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“Aw, fellas, c’mon,” Sutherland protests yet once more, though weakly, as Charlie Prince pushes Jackson bodily back on the same bed he’s already sitting on—taking care to look anywhere but at the two of ‘em, while at the same time blushing far deeper than his long-time membership in a gang given to robbery and rapine would seem to allow for. “Lord knows, I don’t want in on this.”
Though Jackson can see his point, he still shrugs. “So why are you still here?”
“Well…it is my room. I ain’t about to shift.”
“Then you’ll just have to take what you get, now, won’t you?”
“…I guess.”
Yet Jackson’s never been one to allow anyone—comrade or no—to shame him into doin’ anything, let alone into not doin’ something. So: “Oh Christ, fellas, no,” Sutherland says again, a moment later, when Jackson grabs Charlie fast, pulls him down to his level and kisses him, deeply; Charlie smirks somewhat at this, but goes along with it, nevertheless. “Hot tonight, ain’t you?” he comments.
Jackson snorts. “Yeah? You’re the one took his pants off the second he got through the door, then damn well sat on me.”
Now it’s Charlie’s turn to shrug, with a particularly Princess-like toss of his tousled head. Pointing out, tart-tongued: “And you’d be the one that let me.”
Which, shit knows, is certainly true enough.
Planted shameless and spread-legged in Jackson’s similarly naked lap, astraddle him like the trick-rider he is—chaps and trousers indeed long-discarded, but his shirt’s still left at least partwise on (though open), its purple tails grazing Jackson’s sweat-slicked thighs and fanning the flames even higher. He can feel Charlie’s damp nether-fur already matting with his own, that pretty blond prick rearing up all red with effort, jouncing softly against Charlie’s hard little underbelly; knows already just how it’ll feel in his hand, too, so silky-firm and pulsing to the touch, like a newborn piglet’s stomach. Ben Wade’s notorious lieutenant, lithe and slim and anything but pliant, fair revelling in his power over Jackson—almost twice his size, by every sort of measure—in much the same way Wade so publicly revels in his power over him…
All at once, Jackson gets the twist of it like an oddly pleasurable hook set deep in his crotch, jerking him upright to grind both their cocks together and growl, into Charlie’s sweaty neck: “Aw, shit, yeah—I swear to Jesus I would cut somebody’s throat to be up inside you, right now—“
—which sets poor Sutherland to more groaning at this filthy deviant’s talk, wedged behind and a bit to the side as he is, trying to block his eyes and ears both at once in ridiculously nice fashion. But although his hips don’t slacken their motion, all Charlie gives Jackson for this revelation is that thin, mean grin they know so well from raids and such, same one says clearly: Oh, you don’t know WHAT I might do now, I just take a mind to.
“That so?” He asks, knowing full damn well it is—and gifting Jackson’s abused engorgement with a tricksy little extra squirm and pull as he does, too, pretty much purely for spite. “Well, too bad—you don’t get to do me, nobody does, not in this whole damn world…” A pause, then: “‘Cept for the boss, that is.”
“Oh, you little bastard! I’d fuck you so damn hard, you only let me. Make you see fuckin’ stars.” Adding, breathless, as Charlie smirks again, palming Jackson’s balls: “Hell, ain’t like you don’t like it that way, either, you sumbitch—there’s dogs all the way ‘cross town howl like they can hear you ‘n’ Wade, when you two really get to goin’—“
At that, Charlie laughs outright, and leans down to sleek his golden cheek ‘cross Jackson’s, like he thinks their beards might strike sparks if he just does it the right way. Murmuring: “Is that what you want, Jackson? For us to do it so loud, dogs hear?”
“I wouldn’t goddamn mind.”
And here Charlie gets an odd look in his icy wall-eyes—odder even than usual, that is. Like he’s musing on some compliment he wishes he’d gotten, instead of the one he just did; his breathing (even giving what they’re doing) gets just a hint faster, shallows out a tad, as though he’s finding it hard to keep from showing pain.
“You really must think I’m somethin’, then,” he says, finally, so quiet Jackson almost doubts he heard him right. To which Jackson throws back, his own breath harsh, pulse quickening a notch with each new word—hugging Charlie closer, and setting his own hand to work double-time between them—
“—that’s ‘cause you are, Charlie Prince. Don’t that fatuous ass even know enough to tell you so, ev’ry once in a while, at least?”
That’s a mistake, though, as he knows the exact minute he says it; Charlie’s eyes flare, and Jackson has to shift so’s he can crush him to the mattress, tighter than Charlie’s used to being constrained, just to keep him from dismounting right then and there, the way he so often does—all in one jump. While Charlie writhes and bucks, hissing in his ear:
“Don’t you dare slander Ben Wade to my face, you damn ox—“
But Jackson just pushes down the harder, kicking Charlie’s legs apart and grinding away even faster, single-mindedly—catches sight of Sutherland’s hands at discreet work in his pockets, too, even though the big sissy still wants to pretend he won’t look. And snaps back: “Well, what exactly was you plannin’ on doin’ about it if I did, Princess? ‘Cause you left your guns on the floor over there, case you was wonderin’—in the corner, along with your pants.”
Then: A huff turned snarl, an elbow in the wrong place plus a knee in somewhere worse, and they’re suddenly all of a tangle—fighting each other outright, tooth and nail, like a pissed-off cat fights a startled bear over scraps out back of some woods-bound gin-hall. Offputting, in its way, not to mention a bit more strenuous than Jackson really thought he signed on for, at the get-go; sweat’s a good grease, though, and he already knows how Charlie likes it rough. So he gets Charlie’s wrists pinned with one hand, fists both their knobs with the other, and bends down once more—narrowly avoiding Charlie’s snapping teeth, as he does—to whisper, loud and clear:
“Better not be thinkin’ of that sumbitch when I make you shoot, you damn contentious crazy-man…”
And, oh, and—Charlie’s swollen length already puffing to its limit, stiff enough to split; the agonizingly sweet slide of him on Jackson’s own poker, wet-hot as fresh-spilt blood; Charlie’s legs wound ‘round him like a sprung trap, hurtful-tight, as he bites down sharp into Jackson’s shoulder and worries at the wound. Followed by Jackson roaring out aloud at the marvelous sting of it, splashing far enough up Charlie’s naked belly to soil poor Sutherland, too; Jackson cuffing Charlie at the jaw’s hinge to shake him loose, then collapsing into Charlie’s throat in turn and sucking hard where that whorehouse necklace of his swings, hoping to bruise (or Hell, to scar). Hoping to leave a mark so red, one way or the other, that even Ben Wade might wonder at it, when next Charlie peels his neckerchief free…
Feeling Charlie stiffen, yowl like a kicked cat and come all over himself, his spent cock twitching wetly. Then let his breath out, go slack, and still have wind enough to reply:
“…can’t stop me doin’ that, you fool, no matter how you try. ‘Cause…I’m never not…”
(Thinkin’ on Wade, he means. But it ain’t like that’s anything Jackson didn’t know, deep down, already: He’ll never make Charlie Prince forget, not really. No matter what the Hell he does.)
“Didn’t expect to,” he says, equally soft—hearing Charlie sigh again, deeper, a note at the bottom of it full of something might even be regret (or very like it). And hearing Sutherland chime in, at the same time—muffled too, yet louder, and a bit more obviously satisfied than either of his current bed-mates—
“Good, great, what-the-Christ-ever—but now you’re both done, can you maybe put your damn pants back on, and get your asses outta here? There’s some of us need to sleep!”
THE END