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There was the awareness that he could have just as well stuck with the Ingalls, to see how everything exercised after all. But he had actually had his fill and it was time to carry on, perhaps mosey down to St. Louis, New Orleans, or Arizona. Highly he felt that getting back home in 2000 was a no-go. It wasn't going to occur. He understood his geography relatively well, the geography 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 cautious and leery and on guard-- Indians were still mighty uncertain and bandits roamed the wildlands, too.
A mountain course took him up into some rough country, he invested a week just meandering around, finding a few roaming cattle he assisted himself to some fresh steak. It was a little gross and he determined that in the future he would just order one from a restaurant. Fishing was much better and he nailed one deer. Living in the rough was alright, he did miss the Ingalls' hospitality, Walnut Grove as a whole. When the very first snows started to fall his thoughts rested exclusively on the Ingalls. A great warm fire, a bed, hot soup, cornbread, fresh milk. His own grub was getting sporadic, the weather condition turning on him the greater he went, but he wanted to get up and over the mountain ridge and down into brand-new territory he presumed would be among the Dakotas, or potentially Iowa, perhaps even Nebraska, he wasn't sure. Soon the days got as cold as the nights. His horse was not authorizing of the weather change or the persistence of continuing the useless experience. August had to agree-- he was getting nowhere quick. The mountain course appeared to wind on and on and on permanently. He struck off on another path that supposedly led downward. Now he was absolutely lost. Another week passed, 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 knew that he had a concussion.
Come the start 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 silly. August was not amused and ended up being very cautious. He wanted his internal Device had some sort of ability to see items he himself might not see, or a minimum of find them, or something. He was at length able to soothe the horse down, August strained to listen and identify for himself what had alarmed Tonto. He figured either a snake or Indians. Either one he was not cool with. Both were lethal, vicious, and lethal. He desired no part of either one of them. After backing his horse up a bit and protecting him to a bush August slid off into the rough, lurking, stopping briefly and listening . In one hand he bared a Colt revolver, the other hand a Bowie knife. He had a Springfield rifle with the horse.
August made a few more stalwart prowlings and lastly came upon a man. Flies were already swarming and so August assumed that the guy had actually been dead there for some time. He wasn't going to be alive for very much longer, August had no way of reaching any physician. Compliance was not precisely complied to quickly, the two teens did their finest to carry and stall on-- requiring Dakota to again get 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 young boy wore was ripped down and the barrel of the six-shooter packed into the lad's hole. Nothing was stated. Absolutely nothing needed 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 rectum, sodomizing him nicely. STANDING on Mark's back Dakota took his turn and fucking young Arlene.
Arlene was ruthlessly wrenched over and spanked hard, Mark needed to come and position himself on the table and place his dick into her mouth. The ordeal was extraordinary. Dakota was August's type of man if he weren't so callous. With the six-shooter, Arlene was promptly odorized. She was more sodomized with Dakota's dick. He slammed her deeply and relentlessly until he could go no more. 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 sound. 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 resisted to the horrible job of licking Arlene's cum laden asshole, Dakota then merely wrench the lad into a new position-- Either you fuckin' lick HER hole clean-- he mocked and pushed his gangly ultra-funky cock up against the boy's face-- Or you SUCK my cock!
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