The Cowboy

"Would you walk with me a while?"

I had just met him yesterday, a happenstance conversation on a day the sun was bright and birdsong abounded, twittering an ecstatic welcome to spring. He was tall; "The Cowboy" I called him, often seeing him on his morning rounds of the neighborhood where I work.

I knew he had worked on a farm once, with his hands. They were square and long-fingered, fleshy in the way that some big men have. The skin of his palm was smooth and hard, worn – but warm, almost fiery, causing mine to sweat as he enveloped it in the paw of his own.

Who holds hands today? A sweetness of yesterday, invoking images of innocence and trust, seen rarely these days. Ridiculous feelings, I know – he could be an axe murderer. The thought flitted from my mind as fast as it had entered. Sometimes, one just knows. Or doesn't, but spontaneity had overtaken any misgivings I had. I skipped along beside his long-legged stride, feeling lighthearted.

Yesterday's parting salute, a kiss on the forehead, still burned on my brow.

As we walked, he talked. Of his days on the prairie, his move to the city, how the bustle and noise here made one far lonelier than the bleakest windswept day back East, for there were always things to be done, and a good woman waiting for him to warm him with supper, and to lay her head in his lap at the end of the day.

He stopped abruptly in front of a brightly coloured house, rescued from disintegration by the mostly-industrial area's gentrification. "Your hair is the same colour as hers used to be." There was a tiny lawn, surrounded by the inevitable white pickets, and meticulously kept yellow roses framed the door of the brick-red apartment home. He passed the hand holding mine behind my back and pulled me into the circle of his arms. My back thumped against the solid wall of his chest, and I could smell him.

Laundry soap and shaving cream, leather and faint musk. The simple, honest smells of an uncomplicated man. But his heart thumped in his chest, and I felt mine redouble its pace, I felt his need. For what I wasn't sure, but his scent was a reassuring as the gentle sure grip of his hand. Ludicrous as the act of going with a complete stranger, I knew I would give this man what he wanted, and gladly.

He pushed the gate open in front of us and ushered me in. A guiding hand in the small of my back – another touch of days gone by. Each touch a gentling, a warming. "My home. Would you –" he started, and swept off his hat. "I'm Jim." I turned to him and looked up, way up into his faded blue eyes. I felt charmed, even beguiled, but searching his face revealed only kindness, and faint trace of sorrow. His face was leathery, careworn and not pretty; handsome in the way of a man of another time. My answer was just as short as his introduction, and breathless. "Michele."

"Yes, of course it is," he said quietly. He gathered me to him in a tight hug, one hand buried in my hair, the other curled snugly around the curve of my bottom. He bent his head to mine and breathed in deeply. "You smell so good, Shell." His tone was tender; the words familiar, like he'd said them many times before. He rubbed his cheek on the top of my head. "So soft, such pretty hair," he murmured. The sounds of the city faded away in his embrace.

He released me, but I felt his reluctance. He took my hand again and led me around the side of his home. The back yard was just as tiny as the front, but quieter, surrounded by a tall cedar hedge. A small fountain burbled from a stone birdbath. Beside it, a wooden birdfeeder sat gaily on a wooden post. In the back corner, there was an old fashioned swing with a deep seat filled with cushions. A small ginger cat sat on the end of the seat, asleep.

"Tom likes to watch the birds, but doesn't bother them. " Jim said. "He keeps me company." He gestured to the swing. "Won't you stay awhile?" I nodded, and his smile lit his eyes. Still, sadness lay upon them like a film and I longed to do something, anything, to relieve it. He shucked off his boots and his coat, hanging it on hook on the side of the swing. He sat on the very end, then swung his long legs up into it, leaning back on one arm. I didn't know what to do, and it must have showed on my face.

He patted his lap and held out his arms. I'd committed the first moment I'd taken his hand, I suppose, so there was no backing out. Even with the swift pace of intimacy, I felt no harm, no fear. I wanted this, to be in his arms, to be held and to hold, as he seemed to need. I slipped off my shoes and turned to place them out of the way, and Jim caught me, pulling me to him. I landed on his thighs and they parted; it seemed natural to stretch out along him, my hips falling between his legs.

Jim sighed deeply, and stroked my hair. My head lay low on his chest and I listened to his heart, his breathing, the rhythms of his body. His shirt was soft on my cheek, but I wanted to get closer. Tentatively, I reached to unbutton the nearest one to me, and then another. I slipped my hand into his shirt then, and stroked his belly, softly.

"Soft hands, little Shelly." Jim sighed again, and continued play with my hair. Both hands now, rubbing strands between his thumbs, letting them fall though his fingers. He was warm, oh so very warm, and his touch, so very soothing. Low murmured words caressed my ears. Under my belly, his erection developed, as tall and strong as the rest of him. I wanted it very much, but was unwilling to break Jim's spell.

Then Jim hand dropped to his belt buckle, and stopped. I looked up at him, wanting him to know that it was all right.

"Will you...?" He paused. The yearning on his face was plain, touched with a little fear. I wondered if he'd ever done anything like this before, but pushed the thought away for the matter at hand. I slipped my hand from his shirt and put it over his, and nuzzled his belly, exhaling as I did so. Again he sighed, this time, in relief. He grew warmer, the heat radiating from his body penetrating my skin and warming my heart.

He wore no briefs, no shorts – his cock pushed out from his fly as we pulled down the zipper. I wriggled my hips down, snuggling between his legs. His cock quivered, bobbing as I warmed him with my breath. I reached up to grab him wanting to taste, to feel his length, but he pushed my hand away.

"Soft, sweet Shell. Let me." Confused, but wanting his way, I lay my head on his belly, my lips just grazing the base of his shaft. Again, his fingers returned to my hair, combing, pulling gently. He gathered the strands in the palm of his hand and wrapped it around himself. He groaned quietly, then again, with gratitude as I licked him delicately. I closed my eyes, letting everything around fade away. All that was left was the weight of his hand on my head, the smell of his cock, its heat on my skin. I kept still while stroked himself with my hair in his hand, I knew it wouldn't take long. His thighs tightened around my torso and he began to tremble.

"Pretty hair, my pretty girl." Still he kept the caress slow, but I felt the tightening of his loins against my face. His belly was taut. His grip on my head flattened, pushing my lips against him. I whispered lovewords to him, loving the feel of blood rushing through veins when I pressed my lips in a kiss. Finally, he surged. From deep inside he groaned, the inarticulate moan growing to a quiet shout. I wrapped my lips around his root and reveled in the pulse of his release. His hips rolled and I could smell his seed spilling from him.

Gradually, he quietened, stilled, his breath long, slow and regular. I was happy to stay a few moments and enjoy the peace we had created. Within moments he was asleep, or at least I thought he was. I tried to extract myself quietly.

A quiet chuckle. "We're going to need to wash that hair, Shelly.