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There was the realization that he could have just as well stuck with the Ingalls, to see how all of it worked out after all. He had had his fill and it was time to move 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 happen. 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 smart to be wary and wary and on guard-- Indians were still magnificent unsettled and bandits strolled the wildlands, too.
A mountain course took him up into some rough nation, he invested a week just meandering around, discovering a few roaming cattle he helped himself to some fresh steak. It was a little gross and he figured out that in the future he would just order one from a dining establishment. Fishing was much better and he nailed one deer. Residing in the rough was alright, he did miss the Ingalls' hospitality, Walnut Grove as a whole, also. 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 sporadic, the weather condition turning on him the greater he went, however he wanted to get up and over the mountain ridge and down into new territory he assumed 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 persistence of continuing the futile experience. August needed to concur-- he was getting nowhere fast. The mountain path appeared to wind on and on and on permanently. He struck off on another course that supposedly led downward. Now he was completely 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 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 from Walnut Grove his horse he had actually pertained to call Tonto started flipping out. Rearing up some and acting extremely wacky. August was not entertained and ended up being really careful. He wanted his internal Device had some sort of capability to see things he himself might not see, or at least find them, or something. He was at length able to relax the horse down, August strained to listen and detect for himself what had alarmed 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 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.
There was nothing to hear but bugs buzzing. Absolutely nothing stirred. August made a couple of more stalwart prowlings and lastly encountered a man. Putting down susceptible upon the ground with a big bloodstain on his behind. He didn't have any boots on, either. Flies were currently swarming and so August presumed that the man had been dead there for a long time. Carefully August took out of the rough and up to where the man lay. To his surprise, the man was still in fact alive. However barely. He had been shot in the chest and had lost a lot of blood. He wasn't going to live for quite longer, August had no chance of reaching any medical professional. The boy's ass muscles bent as he aimed NOT to pump into his cousin's mouth. Arlene retched, gagged, choked, and almost vomited as she slurped on the two cocks, the balls and as well licked up Mark's crack. Arlene then needed 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 rapidly, the two teens did their best to carry and stall on-- forcing 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 wore was ripped down and the barrel of the six-shooter packed into the lad's hole. Nothing was said. Nothing needed stating, 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 nicely. His other hand he held on to the lad's hair, holding it up firmly, 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 needed to come and position himself on the table and place his dick into her mouth. The experience was extraordinary. Dakota was August's kind of man if he weren't so callous. She was more sodomized with Dakota's dick. There was nothing however still silence in the shack, just the crackling fire in the fireplace and the slapping balls against 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 job of licking Arlene's orgasm loaded asshole, Dakota then just wrench the lad into a brand-new position-- Either you fuckin' lick HER hole tidy-- he mocked and pushed his gangly ultra-funky cock up against the kid's face-- Or you SUCK my cock!
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