Story: Indians and Cowboys

One last story from the old blog. This one was posted in 2000 there, and I'm resisting the urge to edit it now. You'll tell me if it needs anything, right?

He was clad only in a deerskin breechclout and moccasins, and he was hanging from a thick limb of an old oak tree a long way from town. His brown body twisted slowly in the light summer breeze that also blew through his long dark hair. His wrists were bound with rawhide behind his back, and his fingers were now curled and stiff above his ass.

The posse who lynched this Indian rode off a short while ago. I was watching them from a nearby ridge. I don't know any more about why they strung him up, except that he was Indian and the posse had it in for Indians. They stuck around long enough to make sure he was dead, then took off for town. I waited until I knew they were at least a quarter mile away before I made my way down to the hanging tree.

It was eerie quiet, which made the creaking of the noose-rope even louder. The toes of the Indian's moccasins pointed almost straight down to the ground that was about 3 feet away. He was a good-looking guy, with long straight black hair and a slender, sinewy brown body that was a little dirty from the roughing-up he got from the posse before they strung him up. His head was cocked to one side by the knot in the noose, and he was slack-jawed and staring with blank eyes at the ground. I dunno why, but it was exciting to be there, this close to the dead Indian, even though I was afraid the posse would come back, or worse, the Indian's friends maybe.

Story: Just Lookin'

The file data says this was published to my old site in July 2002, but I think the story is older than that. I've only lightly edited it, although I suspect I could do a lot more if I took the time. It still got me horny as is, so I'll post it and come back to it later.

It was one of those beautiful early October days when the weather is incredible—sunny and warm, kind of the last gasp of summer. I decided to reward myself for a long week of work by going for a walk around some weedy fields near my house. They're abandoned, haven't been plowed in years, and you see a lot of little birds and interesting flowers. And then there is the old barn off on one side of the big field. When I was younger it was a great place to explore. And a great place to get into trouble. I admit I had some crotch-swelling thoughts about what I could do in that barn today.

I wandered around the fields and woods for about an hour, not paying much attention to the wildlife because I was thinking too much about getting to the barn for a hot jack-off session. It was so warm I was shirtless, which always turns me on a little more. So I walked through the tall weeds toward the barn. It was old, had lost some of its boards. A couple of the doors were gone or hanging askew. The weeds were pretty short closer to the barn, so I guess I was pretty quiet. I scanned the area to see if there was anyone nearby, but like usual the place looked deserted. So I entered the barn.

It was cool, well-lit because of the holes in the walls. In the front room of the barn were some small piles of hay, a couple of old buckets, but not much else. This barn had been abandoned as long as the fields had. Which is what made the noise I heard startle me. It came from the back room of the barn and it sounded like something had dropped, then someone said "shit." I froze. When a minute passed and I didn't hear anything else, I quickly ducked out of the barn.

But I was curious.

Return to the Old Barn

Another story from my old website that hasn't been posted here yet.

(originally posted 2 July 2002)

I was driving around on probably the last warm day of summer, out in the country where I used to live. It was bringing back lots of memories from when I was younger, before I moved away and started working and all. I stopped at a couple of places, just to see if they were different from way back when, and of course they were. There was one more place I wanted to see, so I drove past where my parents used to live to the old abandoned barn.

The barn sat in the middle of a property that used to be a working farm, with a house and other outbuildings. But now the house was gone, the fields were overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, and the only outbuilding left was the barn. Even it was considerably more run-down than I remembered it, with a few holes in the wooden walls and some missing shingles on the roof. It was tall, and I remembered that it had a good-sized loft in the west end.

I pulled onto the property and drove far enough in to where some overgrown shrubs hid my truck from passing cars. The gas station across the road was even abandoned now, which made the area look even more desolate than before. I got out and walked slowly up to the barn, taking my time and surveying the surrounding field as I walked.

The big rolling door was wide open, just like it always was. I walked in, and felt as if I'd stepped back fifteen years. There was old clumps of straw on the floor, a bucket rusting in the corner, some other unidentified stuff scattered around. I saw the loft, with the rungs up one wall leading up to it. I climbed up partway, and it was much the same as before, not much there. The roof was riddled with strips of bright light. If it hadn't been dry around here lately, there would probably be puddles or damp spots on the floor.

There were two small rooms in the middle of the barn, under the front of the loft, and then an opening to a big room in the back. I walked toward the back room. The concrete floor became dirt back there, and a small window cast very little light into the space. The ceiling was partly gone ’ the main reason why I'd never ventured into the loft ’ and you could see through past the big log beams to the roof. It was very quiet. It brought back memories, arousing ones.

I walked back toward the front and into the little rooms. The first room led you to a doorway to the second room. Both were small, with concrete block walls and concrete floors, and the ceiling was in better shape than in the big dark room but still constructed of the log beams and floorboards on top of them. I got to the second room, which had a window with no glass, and remembered everything.

Time Out

Here's a story from my old Geocities website (remember Geocities?) that hadn't made it to this blog yet. It's definitely a fantasy. I was going to edit it but I will post it as-is, and maybe readers can tell me if it needs anything.

by hangdogMI ... originally posted august 12, 2003

Long fuckin' day at work. Long fuckin' WEEK. I threw my stuff on the table and headed for the bedroom, stripping off my office clothes as I went. Reaching the bedroom, I threw the shirt and slacks on the bed, pulled off the underwear and socks, and stood in front of the mirror, examining my naked, hairy body. I weighed my options for the weekend, pulling on my cock and balls gently, almost absent-mindedly. There was only one thought in my head, really. "Fuck it, let's go," I said in a low almost growly voice. I headed off buck-naked to the basement, leaving the door open at the top of the steps but leaving the lights off.

At the far corner of the basement was a door to a little room, about 6 feet by 8 feet. Greg, my roommate who was out of town for the weekend, called it my "secret room." I unlocked the door and went in, closing and locking the door behind me. Behind the locked door the room felt very quiet. It was probably the most well-insulated room in the house, with no windows and no sound penetrating from the outside. I turned on the one light, its 15 watts dimly illuminating the dark brown wood walls.

A small stool sat in the corner underneath a coiled-up rope. I took the stool and set it in the center of the room. Then I took the rope off its hook on the wall. Taking a deep breath, I stepped up onto the stool. The half-inch thick rope uncoiled. One end had a brass ring only slightly bigger than the diameter of the rope, and the rope itself ran through it, making a noose. I took that end and pulled it over my head, snugging it around my neck. After that, I reached up to the ceiling with the free end and tied it to a hook that had been set into the ceiling joist there, being sure to take up the slack. We were fortunate to find this house with high ceilings in the basement, but I didn't want to end up with my feet on the floor either.

When I finished the knot. I just stood there on the stool in the dimly lit room. Shaking. Knowing I had the whole weekend before anyone was going to come looking for me. Knowing that what I was about to do was beyond dangerous. Knowing that my prick was bigger, harder, and purpler than anything else could make it.

"Here goes nothing," I said. I pushed gently with my toes. The stool fell over and rolled to the back corner of the room.

The rope caught me - actually it had been taut enough that I hardly dropped at all. It tightened hard and cut into my neck muscles. I gagged once or twice, and then the rope dug in enough so that I couldn't make any sound at all. The pain made me twist myself in a vain effort to try to shift the rope higher on my neck.

I fought hard to stay calm, wanting to savor every moment of strangling at the end of this rope. I felt like I was floating. I could see I was spinning a little as the room revolved around me. I stretched my toes out and felt nothing. I looked down and saw my huge cockhead bobbing between my legs, dripping pre-cum. The incongruous thought came through my head, "I wonder if I'm gonna shoot...." Then I realized that I was beginning to lose consciousness - the room was getting darker, the buzzing in my head was getting louder, and my head felt like it was swimming. I could hardly feel my body but I knew it was struggling, jerking, twitching. But it wouldn't do any good. I could feel myself giving into the rope, sagging as I blacked out completely. I felt like I was fading into a big blanket of nothingness....

About 10 minutes later, the 15-watt bulb, which was on a timer, went out. I dangled from the noose in utter darkness, utter silence, alone, with no hope of being rescued until Greg returned Sunday night. My body got chilly, my limbs hung limp. My head drooped forward slackjawed, open eyes staring unblinking at the floor that remained about a foot from my outstretched toes. My cock had softened a little but still hung from my pubic fur, fat and purple.

Time passed. The phone rang occasionally, though no one heard.

Around 4:30 on Sunday, Greg slid his keys in the lock and came in. He slung his daypack next to where I'd dumped all my work stuff, and noticed the basement door was open. He carefully locked the front door and then went down to the basement. In the darkness he stood looking at the door to the little room, scared of what he might find in there.

He walked over to the door, tried the knob. Locked. He felt for the key on a shelf next to the door, then slowly inserted it and turned the knob. What he saw made him gasp.

Greg stood there for a moment, a little stunned. Then he entered the room, and closed the door behind him. He fumbled for the light, and when it went on he got a good look at me hanging very still from the hook in the middle of the ceiling.

It was a crowded room with both of us in there. Greg got the stool and sat it upright in the corner, kind of facing me, and sat down. "You fuckin' son of a bitch," he said. Then he sat thinking for a while. I just hung there, not getting any fresher.

"So did you mean to snuff it this time, or what," Greg said quietly. He reached out and stroked my calf from where he sat, feeling the muscle underneath my cold skin, making me move a little bit. He stood up, and used both hands to stroke my thighs. "I remember the first time... not quite so freaked about it this time as I was then, boy." His hands roamed up my hairy belly, as far as a nipple which he tweaked. "'Course, you'd only been hanging for a few minutes then. Not like, what, two days this time?" He reached up and held my face like he was trying to get my attention, just looked at me for a moment. Then he let go and ran his hand down my chest, down my stomach, down to my crotch, covering my cock and balls with his big hand, then grabbing my meat like he was going to stroke it. "Guess you must've enjoyed it, fucker." And then he was pawing at his own crotch with his other hand. "I gotta say, I like it too, dead man."

But then he stopped pawing at himself, and let go of my prick. He just stood watching, thinking again. And then he opened the door and stepped out. He wasn't gone long, and when he came back he had a hacksaw in his hand. He stood up on the stool and started sawing at the rope. He worked for about ten minutes before the rope gave way and I fell sprawling to the floor, despite his efforts to slow my fall.

"OK, there, deadfuck." He put the saw down and undid his jeans, pulling them off. "Let's see how you like this."

He laid me face-down and then got on top of me, stroking his already hard prick so it was fully ready. Then he spit in his hand for a little lube and slicked himself up with it. Positioning himself - and me too - he slid his rod into my ass, slowly and steadily, till he was completely plugged into me.

"Gotta warm you up a little," he whispered, and he started moving back and forth. He lowered his chest to my back and reached around me with both hands, hugging my lifeless body to his warm torso. His face was next to mine. His cock slid back and forth, into and almost out and then back in. His breathing came faster, more noisily. By now he was being pretty rough with me, squeezing me hard with both arms and thighs and raping my hole. Finally his groans became growls and he arched back as his first spurts shot his hot cum into my insides.

He kept fucking and shooting till he was almost giggling from the super-sensitivity of his cock. Then he eased himself down on top of me and wrapped himself around me from behind.

And that's when I started warming up, and waking up. It came real slowly. Fortunately the noose loosened up a little since I wasn't hanging from it. Greg quickly realized I was waking up and loosened it even further. My first breaths hurt something fierce. Greg just stroked my chest, trying to keep me calm. After five, ten minutes, I could think again.

"How're you feeling?"

"A little ... stiff," I said hoarsely. "Still a ... little ... cold."

"I'm doing my best." In a moment, Greg got up gently and left the little room. He came back a moment later with a blanket, and he wrapped it around both of us. We just lay there for a long time.

"You know, someday, you're gonna do this, and I'm just gonna leave you hanging, and you won't come back, you know?"

I just nodded. I figure when that day comes, I won't ever know, and that'll be OK. But at the moment I could smell him when I buried my face in his chest, and I realized that it was OK that he brought me back again.

Hey, surprise, it's a post! With photos! These are selfpics from 2004. No hangdogs were actually harmed in the making of these photos. Dammit.

I intend to post these to The Noose Network, if I can figure out how. It looks like the "post photos" function has disappeared from where I thought it was. A lot of functionality has disappeared from that site. It's really kind of, um, fascinating, I'll say.