile too--how much longer might my life last, out here in the wilds with goodness knows how many more bandits and snakes, cougars, bears, coyotes.  I was an unmarried virgin, with no real experience of life; a sheltered upbringing.  My parents had died only a year previously, and here I was with the last of my small inheritance heading West to the promise of a post as a village school teacher.

“I… I don’t know,” I said finally.  What did I mean by that?  Clearly this bawdy cowboy should go get dressed.  For a respectable lady there was no other answer.  Did that mean I wasn’t a respectable lady?

“You know, Miss Mary?  I reckon you’re blushing even redder than you did last night.”

I looked up at Joe then glanced down at his… you know.

“I bet that you ain’t never seen one of these before.”  He knelt next to me, holstered his gun, and put it down.  Then he wrapped his hand around… it and smiled at me. “Well?  Have ya?”

I shook my head.

“You know what it’s called?”

I shook my head again.  Sure I knew the anatomical word, but I wasn’t going to say it.

“This here’s my pecker.  My johnson.  My dick.  My cock.”

I gasped as I heard the words. A he spoke each of them he stroked it; the tip glistening, the shaft throbbing.

“Can you say pecker?” he whispered.

I shook my head, biting my lip.  My heart was in my throat, and I had the most intense sensations between my legs.  Feelings I’d never had before.

“I bet you can, Miss Mary.  I bet you can.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head again.

“Tell me, Miss Mary.  Before that there garter snake scared you, were you watching me?  And before you say, remember the lord abhors a lie.”

I so wanted to lie.  I so wanted to tell Joe that I hadn’t been watching him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I couldn’t bring myself to lie.  My cheeks burned; with my eyes still tight closed I nodded.

“Well well,” said Joe.  “I bet you heard my song about San Pedro too, didn’t you?”

I nodded again.  There was no use denying it.  I tried opening my eyes again, but still he was stroking himself, and still his manhood seemed enormous, magnificent, mesmerizing.

“What did you think of that French postcard I showed you last night?” he asked.

I bit my lip once more.  I couldn’t answer such a question.  Couldn’t tell him how I lay awake for thinking about what that man and that woman had been doing in the picture.

“My but you’re a purty thing,” he said.  “It’s for thinking of you that my pecker got like this.  I may have been singing about the whores of San Pedro, but was thinking of you.”

I opened my eyes and glanced at him, my eyes met his just for a moment.  What beautiful steel blue eyes he had.

“Oh Miss Mary,” he said, “I only know of but one way to get my pecker back in my pants when it gets like this.”  

I opened my eyes again, genuinely intrigued.  I realised that when he was… like that, his pants just wouldn’t fit, or they’d have a huge bulge in the front.  I looked at him and he knelt up, that rod sticking straight up and him still stroking it up and down.

“Miss Mary?” his voice sounded pleading, “Can you hold it for me?”

I gasped.  All at once, in those few words he had asked me to do the thing that I knew I should not; I knew that I’d be as low as the whore of San Pedro if I did as he asked, but I also knew, deep down that I wanted to know what it felt like, to hold him in my hand.

“No one will ever know,” he said.  “You’re helping me will be just our secret.”  

Perhaps he knew because I didn’t answer straight away.  Perhaps he knew there was a part of me that wanted to reach out and wrap my hand around him, feel him throbbing in my hand.

“Just for a moment, Miss Mary.  Just for a moment.”

He let go of himself and reached out.  He took my wrist and guided my hand towards it.  Towards his… anatomy.

“It will be such a relief to be able to to put my pants back on,” he cooed.

As soon as I touched it for the first time, I pulled my hand away, but I also saw it twitch, like it had a mind of its own.

“That’s it,” said Joe.  “Wrap your fingers around it.”

This time, without his hand on my wrist, I reached out and touched him, my fingers closing around the shaft--that living throbbing shaft.  Oh my goodness, it felt so hot; it pulsed and moved in my hand.  My heart was racing; I felt so good and so bad at the same time.  “Is this,” I wondered, “What they mean by ‘the pleasures of the flesh’?”

I looked up to Joe’s face and not it was he who had his eyes closed.  I tightened my grip on his manhood and he groaned.

“Joe?” I said.

He opened his eyes and looked down at me.

“It doesn’t seem to be working.  It’s not getting any smaller.”

He smiled, “It don’t happen right away.  Tighten your grip and stroke him up and down, it’ll get smaller by and by.”

I did as he suggested, and Joe groaned some more, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t in any pain.  It was a funny kind of groan, like he was happy.  

After a time, Joe whispered, “You’re right Miss Mary it don’t seem to be gettin’ any smaller.”

“I’m stroking as fast as I can,” I replied.  “Are you teasing me?”

“No Miss Mary, truely I’m not.  Could you…. Could you.”

“What?” I asked, prompting him.

“Could you take your other hand and cup them around my balls?  Maybe that’ll work.”

He was so bold.  So brash, and vulgar.  I knew what he meant me to do.  I understood the words, and to what they referred.

“You sure that’ll work?  because we should get back to the pastor.”

“Oh don’t you worry about the pastor,” he replied.  “And yes, I’m pretty sure that’ll work.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips.  I reached between his legs, and, still stroking him, cupped... them in my hand.  Joe groaned louder.

I stroked faster--really as fast as I could--but Joe still throbbed in my hand.

“Try,” he said, “Try squeezing them.”

“Really?  Won’t that hurt?”

“Not if you do it right,” he replied.

I gave them a little squeeze and I felt his shaft jerk in my hand.

“Sweet Jesus,” whispered Joe.

I was still sitting there, and he was kneeling in front of me, his head thrown back, and the sun shining across his taut and beautiful body.  My heart was pounding in my chest: what we were doing felt so new but so natural.  So wrong and so right.  I was confused, and my body was giving me all kinds of signals which left me lightheaded and excited.

“Oh, it’s working, Miss Mary.  It’s working.”

“It is?”

“Oh yes.  One last thing, and I’m sure I’ll be able to get it back in my pants.”

“What’s that?”

Joe reached out and touched my breast through my chemise.  I gasped but, the way I was sitting, I couldn’t withdraw.  My hands were full.  I ought to have let go of him, and pushed him away, but his touch was tender, loving and felt so good.  He slipped his hand inside my chemise and cupped my breast in his hand.  I gasped as I felt his touch, and then suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, I felt rain on my face.

Joe was jerking and throbbing in my hand and, when I looked down, I realised it wasn’t rain a all.

“Joe!  What’s that?”

He groaned, and fell back onto his haunches, his hand falling from my breast.  “Oh my, Miss Mary.  That’s what was keeping it so big.  Now that it’s gone, my pecker’ll get small again, and I’ll be able to put my pants on.  Thank you.”

I smiled, “You’re welcome, I guess.”

“Miss Mary?”

“Yes Joe?”

“You may want to clean your face up a little.”

“I will, Joe.  I was going to bathe in the creek just as soon as you get dressed and go back to the pastor.”