Blood Wild - Sex Stories

Blood Wild

... room and decided he’d best go investigate for himself. Surprisingly, Deeny followed closely behind him.

After pulling the door open cautiously, it took a little while for Hank’s eyes to adjust to the low light inside the tack room. There was only a small kerosene lantern hanging above the work bench off to the left of the room. The dull yellowish light barely lit the room creating more shadows than eliminating them. Hank noticed the broken bottle shards on the work bench as they reflected the dull yellow light.

From the darker corner where the hay pallet lay there was a man curled in a fetal position. His pants still down around his knees so his bare ass shown in the low glow from the lamp, as did his heavy ball sack that poked out between his curled legs from behind. It wouldn’t have been a surprise at all to hear the figure moaning in pain, but instead there was a low buzzing snore. He was unconscious.

Crossing to the bench, Hank reached up and unhooked the lantern from the nail it was hung on, then moved to the foot of the hay pallet. Raising the lantern higher and closer to the man’s face, Hank saw it and knew who this man was.

“Well, I’ll be… JD Branson… you bastard. Guess you got what you deserved this time huh?” Hank voiced quietly before chuckling a little and turning back to the bench to rehang the lantern.

“Who… who is it, Hank?” Deeny asked nervously from the doorway, still not brave enough to reenter the tack room.

“Jefferson Davis Branson” Hank ...

... proclaimed as he joined her in the doorway, looking back at JD as he lay curled in the hay.

“I believe he lives just down the road from your pa’s place. He’s a mean old bastard, guess he’s got reason to be, but some people are just born bitter and mean.” Hank said as he turned back to Deeny, to study her face intently before asking her what was on his mind.

“Deeny, I believe every word you told me, but other’s might not. I mean, it’s a barn party… the Wilding… People get confused with the costumes and all. He could argue that it was a case of mistaken identity if nothing else. Do you want to charge him with anything? I can call the Sherriff if you want… but…” Hank left the “but” hanging as he figured that she was smart enough to catch his drift.

Deeny’s expression looked pensive and angered even if still a little frightened. Hank could see the question working its way through her mind and her coming to a decision. Rather than give him a verbal answer she simply shook her head then spat at the unconscious man across the room. It didn’t matter if the spit didn’t actually hit him, but the act defined how she thought of him all the same.

Deeny spun on her heels and began to walk away. Hank left the tack room and followed her across the yard to a parked wagon that had coolers full of soft drinks and a table with pitchers of lemonade, tea, and of course punch along with stacks of cups. Seeing the drinks so close to the tack room made Deeny pause and wonder what happened ...