It wasn't that Buck had a bad voice, because he didn't. Chris often enjoyed listening to him as they rode — occasionally, if the mood struck him, he'd even joined in. But, the hour seemed to dictate both the choice of song and the volume. The higher the sun was in the sky, the softer and more serenely Buck sang. But, mornings were definitely worse than the evenings; it was almost as if the man were making up for the hours of quiet that had passed while he slept.

Chris smiled as he slipped into his long johns and boots. He'd never spent so much time with anyone who wasn't family before. But there was something about Buck Wilmington's company that he enjoyed, something that made the days pass easier. He couldn't remember another time when life had felt as satisfying.

He recalled their meeting as he started up the low grassy hill. Buck had been defending the honor of a barmaid against an entire saloon of drunken cowboys hell-bent on causing a ruckus. Chris had found himself at Buck's side, sheltering the young woman behind them as they laid low the entire herd.

Afterward, Chris had almost decked Buck himself, when the man started wooing the poor barmaid, but there was something about his manner, his approach, that had held Chris back. It was as clear as a mountain spring that the man held respect for the young woman. And Chris had soon found out that type of behavior wasn't unusual for Buck. He had never met a man who placed all women on pedestals, from the highest born to the hardest working; to Buck Wilmington, they were all queens and princesses, all above him in every way. And Buck seemed drawn to pleasing them.

Chris hadn't understood why for the longest time.

Chris topped the hill and headed down the gentle slope. The night was moonless, but the campfire ahead was enough of a guide. Even from this distance, he could make out Buck's silhouette leaning up against a log, a tree undoubtedly felled this past winter by a lightening strike.

As he neared, he began to hear Buck humming. Chris couldn't place the tune, though it sounded familiar to him. If Buck would only give voice to the lyrics.... But as Chris drew several paces nearer, he realized why Buck wasn't singing.

Chris stopped in his tracks and stared. He was still beyond the light of the campfire, still hidden by the darkness. Buck didn't know he was there; he couldn't. He must still think Chris was down at the creek. Otherwise, why would he continue to pleasure himself?

Chris thought about turning around, leaving the man to his private moment, but he found that he couldn't pull his eyes away. Buck's head was lulled back, exposing the long column of his throat, pale in the firelight. His pants were pushed down his thighs and his right hand was working over himself — not quickly, not as if he were mindful of Chris's sudden return. He watched as Buck slowly stroked his hand up and down his shaft.

Without realizing it, Chris took a step forward. He could see how long Buck was, how thick — it didn't surprise Chris, though he'd never really seen the man hard before. They had shared enough rooms since they'd met, spent enough time at the same bathhouses that they'd seen each other in their all-together. But it wasn't like Chris had ever stared. Not like he was doing now.

For a moment, he wondered if Buck had ever looked at him. He'd never seen the man do it, of course, but he wondered for a moment just the same.

He suddenly realized Buck's humming had turned into soft moaning. He'd heard these sounds before, in the night, when they'd shared a room. He'd known then what those sounds had meant: it was something a man did, something a man needed to do. He usually just rolled over and left Buck to himself.

Chris knew he ought to do that now. But Buck cut a fine figure in the firelight, the soft glow turning his cheeks and his cock a rosy hue. He sure did look like he was enjoying himself. Chris, of course, knew what it felt like — he did the deed often enough himself — but there was something about watching Buck do it, like the man knew a secret, something that made the act even more pleasurable than Chris could imagine.

Chris felt himself growing hard as he watched. His hand migrated to his crotch before he even realized it. He shifted on his feet. Watching this should be making him uncomfortable, but not in this particular fashion. Chris was intruding on Buck and it was wrong; he shouldn't be deriving gratification from it. But he was and his hand began to rub himself to full hardness through the fabric of his long johns.

He wanted to turn away, to at least close his eyes, but he couldn't. The movement of Buck's hands — the one on his shaft and the other between his legs, fondling his sac — was mesmerizing.

Chris rubbed himself harder. He was panting now, trying to stay quiet, not wanting to be caught watching. Then Buck slowly turned his head, as if staring off into the distance, as if staring straight at Chris. Could the man see him, lurking in the darkness? Did Buck know that he'd been watching? Chris's hand stilled, the rest of his body already frozen in place.

Then Buck scrunched his eyes shut as his shoulders and hips both jerked forward. He was coming and Chris watched as the spurts of white glistened in the firelight as they shot from Buck's hard length. The cum splattered on Buck's belly and, after the spasms subsided, the man dipped a finger into one of the puddles and began to idly smear it about, as if enjoying the slippery feeling against his skin.

Chris turned then and nearly ran back to the creek. Buck would become more conscious of his surroundings now that he was finished and the man would certainly want to be cleaning himself up. Buck deserved a few moments of privacy, even if Chris hadn't been able to give them to him any sooner than this.

On the grassy edge of the creek, Chris fell to his knees. He yanked his long johns down past his ass and grabbed himself. He couldn't go back to camp so obviously unrelieved. Buck would certainly notice, and then he'd begin to wonder; even if Buck didn't, Chris knew he wouldn't be able to sleep like this. He had to do something about it.

Unlike Buck, Chris's hand moved swiftly along his length. He knew he wasn't as large as Buck, but his shaft fit well and comfortably in his hand, and he'd never heard a woman complain about his size. It was a good size, especially when it was hard. He stroked himself, from tip to curls, concentrating just under the head where he was most sensitive, where he knew the come would happen quickly. He had to get back to camp before Buck came looking for him, and he certainly didn't want Buck to see him doing this, milking himself into the creek.

But, he remembered what Buck had done with his other hand, how he'd played with his balls. Chris slipped his left hand down and cupped his sac, hefted it against his palm, rolled the two balls around with his fingers, and then squeezed.

When he came, he nearly cried out. He couldn't remember a more powerful come at his own hands. His body spasmed and jerked. He nearly tumbled forward off the bank and into the cool water. Nearly.

Chris braced himself on his hands and knees as he tried to catch his breath. Buck did apparently know something he didn't, or hadn't. But, Chris knew now, and he wouldn't forget the lesson he'd inadvertently learned tonight.