When was your first time?"

Chris was staring into the fire, watching the logs smolder and burn. He wasn't sure who'd asked him the question, but they were all trading stories tonight and it looked like it was his turn.

He thought about it for a few minutes, trying to decide which story to tell them. There'd been a girl, when he was sixteen, the daughter of a neighbor back in Indiana, and they used to sneak off together. But there was also the time in Albuquerque...

It was two months after he'd left Ella. Left her because he had to, because he knew he'd end up dead if he didn't. Their time together had been nothing short of intense, at times so wild and crazy that it scared Chris to think about it now. She'd gotten under his skin, like an itch needed scratching at first, but near the end it was like fire burning him to char. He still couldn't even look at a woman without remembering something about Ella, without a faint tremor coming over his mind, reminding him how out of control he'd gotten. Even he had his limits; they just happened to fall short of Ella's.

He had kept to himself since, traveling from town to town — staying here and there, pretty much as the wind blew — renting rooms, doing odd jobs, playing poker when he had the money and drinking even when he didn't.

"I fold," the tall, lanky man sitting next to him said.

Chris looked at his cards, looked at the size of the pot, and then folded as well. When the hand was over, he bowed out of the game, pocketing what he had left and heading for the bar. The tall, lanky man followed him. They both ordered a refill of beer.

"Gotta name there, cowboy?" the man asked. He looked about Chris's age, maybe a few years younger. He had a wide, friendly grin on a clean-shaven face, though Chris hadn't seen him around the bathhouse when he'd paid his nickel earlier in the day.

"I ain't no cowboy," Chris replied. His tone remained even. He didn't feel like getting into it tonight and he hoped this man felt the same.

"Fair enough," came the easy response. He took a slow swig from his mug, then turned, settling his elbows and back against the bar. "Name's Wilmington. My friends call me Buck."

Chris took a sip of beer and let the liquid lay on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. He was remembering what Ella used to call him.

"You got a name, stranger?"

"Larabee," Chris finally said. He was still leaning over the bar, back to the room. It was a stupid, arrogant position to be in, especially in a town in which he'd only just arrived. Anyone could walk through those batwing doors and start shooting. It didn't happen often, but once was really all it took. Still, he didn't turn around. Something told him he didn't need to.

"You got friends, Larabee?"

He knew what this man — 'Buck' — was driving at. Affable seemed a good word for him, but that didn't mean Chris was going to tell him his life story.

"Yeah, I got friends."

Buck just laughed and took another sip of his beer.

Suddenly, Chris sensed someone at his side.

"Howdy, darlin'," a young woman cooed near his ear.

"No, thank you." Chris gently removed the fingers she'd curled enticingly around his forearm. The girl shrugged as she sauntered away.

"Now, that's something you don't see every day," Buck commented.

"What's that?"

"A man with a pocket full of money turning down a pretty little lady like that."

"I've got my reasons," Chris said. He waited for Buck to pry — he seemed the type — but the man just silently accepted what he'd said. "What about you?" Chris asked. "I don't see you partaking and you had at least as much money left on that table as I did."

"Oh, they know me here," Buck told him, as if that explained everything. It didn't.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means I don't pay for it."

"Damn, you must be horny as hell," Chris blurted out before he could stop himself.

This made Buck laugh again. "Oh, I get my fair share, you can be sure of that. Probably more than my fair share."

"Didn't know this town had that many loose women," Chris said. He was fighting hard to regain the control he'd had over his emotions. It was a difficult thing, and he was out of practice. His pa would be mightily disappointed in him for it, too. He'd been taught better, but all that had gone right out the window when he'd met Ella.

"You just have to know where to look." Buck grinned, then winked at one of the passing saloon girls who rolled her eyes and just kept right on walking.

Chris drained the last of his beer, then figured on turning in. He was just about to leave the saloon when Buck turned to him and said, "Got a bottle of whiskey back in my room."

"You offering to share?" Chris was skeptical. And a bit hesitant. But Buck nodded, still looking nothing less than affable. Chris gave him a stone-cold glare. "It's not cheap, watered-down shit, is it?"

"Nope," Buck assured him. "It's never even been opened."

Chris thought for a moment. He took another look at Buck — this one long and scrutinizing — and then agreed. They headed off to the boarding house where Buck rented a room.

Their coats were discarded, gun belts as well; though Chris had set his within easy reach on the small table beside the lit oil lamp, Buck had left his a few feet away, on a chair that sat against the opposite wall. Except for that chair, the room offered no other seating. They both ended up on the bed. Buck leaned against the low wooden rails at the foot and Chris against the tall headboard; each had a pillow propped behind him.

They were a quarter of the way through the bottle before Buck finally asked, "So, you got women troubles?"

Chris stopped drinking, suddenly, but tried his damnedest not to look like the question had startled him.

"What makes you think that?"

"You turning down Miss Thora for one," Buck said.

Chris thought it odd he'd give a whore the title 'miss'.

"She's the prettiest working girl in the whole territory, and that ain't just one man's opinion," he continued. "That and, well..." Buck waved the bottle in Chris's direction, but Chris didn't know what he was referring to until Buck dropped his gaze to the crotch of Chris's trousers.

Chris hadn't noticed the tent of material that had formed. He shifted position on the bed, then grabbed the bottle from Buck and took a long swig.

"It's just been a while," Chris finally said. "I got my reasons not wanting Miss ... whatever her name was." His speech was starting to slur, but he didn't notice.

"Thora," Buck supplied as he took the bottle back from Chris.

"'Sides, how d'you know I ain't got a ... a wife waitin' for me tonight ... at home?"

"Because I know all the wives in this here little town — know 'em, if you know what I mean — and I know what each and every one of their husbands looks like. You ain't among that tetchy bunch." Buck said this like he was reading off words set in stone. "'Sides, you'd be home with that little lady of yours, if you had one, 'stead of drinkin' here with an ugly ol' cuss like me."

"You ain't ugly," Chris said. "And ya don't look old. You sure as hell ain't older than me," he declared.

"That may be so," Buck allowed. "But the fact o' the matter is, you're up here drinkin' with me when you could have been snugglin' with a pretty and willin' young filly."

"It's just..." Chris began, then lost his train of thought for a moment. "The whiskey. I ain't had a good shot of whiskey since ... well, in a good two months."

"You ain't bedded a woman in that long neither. Have you?"

"No," Chris said, forgetting to stop himself. He hadn't come here to confide in this man. He didn't want to. It wasn't any of Buck's business.

Buck nodded, but didn't pry further, at least not immediately. He took another mouthful from the whiskey bottle and then handed it back to Chris. "Ain't many women in this here dung heap, 'cept the working girls."

Chris just nodded. "So, if you don't pay for it..." he started to ask, but then changed his mind. "What brings you to this place anyway?"

"This and that. Mostly. Haven't stayed long anywhere since my ma died. 'Cept that one town where I got talked into being sheriff—"

"Sheriff?" Chris asked. "What made you take the job?"

"A very pretty little lady who needed my help."

"What made you leave?"

"The very pretty little lady's not-so-pretty and not-so-little husband."

Chris laughed. This man was ... well, Chris wasn't sure. Horny as hell, clearly. Complicated, maybe. Dangerous? He hadn't figured that out yet. "You ever kill a man? Bein' sheriff?"

"Not when I was a sheriff, no. Killed a bunch when I was in the army, though."

"You served?"

Buck nodded. "For a while." He hung his head, silent for a few moments before he took the bottle back from Chris and drank. "Didn't much care for takin' orders, though. Like doin' things my own way. You?" he asked.

Chris nodded, but didn't say anymore. There really wasn't much to say. Lots of men died in the war. Lots of boys, too. He hadn't been one of them, but he sure had his hand in spilling a lot of blood. He remembered vomiting the first time he saw someone get ripped in two by a cannon ball, during his first battle. By the last battle, he had stopped noticing the blood, as well as the dead and the dying.

"Death is just another state of being," he'd overheard one army chaplain telling a man with nothing recognizable as flesh below his waist. He still wasn't sure what he thought about that, or if he even believed it to be true.

Chris reached out and tried to take the bottle back from Buck. Their hands touched and they both looked up, meeting each other's eyes. Men who've been in the midst of war and death on the front lines rarely needed to reminisce about it; they knew with a look what the other had seen and felt. They knew what they were capable of, and if the experience had made them crazy. Buck didn't look crazy, but Chris finally decided that he could be dangerous, given the right circumstances.

Chris took the bottle and drank again. As the liquid burned down his throat, he let the bottle slip down into his lap. He was finally feeling pleasantly warm and slightly detached. He couldn't help himself when a brief laugh burst from his lips.

"What?" Buck asked, grinning.

Chris shook his head. "You don't pay for it. Bullshit."

Buck kept on smiling. "It's true. Wouldn't. Won't." He shrugged, like he knew he wasn't explaining himself properly. "My ma ... she was a ... I grew up in a brothel. Started sweeping floors as soon as I was big enough to hold a broom.... The women, they all took care of me. When I was old enough, they made me a man."

"Old enough?"

"Younger than most, probably," Buck said. "Taught me everything I know."

"Like what?"

"Like how to treat a lady."

Buck reached over and slipped his fingers around the bottle of whiskey. It was still in Chris's lap and the back of his hand brushed against Chris's semi-hard erection. It took Chris a moment to react, for his brain to process what he'd just felt so unexpectedly. He sat up straight, drawing slightly away from Buck's receding hand.

Before he could say anything, Buck said, "How to treat a man, too."

Chris blinked, wondering if he'd heard Buck correctly. He looked at him hard, but all Buck was doing now was drinking from the whiskey bottle. "How to... you... they...." The words didn't seem to come.

Buck just nodded, like he knew what Chris was trying to say, even though Chris had no idea himself. "Had to earn my keep. Sweepin' the floors wasn't always enough."

"So they ... so you...."

"Yup. Did what my ma did, when there was a call for it," he said matter-of-factly.

"You mean ladies would come in asking...?"

For the first time, Buck shook his head. "No, not ladies. Ain't as unusual as you might imagine. Ain't as unnatural either."

"So, what would you ... I mean, what would they...." Chris wished Buck wasn't holding onto the whiskey. He wanted another drink, but something in him was afraid to reach out and take the bottle back.

"Different things," Buck said. He took another sip from the bottle.

Chris licked his lips. His mouth felt dry.

"You ever ... um..." Chris faltered again. He wasn't sure what he wanted to ask, or even if he ought to. Maybe the man didn't want to talk about this. Seemed like it might be pretty personal, even if he was a working ... man? Boy?

"Probably done it all," Buck said.

He finally handed the bottle back to Chris, who took it and chugged a large mouthful. It hurt going down, burned like fire, but he didn't care.

"Did whatever they paid for. Damn good at most of it, too, if you want to know."

Chris was of a mind to shake his head, but in truth he was curious. "You mean, you ... liked it?"

"Sometimes. Didn't hate it, most of the time. Depended on the man, on how rough he was. Got beat a couple of times, from men who seemed to need that sort of thing to get it up. Didn't happen too often, though. And better me than one of the ladies."

Chris shook his head. This was all so strange. He'd never met a man who'd bedded another man — at least not that he knew of — let alone one who'd done it for a living. "You still ... do that sort of thing?"

"Not for money."

"What then?"

Buck shrugged. He leaned forward, right up into Chris's face. Chris felt the man's fingers close around the whiskey bottle again, felt the bottle sink into his lap and the back of Buck's hand linger against the bulge in his trousers. "Do it 'cuz I want to. 'Cuz it feels good."

"It-it feels good?" Chris asked, not realizing how unsteady his voice was sounding.

"When you do it right," Buck said quietly.

Chris felt the man's hand against his groin, rubbing ever so slightly. Chris swallowed hard as he stared into this man's eyes, suddenly startled by how blue they were, and how large, as Buck leaned in just a little more.

Before Chris realized what he was doing, he was leaning in, too. Their lips met and Chris found himself kissing Buck. His heart was pounding so loud, it sounded like cannon fire to his ears. But Buck's lips were soft and while he was participating fully, he wasn't pushing this. Chris somehow knew it was up to him to pull away or to keep going. He tried to think what he should do, but Buck's tongue brushed across his lower lip and that was all it took to dissolve Chris's thoughts.

Feeling just a bit adrift amid these strange feelings coursing through his body, he reached up and wrapped fingers around Buck's upper arms, as if needing to anchor himself in some storm. Buck slipped one arm around Chris's waist, but left it to Chris to pull them closer together. He didn't, but he sure as hell felt like maybe he wanted to.

Buck's other hand had released the whiskey bottle and was now gently caressing Chris's hard length through the fabric of his trousers. Chris was no longer capable of remembering the last time someone had done that to him, couldn't remember it ever feeling so good. He wanted more, but he had no idea how to ask for it.

Buck moved his mouth away from Chris's and started kissing across his jaw to his earlobe. Having that small bit of flesh nibbled and teased with Buck's tongue made Chris's toes curl in his boots.

"Buck," he breathed. "I...."

"Want more?" Buck asked softly.

His breath against Chris's ear sent a shiver down the left side of his body. Chris did want more, but he barely managed to nod.

Buck's hand was at his waistband, deftly unhooking his belt buckle and then the buttons on his pants. His other hand came up and caressed the back of Chris's neck. Chris's mind was reeling. If this had been a woman ... but, no, the things Buck was doing to him right now, no woman had ever done. He'd never not been the one in charge before. He felt helpless beneath Buck's skilled hands, but his body seemed to like it.

He felt warm fingers encircle his bare prick, which instantly swelled in Buck's grasp. His ass clenched, jerking his hips forward, forcing more contact. Buck obliged by slowly stroking his length.

Chris moaned without realizing it. He heard Buck chuckle, but didn't take offense. Somehow he knew it was a sign that Buck was pleased that Chris was enjoying this. And he was. As much as his head was refusing to believe it was actually happening.

"Just the alcohol," one thought said. "Just a dream," came another thought. "My God, that feels amazing," came the next thought as Buck flicked his thumb over the head of Chris's prick.

When Buck muttered, "Told you I knew what I was doing," Chris realized he must have spoken that last thought out loud. He was momentarily embarrassed — that this was happening, that he was letting this happen, and that he was enjoying it so damned much — but then Buck did something that sent these thoughts far from his mind.

Buck slid down Chris's body and took his hard prick into his mouth. Chris flinched at the unexpected contact, his hips shooting up, shoving his prick deeper, causing even more sensations to flood over his body and overwhelm his mind.

"Oh, God..." he moaned. His hands were clenched in the bed's blanket; his thoughts were of little more than want and desire and need. Buck's hands were on his chest, plucking at the fabric of his shirt; somewhere in the back of Chris's mind he knew Buck was trying to work the buttons loose. Before he realized he was doing it, Chris's own hands were helping, pushing the little disks through the holes, and then yanking the fabric aside. Next came the buttons on his under-shirt and then, suddenly, he felt Buck's fingers playing over his bare flesh.

Chris sucked in a lungful of air at the contact. Buck's fingertips were cool against his overheated skin, and his very touch was intoxicating. Tingles of excitement flowed over his skin, like a wake behind his fingers. A thumb brushed against his nipple, causing a sudden, almost painful hardening of the nub; he let out a gasp.

He tried to focus his mind, tried to discern each of the things Buck was doing to him. The thumb, flicking his nipple and causing darts of lightning to race down his body. A hand wrapped around his side, rubbing the tight muscles. Buck's tongue lapping at the side of his prick, swirling over his slit, slipping between foreskin and head, then trailing downward along the thick cord on the underside, until he was kissing Chris's balls, massaging them with his tongue, and — Oh, God Almighty! — sucking first one and then the other into his warm, wet mouth.

Chris felt like his body was going to explode from this man's attentions. He couldn't believe that he would ever want such at thing, that a man could make him feel like no woman — not a single one — ever had. He was happy to forget, something he'd been trying to do these past two months, and finally, tonight, Buck was making that possible.

Buck released his balls, trailed his tongue up Chris's prick to his stomach, then up his body until he was able to suck in the nipple he wasn't already caressing. Chris was babbling words he wasn't even listening to. Words like "Oh, God" and "Buck" and "please" and "more."

Buck continued up Chris's body until they were kissing again. Chris felt Buck's arms come around him, supporting him, and pulling him upright. Once Chris was sitting, practically in Buck's lap, he felt Buck's hands tugging the fabric of both his shirts off his shoulders. Chris helped him, as best he could with his body craving only Buck's touch and his mind spinning in a fog of sensation.

He felt Buck's hands on his bare shoulders and knew something had been accomplished. He reached out and tried to help Buck with his own shirt, though the man was way ahead of him. Both their shirts were gone in moments, tossed somewhere beyond Chris's perceptions. Then Buck was yanking on Chris's boots. Chris heard the thuds as boot after boot hit the wooden floor. Then hands were on his hips, tugging at the material there, tugging until Chris managed to lift his ass, and then he felt the fabric being pulled down his legs until it was gone, as if banished from sight, if not existence itself.

Chris knew Buck was staring at his naked form, knew he ought to be embarrassed by it, but something deep inside him liked that he was being admired.

"Beautiful," Buck said in a long, slow breath. "Every inch of you ... and your cock."

Moments later, Buck was pushing Chris back down onto the bed. He felt every inch of Buck's naked body against his own. Couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe he wanted this more than he'd ever wanted anything in his entire life.

Buck was kissing him again, and Chris was kissing him right back, his hands in Buck's hair, stroking the back of his neck or the curve of an earlobe. He felt Buck's hard length against the inside of his thigh, then against the side of his own prick. He felt Buck's hips pushing against him, thrusting over him, rubbing their erections together until Chris couldn't help but do the same.

He wanted to come — he was beginning to feel the urge overtaking the mere desire — but he didn't want this to end, not this soon, not this suddenly.

"Don't. Don't, Buck. Not yet," he found himself muttering into Buck's ear. "Not yet."

He felt Buck ease off him, felt hands trailing over his shoulders and down his body. Then he felt cool breath along the length of his prick as Buck slipped hands beneath his ass. Buck's fingers began to massage the mounds of flesh, his thumbs brushing against Chris's balls. The desperate urges slowly ebbed, but Chris's head was still pressed back against the pillow, his hands were still fisted in the blanket on each side of him. One wrong move — one right move — and he'd be back to where he was, ready to shoot his load, putting a quick end to something he still couldn't believe he'd ever begun in the first place.

A thumb rubbed slowly in a tight circle just behind his balls, rubbing at the very root of his erection. Then, a finger slipped further back, down between his cheeks, to rub over his hole. Chris clenched in surprise, but then relaxed when he realized how incredibly good Buck's touch felt. No one had ever touched his hole before, except himself but even then never in this way, never in a way to cause such heady sensations.

"You like that?" he realized Buck had asked him. He nodded, but Buck asked again, "You like that? You want more?" And Chris did.

"Yes," he managed to say. His voice was strained and nearly guttural. He didn't care — he didn't care what Buck might think of him for it — he only cared that Buck not stop what he was doing.

Suddenly, a finger pushed inside him. Chris's body arched, the back of his head digging into the pillow. There was a slight burn, but there was something else, too, something distinctly not unpleasant. It was like warmth spreading inside him, and, when Buck began to thrust his finger in and out, a blossoming of sensation began to feed the root of his prick, causing it to swell again.

"Not possible," Chris muttered. "No."

"Want me to stop?" Buck asked. He didn't remove his finger, but he stopped thrusting.

"No ... no. Don't stop," Chris said. The words sounded desperate and wanton in his own ears; he couldn't even imagine what they sounded like to Buck. "Is it supposed to ... feel like this?"

"If it feels good, then yes," Buck said. "It feels good, right?"

"Damn good," Chris told him. He heard Buck chuckle softly, but he didn't care as long as Buck kept doing what he was doing.

"It gets better," Buck said after a few moments.

Chris couldn't even imagine such a thing. Coming was the only thing that could feel better than this, and even that might pale because it would signal the end to all this pleasure.

Then Chris felt something more push into his ass — another finger, he reasoned, with what little cognitive ability he had remaining. Buck pushed deeper and then brushed against something sensitive inside of him. Chris's prick twitched against his belly. Tingles crawled up his spine and set off sparks behind his eyes.

His mouth hung open as he breathed hard and deep. His hand migrated to his prick, needing to touch it, to stroke it. He wanted to come so badly, but he tried to fight the urge, not willing to let this end so soon. Chris shoved his own fingers under his ass, to stop himself, but fingers curled around his prick anyway — Buck's fingers. They moved over his skin — pulling, gripping, brushing — and then Buck's mouth found the head of Chris's prick. His tongue flicked across his slit, then pushed beneath the foreskin and swirled around and around his swollen tip.

Chris's eyes felt like they were rolling back in his head. His breathing faltered. His heart sounded loud and irregular in his ears. All pleasant sensation was concentrated so low — in his ass and his prick — so intense that he felt he might just splinter into countless pieces. He reached up and grabbed onto Buck's shoulders, mumbling, "Oh God oh God oh God" over and over. His hips were thrusting up into Buck's warm, willing mouth, but even so he couldn't get enough contact to actually come. And, God, he never wanted to come so badly in his life.

"Got another treat for you, pard," he heard Buck say.

His voice was so soft, lilting almost, that it sounded otherworldly, like an apparition come to steal Chris's soul. Chris was determined to let him, as long as it meant Buck wouldn't stop making him feel this way.

Chris felt Buck shift on the bed, pulling away from him. Panic gripped him for a moment. This couldn't end — not like this — not yet. But a few moments later, Buck was with him again. Hands slipped beneath Chris's thighs, lifting his legs up onto Buck's shoulders. Chris felt vulnerable and his moment of panic was replaced with a sense of fear.

"Gonna make this good," Buck was saying. "Gonna make you feel like you've never felt before."

Chris wanted to believe him. He needed to. He'd come too far tonight not to see this through. He forced himself to continue trusting this man who only a few hours ago was a complete stranger to him. "It might hurt at first. That's okay. The pain's part of it, part of the experience. You man enough to handle it?"

Chris nodded. He'd been shot before. Couldn't be much more painful than that. Still, he wasn't quite sure what Buck was going to do and that ignorance was almost worse than knowing it was going to hurt some. But then Buck moved forward; his face came fully into focus above him and Chris felt Buck's hand against his ass and something large against his hole. In that instant, Chris knew what Buck was going to do to him, knew what was going to be shoved deep into his body.

He panicked again. His eyes went wide and wild. He was suddenly unsure if he could do this, if he wanted to do this. But there was Buck above him, not grinning, but merely smiling. He bent down and pressed his lips to Chris's in a sweet, slow, lingering kiss.

"You'll like this," Buck mumbled against his lips. "Promise."

Chris didn't know what to do, didn't know if Buck was expecting some answer. He was waiting for this to happen and that waiting was making his heart boom ever harder in his chest. But Buck sank back into kissing him, gently, drawing his tongue over Chris's top lip, gently sucking at his bottom lip. Then his tongue eased forward, asking for entry and Chris found himself parting his lips, wanting to let Buck inside. Their kiss deepened as Chris relaxed and his desire for this man began to push out the feelings of panic and fear. If a mere kiss could feel this good, if everything else Buck had done to him had felt so good....

Suddenly Chris was nodding his head, feeling ready for whatever Buck had next planned for him. Whatever it was, he could handle it, he would handle it. He only hoped he'd enjoy it, too.

Buck didn't break their kiss. Chris felt the man tasting him, teasing with his tongue, promising so much with the intimacy. And then Buck pushed forward, slowly at first, but then more quickly, driving deep as soon as the head of his shaft had breeched Chris's hole. Chris threw his head back, startled by the sudden sensations — the pain right at his hole from being stretched and the pressure of being filled.

He heard Buck breathing beside his ear — one breath, two breaths. Chris fell readily into the pattern — three breaths, four breaths. Then Buck began to move inside him, slowly. First there was an easing of the pain and then Chris felt an ebbing of the pressure. When Buck thrust back in, the pain was mixed with a tingly sensation that excited Chris's prick again. As Buck pulled back once more, Chris was already anticipating the next thrust, knowing it would feel even better than the last.

He took it deep, amazed that anything could feel this way, amazed anyone knew how to make another human being feel this way, and grateful that that human being was him.

"Oh, God," he groaned. "Buck..."

"You okay there, pard?" Buck asked, but he didn't stop thrusting this time, didn't break the heady cadence he'd set.

Chris was thankful for it. The rocking motion was lulling him into an altered state, overwhelming him with sensations he'd never known possible, things he'd never before experienced or thought possible from the mere raw act of sex. But somewhere in his mind — in his soul — he knew there was nothing raw about this, nothing base, nothing primal. Buck was skilled where Chris was ignorant, he was patient where Chris was driven, he was selfless where Chris was selfish.

And Chris was selfish, because he wanted more. He wanted Buck to give him everything and he never wanted him to stop.

Buck wrapped a large, sure hand around his length and began to stroke it in double-time with his thrusts. Chris arched up into his hand, only now realizing how much he'd been craving this further contact. He arched as Buck thrust, sending a new sensation flooding through his body; he couldn't describe it, but he knew it was good — more than good — and he knew he wanted it to continue.

But suddenly, from deep within, a pressure began to grow and spread. He felt the base of his prick swell immediately before the length in Buck's hand hardened. Something deep in the root of his prick imploded and cum shot up his length in rash, ragged pulses that stilled the breath in his lungs and raced the beating of his heart.

His stomach clenched and his chin hit his chest as harsh guttural noises fought their way through his gritted teeth. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shake the very timbers of the room, of the building, with the sound of Buck's name. But a moment later, Buck's pace changed, catching just enough of Chris's attention.

Buck grunted as he thrust in hard, lingering for a moment before quickly repeating the motion. With the muscles of his hole, Chris could feel what he somehow knew was the pulsing of Buck's jizz as he came deep inside. He didn't know what made him do it, but Chris clenched those muscles and tilted his hips until Buck quieted finally.

The man relaxed some and leaned forward until their lips were pressed together once more. There was no tongue this time, no tasting, no desperate need. It was a simple, lingering kiss that ended too soon as Buck slumped down to lie on the bed beside him. They were both on their backs now, staring up at the ceiling — or at least Chris was staring. Buck could have been asleep for all he knew; Chris wouldn't fault him if he was, after all he'd done.

Chris dozed himself, only realizing it when he woke suddenly not knowing where he was. Or who was beside him. Then he remembered. It was odd, waking up beside this stranger. A man. Buck. And remembering the incredible, impossible sex they'd had. Could it have really been like that? Could it ever be that way again?

Chris slipped from the bed, rummaged around the room in the sallow light of the still glowing oil lamp until he found his own clothes, which were scattered among Buck's, and dressed. He secured his gun belt around his waist and then donned his brown duster. He opened the door as quietly as he could, but when he stole one last glance back at Buck's sleeping form, he noticed the man, lying on his side, staring.

"I, uh..." Chris began, but then didn't know what to say. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said. He felt stupid, because it made him sound like he was sneaking away, regretful of what had happened. He wasn't.

"You stayin' 'round town for a while?"

Chris nodded. "A few days, I suppose." He really didn't have any other plans yet.

Buck smiled. "Maybe I'll see you around, then, pard." It wasn't a question; more a pleasantry, Chris thought. Sincere, though. He was sure of that.

"Maybe so," Chris said. He slipped his tan-colored hat onto his head, then nodded at Buck, who was still naked as the day he was born. But, before he slipped from the room, he paused again, adding, "My friends ... they call me Chris."

- The End -

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September 2005

Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.

Thanks to Rick for all his moral support. Thanks to Charlotte, Anne, and Tracy for beta reading. Any mistakes are solely my own.

This transitional work was inspired by "The Magnificent Seven," a television series owned by The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, and CBS Worldwide, Inc.; this work in no way signifies any relationship with any of these companies or their affiliates. My intent is to entertain and encourage the continued interest in this television program. This work is not for profit and will not be sold for any reason. No copyright infringement is intended; any mention of copyrighted characters, places, or other story elements has been kept to a minimum and are being used under the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976.