Shawntel

I helped Shawntel climb aboard. I saw her perfect legs from one angle, Kevin saw them from another. We also saw she had no panties under her skirt. On the train she sat next to me with her jacket draped across her lap, we watched the Pacific Northwest slipping by our window, I had finger fucked her, pretended to be reading a Dean Koontz paperback. I imagined Grand Pa might insert several of his fingers in her twat while we made our way to the ranch. That was his inclination.

We stopped in the valley where the pines grew close, little sunlight penetrated and we doubled teamed her. Kevin ate her while she sucked my cock. All the while the several dumb animals hobbled and hitched to the buggy watched us from a distance.

Off the road with Shawntel pushed against the trunk of a tree, she'd spread her legs wide, Kevin down on his knees licking her between her legs while I stood over her and nudged my cock into her mouth while the back of her slapped against the tree's hard bark. Grand Dad had worn the green jodhpurs so as not to show the grass stains. He was one to think ahead.

In the distance the jagged purple glazed summits of the Tetons were brushed in streaks of packed snow and cloaked in stands of cottonwood. Overhead through the bonnet of trees, I leaned back as Shawntel sucked me and saw the flash of a bald eagle's white head in the vault of a dense blue sky. It swept and soared in a majestic arc back and forth, seemed to be focusing its sharp eyes on our little tableau.

The craggy rock, the soaring big ass bird, and the towering sentinels of trees made it so ecologically pristine and in a word: wonderful.

We mounted the buggy. I lifted Sis up on to the bench and then took my place next to her. We continued to follow the two-lane blacktop road south, crossed several ridges covered with wild flowers and yellow mustard seed and then wound our way down into a valley of neat square parcels of rich black earth skirted by white picket fences planted with strawberries and perfectly aligned conifers marking our way.

Horses grazed everywhere as did one or two legation of cows. In hunting season this ground was home for free ranging elk, bison and the occasional moose. No doubt sometime this coming week Grand Pa Dooley would fix his delicious elk stew.

The buggy's red spokes groaned a bit settling on the finely graveled lane as we meandered around the knuckle of a finger lake and came close to a moss covered dock where a beef jerky eating man in a sturdy lime green poncho, his boy in black wadding boots, the most luscious red curls flowing over his solidly built forehead were fishing for mountain-sized catfish.

We rounded another bend on the circuitous road and there in all its glory were Rocking Horse Farms.

Nine hundred twelve acres of pasture, several ponds, two riding stables, and a water tower made of corrugated tin with the Rocking Horse Farms logo printed high on its outboard side. Next to the water tower was a bunk house crammed with filthy brown men wearing broadcloth britches and Stetsons. Drunkards many of them may be take their pleasures as they find them. These heroes and half-wits, earnest Steinbeckian men tended to sit around on crates singing cowboy ballads slightly off key and keeping the coffee going full tilt on their pathetic old cook stove while serving up roasting ears seasoned in smoke and five alarm chili beans. All the while they were spitting gobs of chaw into copper lined cuspidors.

What a life these bleached out old sod busting men must have had with no indoor plumbing, no pots and pans, no Indian blankets, way too much Tabasco sauce, too many refried beans. Yes, I relished this place's romantic ambiance, the glory of a forgotten age, their Bronco Bill mentality blazing with such incandescence so near to Buffalo Bill's Wild West show.

The house, pitched in adobe and slate, has a yellowing Copper tinted roof, big porches shaded by several immense elm trees and an assortment of flowering bushes planted about the house's perimeter.

The entire house was abuzz with family fucking too.

Uncle Mort was going down on his niece Cecelia. Frank was looking at a lavender cock ring on Jason's dong. Aunt Sharon, a long time porno actress who grew up here was sucking off Deke. Grand Mother was in the kitchen rolling across the center island counter top, her pink panties twisted about her waist, while Bill her favorite grandson ate her out.

Over the house's high pitched roof, the occasional white cloud scudded by as did a ceaseless parade of honking geese.

Shawntel and I decided on a short nap in our shared bedroom after our trip, then we sat on the veranda ate fresh pineapple, mango and sliced apples, granola, plain yogurt and downed several tumblers of cinnamon splashed apple juice.

Then Shawntel and I were off to play. I was wearing Levis, a coarse russet colored cowboy shirt and naturally a ten gallon hat. Shawntel had changed into a polka dot dress with the spaghetti straps.

Near the center of the property was a horse barn. Horse racing memorabilia, horse collars and polished saddles hung on the walls while a boom box played in the background. Shawntel sprawled in the center of the gravity drained floor, her body keeping beat with the music and she sucked Grandpa Dooley's cock amidst piles of yellow hay, a sprinkling of dandelion fluff and rat turds.

Me John, Dad's wizened older brother down to the shimmering black eye patch, the leering smirk, the short prison term no one talked about was successful in pronging Shawntel while my lantern-sized cock busily did her mouth with some gusto.

I yelled at her to "Rock On." I wished to stand on my hind legs and roar my approval. Damn, I loved fucking this ferociously endowed young woman, I adored having my brothers, cousins, nieces, nephews, uncles, aunts; grandparents fuck her until she could not stand or do much of anything else except maybe duck walk out of this joint dripping a steady stream of sperm along the way.

"Fuck me, you whore," I commanded and she complied.

Near the solid Dutch door leading into the tack room with all its assembled paraphernalia for riding and such, Uncle Jack was jerking off. Jack looks like he has a hunk of cedar betwixt his thighs. He managed to spill his semen into the grove of Shawntel's rollicking ass by leaping forward a bit and then watching his spooge drip down its silken incline to its lowest point where Aunt Millicent then dived into the sodden mess, letting her tongue channel its way into Shawntel in a d spirited manner. Fuck me whore baby Aunt Molly roars into the left ear of Uncle Me John.

At least three more cock hounds could be found trysting in the barn ready to feast on Shawntel this afternoon. Mark, a first cousin was over there sucking on a moist yellow lemon, shaking like a leaf but raring to go. Duncan, his brother was reclining near Mark's knobby knee and sweet adorable Ginger was along for the ride. All of them ready to play some heated games of Wurstverstecken (hide-the wiener).