I was outside the rooming house I had been living in for several months when I saw him.

I'd been out riding and trying to remember why it was I'd come out West to begin with. The gold. Oh, yes. Like everyone else, I had hitched my wagon to that foolish star. Made a stake, found my claim, and a year later — armed only with a piece of exceptional good fortune — panned just enough to buy a couple of acres of land in California's Pacific Northwest.

Why then was I still rooming at Mrs. Anderson's hotel? Because, you idiot, I screamed at myself, you won't budge into the yonder until you've found the one you expect to share it all with. And in six months' lodgings, I hadn't even come close. Oh, a stray heartthrob here and there, content enough to join me for one night on their initial foray into town after months of washing river-bed muck in beat-up pans up in the hills. I hadn't exactly been monkish, had I? But none of them — not one — was him. He with whom I'd saddle up and settle down. Since I couldn't think of a good enough reason to prolong the search, I'd made up my mind to move on the next day. Make a clean break. Begin again, elsewhere. I'd been in town too long, and my feet longed to tread green earth again. I had resolved to pack up my few belongings in preparation for the next morning's ride out.

But seeing the kid changed all that.

Back at the hotel, I was hitching up my horse with the firm resolve that tonight would mark my last full day in town when I first laid eyes on him. Even now I'm unsure of the reasons he fascinated me so. When he pulled up in front of the rooming house and leapt from the mount of his saddle, I had looked up out of curiosity and given him a cursory once-over. His face, tanned and pretty, had a boyish quality, and I suspected he was still in his teens, although his movements contained the exaggerated toughness of one who likes to give the impression of easy masculine authority. And like so many who parade their toughness like a badge, he merely succeeded in calling attention to his own youthfulness.

His face was sporting a few stray whiskers, but I was willing to bet his shaving days had not been with him long; his beard lacked the stubby harshness of mature growth. He had a cute face, deliberately set in a hard line that accentuated rather than offset his youth. His lips were full and what he clearly intended to be a scowl was merely a pout, big lower lip stuck out in a way that looked as though it might tremble at any moment. His hair was long and blond, and while he was short his body was tight — trim but muscular — and as he turned to hitch up his colt. I had to admit his backside was one of the prettiest sights I'd seen in some time: round and firm and packed into his faded, worn-at-the-seat blue jeans. I licked my lips, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I liked what I saw, but not enough to stay in this town, even for a better look.

He must have sensed me staring at him, because he turned from his reins and gave me a look of cold, sneering belligerence.

"What the hell are you starin' at?" were the first sweet words I heard from that gloriously kissable mouth.

I grinned, shrugged. "Not a thing, kid."

"Then why'ncha move on and mind yer own damn bizness?"

I smiled again. "Whatever you say, kid."

"An' stop calling me kid. I ain't no boy."

"Sure, kid, uh, I mean — sure thing, pardner. No offense intended."

That seemed to satisfy his honor, or at least end the conversation. He slung his belongings over his shoulder and sauntered up to the rooming house lobby. I watched his cute little butt swing up and down as he went in. If his lips and his ass weren't enough to interest me in at least a few more days' stay in town, that insolent attitude sure as hell was. I went inside.

"What kinda rooms ya got?" he was asking the landlady, a gentle old soul who liked me as much as I liked her.

"Oh, all kinds," she replied sweetly. "What sorta room were you looking for, young man?"

"Just a bed to rest my sore ass on for a few days, lady."

Mrs. Anderson paid his deliberate attempt to shock her no more heed than it was worth.

"Well, sign in, son, and we'll see if we can't find you a sling for it." She looked like a schoolmarm, but she'd been around. She wasn't about to let this rude young boy get her goat.

The kid looked disappointed and shocked at once, and I couldn't help laughing. He whirled around to confront this new assault on his image. When he did it was only me, an odd sparkle came into his eyes, quickly masked by indifference.

"Aw, piss off, stud," he sneered, turning back to pick up his luggage.

Then he turned again and looked me over, longer than was necessary. Another dime-novel attitude he'd picked up, I gathered, but one that didn't disguise the way his eyes lingered on my crotch.

"Any good whorehouses in this shit-hole?" he asked me, his face daring me to poke fun at the question. "I ain't had a good piece o' pussy in…" — your life, I thought to myself —"…weeks." He rubbed his groin for emphasis, and it swelled appreciably.

"Well, Madame Marcella prob'ly runs the cleanest in town. Least that's what she says. Just between us, if you're in the market for the clap, it's probably the cleanest place to get it."

"Shit. I shoulda known. Damn pissant little piss-slit of a town. An' me with nothin' on my mind but twat."

Somehow, I didn't believe that, but I let it go.

The room Mrs. A gave him was on the same floor as mine, so as a favor to her I ended up showing the kid where it was. As we walked, he played the same tune, over and over, louder and with more boastful vehemence as he went along. Pussy, twat, cunt, tits, fucking, fucking and more fucking was the gist of it. How much he'd had and how much more he expected to get. It sounded too much like what he thought he should say to have the ring of honesty in it, and I knew if he wasn't actually ready to bend over and take it like a man, he had to be the mouthiest virgin I'd ever met.

I decided it was worth my time to find out, after all.

I left him at his door and went to my room to unpack a few necessary items. It was a slow period at the rooming house, and for all of Mrs. A's chat about "trying to find" him a place, she knew and I knew that the kid and I were the only current occupants. Later, Mrs. A came up and said she had hoped to spend the evening at her sister's home in the next town over, and would I look after the place while she was gone? I said I would. What I didn't say was how happy her leaving made me. Normally, she's great company. But not tonight.

She made her departure early, about four, and told me to fix whatever I'd like for dinner. I did, sharing it with the kid, who spent it looking down at his plate in surly silence, resenting me for dishing out his portion or pouring him more coffee. All the same, I felt his eyes on my back when I left the room and saw them dart to his plate again when I came back. I had more than a hunch about this big stud, and my plans lay waiting for execution.

"Mrs. A has a damn nice bathing tub in her kitchen, if you want to wash some of the road off yourself," I said as casually as I could.

"Might just do that," he slurred through his last forkful of grub. Still chewing, he wiped his delicious mouth with his shirtsleeve and pushed his chair away from the table.

I cleaned up the dishes and pulled the shades in the kitchen, then went to my room to wait him out. It didn't take long. Soon enough I heard his door open and the sound of bare feet padding along the hallway. Then from the lower rooms the sound of water being pumped and the whistle of a teakettle. Knowing it would take a dozen or so kettles and pans to make even a decent amount of bath water, I perused an old magazine in my room and waited. After a half-hour I stripped, put on a robe and went downstairs.

While I was making sure the front door was locked, I heard him get into the water. I waited a reasonable length of time as the kid bathed, and when his lack of movement in the water indicated he had settled back to enjoy the steam and heat and relaxation, I casually went out to the kitchen.

His eyes were closed in calm appreciation of the hot water, and I stood for a moment and looked at this naked boy's face.

I took in his features: the bushy eyebrows, half-hidden under the blond hair that fell onto his forehead; the long, almost girlish eyelashes now closed over eyes that shone with a brown of more warmth than their owner wished admitting to; the pug nose with its look of boyishness enhanced by the wide nostrils above that lush mouth; the lips, parted, were even fuller and more rubbery-looking in the heat from the tub — they glistened with moisture, and I imagined how they'd feel clamped on my mouth.

My eyes drifted down to his hairless chest, pink now from the heat, with its sculpted firmness and tight brown nipples, hard and firm now in the steamy atmosphere of the tub. His arms lay along either side of the tub, sinewy and hard, and his belly was soft with fuzz but tight, lean, without fat. A wisp of pubic hair began just above his navel, and led to the water line, below which I could not see but imagined his genitals lay. And his butt. That round seat which had so enticed me as I watched him walk ahead of me, from which splayed his short but muscular legs. All this glory was hidden from my view. But not for long, I thought as I wrenched my eyes from his beautiful form.

How old was this boy, anyway? My guess was 18, maybe 19. From his body, I deduced he was surely no younger than that. That was half of his problem, I knew; his face made him seem like a boy a good three or four years younger, so I supposed he felt his manner had to make up for his youthful looks. I thought I knew the other half of his problem as well, having had it myself at his age.

I walked around him then, taking the kettle and filling it from the water pump before setting it on the stove. As I pumped another pan full of water and put it on the stove as well, he opened his eyes and glared at me with his hatred.

"Wha'dya want?" he snorted.

"A bath, kid, a bath. If you ever stir your ass outta that tub."

"Go fuck your horse," he murmured with surliness. "I got here first an' I'm stayin' in this seat as long as I feel like it."

"You can stay in there 'til your ass wrinkles up like an old woman's for all I care."

"Good. Now shut up an' leave me be."

Silence for a few minutes. I sat on my stool and gazed longingly at the back of his head, knowing he could feel my eyes on him and waiting to see how long it took for him to feel uneasy enough to break the silence he himself had imposed. It didn't take long.

"Aw, get outta here," he said with anxiety. "You make me as nervous as a damn cat."

Ignoring his command, I stood and picked up the kettle, whistling now with its load of scalding water. I took it to the side of the tub and stared down casually into the water. His cock, uncut, lay like a hooded snake against his legs. It was difficult to judge its size under the warm fluid. But I could see it stir slightly and guessed I would have a good enough look at it soon.

"Have some more hot water, kid?" I asked.

He looked at me, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"

"Well, kid, I made it for myself, but since it's ready to go and you're not, you might as well have it."

Silence while he considered this logic. What could my motive be, I could see him wondering. Then, he nodded. Okay, sure. Why not? You wanna play flunky, it's all right with me.

I poured the water, aware of his eyes on me. When the kettle was empty, he grunted in appreciation of the new batch of heat surrounding his limbs, but said nothing.

"Where I come from, kid, it's the custom to say thank you when someone does you a turn."

He stared at me in disbelief and his own brand of boyish arrogance straining for manly toughness. "Why the hell should I? You made the offer. Stupid bastard."

I pulled my stool next to the tub and looked at him with amusement. Grinning, I spoke. "Y'know, kid, you're a snotty little punk."

He snorted. "Yeah? What're you gonna do about it?"

"I think it's time someone tamed your sassy little ass."

"Aw, fuck you, stud."

With a savage swiftness, I got up, pushed the stool away and grabbed his right arm, twisting it behind his back. He squealed in surprise and pain, and I pressed my lips to his ear.

"Oh, someone's gonna get fucked all right, kid," I murmured. "But it ain't gonna be me."

He froze for a beat in shock. Then, as the threat made itself vivid in his mind, he struggled to free himself from my grip, making me clench his arm more tightly and raise it up toward the back of his neck.

"Now who's gonna fuck who?" I snarled.

I looked down at him from above and saw the ropy sausage at his groin begin to stir in the water. The harder he fought, the more it grew. I grinned to myself. I had been right all along. For all the whorehouse talk and the boasts about the milkmaids back home, it looked like the little faker took it up the ass after all. It isn't worth it unless they want it as bad as you do. This was definitely going to be worth it.

I hauled him up from the tub with both hands, delighting at the sight of his lovely wet bottom as it rose from the water, squeaky-clean and rosy from the heat. The cakes were clenched together in defensive resistance to what we both knew was coming, and the drops of water spilled down his back toward the crack between his cheeks and, finding their access barred, rolled over the mounds of his gorgeous ass instead of nestling between the hot-cakes themselves. Well, water droplets might not get in to that rosy preserve, I thought, but I certainly would. And what's more, I knew he wanted me to. His cock, bloated now and spreading away more and more from the patch of wet hair above the roiled-up balls, told me so.

But I was gonna make him beg for it first.

I reached in front of him and grabbed the now rigid and throbbing dick. He started, tried to remove my grip with his free hand.

What's this, now, kid? I grinned. A pistol, isn't it? And rarin' to be fired off? He struggled more, but I held him easily. Still, I mused, it isn't the pistol that interests me, so much as that cute little holster you got back-stairs.

With that, I grabbed his ass with my free hand. I felt the hot flesh cupped in my palm with rising excitement. The kid's ass was hairless, smooth — but firm, muscled, well-rounded, like a ripe melon cut in half. I ran my hand along its contours, caressing his butt-cheeks with my open palm.

I let my hand drop into the warm, soapy water of the tub for a moment, and then, furiously, so fast he couldn't have seen it coming if he'd wanted to, I raised my open palm and brought it down, fast, against his butt. The splat of my wet hand smacking his cute ass cut the air. He yelped and squirmed, but I held tight. In the glowing lamplight, his buttocks burned with a rosy red as the imprint of my hand on their hairless contours began to deepen. I raised up and brought my hand down once more. Splat! A second blotch of red began to form on his golden cheeks. My cock rose to an even greater height. And when I raised my hand once more to strike his red-hot butt, he pushed it back toward me, meeting the blow. I glanced at his penis — rigid now, hard and throbbing. I grinned, and hauled him up out of the tub.

Before he had time to think of anything to do in his own defense, I sat back down on the stool and threw the boy belly-first over my lap. I placed a firm hand on his damp back and adjusted my legs slightly so that his buttocks parted. Placing my free hand on his slightly red backside, I felt it drying. Well, this wouldn't do at all.

I dunked my hand back into the tub and brought it up full of warm water, which I poured over his naked ass. After I'd applied a couple more handfuls of the water to his rump, I cupped his cheeks again. Dripping wet now. Perfect.

"What the hell d'ya think you're doin'?" he squealed.

"Somethin' your daddy should've done a long time ago, kid." I raised my hand up high and brought it down — hard. His soaking wet ass flesh responded beautifully, and the wet splat! echoed sharply in the dark kitchen.

"Owwwwwww!!!" he cried, squirming. "Cut it out!"

"It's either my hand or the switch I cut off one of Mrs. A's trees, kid. I can go either way."

With satisfaction, I noticed that his butt was turning a deeper red, so I hit him again, square across both cheeks. Splat!!

"No! Ow! Don't! Stop it!"

"You want the switch?"

"No! No, goddamnit!"

"All right then," I smiled, and laid into his butt with a series of well-aimed blows that landed all over his squirming bottom. He was writhing now, desperate to get away, and I held him down tightly. I began to spank him faster, harder. His cock was thumping against my leg, and his balls were bobbing delightedly as the wet blows struck over and over against his naked ass. His buttcheeks burned a deep red, and after about ten more blows, the last five low on his ass just above his thighs, I stopped spanking him and lovingly touched the fevered redness with my hands, gently caressing their plump contours.

He'd stopped struggling long before now, and I could feel the flesh yield to my touch. Testing the limits of his acceptance, I licked my index finger, spreading as much saliva over it as I could. Then I pried his buttocks apart and slipped my slick finger between their heat. He sucked in his breath but did not try to resist, and when I pressed my finger inward, glancing against his pucker, he jumped slightly, gasped, and I felt the rippled flesh spasm against my finger.

But he didn't tell me to stop.

So I went on, applying gentle pressure against his hot man-cunt. Finally, relaxed, it opened enough to allow my digit to slide into his heat. He moaned openly then, turning his head toward me. I leaned over and put my lips against his ear. Lapping at his lobe, I pushed my finger in further, digging inside his treasure-chest, and when I was fully embedded there, I slid my tongue inside his ear and licked it while moving my finger back and forth inside his warm asshole. Each new assault brought a heaving, raspy shudder of breath, and I moved my lips to his mouth with its wide, luscious lips and kissed him hard.

"It's okay to like it," I said, laughing.

His pretty face pouted, the nostrils of his wide, button nose flaring.

"I don't like it. No one's ever gonna say I do."

Right, I thought. I leaned over and picked up the bar of soap floating in the tub. I ran my hand over it, soaping up.

Then I pushed two fingers up his butt.

He jolted as if bitten by a snake, relaxed, and — despite himself — cooed and grunted in time to my rhythmic explorations; I thrust my fingers up his hot backside and withdrew them slowly, feeling his pucker clamp down on them. Wriggled them almost out of his clean little bung-hole, then shoved them back up the now open tunnel again, fast, hard, faster, harder, letting his toned-up moaning direct my pace. I found the knot of his joy-spot and massaged it gently, reaching beneath him and grabbing his fat cock, hard now and pulsing like a live thing in my hand. With soapy fingers, I slid the skin back from the hood of his uncut pecker, then pushed it back over the rosy tip. He gasped.

"Okay, kid," I murmured in his soft ear. "Keep on tellin' me how much you hate it. Your dickie tells me otherwise."

He had no answer for a moment, so I slid the skin back and forth over his cock-head, releasing a glistening drop of cum. Meanwhile, my busy finger pried his twat, teased his hole, fucked his butt. Then, softly, with anguish and sexual need giving his voice a throaty burr: "shit — aw, shit. shit. shit. Aw, fuck, man. shit."

I pulled out.

Picking him up again, I deposited him back into the tub.

He shuddered then, his body relaxed into the water, and I turned away. I reached over to the pantry and, with my back to him, casually withdrew a can of cooking grease and dropped it in the bubbling pan of water on the stove. I crossed my arms and waited. Slowly he turned around, his eyes asking why I'd stopped. My answer was to hold his eyes with mine and, smiling, take the warmed-up jar of grease out of the pan. I thrust my fingers into the hot, viscous grease, globbing a goodly amount over them. Then I advanced toward him, and without warning, shoved two oily fingers up his backside. The warmth of the grease made him gasp, and I pushed up as far as possible, teasing him open, finger-fucking him first slowly, then faster. Abruptly, as his breathing grew raspier and quicker, I withdrew and went back to the stove, crossed my arms and waited.

I let him stew in the bath while I took my time waiting. Then I began to hear the sound of him beating off in the water. I made my voice hard, a barking command.

"Take your hands off that dick now!!"

Silence. Then:

"Pard, I —"

"Yes?"

My hands oiled up and reaching for my throbbing, bouncing prick.

"You gotta — gotta —"

"I gotta what, kid?"

"You gotta — I mean, don't - don't stop."

This, muttered in a tone almost inaudible. But hear it I did. Still, just for emphasis, I snapped out: "What was that, kid? What'd you say?"

"What, kid?"

"I said —"

"What?"

"Don t stop, damn it!"

"Don't stop, you say? And here I thought you didn't like it."

"I —"

"You what, you little punk?"

"I was — I was lyin'."

"You were, huh?" (What a surprise.) "Well, now. Lyin' about — what?"

"About — oh, God, I gotta — oh, please, pardner —"

"Lyin about what?"

"About — about not likin' it."

"Not likin' what?" Hoping this can resume soon, as my dick is dribbling cum and I long to have his ass kissing it.

"Likin' — well, I —"

"Spit it out!"

(Not acting now: I want his butt-crack around my cock so bad I can hardly stand up.)

"…dicks up my ass!! I like it, I do - I want — oh, God, I ain't never — never wanted any such a thing before so much in my life as I want that big pistol in me!"

"You're no virgin, then, are you, kid? I mean, for cock?"

"No, no, I ain't! I admit it, God, I admit it —"

"How many you had, kid? Huh? How many other pricks you had up that tight little twat?"

"I — I don't —"

I smacked his ass with my palm, hard. He yelped. But by now, I knew he liked it.

"You remember. A man doesn't forget a thing like that. You remember, you little bastard. Tell me!"

"You gotta —"

Smack!!

"Wait! I'll tell! First was my brother's, we was just kids, but —"

"How many times he fuck you, kid?"

He reached down to grab his cock, desperate for release. I brushed his hand away.

"Every night! Every night since he was 13."

"An' how old were you then, kid?"

No answer.

Smack!!

"Twelve! I was twelve!"

(The interrogation somehow excited me as much as his splendidly naked ass. As well as giving me the proof I'd sought.)

"You ever fuck him? Huh, kid?"

"Yeah! Plenty o' times!"

"You like fuckin', or bein' fucked better?"

"Bein', bein'!! Now, fuck me, please!"

As badly as I wanted to give him his wish (and mine), he'd been such a shitty little punk, my desire to humiliate him and prolong his agony of desire won out over my burning need to fuck him.

"I don't think so, kid."

Silence, heavy with despair. Then: "W-what — whattaya mean?"

"I mean, I don't think I will now."

"C'mon, pardner — please!"

The little ass pushed up further, parting anew, velvety pucker quivering, puckering, opening and closing like a crazy flower. I had to give it to him — the kid knew how to torture me as keenly as I was now driving him nuts. The red, palm-marked and steaming buttocks wiggled. His hands moved back to his cheeks and drew them open. An index finger squirmed its way to the greased up hole and dug itself inside.

"All right, kid," I managed to gasp this out in a poor imitation of toughness. The kid had me just where he wanted me, and I gave up trying to prolong his heat.

I turned back to the stove and thrust my hand once more into the jar, removing a glob of oily cream and slavering it up and down the length of my dick. He pulled his finger out of his butt then and moved his head around and as I walked back to him, my prong glistened in the dim light, the grease making it stand out like a big, pulsing fire in the night.

His eyes on it, scared, startled, desiring. He turned around then, gripped the tub and threw his hot ass up, spreading his legs. His buttocks were wide open in the air before me, pink hole twinkling with grease and winking, his hot young body leaning over the side of the tub, his cock pressed against it, his sweet round ass steaming from the hot water, cheeks parted. Open. Primed and waiting.

I got in the water, slapped each burning cheek in turn with my palms. He yelped. I grabbed his cheeks and kneaded them, prying them apart, exposing his lubed-up pussy. I moved my cock toward his hole, guided it to the opening, lifted my hips, and it slipped inside like a hand in a well-worn glove. Velvet. I nearly swooned, it was so hot.

Then I fucked him like it was the last fuck either of us'd ever have.

Jerking his cock in my hand, yanking on his balls while I drilled his backside. Slamming it to him, slapping his hot, wet ass with my hands, my balls bouncing off the twin pillows while my cock went up under his heart, back again, out and in, spearing him hard and fast and with force, hottest ass I ever — oh, my gawwwwwwwddddddddddddd!!!!! — and as I cum, he gets there too, and we go over the top together, his man-pussy squeezing every drop out of my raging dick, my cum like a geyser with every new contraction; his rod spurting like a pump, spraying the side of the tub, searing my hand with white lava.

He fell forward into the water then, and I fell with him, still embedded in his butt. He rotated his body around, still connected to my slowly deflating prong until we were facing each other. Then he gripped the sides of my head and pulling me to him, kissed my lips in gratitude. As my cock slipped its gradual way out of his delectable butt-hole, I held his body to mine and returned his kisses.

Later, drying by the fire in the lobby, his head against my breast, he told me his real name — Billy — and his story. How his brother had gotten a farm-girl pregnant and married her, but continued seeking out his younger sibling's sweet ass until the wife caught them in bed; she'd told Billy to make himself scarce or she'd scream it to anyone who'd listen. He'd left home with his colt and little else. After a couple of months spent in fruitless prospecting, he'd made a small discovery of gold but two drifters had caught wind of his find and stolen it from him in the night, along with his colt. The next morning, he'd given chase and managed to get his colt back, but nothing else. By then, he'd given up. Angry, hurt, disappointed, he'd ridden into town without a penny, hoping to find a job. His sullen attitude was genuine, I realized, and his story moved me.

As I kissed his grateful lips, his young penis stirred against my leg and we retired to my room for the night, during which he showed me with tender feeling that in the act of sex, his expertise was not limited to the passive. I think I've found what I've been searching for.