Chris wriggles in the deck chair, black jeans tugged down around his
upper thighs, crotch exposed, mouth parted a little to facilitate his
heavy breathing. A sheen of sweat glosses his bare chest. His hand
holds his stiff cock, barely stroking.
Buck sits on the deck across from him, leaning against the deck rail
so they're face to face, and the few feet that separates them feels
like miles.
Buck smiles, licks his lips. His jeans are still buttoned and zipped,
but his tee shirt hangs loose and one hand is beneath it, intently
rubbing at his belly, his pecs. They watch each other. Chris moves a
hand up his chest, slicking away the sweat, surreptitiously rubbing a
palm over a puckered nipple before sliding down, down past his belly,
past the hard, jutting ridge of his hipbones, past his dick and on to
grasp his balls in a loose, massaging grip.
Buck chokes on a breath. His other hand works at his own shaft through
his jeans. Buck has a thing about the fabric of his jeans on his cock,
the slightly abrasive feel that short-circuits the fact that his skin
knows it's his own fingers touching him. He rubs, squeezes forcefully
at his cock, his stomach muscles contract in pleasure.
Chris is getting closer...
"Put your fingers in," Buck says.
"What?" Chris asks, startled. Buck has sometimes initiated these
silent jerk-off sessions, but it's not common, and especially not
outside in the noonday sun, with the smell of grass and horse and hot
summer breeze in the air.
Buck smiles, soft and endearing, totally unselfconscious. "Finger your
ass, Chris," he says again, and the mercury shoots up Chris'
thermometer. He's not much for ass play, doesn't think much about it
except in terms of preparing his lover, or being prepared, for
penetration. He's not sure he's comfortable with it, and he's not sure
his discomfort is a bad thing.
Still, he hesitates.
"Do it," Buck says, still gentle, but the desire is implacable.
Embarrassed, ducking his eyes away, Chris releases his cock and puts
two fingers in his mouth, sucks them and wets them as best he can.
This requires taking off his jeans, he realizes, so he scoots out of
them and drags them off his ankles, tosses them onto the sun-weathered
wood. Now he's completely naked, while Buck is still dressed, and the
illicit pleasure of it tingles through him.
He licks his fingers again, starts to reach past his balls--
"Spread your legs wider," Buck says, and it's so obvious that his
desire, his sexual preoccupation, already has drawn a picture in his
head.
Chris, panting, complies.
"No." Buck's correction startles him and he freezes. Then, "Knees over
the chair arms."
"You're kidding." He can't help but say it, knows what that would look
like: his ass on the edge of the chair cushion; his knees up and wide,
tugging at the skin of his buttocks and pulling it taut, pulling his
cheeks open. Might as well point a flood light at his groin.
But he makes the mistake of meeting Buck's eyes, and the desire is so
dark, so hot in them that he finds himself coloring with--something,
maybe embarrassment, maybe humiliation, maybe lust--he doesn't know,
as he lifts his right leg and hooks it over the arm of the chair.
"Beautiful," Buck murmurs, and Chris feels a jolt of lust sweep
through him. His lover's big, strong hand squeezes harder. Chris knows
how the mix of torment and bliss mixes for Buck, in the pressure on
his trapped erection. A smile stretches Buck's lips, and he reaches
absently to smooth his moustache.
He wonders how to keep himself from coming.
"Chris, do it, okay? Do it for me."
Chris thinks about the moustache, and how the softened ends tickle and
prickle, how they feel when Buck, sucking him, tilts his chin down to
make it scratch against the root of Chris' cock. Buck's desire to give
him pleasure knows few boundaries. So, taking a deep breath, Chris
slides down in the chair. He lifts his other leg and pulls it back,
stretches it over the other arm of the chair, and he's not just naked
now, he's posed, exposed, he's Buck's own private porn star in Buck's
own private show.
The spit is cold, and never the best lube, and his anus clenches
against the sensation. He grits his teeth, and applies more pressure.
Chris freezes as Buck climbs to his feet and reaches into his back
pocket. Out comes a tube of lube, which Buck tends to carry around
pretty much all the time, when they're together up here. Buck tosses
it his way.
"Use this."
He catches it, frowning a little. Relieved a lot. He opens the tube
and squeezes some out over two fingertips.
"Three," Buck says, as he sits back down, and his voice is husky and
whispered with lust.
After a moment's hesitation, Chris applies more slick. Just because
it's there doesn't mean he'll have to use it. His ass still clenches
at the first touch, and Chris finds himself looking toward the barn,
up at the sky, anywhere but Buck. Stupid, how can he know if Buck's
enjoying this if he doesn't look?
Buck's passion-darkened eyes dart from the scene between Chris' legs
to Chris' face sweeping back and forth like a damned photocopier.
Chris sucks in a breath and his balls move in their sac.
One finger. Just one, Chris thinks. He pushes, feels the resistance of
muscle, adds more pressure. In it goes, slick and cool, feeling more
than a little strange. He pushes in a little deeper, while his other
hand just holds his balls snugly, up out of the way, out of Buck's view.
Makes the mistake of glancing down at himself. He's spread so wide
open, so vulnerably on display, that he can't keep the embarrassed
flush from rising as he thinks about what Buck sees. 'Big tough
Larabee cowboy,' Buck likes to call him, naked in the sun, pale ass
displayed like it's in a store window, legs stretched so wide, knees
hooked up out of the way, the thin muscles of his thighs stretched
taut. Sparse blonde hairs covering balls, not like the thicker, darker
curls at Buck's groin. One finger pushed into his own ass...
"You look so hot, Chris," Buck whispers, drawing his attention again.
It's a little silly and a little thrilling, and just because Buck
wants it, he pushes his finger all the way in, up to the knuckle at
his palm.
Chris pulls out, slides back in with two. The angle is awkward for his
hand, and he bends his wrist more sharply, to shove the fingers in
deep. Awkward and slutty, Chris feels like he's flying toward his
climax. Buck groans, and rises to his knees. Finally, Buck opens his
jeans and pulls out his cock, and Chris wants it inside him, wants
Bucks' body in him like their lives are in each other, like their
hearts are tangled up, like rose brambles all thorny and beautiful and
soft. Complex.
But he's not going to get it, and he knows it. "You wouldn't rather
fuck me?" he asks, just to hear that smoky voice.
"Always," Buck says with a smile, but Chris knows what he means.
"Please Chris, more."
They'll finish like this today. He tugs at his balls, teasing the heat
all the way up into his belly. He presses in deeper, until two fingers
are buried to the hilt. Buck's erection is so flushed and full, the
skin so taut it looks like it couldn't stretch another millimeter. And
it's dark, darker than it usually gets, like wine and sunburn. A thick
vein throbs, and Buck's finger traces it up and down, and Chris
swallows hard.
"Go on," Buck murmurs, still staring right into his eyes. Chris frowns
in confusion. "Third finger."
Chris swallows and does it, and his cock aches with the need to be
touched. But his hands are full, and Buck didn't tell him to jerk
himself. Buck's hands speed up on his own cock though, one stroking
the shaft, the other just touching the tip, rubbing at the dripping
slit, gently pinching the head.
Chris thinks he might climax just from watching this unconscious
display of sexuality. He looks back up, meets Buck's eyes. Licks his
lips and offers, "Four?"
For just a second, Buck freezes. Swallows. Smiles.
Nods.
Chris bites his lip. It'll be a stretch, in more ways than one. He
wriggles his fingers and gives his ass a few more seconds to loosen
up, then pulls them out. He folds his fingers closely together.
Reaches down. Stares at Buck who's staring open-mouthed at his ass.
It's a tight fit, as he pushes his fingertips just inside. Buck clears
his throat again, and finally his spare hand slides into his loosened
jeans to pull out his balls and rub at them. Heavy and big, they roll
smoothly in Buck's palm. Chris wants little more than to stretched on
his belly on the sun-warmed deck, and fondle them, right now.
The faded blue denim frames his lover's tanned belly, and the vee of
the fly cups his blood-dark package.
Chris pushes his fingers deeper, in to the first knuckle.
Buck groans, and Chris smiles. *Pushover*, he thinks through the fog
in his brain.
"Come on, Chris," Buck urges, almost a whine. "Push 'em deeper."
"Pull it harder," he counters, panting.
Buck obeys immediately, his hand blurring on his cock, and a groan
like splitting timber rises up from his belly. Chris fulfills his part
of the bargain, and presses his fingers deeper. He hisses at the
stretching, at his building need to cum.
"I'm close, Chris," Buck hisses. "Come on, find your button for me."
Chris pushes his fingers deeper and curls them upward, stimulating
himself from the inside. It's embarrassing, Buck knowing his body so
well, like an instrument well-practiced. It's embarrassing, being
instructed to play it; he shudders, touching himself.
"Fuck, fuck!" Buck grates, and his cum spurts out, coating his
fingers, a droplet darkening his faded jeans, a pearly trail
spattering the wood of the deck. His hips jut sharply forward.
It's a beautiful sight, and Chris freezes in this position, balanced
on the edge but holding back. He doesn't want his own hand, he rarely
does. He wants his lover's. As Buck shudders and groans, Chris eases
back a little and lets go of himself, lets one leg slide off the chair
arm and back to the deck.
Buck finally stops pulling his dick and sits back on his heels.
"Mmm-mnn," he breathes, satisfied bone-deep.
"Hey," Chris says.
"Oh, Chris, that was great. You looked so..."
"Get over here."
Buck's eyebrows rise, his moustache stretches straight as he smiles,
and he scrambles across the porch like a dog to the food dish. Big,
smooth hands rub up the backs of Chris' spread thighs and Buck's eyes,
sparkling with sated lust and abiding trust, meet his.
"Love you, Chris," he says.
Chris feels his belly tighten with the ache of it, and reaches to
tangle his hand in his lover's thick, dark hair. He tugs, brings
Buck's body up and over him and gently, softly, even as the tension
sings through him, presses their mouths together.
Hands work lower down, raising his leg back up, obviously enjoying the
access. Fingers test him, press in, as Buck's tongue slips gently,
softly inside his mouth. He groans as Buck's other hand slides up his
thigh and over his groin to grab up his cock in a gentle, powerful
hold. A stroke, inside and out, and Chris' belly muscles clench,
trying to drive his shaft up even in this awkward position. Buck's
tongue eases him, Buck's lips are soft against his own and the
moustache brushes slowly across his upper lip. Buck's fingers stretch
at his opening, pressing up and in and--
When he comes it's so quick, so deep, he shoves his shoulders back
into the chair, arms tensed, hands gripping his lover's biceps and
holding on for dear life. His muscles clench around Buck's fingers,
his cock spasms in Buck's hand, and through it, Buck's mouth gently
touches his own, holding him steady.
The groan forces its way past him, he can't help it.
"Easy," Buck breathes, though the hands at his groin work him
intently, a hard jabbing pressure inside him, a soft, silken stroke on
his cock.
Finally, Chris drops limp back into the chair, and Buck releases him,
eases his fingers out. Wipes them surreptitiously on his dirty jeans.
Buck leans forward then, resting his head on Chris' chest, and Chris
feels his heart pound against his ribs, against Buck's cheek. Arms
slide around him, and it's odd, the feel of Buck's tee shirt on his
bare skin, the scratch of denim on his inner thighs.
He raises his arms, wraps them tightly around broad shoulders. "I love
you too, you know."
"Yeah," Buck says, laconic and sleepy. His beard shadow scrapes softly
at Chris' chest. "Yeah, I do."
Chris looks out again at the sunny sky, thinks about his sore thighs
and being too old for this, about the sweaty weight of his lover and
the fact that through everything, Buck has been here. And knows he'll
do it again, and anything else, if it does for Buck what Buck does for
him. And all in all, it's not a bad way to spend a day, anyhow.
The End
