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There was the realization that he might have simply as well stayed with the Ingalls, to see how it all worked out. However he had actually had his fill and it was time to move on, maybe mosey down to St. Louis, New Orleans, or Arizona. Strongly he felt that getting back house in 2000 was a no-go. It wasn't going to occur. He knew his geography relatively well, the location of 2000, the location of 1875 he was a little fuzzy on. And beings that it WAS 1875, Old West, it was a good idea to be leery and careful and on guard-- Indians were still magnificent uncertain and bandits roamed the wildlands, too.
A mountain path took him up into some rough nation, he spent a week just meandering around, finding a couple of stray livestock he helped himself to some fresh steak. It was a little gross and he determined that in the future he would just purchase one from a dining establishment. Fishing was better and he nailed one deer. Living in the rough was alright, he did miss out on the Ingalls' hospitality, Walnut Grove as a whole, also. When the very first snows started to fall his thoughts rested solely on the Ingalls. A great warm fire, a bed, hot soup, cornbread, fresh milk. His own grub was getting sporadic, the weather turning on him the higher he went, but he wanted to get up and over the mountain ridge and down into brand-new area he presumed would be one of the Dakotas, or possibly Iowa, maybe even Nebraska, he wasn't sure. Quickly the days got as cold as the nights. His horse was not authorizing of the weather condition modification or the persistence of continuing the useless experience. August had to agree-- he was getting nowhere quickly. The mountain path appeared to wind on and on and on forever. He struck off on another path that allegedly led downward. Now he was absolutely lost. Another week went by, he ran afoul of a one pissed off territorial badger, chased for miles by an even pissed off bear. He fell versus a rock and bruised some ribs, clunked his head and understood that he had a concussion.
Come the beginning of his 3rd week out from Walnut Grove his horse he had pertained to call Tonto started going nuts. Raising up some and acting really wacky. August was not entertained and became very wary. He wished his internal Device had some sort of ability to see objects he himself might not see, or at least detect them, or something. He was at length able to calm the horse down, August strained to listen and identify for himself what had actually alarmed Tonto. He figured either a snake or Indians. Either one he was not cool with. Both were deadly, vicious, and lethal. He desired no part of either among them. After backing his horse up a bit and securing him to a bush August slipped off into the rough, prowling, listening and stopping briefly . In one hand he bared a Colt revolver, the other hand a Bowie knife. He had a Springfield rifle with the horse.
There was absolutely nothing to hear however insects buzzing. Absolutely nothing stirred. August made a couple of more stalwart prowlings and finally encountered a male. Laying down vulnerable upon the ground with a big bloodstain on his behind. He didn't have any boots on, either. Flies were already swarming and so August presumed that the man had actually been dead there for a long time. Carefully August stole out of the rough and up to where the man lay. To his surprise, the man was still really alive. However barely. He had been shot in the chest and had actually lost a great deal of blood. He wasn't going to live for quite longer, August had no chance of reaching any doctor. The boy's ass muscles bent as he made every effort NOT to pump into his cousin's mouth. Arlene retched, gagged, choked, and nearly threw up as she slurped on the two dicks, the balls and as well licked up Mark's crack. Arlene then had to go back to the table and lay on it with her legs opened wide, hands to her side. Mark then had to go to her, on his knees, and lick her. Compliance was not precisely complied to quickly, the two teenagers did their finest to carry and stall on-- requiring Dakota to once again grab a holt of Adam's young head and wrench him upwards ... then in a flash the lad's wool pants were down and he was bent over Dakota's knee, the trap door of the long underwear the kid used was ripped down and the barrel of the six-shooter packed into the lad's hole. Nothing was said. Nothing required saying, Mark went to his knees, parted his cousin's cunny lips and proceeded in noshing. Dakota worked the barrel of the gun deeper into the young boy's anus, sodomizing him nicely. His other hand he held on to the lad's hair, holding it up securely, forcing him to watch as cousin Mark mounted Arlene and entered her. STANDING on Mark's back Dakota took his turn and fucking young Arlene. He squeezed her nipples, nipped and bit them, creamed deeply into her pussy and jammed the barrel of the revolver up into her well deflowered fucked cunny, worked it around a bit and then made her suck on the barrel.
Arlene was ruthlessly wrenched over and spanked hard, Mark had to come and place himself on the table and insert his dick into her mouth. The ordeal was unbelievable. If he weren't so callous, Dakota was August's kind of man. She was further sodomized with Dakota's cock. There was nothing but still silence in the shack, just the crackling fire in the slapping and the fireplace balls against Arlene's ass made the only noise. When done, Dakota wrenched Mark up from the floor and pressed his face into Arlene's tormented ass-- Lick it tidy! Dakota sneered. When Mark fought back to the disgusting job of licking Arlene's cum packed asshole, Dakota then just wrench the lad into a new position-- Either you fuckin' lick HER hole clean-- he jeered and pushed his gangly ultra-funky dick up against the kid's face-- Or you SUCK my dick!
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