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There was the realization that he might have just as well stuck with the Ingalls, to see how everything exercised after all. But he had had his fill and it was time to move on, possibly mosey down to St. Louis, New Orleans, or Arizona. Highly he felt that getting back house in 2000 was a no-go. It wasn't going to happen. He knew his geography relatively well, the location of 2000, the geography of 1875 he was a little fuzzy on. And beings that it WAS 1875, Old West, it was wise to be leery and careful and on guard-- Indians were still mighty uncertain and bandits roamed the wildlands, too.
A mountain path took him up into some rough nation, he invested a week simply meandering around, finding a couple of stray cattle he assisted himself to some fresh steak. It was a little gross and he determined that in the future he would just buy one from a restaurant. Fishing was much 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. When the first snows began to fall his thoughts rested exclusively on the Ingalls. A good warm fire, a bed, hot soup, cornbread, fresh milk. His own grub was getting sparse, the weather turning on him the greater he went, but he wanted to get up and over the mountain ridge and down into new territory he presumed would be one of the Dakotas, or possibly Iowa, maybe even Nebraska, he wasn't sure. Soon the days got as cold as the nights. His horse was not approving of the weather modification or the insistence of continuing the futile experience. August needed to agree-- he was getting nowhere fast. The mountain path seemed to wind on and on and on forever. So he struck off on another course that apparently led downward. Now he was absolutely lost. Another week went by, he contravened of a one pissed off territorial badger, gone after for miles by an even pissed off bear. He fell against a rock and bruised some ribs, clunked his head and knew that he had a concussion.
August was not amused and ended up being really cautious. He wanted his internal Device had some sort of ability to see objects he himself could not see, or at least find them, or something. He was at length able to calm the horse down, August strained to listen and discover for himself what had actually scared Tonto. He figured either a snake or Indians. Either one he was not cool with. Both were deadly, vicious, and fatal. He desired no part of either one of them. After backing his horse up a bit and protecting him to a bush August slipped 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.
There was nothing to hear however bugs buzzing. Absolutely nothing stirred. August made a few more stalwart prowlings and finally encountered a male. Putting down susceptible upon the ground with a substantial bloodstain on his backside. He didn't have any boots on, either. Flies were currently swarming and so August presumed that the man had actually been dead there for a long time. Thoroughly August stole out of the rough and approximately where the man lay. To his surprise, the man was still really alive. Barely. He had been shot in the chest and had actually lost a great deal of blood. He wasn't going to be alive for very much longer, August had no other way of reaching any physician. The kid's ass muscles bent as he made every effort NOT to pump into his cousin's mouth. Arlene retched, gagged, choked, and almost threw up as she slurped on the two dicks, the balls and too licked up Mark's crack. Arlene then had to return 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 exactly complied to quickly, the two teens did their best to carry and stall on-- requiring Dakota to once more 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 boy wore was ripped down and the barrel of the six-shooter packed into the lad's hole. Nothing was said. Absolutely nothing required saying, Mark went to his knees, parted his cousin's cunny lips and continued in noshing. Dakota worked the barrel of the weapon deeper into the young kid's rectum, sodomizing him well. His other hand he hung on to the lad's hair, holding it up securely, forcing him to watch as cousin Mark installed Arlene and entered her. BASING 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 after that made her suck on the barrel.
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 experience was amazing. If he weren't so callous, Dakota was August's kind of guy. She was more sodomized with Dakota's dick. There was nothing however still silence in the shack, just the crackling fire in the slapping and the fireplace balls versus Arlene's ass made the only noise. When done, Dakota wrenched Mark up from the floor and pushed his face into Arlene's tormented ass-- Lick it tidy! Dakota sneered. When Mark resisted to the horrible task of licking Arlene's orgasm laden asshole, Dakota then just wrench the lad into a brand-new position-- Either you fuckin' lick HER hole clean-- he jeered and pushed his gangly ultra-funky cock up against the kid's face-- Or you SUCK my cock!
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