callofnature

Vin was looking forward to seeing this.

Buck had caught up with him moments earlier, told him with barely suppressed glee that
there was a high-stakes poker game going down in Digger Dan's. That Ezra and "some feller
from Vista City" were playing in nothing but their birthday suits. Well, he'd get his chance to
laugh at Ezra, laugh good and hard. That'd teach him.

Oh, yeah.

His feet couldn't carry him fast enough, but he could hardly sprint up Main Street without
causing a stir, so he forced himself to amble along, as he usually was wont. Concentrating
on keeping his pace sedate, he feigned an interest in the scuffs that marred the toes of his
old battered boots. The dainty gasps of a group of townswomen caused his head to snap
up, wondering whether they had seen through his attempts at normalcy.

Guess Ezra's right - I can't con anyone of anythin'.

But instead of looking at Vin, the ladies' attention was directed up the street. Vin followed
their line of sight to be greeted with the vision of Ezra Standish, resident gambler and
southern gentleman, storming toward him, hastily fastening a tablecloth around his waist.

Unable to resist throwing a barb at the clearly irate man, Vin smirked, "Ya lose yer shirt,
Ezra?"

"He cheated! He cheated! I know he cheated!" he cried, arms waving, unwittingly giving Vin
a fine display of his well-muscled torso.

Vin watched in appreciation as the gambler stalked away.

Ezra leaned in briefly to startle the women ogling him. "What are you looking at? BOO!"

The ladies giggled at him from behind their hands, their eyes almost diverted, but not quite.

Vin laughed at his friend's discomfort, before realising that he was starting to feel a little
strange himself. An image flashed unbidden behind his eyes - what if Ezra hadn't fastened
that tablecloth as securely as he thought?

... The worn material dropping to the dirt; the sculpted form, bronzed and smooth, stalking
away from him; black high-roller at a jaunty angle, gun belt slung low on narrow hips, fancy
boots slapping loosely against muscular calves... peachy buttocks in the sunlight...

Vin's smile faded as his mouth went dry.

Ah, shit.

He darted into the side alley, hoping his sudden departure had gone unnoticed.

Moving without his usual loose-limb grace, Vin struggled to the outhouse. The ramshackle
hut stood alone and away from the rear of the saloon in an open square of dust sheltered by
the surrounding buildings. It was distinctly unappealing in its outlook, and Vin was delighted
to see it, relief coursing through his thrumming veins. It was empty.

Thank ya, God.

The old splintered door creaked with a death-groan as he hoisted it open, slipping inside and
slamming it behind him. He leaned against it, holding it shut - Yosemite still hadn't fixed the
damned lock.

Finally safe, he took a few deep calming breaths and instantly regretted it - the humid air
was heavy with stench. He half gagged on his nausea and braced his arms against the
narrow wooden walls. The hole stared back up at his unseeing gaze as he tried to get his
shaking body back under some control. His loose buckskins had never felt this constricting.
Perhaps they had shrunk in the monthly wash.

His need overcoming any other sensations, he moved his shaking left hand to his fly and
released his throbbing cock, the heat inside the confined space doing nothing to cool his
ardor. Clenching his jaw, he grasped his aching dick in a tight fist and breathed out a shaky
sigh, leaning forward to rest his already sweat-soaked forehead against the back wall of the
outhouse, his right hand braced along side his head. Another moist lung-full of air expelled
and he started to move his hand, slowly at first then gathering speed to a frenetic pace as he
felt his end nearing, his hand a sweaty blur along his engorged length. No time to play here
- he needed release and now.

His breath coming out in ragged gasps, his hand froze as a brisk rap came at the door.

"Hey, Vin - ya gonna be long in there?" called the familiar tones of Buck Wilmington.

Shit, fuck an' damn! thought Vin, frozen in the moment, unable to do anything but blink as
stinging sweat trickled into his eyes.

"C'mon Vin - I need ta go!" said Buck, imploringly.

Taking another foul deep breath, Vin cultured his voice into something approximating his
usual drawl and replied, "Ain't going nowhere soon, Bucklin, iffen ya get my meanin'."

"Shoot pard, cain't ya hurry it up?"

"No!" snapped Vin.

He waited in absolute stillness as he listened for fading footsteps to signify Buck's departure.
Instead to his dismay he heard the ladies man shuffling around outside, as if unsure of what
to do. There was no way Vin could finish himself off with Buck outside - the thought of the
jokester hearing the all too familiar sounds of a man getting acquainted with his hand made
Vin bite his bottom lip in frustration. His pride refused to give Buck any fodder for future
amusement, but his cock had no intention of letting him off the hook anytime soon.

"Jest go Buck, damn it!" he snarled.

With a slap of paper against wood, he heard Buck stalk away muttering to himself words
that Vin couldn't make out. Not that he cared - he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Turning and sitting down with a thump on the worn bench, Vin allowed himself a moment to
regain his senses after the interruption. Although the sudden disturbance had chased his
orgasm away, his cock was still hard and demanded attention.

Letting his head slump back to meet the resistance of the rear wall, Vin placed his left foot
up against the door, bracing it shut with a lanky outstretched leg. The other he hoisted up
against the low shelf that housed the necessaries - old Clarion newspapers. An image of
Ezra flashed through his mind, thinking that the dapper conman would not stoop to use such
abrasive material. Probably had a stash of something more ... appropriate to use. The
thought of Ezra and his smooth skin had Vin's cock jumping again. Aw, hell. Now he was
here for the long haul, might as well enjoy it.

Working his buckskins off his ass - quite a feat considering he had to lift his hips whilst
bracing the door shut with one foot - he settled back into a more comfortable position. At
least now he had both hands free and he swiftly put them to work as he allowed his mind to
drift to more interesting images than that of the dark interior of the tiny outhouse.

...Specks of dust glittering lazily in the narrow shaft of bright sunlight that fell through a
chink in the drapes. Ezra wearing nothing but a tablecloth and a smile, kneeling between
his spread legs, leaning down from above him as he lay sprawled on the gambler's big
feather bed. Those green eyes sparking fire that twisted in his belly and shot a hot rod
straight through his groin. The sly amused smile that turned into a full-fledged ravenous grin
- the gold premolar that twinkled in the light of a turned-down lamp. Smooth, talented hands
reaching out to Vin, reaching into his open pants, touching him...

As those magical dream hands moved in his vision, Vin's own hands moved over his aching
body to match them.

His fingers danced across his taut scrotum, matching the teasing play of dream-Ezra's
slender fingers as they toyed with his swollen balls and round to his sweet spot behind.
Arching up into the caress, Vin was oblivious to the bite of the wooden wall against his
shoulders.

...The hand on his balls still fondling, rolling them around and teasing the sensitive skin,
Ezra's other hand joined the slow sensual massage, drawing a hiss from Vin's lips as a
thumb and forefinger worked a tight ring slowly over the head and down his throbbing shaft,
dragging the sensitive foreskin down with it...

Pleading with his fantasy lover for more contact, Vin thrust up into his palm, wrapping his
fingers around himself as dream-Ezra did as he begged.

...The vision wrapping a firm hand around Vin's length and pumping slowly up and down, a
lazily clenching grip on the down stroke, the movement languid and sure. A second hand
joining the other, pumping from tip to base, letting go and starting at the tip again in a
continuous squeeze that drove Vin to new heights of ecstasy...

His eyes screwed tightly shut from effort, body taut like a wound spring, muscles quivering
from exertion and need, Vin brought his head forward and up towards the tantalising lips that
hovered just out of reach in his mind's eye. He strained against air and a muted cry of defeat
passed his lips as they were denied that silken touch. Wishing with a profound despair that
he could claim that clever mouth, suck hard on the wicked tongue within, taste Ezra for real.
A taste of sultry southerner, warm like brandy, the burnished wood-and-honey of the cigars
he sometimes indulged in.

Instead he was left gasping humid air, pulling hard to get the much-needed oxygen into his
lungs as his hands worked his erection with a single-minded intent.

...Ezra was apart from him - touching him only where his hands rippled over Vin's heated
shaft, his head bowed as he concentrated on giving pleasure to the man in his grasp.
Tightly defined pectorals glistening with sweat and dust, bathed in the flaxen illumination of
the lamp...

How Vin yearned to be able to feel that perfect body against him, all chiselled angles and
firm muscle, to be able to press the gambler flush to his own sweaty flesh, to flip them both
over to take control of the situation. To rip that goddamn tablecloth from around his waist
and revel in the prize it hid mercilessly from view. Vin was more than able to imagine what
Ezra would look like under that rough material. He had studied the man's muscled ass and
admired the way the cut of his fine pants whispered across his groin as he moved - yet even
now in his dreams that fucking tablecloth was taunting him.

Frustrated beyond belief, Vin banged his head back against the rear wall, gritting his already
clenched jaw and focussing on the sensations that were radiating from his groin - or rather
not, as his hands had stilled with the banging of his head.

...He looked up at Ezra, who was staring down at him with barely concealed lust and a little
confusion. Ah, hell. Ezra grinned.

"What just happened here?" queried dream-Ez, giving his cock an experimental tug.

"Aaaaah... got distracted...jest keep doin' what yer doin'."

"Yes, sir."

One hand holding him firmly at the base, the other sliding upwards, a thumb playing over his
sensitized head, rubbing across the weeping slit. Again and again that smooth pad was
played over his manhood, Vin hissing out encouragement through clenched teeth. "Yeah -
there - do it again...gaaahhhd"

The hand sliding off the base of his cock, no longer exerting pressure to hold him back, and
down to his ball-sack, which tightened against his body...

Feeling the fire start to burn hotter within him, Vin worked his cock with renewed urgency,
rolling his balls in one hand, preventing them from slapping against his straining thighs as he
surged up into his tight fist.

With a cry, he wrenched rightwards with the force of his orgasm. His foot slipped on the
stack of Clarions and slammed to the floor, shin scraping hard against the rough edge of the
low shelf that held them, papers scattering like a flock of birds. Back arched and thigh
muscles quivering, the pain did not register. Waves of pleasure crashed through him. He
jerked against the hard wooden seat, shoulders and head digging into the wall as his hips
snapped erratically. His cock pulsated in his hand, shooting thick arcs of semen that just fell
short of the door.

When his sense returned, he blinked open his eyes, puffing a breath upward to dislodge a
strand of hair that tickled his nose. His heaving chest slowed to a more normal rate, and he
wiped the evidence of his orgasm from his hand onto his shirttail. He struggled to unsteady
feet, his legs feeling weak and useless. He tucked himself back into his pants then
surveyed the interior. He swore softly; he'd made a hell of a mess.

Stooping, he snatched at the scattered Clarion papers and roughly shuffled them back into
something that resembled a pile, before placing them back on the low shelf. Grabbing one
loose page, he screwed it up and used its less-than-adequate absorbency to mop up the
traces of cum on the floor... the wall... the door... his elbow... now how'd the hell it get
*there*?

Dropping the balled-up newspaper into the dark pit, he took to righting his twisted clothing.
He stuffed his shirt into the waist of his buckskins and straightened his bandanna. Patting
his hat back into position, he took a deep, unpleasant breath and braced himself. He
gingerly opened the door, looking left and right. There was nobody about. With a grateful
sigh of relief, he left the outhouse, blinking at the bright afternoon sun, and headed back at a
leisurely pace, enjoying the internal glow of full body satiety, entering through the rear
entrance of Inez's saloon.

Vin stopped by the bar and nodded to the barkeep for a shot of Red Eye. His mouth was dry
and he wanted the taste of the outhouse washed from his throat. Slinging the burning amber
fluid back in one swallow, he huffed at the bite of the cheap liquor. Feeling marginally better,
he considered another wouldn't be such a bad idea. His attention was diverted, however,
when he heard Buck having another run-in with Inez.

The barmaid threw a damp rag at the ladies' man and stormed off, muttering something
unpleasant in Spanish, about a mule and some kind of root vegetable.

Looks like Bucklin's animal magnetism's failin' him today.

He watched as Buck approached a table... a table at which Ezra sat, playing solitaire.

Dammit!

At least the gambler was fully dressed, back in his usual colorful get-up, his red jacket
advertising his trade.

Vin watched the exchange over the rim of his refilled shot glass. Buck grinned broadly, and
threw the rag into Ezra's lap.

"Is there something you required, Mr Wilmington?"

"Just thought ya could use this next time ya get caught without yer shirt," the lanky
gunslinger leered, blue eyes twinkling under eyebrows that waggled outrageously.

With a blank expression, the gambler threw his cards to the table and, grabbing the damp
rag, stood in a graceful movement. He held the offending cloth across his groin, twisting his
narrow hips left and right, as if modelling it for cut and size. It didn't cover much. "I'm afraid
it doesn't appear to be my color," he drawled sardonically, tossing the rag back at Buck,
who ducked as it narrowly missed his face.

Vin swallowed around the lump in his throat and coughed an excuse to the barkeep. He
spun around and headed back out of the saloon. Buck's raucous laughter followed him all
the way to the rear door and beyond.

Hustling back to the outhouse, he grabbed the old rope handle and swung the door agape.

There, peering up at him from beneath dirty-blond bangs, sat Chris. Chris Larabee, hunched
forward with the Clarion newspaper forgotten in his hands, black denim bunched around his
ankles. Chris Larabee, the notorious gunslinger, sitting on the can, who was now staring at
the rather obvious tenting in Vin's pants.

The shock had the effect of being doused with a freezing bucket of water.

"Problem, Vin?" came a gruff voice, glimmering hazel eyes raising to fix on his.

"Nope," he squeaked, suddenly realising that he was still standing there, staring, the door
held open in his hand. Vin felt a flush of embarrassment crawl up his neck. He mentally
shook himself and hastily slammed the door.

"At least, not anymore, cowboy," he added under his breath, grinning as he walked away in
the direction of the livery at a very brisk pace.

He changed his mind and decided that now would be the perfect time to go have a talk with
Mrs Travis. He needed to apologize for getting angry earlier, it wasn't her fault he couldn't
read. Of course, he also wasn't sure Chris wouldn't be pissed at his interruption, but he was
pretty sure he wouldn't try to tear him a new one in front of the pretty blond widow.

Whistling a marching tune and silently reciting the words he had composed earlier in the
day, he strode toward The Clarion's office. Yup, he'd be safe there. He'd take eating crow pie
in front of Mary over dealing with a pissy Chris any day of the week.

FIN