back to Chess. After all the androphile experiences Spenser had had, no buck had affected him as strongly as the robust libertine Chess. Chess had said they could no longer toy with each other sexually, but Spenser was hoping that was another of Chess’s changeable moods. Sure, Spenser had fiddled around with many young—and not so young—bucks in his time. It was all just a way to while away the dull hours that would’ve otherwise been spent looking at the hindquarters of steers and making cook fires out of cow shit.
Ranch hands were usually too exhausted for too much rutting, but there was always a lot of rope around, and so Spenser had discovered it excited him to be bound and toyed with. The first time had happened by accident. As penance for failing to rope some calf or other, a gang of hands, led by a much older fellow, had bound Spenser naked and tossed him into some hay. They stood above him in a circle, frigging themselves, soon splashing his squirming body with their ejaculate.
The most mortifying part was that his own prick had stiffened and his balls plumped with lechery to be bound so helplessly, at the mercy of this crowd of rowdies. Later, the much older fellow had taken him aside and sucked him so thoroughly he had drained every last seed in Spenser’s burdened balls.
Chess had stirred those old feelings in him again. There was something magical about the tough, virile Chess—something elemental that made Spenser crave more. He was the new owner of Serendipity Ranch, so Spenser knew he’d see him around, and he had every intention of seducing the pants off this debauched buck. Sure, Chess was tough and exhibited nothing but a selfish lack of feeling for anyone else. Maybe being an orphan had made Spenser so eager to please, so determined to elicit a show of emotion from someone as tough and cold-hearted as Chess.
Spenser wanted to be loved.
Oh, for the love of God . Thinking of Chess’s meaty pectorals with that sprinkling of satiny chest hair had made Spenser’s penis thicken, elongating inside the fleshing costume. Instantly he drew the attention of a knot of men, those special androgynous fellows who usually came into the gallery to admire Spenser and the actor playing Adam. They elbowed each other and pointed, murmuring appreciatively. Spenser noted that Bullet Bob also admired his lengthening tool, so perhaps it wasn’t all a loss. Maybe this would help him get whatever part Bullet Bob thought he’d be suited for.
Yeah. The part of a slave.
“That’s impossible!”
Luckily, Fidelia’s voice from the hallway distracted some attention from his bulging penis. It was odd that the guitar player continued to play while she was talking to him. Even odder still why the guitarist didn’t enter the theater itself.
“I refuse to believe your silly predictions! If you continue to tell me such ridiculous things, how am I supposed to believe your other instructions are true?”
Oddly, the guitarist wasn’t saying anything. From where Spenser stood onstage, it merely sounded as though Fidelia were talking to herself.
“Time,” said the bodyguard who stood nearly as immobile as the poses plastiques actors.
There was a collective whoosh of relief as the actors melted from their positions and rubbed their aching limbs. A few rays of sunlight entering the theatre through gaps in the wall lit up the scene with a heavenly glow. Spenser was ready to hurl the damned sword at the nearest wall.
Josephine took a bite from Eve’s white-dusted apple, a white dove fluttered its wings against Spenser’s face, and he decided to head for the hallway instead of flapping gums with Bullet Bob about Hamlet .
A sight even odder than the poses plastiques gallery awaited Spenser in the hallway. Fidelia stood with hands on hips, looking daggers at the guitarist. He was an affable enough fellow, it seemed, if a little bit puffy and pasty-faced. He would have looked cherubic were it not for his unruly and
Ranch hands were usually too exhausted for too much rutting, but there was always a lot of rope around, and so Spenser had discovered it excited him to be bound and toyed with. The first time had happened by accident. As penance for failing to rope some calf or other, a gang of hands, led by a much older fellow, had bound Spenser naked and tossed him into some hay. They stood above him in a circle, frigging themselves, soon splashing his squirming body with their ejaculate.
The most mortifying part was that his own prick had stiffened and his balls plumped with lechery to be bound so helplessly, at the mercy of this crowd of rowdies. Later, the much older fellow had taken him aside and sucked him so thoroughly he had drained every last seed in Spenser’s burdened balls.
Chess had stirred those old feelings in him again. There was something magical about the tough, virile Chess—something elemental that made Spenser crave more. He was the new owner of Serendipity Ranch, so Spenser knew he’d see him around, and he had every intention of seducing the pants off this debauched buck. Sure, Chess was tough and exhibited nothing but a selfish lack of feeling for anyone else. Maybe being an orphan had made Spenser so eager to please, so determined to elicit a show of emotion from someone as tough and cold-hearted as Chess.
Spenser wanted to be loved.
Oh, for the love of God . Thinking of Chess’s meaty pectorals with that sprinkling of satiny chest hair had made Spenser’s penis thicken, elongating inside the fleshing costume. Instantly he drew the attention of a knot of men, those special androgynous fellows who usually came into the gallery to admire Spenser and the actor playing Adam. They elbowed each other and pointed, murmuring appreciatively. Spenser noted that Bullet Bob also admired his lengthening tool, so perhaps it wasn’t all a loss. Maybe this would help him get whatever part Bullet Bob thought he’d be suited for.
Yeah. The part of a slave.
“That’s impossible!”
Luckily, Fidelia’s voice from the hallway distracted some attention from his bulging penis. It was odd that the guitar player continued to play while she was talking to him. Even odder still why the guitarist didn’t enter the theater itself.
“I refuse to believe your silly predictions! If you continue to tell me such ridiculous things, how am I supposed to believe your other instructions are true?”
Oddly, the guitarist wasn’t saying anything. From where Spenser stood onstage, it merely sounded as though Fidelia were talking to herself.
“Time,” said the bodyguard who stood nearly as immobile as the poses plastiques actors.
There was a collective whoosh of relief as the actors melted from their positions and rubbed their aching limbs. A few rays of sunlight entering the theatre through gaps in the wall lit up the scene with a heavenly glow. Spenser was ready to hurl the damned sword at the nearest wall.
Josephine took a bite from Eve’s white-dusted apple, a white dove fluttered its wings against Spenser’s face, and he decided to head for the hallway instead of flapping gums with Bullet Bob about Hamlet .
A sight even odder than the poses plastiques gallery awaited Spenser in the hallway. Fidelia stood with hands on hips, looking daggers at the guitarist. He was an affable enough fellow, it seemed, if a little bit puffy and pasty-faced. He would have looked cherubic were it not for his unruly and
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