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They tried to pick off a three-wagon train on the Santa Fe Trail entering Colorado, but they got little more than a handful of silver before bounty hunters ambushed them. They retreated a day's ride to the west, to the opposite side of Baca County, where Buck got wind of an unruly cattle town with a stage stop.
"Unruly" was a conservative word. Four saloons kept the place lively and the people randy. On their last night in Carrizo Springs, Ceegar and Stubble had a girl on each arm, and Buck had a pile of winnings at the gambling table. Marty splurged on a room in the La Mesa Hotel — "We're robbing a stagecoach tomorrow, aren't we?" — and, apparently, a new pair of braided brown leather chaps.
A pair of chaps that, for some reason, Clint decided to try on in front of a full-length mirror without pants on underneath.
Buford choked on his whiskey when he walked into the room.
"Jesus Chri–" He coughed, bracing himself on the doorknob as he did a double take. Sure enough, Clint was standing there in nothing but a pair of chaps. "Fuckin' hell. What the hell have you been doin' in here all day?"
Marty looked over his shoulder. He gave Buford an indifferent once-over and asked, "Shouldn't you be getting ready for tomorrow?"
Buford's eyes sharpened.
"Oh, I'm ready."
Marty turned back to the mirror: no explanation, engagement, or reaction. Buford's indignance flared. He soundly set his whiskey bottle on the dresser, shut the door, and stalked toward Marty.
"Let's hope the rest of your clothes turn up by morning," said Buford. "Though it'd certainly be a heist to remember if you show up like this. Madman waving his gun and his dick around, making demands…"
"Sounds like someone I know."
Marty glanced at Buford's billowing reflection in the mirror. He spoke over the forthcoming rebuke as he experimented with the notches in his belt.
"I sent my clothes to the wet wash this morning for the first time in six weeks."
"All of them?"
"The girl came up to get my stuff, and she…" Marty smiled a rosy smile and shrugged. "She insisted she have all my clothes, so—"
"Bull."
A laugh bubbled out of Marty. "Ask her yourself! She's bringing my stuff back" — he leaned to check the clock on the mantle — "soon. She threw these at me on her way out and told me I'd better be wearing them if I wanted my clothes back a-after…"
Marty trailed off at the embers simmering under Buford's level brow. His stomach knotted as Buford stepped closer, their eyes locked in the mirror. Buford's tone was dark and velvety.
"After what?" Another step. He brushed his bulge against Marty's exposed ass. "After she walks in on me balls deep inside of you?"
Marty rolled his eyes. "Not now, Buford."
Buford slid his hand around Marty's neck and squeezed some panic into his eyes. His other hand gripped Marty's hip and walked him sideways several steps to the writing desk.
"Now's just fine for me."
"No," Marty said when Buford let go of his throat. "I don't want you to."
"I don't believe you," Buford said. He shoved Marty into the desk and dragged his calloused hands over and up his backside. "Not when you've got that pert little ass all nice and framed like that for me."
"Buford—"
Marty gasped and gripped the top of the desk chair as Buford pushed a finger into his asshole. It took more self-control than it should have not to rock back into it. He swallowed, heart pounding in his face and walls crumbling unacceptably fast.
"Buford." Marty's voice cracked as Buford added a second finger. "Sto…Ah…"
"You didn't put these on for some wet wash maid," Buford said. "You put these on" – a spank – "to do some ridin'."
Marty's vision swam at the suggested imagery: a buck-naked Buford lounging on the bed to their right, rolling his hips up as Marty thrashed atop his cock. Buford jarred him out of the daydream; he pushed the side of Marty's face onto the desk and held it there.
"Sometimes it is a shame you rob me of what little patience I have, Eastwood," Buford said, moderately pumping his fingers into Marty. "I'm a hungry man. I don't say grace, and I don't lay silver. I eat."
The friction grew uncomfortable. Marty winced, whimpered, and tensed until he was all but lurching onto the desk to escape the discomfort.
"Bufor— Buford! Stop. Stop," Marty panted. "It's too dry. It hurts."
Marty realized as the words were coming out of his mouth that Buford, in a certain mood, would delight in this feedback and really make it hurt. But an obliging growl rumbled out of Buford; he let go of Marty's head and removed his fingers. Marty shut his eyes and laid his forehead on the desk, catching his breath.
Okay, so Buford wasn't wrong — Marty was absolutely baiting him with this get-up. He did fuck the wet wash girl that morning, and she was due back soon. She might have requested Marty to wear the chaps, but he did it to entice Buford.
Marty thought he would be more assertive in this fantasy, that Buford would finally be compelled to suck his cock, but lo, Marty was bent over a desk again, dick aching for something it wasn't getting.
The silky head of Buford's cock glided up Marty's low back. Marty's breath shuddered.
"Shit…"
His breath hitched again as cold drops of olive oil dotted his back. Buford smeared them with his dick until the top of Marty's ass shined like the trophy it was.
"'S'a lot of oil, Clint," Buford mused, slicking his cock in his hand. "What were you plannin' on doin' to this girl?"
Buford dribbled oil down Marty's crack and kneaded his asscheeks together.
"Because I think I know."
"Fuck, Buford–"
"Were you gonna flip her over and close your eyes?"
Buford pushed the slippery, swollen head of his cock into Marty's entrance.
"Pretend she was… someone else?"
He then withdrew abruptly, a wet 'pop' biting Marty as his hole shut.
Marty moaned. He got his elbow past the edge of the desk and desperately tugged at his erection. When all Marty wanted was the confidence to bend Buford's will enough to suck his dick, Buford had to mock him with the idea that he could take control - that Marty could be the one obliterating Buford's asshole as he belittled him.
Caressed him.
Used him.
Buford inserted himself again – just the head – and pulled out. He continued in this way, stabbing pained gasps from Clint until he sighed with each penetration.
"God, yes," and variations of the like soon began leaking out of Marty. "Oh, God. Fuck. Fuck–"
Buford seized Marty's hips and sank all the way in.
"Ohha!" Something fell off the desk. "Oh, fuck…"
"You think you could make that girl feel this good with your prick in her ass?" Buford asked, squeezing hard at Marty's backside. He spanked Marty again when he didn't get an answer right away. "Hm?"
"N-No."
"She'd probably like to feel as good as you do right now, don't you think?"
Marty nodded as vigorously as one could with their face again pinned to a writing desk.
"Tell you what, then, Eastwood." Buford kicked the desk chair out of his way, put both hands on Marty's shoulders, and started to move. "I'll fuck a big smile on her face just for you."
Marty groaned. Goosebumps poured over his skin. The head of his cock squelched in his hand as his breastbone dug into the edge of the desk. The sound of Buford's balls slapping into his ass made Marty spread his legs further so that Buford was hitting his testicles with every thrust.
"God, Buford, don't stop," Marty breathed, voice working its way into a tight whine. "Please don't stop."
Buford got a hand on the front of Marty's neck again. His firm grasp forced Marty's back flush to Buford's chest. He threw his head back and choked on the cries that came with Buford fucking him at this angle. Marty stood as tall as he could on his tiptoes, his back arched, black stars on the edges of his vision.
Marty let go of his cock, clawing at the hand clamped on his airway.
"Buford…"
Marty's chest heaved as Buford lowered his hand to the base of his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin. Marty squirmed and gasped, grinding down on Buford's dick as a hand slid along his beltline toward the buckle. Buford's mustache tickled Marty's ear.
"You gon' cum nice and pretty for me?"
What?
God, it didn't have to make sense.
"Yes," said Marty.
"Are you?"
"Yes!"
"All right then."
Buford wrapped his hand around Marty's cock.
"Oh, fuck."
Marty bucked into Buford's hand, met with the perfect pressure.
"Buford–"
"That's it."
"Fuck."
"Come on."
A whimper.
"Yeah?" Buford asked, thrusting into him again.
"Yeah—"
A wounded, animalistic cry tore from Marty's chest as hot cum erupted from his cock. Buford aimed him at the unsuspecting drapes, embellishing their muted green folds with murky strings of semen.
"Oh, that's real pretty," Buford said, helping the last few beads to the surface until Marty quaked from the overstimulation.
"D-D-Don't! Don't, don't…"
Marty collapsed against him, spent. His weight prompted Buford to wrap an arm around his waist and finish the fuck he started. Marty curled his fingers into the back of Buford's hair when his hat fell off, turning those thunderous exhales into his neck to beg for his mouth.
"Cum in me," Marty breathed. A pained dip formed in his brow for how much he wanted it, and he lifted Buford's face until their foreheads touched. "Then cum in me again," he rasped lowly. "And again, and again—"
Buford came. His strained groans resonated down their bodies as his cock pumped cum into Marty and leeched the strength from his knees.
"Son of a bitch, Eastwood."
"Here. Sit."
Buford turned around and leaned back on the desk. He let Marty properly stand on his own two legs for the first time in a while as he recovered.
Marty's heels had only just touched the ground when he looked up, blanching at the materialization of the stunned young woman in the doorway.
She smiled.