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Brothels Blencogo CA7

 

There was the realization that he might have just as well remained with the Ingalls, to see how it all worked out. However he had had his fill and it was time to move on, maybe mosey down to St. Louis, New Orleans, or Arizona. Strongly he felt that returning home in 2000 was a no-go. It wasn't going to occur. He was still mystified regarding how the Device wound up in his noggin' anyhow! There was nought to deal but do with it, maybe find some of his old relatives, find his great-great-great grandmother when she was hot and young and score with her! That 'd screw up the timeline for sure! He knew his geography fairly well, the geography 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 careful and hesitant and on guard-- Indians were still mighty unsettled and bandits strolled the wildlands, too.

A mountain course took him up into some rough country, he invested a week just meandering around, discovering a few roaming livestock he assisted himself to some fresh steak. It was a little gross and he identified that in the future he would simply order one from a dining establishment. 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, also. When the first snows began 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 turning on him the higher he went, but he wished to get up and over the mountain ridge and down into new area he assumed would be one of the Dakotas, or perhaps 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 modification or the insistence of continuing the futile experience. August needed to concur-- he was getting nowhere quick. The mountain course seemed to wind on and on and on forever. So he struck off on another path that supposedly led downward. Now he was totally lost. Another week passed, 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.

Come the start of his 3rd week out of Walnut Grove his horse he had actually pertained to call Tonto began going crazy. Raising up some and acting very silly. August was not amused and ended up being really careful. He wished his internal Device had some sort of capability to see items he himself might not see, or a minimum of identify them, or something. He was at length able to calm the horse down, August strained to listen and identify for himself what had startled Tonto. He figured either a snake or Indians. Either one he was not cool with. Both were deadly, vicious, and lethal. He wanted no part of either among them. After backing his horse up a bit and securing him to a bush August slinked 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 couple of more stalwart prowlings and finally came upon a guy. Flies were already swarming and so August assumed that the male had been dead there for some time. He wasn't going to be alive for really much longer, August had no way of reaching any physician. Compliance was not exactly 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 young boy used was ripped down and the barrel of the six-shooter crammed into the lad's hole. Absolutely nothing was said. Absolutely nothing needed saying, Mark went to his knees, parted his cousin's cunny lips and continued in noshing. Dakota worked the barrel of the gun deeper into the young boy's rectum, sodomizing him well. His other hand he hung on to the lad's hair, holding it up firmly, requiring him to watch as cousin Mark installed 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 needed to come and position himself on the table and place his dick into her mouth. The experience was extraordinary. If he weren't so callous, Dakota was August's kind of man. With the six-shooter, Arlene was promptly odorized. She was additional sodomized with Dakota's cock. He knocked her deeply and non-stop until he could go no more. There was nothing but still silence in the shack, only the crackling fire in the slapping and the fireplace balls versus Arlene's ass made the only sound. When done, Dakota wrenched Mark up from the floor and pushed his face into Arlene's tormented ass-- Lick it clean! Dakota sneered. When Mark resisted to the revolting job of licking Arlene's cum loaded asshole, Dakota then just wrench the lad into a new position-- Either you fuckin' lick HER hole tidy-- he jeered and pushed his gangly ultra-funky dick up against the kid's face-- Or you SUCK my cock!

 

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