A Seemly Sex Story
This story, like all Seemly Sex Stories, is pure fiction, an imaginary concoction of the seemly but mischievous mind of BobbyB. Any resemblance to any actual person or situation is completely coincidental.
Published by seemlybobbyb at Shakespir
Copyright 2017 seemlybobbyb
Back in the 1940’s everyone in the valley knew Shorty. He was the son and only relative of Old Jake. Jake had herded sheep for the Stoddard’s Two Lazy S as far back as anyone could remember. Of course it wasn’t polite to mention their sheep operation to any of the Stoddards, nor to any of their ranch hands. After all, the Two Lazy S was the biggest cattle operation in the valley. Hell, in the forties it was one of the biggest in the state. But the West’s old anti-sheep prejudice runs deep, and nobody associated with the ranch liked to admit that a goodly portion of its annual income back then came from the little woolies. In fact, more than a few times in the spread’s almost one hundred year history the sheep operation had kept the cattle one from going under. But sure as hell, no Stoddard or Stoddard ranch hand was about to let this fact be bandied about. If you mentioned their sheep to a Stoddard you could be sure he’d snub you the next time you saw him. And if you mentioned it to one of their ranch hands you’d be asking for a fight, a fight you’d damn well get if the hand happened to have a bit of liquor in him. The Stoddard sheep operation was one of those open secrets every community small enough for everyone to know each other always has. Everyone in the valley knew the Stoddards ran sheep, exactly the way everyone knew the minister slept with the Sunday school teacher every time his wife was away visiting family. But nobody was crude enough to ever mention either fact to the parties involved.
In his younger days Jake would take an annual vacation. He’d draw his year’s salary and buy a roundtrip ticket to the sin-laden big city. The first thing he’d do when he got there was to buy whatever clothes he needed for the next year and stash them in a locker at the depot. Since his home was a Stoddard herder’s wagon, and since the Stoddards provided all his food, Jake had no need for any of the rest of his salary. So he’d spend every last remaining penny on liquor and whores. These ladies always took a charitable delight in seeing to it that Jake, sauced to the gills with his return ticket pinned to his shirt and his stash of new clothes strapped on his back, was deposited on the train to the valley when his money ran out.
But in 1931 when Jake was in his late fifties he decided it was time to mend his wild youthful ways. And when he came back from the city that time he was sober and accompanied by a woman. Nobody in the valley got to know her because Jake took her right out to the hills to his herder’s wagon.
From time to time a rider out looking for strays would by happenstance come upon the location where Jake was grazing the Stoddard flock. Just to be neighborly these men would stop in to share the latest gossip and to accept a helping of Jake’s rabbit stew. The stew was widely regarded as the best eating in the valley, and sometimes these riders had had to wander over the hills for a day or more before they just ‘accidentally’ happened on Jake’s camp. Everyone always wanted to know the secret of Jake’s wonderful stew, but he was too kindhearted to share it. The secret was that Jake’s rabbit stew was made with lamb, something any of the valley’s cattlemen and ranch hands would have been scandalized to be told, even though they couldn’t help but have been aware of the fact had they dared to let the obvious creep into their minds.
At any rate, these occasional visitors met Jake’s companion and learned she was a quiet woman of ordinary appearance who seemed to be about forty. Jake never told anyone whether she was his legal wife, and though it was a matter of great concern throughout the whole valley, even the dumbest cowboy had more than enough sense, and wariness about getting his ass kicked, not to ask. But the valley gossip was particularly concerned about her condition, for Jake’s lady was pregnant. Old Jake, rapidly approaching retirement age, was nevertheless on his way to starting a family. But her time came in the midst of a blizzard, and though Jake had had vast experience birthing lambs, he was unable to stem her post-delivery bleeding. The blizzard prevented him from getting help, and Jake lost his lady. But her baby boy survived.
As soon as the Stoddards learned what had happened they tried to help. They offered to bury Jake’s lady in the cemetery in town and offered to find an adoption for the baby. But Jake would have none of it. He buried his lady at a secret location in the mountains where he had spent his life herding sheep. When some folks mentioned that they’d heard it was illegal to bury a human outside an established cemetery, Jake told them he’d blow the brains out of any son-of-a-bitch who ever touched his lady’s grave. Since there clearly wasn’t an ounce of bravado in the old herder’s claim, and also clear that he was much more to be feared than the law, the topic was never mentioned again. Jake further vowed to raise his son himself. And he did.
Jake named the baby Jacob junior, but called him Shorty because the boy was, like every other kid, short. But the name stuck because Shorty grew into it, or rather, he never grew tall, so it remained appropriate. Shorty was always several inches shorter than his age mates, though he didn’t have any age mates, growing up in the hills with only his dad, their dogs and horses, and the Stoddards’ sheep. But though he was short, in no way was Shorty little. He was built like a battle tank and stronger than a horse. In this he resembled his father, but as one waggish cowboy always said, Shorty overdid it. Everyone in the valley joked that if Shorty’s horse ever came up lame it would be no problem for him. He could just dismount and carry the animal back to camp.
Shorty changed Old Jake’s life completely. The old herder never again took a vacation, and as far as anyone in the valley knew, he never took another drink. Instead of blowing all the money he made, Jake now had the Stoddards deposit every penny of it in the Valley Bank in an account in his and his son’s names. The Stoddards were delighted with the new arrangement for it freed them of the major difficulty of finding a temporary replacement herder once a year. Over the years they had lost several good ranch hands when they had tried to press them into temporary sheep herding while Jake was on vacation. In gratitude for this and for their reduced expenses they took to putting a little annual bonus into the herder & son bank account. They also came to look on Shorty like a member of their extended family, and they happily kept him in clothes and in reading and other schooling materials.
The latter was of particular importance because it would have been impossible for any school bus to find Jake’s camp and bring the boy to town every school day. Particularly so because there were only rutted wagon trails out where Jake herded the sheep, and traveling them every weekday would soon have shaken the Valley School Board’s old 1929 school bus apart. Nevertheless, the board was legally responsible for educating every child in the valley, and once a board member suggested they fulfill their obligation to Shorty by putting him up in town, maybe with the minister’s family. When the sheriff heard of this he let it be known that it was a damn fool idea he didn’t intend to have any part of. No matter what the law said or the school board wanted, by God he wasn’t about to take a slug from Jake’s thirty-thirty while trying to take the old herder’s boy from him. Upon mature consideration the board decided the sheriff had a point, and the topic of boarding Shorty in town was quietly allowed to die. Instead the board of education left enough big cracks in their procedures and policies for him to fall through, and all the education Shorty ever got he got from Jake and from the books and materials provided by the Stoddards.
When Shorty turned fourteen Jake gave him a coming-of-age present. Such a gift was customary in the valley, and the customary young man gift was a hunting rifle. But this wasn’t suitable because, born and raised in the valley though he was, Shorty had a most un-valley-like quirk. He never killed anything. He didn’t hunt, and he refused to take part when animals were slaughtered. He wouldn’t even shoot coyotes. Instead he tried to drive them away by throwing rocks at them. As Jake repeatedly told him, rock throwing didn’t work worth a damn. But effectiveness didn’t matter to Shorty. He wouldn’t even kill a thieving coyote.
Shorty would eat meat, he just wouldn’t kill anything to get it. When the senior Stoddard once teased him about the inconsistency Shorty pointed out that Stoddard, like almost every other valley resident, always loudly damned the government for having too small an army and for not using it freely enough to keep little two-bit piss-ant countries in line. Yet Stoddard also insisted that every tax was immoral and should be resisted to the point of revolution, if necessary. It was just as inconsistent to stump for a big army but resist the taxes to pay for it, Shorty argued, as it was to eat meat but refuse to slaughter. The elder Stoddard decided they’d been giving Shorty too damn many books to read.
At any rate, instead of a rifle Shorty’s coming-of-age gift was a purebred, registered Morgan Horse gelding, with matching saddle, bridle and martingale. Shorty named him Amigo, and Amigo was perhaps the finest example of horseflesh in the valley. He was as tall for a Morgan as Shorty was short for a man. Therefore, the pair looked a bit odd until they moved. Then they looked like an equine ballet. Shorty had literally grown up on horseback. It was about the only kind of play available to him growing up with only sheep and horses. He rode better than he walked, and the sight of him riding Amigo at a quick walk gladdened the eye of every person who knew anything about riding, which, of course, included everyone in the valley.
Jake was in his seventies when Shorty turned of age, still trying to work the way he had all his life. But he couldn’t keep it up. Slowly he slowed down. Shorty picked up the slack, but one day his dad just couldn’t get out of bed. Shorty helped him into the old pickup the Stoddards had passed on to Jake after WWII when rationing was lifted and they were able to get a new one. It was their way of helping Jake cope with his advancing age, something that was making it harder for him to run down a team and hitch up a wagon every time he needed to get supplies from town. When Shorty got Jake to Doc’s place he was told there wasn’t anything to do but put the old herder in the hospital over in the county seat and wait for the end. It came a little more than a week later.
Shorty would have liked to bury his dad next to his mother’s grave at the secret place in the mountains. But he was only sixteen at the time, and didn’t command either the respect or fear that had enabled Jake to bury his lady up there. So Jake was buried at the cemetery in town. Shorty also assumed he would take over his dad’s job, but that wasn’t feasible. Not only was he young, but his refusal to slaughter meant he couldn’t feed himself. What was worse, a herder who won’t shoot coyotes is as handicapped as a preacher who won’t beg. So the Stoddards asked around and found a job for him at the Marcek place.
The Marcek place was small, less than forty acres, not big enough to be the only support of Stan and Helen and their two daughters. Stan Marcek supplemented their income by working on cars and trucks and every other kind of mechanical equipment. But the Marceks had excellent water rights, so they provided most of the family’s food with the biggest garden in the valley. The only thing they didn’t grow that could grow in their climate were grains. There simply were no reapers or threshers in the ranching valley. Also the biggest acreage they could have grown was much too small and the valley was too far from the wheat belt for the new itinerant combiners to bother with. But Helen Marcek minimized what she had to buy by making her breads and other baked goods in part from potatoes, which they grew in abundance. The Marceks kept a couple animals mainly for their own needs, steers, pigs, and even a couple sheep, but their principal agricultural income was from a small mixed dairy herd of about two dozen mostly Holsteins with a couple Guernseys and Jerseys and even one Swiss Brown. Like so many rural families with small holdings, the Marceks survived by hard work. That’s why they needed a hand. They had been struggling to get by with drunks and drifters, so the chance to get a hand as sober, strong, hard working and as committed to staying in the valley as Shorty, well that was a blessing for them.
Shorty fitted the Marceks as if he had been custom designed for them. The only job he wouldn’t do was slaughter animals. He wouldn’t even kill chickens, so Helen or her girls had to do that. For everything else that had to be done around the place, Shorty was willing, eager and able. What is more, the whole family liked him and enjoyed his gentle, easy-going company. They soon decided he should have the attic room in the house rather than bedding down in the shed Stan had build for the other hired hands the Marceks had had. But before too long Helen became concerned that Shorty might be too likeable, especially to her oldest daughter, Liz, who was just passing puberty. Liz and Shorty were showing a strong attraction to each other. This alarmed Helen.
“Stan” Helen remarked to her husband one night as they prepared for bed, “I’m worried that Liz and Shorty are taking to each other too much.”
“I guess that’s only natural for kids about the same age” Stan answered, showing little awareness of what his wife was getting at.
“Natural or not, I’m not going to have any baby born to my daughter when she’s still almost a baby herself.”
“Oh! I get your point” Stan answered, as he caught on to Helen’s concern. “But the girls aren’t in any danger. Shorty’s the kindest, most gentle, harmless kid I’ve ever known. He won’t even slap a mosquito. He sure as hell ain’t going to rape Liz.”
“He won’t have to the way she’s been acting with him. You should have seen the way she was hanging onto him when he took her bareback riding on Amigo today” Helen solemnly informed her husband. “She can ride. She doesn’t need to hold onto Shorty so tight. We’ve got to do something, Stan, before those two start fooling around together!”
“What the hell can we do? We can’t fire him just because Liz likes him. And God, I’d hate to loose him. He’s better than any of the hands we’ve ever had. Hell’s fire! He’s worth more than all the rest of them put together. There ain’t a damn thing I ask him to do he doesn’t get done.”
“Why don’t you talk to him. Let him know we won’t stand for him fooling around with our daughter.”
“Talking ain’t going to do no good” Stan answered. “I’ve never known of any man you could talk out of a hard-on.”
“Then we’ve got to do something so he can scratch his sexual itch before he brings Liz into heat. Why don’t you take him down to the Buffalo Wallow?” Helen suggested. “That’s what it’s there for.”
The Buffalo Wallow was the valley’s co-op whore house. It was located about four miles down the road from the Marcek place. It was founded in the early 1930’s when the depression made travel to the county seat for occasional rest and recreation too expensive for the valley’s hands and helpers. And though the co-op was against state law, the depression and then WWII kept the state authorities so occupied they never found out about it. Or if they ever did, they never let on. As for the county sheriff, he was one of the founders. Law and order, experience had taught him, is a lot easier to keep when drunken cowboys have a natural outlet for their excess energy.
Since The Buffalo Wallow was tolerated by the valley’s law, a person could consider it almost an official institution. But even if it was semi official, it was completely illegal, which is why the sheriff supervised its operation as a kind of ex officio duty. The only illegal activity allowed there was prostitution. Nothing else illegal was permitted, and the sheriff made damn sure this rule was followed to the letter. He didn’t want anything going on at the Wallow which might attract the attention of anyone who might cause trouble over the valley’s technically illegal pleasure house. Since it would have been impossible to get a liquor license without letting on what kind of place it was to the licensing people back at the state capitol, not even alcohol was allowed. Condom use was required, and Doc came by once a week to examine the gals to make sure no diseases were being spread. All in all, it was a sensible solution to a problem the elite people in the big city, people who didn’t have much if any knowledge of the laws of biology, had presumed they could abolish by the laws of man.
So the very next day Stan told Shorty to saddle up Amigo and put him in the pickup. Then he drove the young man to the Buffalo Wallow. As he did he explained what the Buffalo Wallow was, and that it was there for him to get the satisfaction nature was demanding. Then he bluntly said the Marcek girls were not, under any circumstances, for that purpose. He finished by letting Shorty know that if he ever fooled around with the Marcek girls Stan would make him a perfect match for his gelding horse by removing the offending orbs which otherwise would be a source of Shorty’s lifelong pleasure.
When they reached the Buffalo Wallow they took Amigo from the pickup and tied him to the rail where a couple other customer mounts were waiting to carry their tired but happy riders home. Then Stan took Shorty in and introduced him to the deputy in charge that afternoon. It was the first time Stan had been inside since before he was married. He laughed to himself when he noticed the old motto still painted on the lobby wall. “All businesses screw their customers” it said. “Only here the screwing is why you come.” He still remembered how, as a naive teenager, it had been necessary for his first Buffalo Wallow server to explain the double meaning in the second line. The sight of the business gals in their business attire immediately caused a swelling response in Stan. Handing Shorty his wages and then leaving him to the services of whichever gal he might select, Stan hurried back to his place where, their daughters being at a Four-H meeting in town, he immediately engaged Helen in an extensive investigation of the decor of their bedroom.
Helen’s plan worked. Shorty’s relationship with Liz immediately changed from goo-goo eyes to the tolerant but condescending affection of a worldly older brother for a kid sister.
The next day Shorty was in a particular rush to get all his chores done. When Stan couldn’t think of another task to assign him, Shorty saddled Amigo and was off. The same thing happened every day for the next three weeks. Shorty had found the meaning of life, and he was proving himself a dedicated student thereof. Once again Helen was alarmed. But this time it wasn’t for her daughter’s chastity. It was for Shorty’s inheritance.
In yet another pre bed conversation she shared her new concerns with her husband. “Stan, do you know Shorty is riding down to the Buffalo Wallow every day?”
“That’s what you wanted, ain’t it? He’s getting all his work done, and in record time too. And he ain’t hanging around here anymore for Liz to play with after his chores are done. So there’s no problem” Stan answered.
“Stan, if this keeps up that poor kid is going to squander every last penny Jake left him. We’ve got to do something. Talk to him!”
“Hell’s fire, Helen! I can’t tell him not to enjoy the Buffalo Wallow. Not after being the one who introduced him to it.”
“Well why don’t you go and talk to the deputy in charge and see just how much money Shorty’s spent down there? We can work something out better when we know how big the problem is.”
“I guess I can do that” Stan answered. That much he was glad to do for his young hired hand. And he wasn’t opposed to the arousing effects and subsequent bedroom pleasantries that had resulted the day he had introduced the kid to the Wallow. So the next day after Shorty had been gone long enough to be occupied and therefore unaware Stan was checking up on him, Marcek drove down and spoke to the deputy in charge.
“Our hand, Shorty, seems to be visiting down here a lot lately” Stan started.
“A lot?” the deputy repeated with a laugh. “Hell, that kid’s in here every day! What an appetite!”
“I’m getting worried he might spend every last cent he has” Stan told the lawman.
“No need to worry about that” the deputy answered. “The girls are letting him have it for free.”
The deputy knew this because besides protecting the establishment’s gals and maintaining law (well, all but one law) and order at the Wallow, his duties included receiving and keeping all the money. The place was a strictly cash operation, and on a busy day there might be close to a thousand in the till. With an armed deputy sheriff on guard, the founding fathers sought to eliminate the threat of robbery this bundle might otherwise provoke. So all “service” fees were paid directly to the deputy who appropriately credited each gal’s account. The Buffalo Wallow was a co-op, not a profit making venture. The only thing the valley bigwigs who set it up wanted was to provide for the reasonable wholesome recreational needs of their cowboys and hired hands, with perhaps an occasional bit of discrete honey for themselves. As a co-op each girl paid a rent to cover the cost of her living while at the Wallow, her professional supplies, Doc’s care and her “service” room. As long as she paid her bill, what she charged her customers was her own business. If there was someone she didn’t want to charge at all, that was entirely up to her. In fact, each out-of-town gal who had a local boyfriend always entertained him in her room at the Wallow, without charge, of course. And none of the gals charged Shorty.
“Why are they letting him have it for free?” Stan asked in considerable wonder and not a little jealousy.
“Beats the hell out of me” the deputy answered. “Let’s ask.” He called across the lobby to one of the providers who was lounging in her professional garb, waiting for a customer. “Hey, Prudy, come on over here. I want to ask you something.”
Prudy, perhaps the most inappropriately named woman in the valley, got up languidly, and slouched across the room to where Stan and the deputy were talking, popping her bubble gum as she walked. She was fully dressed. She had on a black lace bra that covered just about all of her breasts except for her nipples. Black lace panties covered her bottom, and an elaborate black lace garter belt around her waist supported long black lace stockings. The foot end of the stockings were slid into furry black slippers. And everything was covered by a long black lace negligee made of some kind of material that was as easy to see through as a politician’s promises. In addition to the arousal her outfit provoked in Stan, it also caused a major degree of incongruity in him, for the pattern of all the lace garments seemed a perfect match for the pattern he remembered from the white lace curtains that always covered the front windows of his grandmother’s house.
“Yeah, what do you want?” Prudy asked.
“Why ain’t you gals charging Shorty? What’s his secret?”
“It ain’t no secret” Prudy answered. “It’s the size of his prick. It’s big! And it’s so-o-o-o-o satisfying!!”
“How big it is?” the deputy asked in awe.
“Almost three inches” Prudy answered.
“Hell’s fire!” the deputy shot back “nobody’s giving me any for free and mine’s a damn sight bigger than that.”
Prudy looked at him with a big lecherous smile. “Yours is bigger than three inches?” she asked playfully.
“You’re damn right it’s bigger than three inches” he insisted.
She blew a particularly large bubble then popped it with a bang. “In width?”
"One can not judge a book by its cover." So we are told. But a cover is usually the only thing a reader has to base a judgment on. Smashwords tries to aid readers by providing summaries, one short, one long, for each book it distributes. For non-fiction this works well. But this, it seems to me, defeats the whole purpose of fiction. After all, one reads a story to find out what will happen. It’s the uncommon twists and turns that make a story interesting. But if a summary has told all this beforehand, what fun is to be had in the reading? Therefore, no summary of the present short story is given. It's short and it’s free! So read the whole thing and see if you like it. I ask you to do this because I think it is the best book judging method. To find fiction you like you must first read around enough to learn something of the style and stories of different authors. Then you can judge books, not by their cover, but by the your opinion of the writer. I'd like to help you do this. The present short story is one of several which I will make available free at Smashwords. Read a few (or all of them) and decide if you like them. It won't cost you a dime. If you like them, you can then purchase some of my not free (but still inexpensive) longer stories. All these stories are of one particular kind. To reflect this similarity all have the same cover picture, the Kitty & Rose shown above. So after you’ve read a few, you can, in fact, judge them by their cover. The common theme of the Kitty & Rose stories is human sexuality. This is not unusual. Most fiction concerns sex in one way or another; ranging from romances so sedate and demure an extraterrestrial could never know sex is at the root of everything described, to erotica so unrestricted even an extraterrestrial might blush. Kitty & Rose stories are in the middle of this range. All deal with human sexuality, but none do so explicitly. Rather, they are seemly. The dictionary gives three meanings for seemly: Attractive or agreeably fashioned; Decorous or conventionally proper; and Appropriate or suited to its purpose. With respect to appropriateness, seemly sex stories range from the humorous to the inspirational, but all concern human sexuality. So they are clearly appropriate. These stories are also seemly in the decorous and conventionally proper sense. For, while they treat sex candidly, they do not do so graphically. There is nothing pornographic nor erotic in any seemly sex story. Of course, different persons’ opinions about this may differ. A few consider frank pornography decorous. At the opposite extreme are those like the abbot of the monastery where the great biologist Gregor Mendel did his epochal research. This abbot thought Mendel’s studies were decidedly indecorous because they involved the sex of pea plants! Finally, there is the principal sense of seemly, attractive and agreeably fashioned. Like every author I exert my every effort and ability trying to make these stories seemly in this regard. But like every author, I must await your determination of the degree of my success. Since both of us will be pleased if you find them attractively seemly, I very much hope you do. Happy reading! BobbyB P.S. This is short story number three, uploaded 2-16-2017.