Date: Tue, 18 Apr 2023 01:41:06 +0000
From: Shawn D.F. <shawndilf@proton.me>
Subject: Smith and Sheriff

ATTENTION! This story contains sexual content of a homosexual nature
between consenting adults who happen to be related. Everyone in this is
fictional, and if any of the activities in this story, namely sex between
men (specifically between adult men in the mid-1800s), happen to offend
you or are in violation of what your jurisdiction deems appropriate for
you to read, you should probably not continue. Feedback, suggestions, and
comments are more than welcome to be sent to shawndilf@proton.me , along
with if you enjoyed it enough to get off (love hearing that I made you
cum hard).  And I will never turn down photographic proof of your
erections or loads shot.  ;)

Thank you, and have a great day.


Also, a reminder that Nifty works off of donations. Consider dropping a
tip to Nifty if you've been dropping your pants.


Copyright 2023


Smith and Sheriff


It had been almost a month since he came to the frontier town of
Highford, but Richard Fife had found himself settling in well enough.
They needed a blacksmith, and he had needed a new life. Luckily for him,
there were always blacksmiths in demand in the new world. And the new
world tended to be the sort of place that didn't ask why a man that had
seen a score and a half was looking for a new life.

He grimaced, thinking about all the ways that he had messed up to end up
here. Only a string of fortunate references had made the journey simple
enough. The cost of bringing over most of his own tools would've beggared
him if not for the desperation that the government was facing trying to
settle the west. Even though he'd only packed a crate filled with mostly
his hammers and files, it still made a hefty load for him. There had been
all sorts of inducements advertised back home, but few men that were
skilled enough to meet them were willing to pack their entire lives away.
They usually had things like an establishment already if they needed that
load of freight, not to mention a family and a life already.

If Richard had chanced that way in life, he would've had little problem
finding a wife. He wasn't particularly tall, or tall at all if one was
being honest, but a lifetime of metalworking had left his arms thick and
corded, and his shoulders broad and strong. Most of the time, when he
wasn't garbed up in heavy hides to protect his skin from the heat of his
calling, he looked like his chest wanted to tear a shirt to shreds by how
strained they could be. His black suspenders always were stark against
the dirty white of his shirts, only matching the single good pair of
trousers he owned. The rest were just cheap sorts that he ended up
patching and mending over and over again in a riot of faded brown.

Even though he filled out his clothes well enough, there were other
reasons why he would've had his pick of women. The blacksmith's keen eyes
were a clear grey, looking out sadly under bushy red brows. The hair on
his head was still thick, and one of the few vanities he kept. He had a
wickedly sharp pair of scissors that he used to trim both it and his full
beard down to manageable levels. Ever the perfectionist, Richard tended
to do something himself if he could, and he did well enough at giving
himself something to appreciate in the mirror. Not that he had had anyone
to impress, but just as a way to give himself something to keep him from
going crazy. The blacksmith knew he was a handsome enough bloke. After
all, that is what got him in trouble back home.

He listened to the dull pounding coming from behind him as he looked out
onto the dusty street. The prairie sun was starting to set, bleaching the
colours from everything in concert with the tan film that settled onto
everything when the winds blew. It wasn't quite a drought, but this
stretch of summer definitely needed some water. His helper was
straightening nails in the back of the shop, one of the extra kids of the
preacher and the schoolmarm that needed to find a purpose in life.
Richard suspected that he wouldn't find it with a hammer in hand, since
the kid lacked the sort of discipline that he needed beaten into him
right from his father's lap. Still, cheap help was cheap help, and
Richard really didn't need an apprentice at the time. There was steady
business for one right now in a remote town, but not steady enough for
his tastes lately.

Richard shook his head, trying to keep his mind from drifting onto
different topics, and just stared out into the street, watching the
townsfolk do their thing. A few unfamiliar horses were parked out by the
shops. Not enough to make him wonder if a herd of anything was heading to
market, but enough to catch his eye. Probably a few ranchers supplying up
or the like, he figured.

"Master Richard!" A call from behind him broke him from his
contemplation, as he realized that the regular sounds of steel on the
anvil had ceased. His helper had already pulled off his leathers, and had
judged that he was done.

Richard turned and headed back into his forge. It was only slightly
warmer than the lookout, since they had killed the fires early that day.
No need to burn coal today, no need for fire. It would've worried him
more if he owed the bank anything on the shop, but it had been part and
parcel of the deal he'd made with the governor's representative. Pox had
gone through this region bad enough that there were few families left
whole, and the smithy had been foreclosed on due any claimants being
among the dead. It had been a good deal for Richard, since it had saved
him a lot of grief getting established, especially in a town like
Highford with its rail station. As it stood, he had found a place to just
sit and while away the days, bunching his heavy shoulders every time
someone needed a little bit of work. Or they needed a bone set. He was
pretty good at that too, he had to admit.

His helper was still ready to be called a man, but he had done passably
enough straightening the old nails. And without complaint, so Richard
thanked young Will, and told him to get himself home. The dark-haired
youth grinned at that he had met his master's standards on the first
call, and left quickly enough.

"Closing early today?"

A rough, deep voice came from the door, and the blacksmith knew who had
come calling. Trouble, nothing but trouble. Only one man around here had
a drawl like that, a friendly arrogant drawl that never quite revealed
exactly its origins.

"Nah, just slow enough that I don't need the boy underfoot and have
nothing to show him for a couple hours." Richard felt his brogue try and
creep out as he spoke. He tried to suppress it, to speak with the more
continental styles and not label himself where he came from, but there
were times that he had trouble with that. This was one of them, since he
needed to keep his voice level and neutral. "How can I help you today,
sheriff?"

A tall, rangy man in a dark greatcoat walked into the smithy, a
wide-brimmed rancher's hat on his head. He had it pulled low over his
eyes, the black hide shading the lawman's face from the sun. He walked
with a touch of swagger to his walk; not the bowlegged gait of a man that
had spent more than half his life in the saddle, but more of a natural
arrogance in how he held himself. For all that the smith was only a
couple years older than the man, the visitor was the sort to seem jaded
and cynical well past his years.

"I have a need for your services, my good smithy," the sheriff said,
looking him dead in the eye. There was a friendly look on his face, but
Richard hadn't figured out what sort of smile it was this day. Sheriff
Marcus Corbett had been a little too young for when he'd got the badge,
but he had also been the only survivor for year after year, ever since he
was a deputy. That had left him a hard man whose speed with a revolver
had meant that he could back up being the man that had to make the harsh
choices. He probably would've made a far better marshal than sheriff, but
a barely established county had few choices.

The man pulled from one of his coat pockets a belt with an obviously
busted buckle on it. "Think you can fix this for me?" He pulled the
buckle from the leather, and handed it over to the smith to inspect.

Richard wanted to snort, but had better sense than to express the
sentiment. The sheriff wasn't asking, he wanted that buckle fixed now.
And that was the other problem with Sheriff Corbett, was that he was
really too good at his job, so he found all sorts of ways to make it more
interesting. There were no problems with coarse lawbreakers in the town,
and few enough in the even smaller towns in the county, that was true.
But there was never a racket that this man had seen without a way to make
a dollar from it. It didn't matter what someone wanted to smuggle, what
their game was, as long as it didn't cause trouble in the county. There
were more than enough people willing to play the game of a lawman that
only cared about the sort of order that mattered to him. No murders, no
opium in the town limits, and no slaving; but as long as the town was
quiet and happy, almost anything else could be overlooked for a few
dollars. And that was exactly how a good lawman ended up getting himself
elected sheriff over many others in the county. That, and actually being
able to take care of making the paperwork get filed properly, whether it
was greased or not.

The blacksmith took the buckle, and walked over to hold it in direct
sunlight. "I can't mend pot metal," he said bluntly, tossing it back to
the lawman. The way it had fractured had told him that it was a cheap
alloy that wouldn't take being reworked in any way that would last.
"But, just give me a moment," Richard sighed, and headed to the back
corner where he kept his smaller projects.

"Here," the smith said, presenting a wide, rectangular shield of a
buckle done up with a complicated series of lines in a copy of a copy of
what had once been cribbed from Irish knotwork. "Should fit your belt
just fine, sheriff."

The sheriff took the piece, and rolled it over in his big hands a couple
times, before whistling. "That's impressive work, my good blacksmith.
What do you call this sort of design?"

Richard shrugged. "I had a book that had that sort of pattern right on
the title page. I thought it looked nice enough, and figured to try
something new." That was the truth of it, at least. The sheriff did not
need to know that it had been the only redeeming thing about a bawdy
piece of pulp that had only been readable thanks to the long, detailed
descriptions of soldiers of yore getting to know one another in the
Biblical sense.

"Didn't take you for the reading type," the sheriff said in a tone that
Richard couldn't quite place. It wasn't condescending, but there was
something in the man's words that put him on edge.

Granted, Richard had many reasons to be on alert around Marcus Corbett.
The man was easily one of the handsomest devils that Richard had ever had
the misfortune of dealing with. His dark blond hair was only matched by
his immaculate handlebar moustache, both of which seemed to always be
perfectly groomed when seen. A strong jaw gave the disarmingly pleasant
smile even more punch, and only if someone noticed that it rarely matched
the hard set of his eyes would a person know that Marcus Corbett would be
likely as not to shoot someone dead with that same smile. Still, Richard
hated to admit, they were beautiful eyes, a deep blue-green that the
sheriff's wide hat thankfully kept shaded so a poor smith couldn't get
lost in them.

Richard just shrugged his heavy shoulders. "You do now," he said,
leaving it at that.

Sheriff Corbett reached up, and took off his hat, before looking straight
into Richard's face. There wasn't any of his easy smile there any more.
"I'm sorry to have offended you, Master Fife" he said with apparent
sincerity, before biting his lip in an unconsciously uncomfortable way.
"Just name your price, and I'll be glad to pay it for such a fine piece
of work."

The redheaded smith was a little surprised that Corbett was being so
conciliatory. "Just take it with my thanks for keeping the peace," he
replied bluntly. He knew that this man could weave words almost as well
as a master politician, so he wanted to just get out of whatever game he
was playing.

Something flickered in the sheriff's eyes for a moment, before he spoke
again. "If you won't take payment, then how about a fine meal tonight
with me at Doreen's? I do hate being in debt."

Richard could hear the truth in those words. Corbett was a proud bastard,
and exactly the sort that knew who owed him as opposed to who he owed. It
fit how he ran the county to absolutely despise the idea of owing someone
else a favour. "Sure," the smith agreed. "I could use it." That part
was equally true, since Richard's diet of late had been unvaryingly
beans, pickled cabbage, and oats.

"Wonderful," the sheriff said with a laugh that Richard could've sworn
sounded genuine. "Meet me there around sundown. That'll give me time to
make sure the deputies know their duties, and a quick wash to make sure
that Madame Doreen doesn't refuse our request." He started whistling a
jaunty tune as he headed towards the hitching post, leaving Richard alone
in his blacksmith's shop not knowing what the hell just happened.

The blacksmith blinked a couple times, before shaking his head. The loss
of one of his project buckles was a small price to pay for being on the
sheriff's good side. There wasn't much sale for them, with most of the
ranchers and townsmen preferring something utilitarian than the cost of
craftsmanship. But, he considered, that if anyone tried to compliment the
sheriff on his new belt buckle, that that trustworthy-as-a-fox looking
son of a bitch would almost certainly tell them where he got it. And that
maybe some of that patronage would actually pay full price for something
that he made special.

"I guess I better go wash up too," he said as he pulled his own leather
apron off to hang it on its hook. Even though he didn't frequent the
establishment, he was aware of the sort of place that they were going to.
The best meals in town came out of that kitchen, the best spirits were
served by her bartender, and the best beds were available to those with
the coin for the rest. The only thing that was asked besides the
exorbitant fees such services cost in a place beyond the edge of
civilization, was that her clientele didn't come in stinking of rank
sweat and the range.

Even if you weren't going to frequent her prostitutes, the madame wanted
everyone under her roof to be hygienic. No exceptions, even for the
guests of special customers.

* * *

"That was beyond good," the lawman said as he leaned back in the padded
chair, before belching loudly.

The smith agreed wholeheartedly. The potatoes and beef in gravy had been
fantastic, and even the turnips had melted in his mouth. He hadn't had a
meal this good since he left the isles. And he had to admit, that the
company had made a nice change as well.

He took a swig of the house's birch beer from the large tankard that had
been brought for him. It sparkled in his mouth, strong and sweet. It also
helped hide the smile he felt creeping onto his face at seeing the
usually implacable sheriff in a more relaxed state. Surprisingly, Corbett
had made good conversation, and the smith quickly found himself disarmed
by the easy charm that poured out of the tall blond man. He had become a
lot less formal behind closed doors, insisting that he be called by his
given name, as befit someone on friendly terms.

It hadn't taken long for Richard to realize that the sheriff didn't
really get to enjoy a friendly night too often. He knew that the madame
fed him for free most nights, in exchange for their mutual maintenance in
keeping the town working smooth, but he doubted that if the man was
eating in the private room every night. Maybe when there was someone
important that needed plying, someone with more clout than a frontier
blacksmith to deserve hard liquor be poured into him to make a better
deal.

A young woman dressed in simple but clean clothes came to collect their
plates. She was a young beauty, with tightly curled ringlets that were
tied back behind her head and impeccable manners. If Richard had been
built differently, he might've asked her price for the night. Even as it
was, he gave a quick glance at her backside, a learned action to hide his
proclivities.

"She's got a nice arse," the lawman agreed, noting his companion's
gaze. "But you should see young Lewis. I'd give anything to know who's
frequenting that one. He's so pretty, I wouldn't bet that half of them
think he's really a maid."

The blacksmith felt his cheeks burning at the thought. He was sure that
they were almost the same colour as his beard at that point. "None of my
business, there," he said quickly.

"Mine either," Corbett agreed. He sat back, arms draped back over the
arms of his chair. His light grey shirt was only loosely buttoned up to
his chest, with hints of dark golden hair catching the light every once
in a while as he relaxed in the chair. The black vest that he had
loosened for comfort hung easily on him, a little bit more dress than was
really required for an evening meal, but it also gave him a good place to
keep the badge that he never really had to brandish to get his way. It
hadn't gone unnoticed that the sheriff's new buckle glinted merrily from
its perch atop his clean black trousers.

Even with his cleanest shirt and good trousers on, Richard definitely
felt out of place. He always wore his suspenders, but for some reason, he
felt self conscious of them in the dark-stained wood room with its
unexpected class. His good flat cap and brown leather jacket hung by the
door, alongside the sheriff's black greatcoat and his rancher's hat. He
raised his half-filled tankard in a mock toast. "To minding your own
business," he laughed before the blond brought his own up in clink
together, then draining it quickly.

He chuckled hard before burping again. "I'd say we should get another
round of drinks, but I have an accord with Doreen that I won't get drunk
on her premises. I can't be seen creating a scene when I'm the man that
tells his men to step on other men making a scene, I hope you
understand."

The blacksmith understood entirely why he was being dismissed. He had
been enjoying the evening, not just because of the meal. It had been a
rare pleasure to have such good company, let alone company so easy on his
eyes. It had made a lot of things float close to the surface of his mind.
Dangerous things. Things about how fluidly the sheriff had moved when
getting to his feet, and how that man's hair had just enough pomade in it
to keep him looking like a dream but not enough to look foppish.

"I understand entirely," he voiced, hoping that he was keeping the
resentment veiled from his words. "I usually just take my own shine jug
to bed so nobody else has to deal with me."

Corbett raised a brow at that. "Well then," he said in his easy drawl,
"I'd say that I'd better share some of my whiskey stash before I let a
decent man subject himself to that."

* * *

After being led to the back of the courthouse, Richard had almost thought
that he was being taken to the hoosegow. Until he remembered that the
sheriff lived on top of the courtrooms, not in the jail that was next
door. The taller man led the way through the darkness, pausing only to
pick up a lamp and light it before going up the stairs.

"I usually don't make a point of sharing my whiskey," he said as he
rummaged through a large crate in the corner of his home. Coming up with
a dark bottle, he picked a pair of tumblers off the bookcase beside him,
and slammed them all on the table. The comment was made without
expectation of response, as it seemed that the sheriff was prone to just
stating things like that.

Richard didn't say anything as he took a seat at the small table that was
in the middle of the mess. There was an unexpected amount of chaos to
Marcus Corbett's lair, from clothes hung from the rafters, to books and
maps strewn across a large desk and being held down with boxes of bullets
and other random items. Instead, he just picked up the bottle. The label
said it was rye whiskey, which definitely beat the moonshine that he kept
by his own bed. The smith pulled the stopper and poured them both a
finger to start while his host dragged his desk chair to the table.

It didn't take long for them to fall back into their easy discussions,
which became a touch rowdier as they felt the spirits begin to show in
the flush of their cheeks. It made it a lot harder for the smith to
ignore how handsome the man whose quarters he was getting drunk in really
was. A man, Richard had to remind himself, that had a loaded gun, the
temper to use it, and the means to make sure that he would never suffer
the consequences.

"You got quiet, Richard," the blond lawman said with a lazy smile as he
scratched idly at his chest. Even after a night of food, drink, and
sociability, his big handlebar seemed unwilted.

"I just was wondering how you keep that moustache so prim," he
admitted.

"That's my secret," the blond said with a finger to the side of his
nose. Then, with a quick chuckle, he added, "Wax, pine resin, and seed
oil. I owe you that much for the buckle, but my exact personal recipe is
going to the grave with me."

The smith laughed deeply at that. He understood professional secrets
entirely. "You don't have to worry, sheriff. I won't try and steal your
formula. Just curious, that's all."

"Richard," the sheriff said with a warm grin that reached his eyes,
"you don't need to be so formal. Friends can be familiar, after all."

"Well, I'm glad to be friends," Richard said, taking back another shot
of whiskey. He hiccuped once, then tried to stand up. "I think I need to
use the outhouse's courthouse," he stated as he steadied himself.

That set Marcus to howling as Richard realized what he said, and then
they were both laughing. "I think you have it right," the blond said
gasping, "But I think we better take you out back and you can piss on
the wall rather than try to aim."

Richard didn't disagree, so they went out back and both ended up leaving
a puddle to mark where they'd been that night. He willed himself to keep
his mind on the task, and his eyes straight ahead as he relieved himself
under the moonlight. To his side, he could hear the heavy stream of his
blond friend, and it took every inch of his willpower not to look to his
right, even as he shook himself dry a few extra times before tucking
himself back in. "I can't believe I just pissed on the courts," he said
as they headed back up the stairs. He tripped over the last step up, and
ended up flat on his face.

"I think you're drunk, Richard Fife."

Richard got to his knees, and turned around. Marcus had a big, drunken
grin on his face as he extended a hand to the stocky man. "I think you
got me drunk, Sheriff Corbett."

"I told you," Marcus said as he helped Richard up, "use my name. Be
friendly."

The smith was very aware that the taller blond man was still standing
very close to him. The room seemed like it was getting warmer, and he was
suddenly aware of the rough cloth of his shirt against his shoulders. He
put a hand on Marcus' arm, trying to steady himself. "I think I need to
sit down," he said quietly. His mind tried to scream something at him,
but Richard was barely listening to anything but his own instincts of
self-preservation.

Wordlessly, the sheriff led him over to a seat. It must've been a sofa or
something, Richard thought, since the big blond man had sat down next to
him. "Are you alright, Rich? If you're going to be sick, I'm sorry for
pushing."

"I'm not that drunk," Richard laughed at his new friend's concern.
"Just nice and solidly enough to enjoy life, and not enough to be
sick." He leaned into the arm that Marcus had slung around his shoulder.
It felt nice and warm. "You're warm," he said without thinking.

"I'm drunk too," the other man admitted. He shifted a bit, letting
Richard dip deeper against his chest, and looked down at the smith's
bearded face. The blacksmith's massive shoulders were heavy against him,
and he could feel both of their skins were damp with sweat from the way
that their clothes were catching. He realized as he shifted himself that
they must've been sitting on Marcus' bed. That seemed important for some
reason, but he couldn't figure out why.

The redhead couldn't keep his eyes away from the blond's. Even in the
flickering oil-light, the sheriff's blue-green eyes seemed deep and
magical. But unlike when he walked the streets, there was a soft warmth
there, paired with a starry glitter that made Richard wonder if he could
ever come back from losing himself in them. "How drunk are you?" The
stocky smith laughed as he asked it, not understanding why he found it so
funny that this man had wasted good rye trying to get him plastered.

Marcus Corbett answered that question the only way that he could in that
moment. With one arm, he helped raise up the big blacksmith even as he
brought his face down. The night seemed to slow as Richard felt the tall
lawman's hot breath against him, the sensation almost scalding in those
seconds where they hovered a finger width part. And then, it felt like
lightning coursed through the burly man's veins as he felt the
whiskey-spiced tongue invade his mouth, and everything in the world lost
meaning.

It had been too long since Richard had known the touch of another man. He
had grown adept at satisfying himself, whether it be through some of the
worn-paged pulp books he had brought with him from the Empire proper, or
of images in his own lustful mind. Neither of which compared to the
strong, warm hands that were supporting him while he tried to match the
long kiss that he was receiving. He leaned into the lean body, feeling
the hard muscles of his body, even as he could feel something
disturbingly large and hard dig into the small of his back. It thrilled
the stocky man, making him curse in ecstasy as he tried process every
feeling at once.

After what felt like an eternity, Marcus released their kiss, and smiled
at him with a cockeyed smirk. "I'm drunk enough to do that, but not so
drunk that I regret it," he said without hesitation.

"I'm glad, cause I'm about the same," Richard said in a hushed voice.
Even here, alone with a very attractive man who had the same intentions,
it was hard to break habits.

"Good, 'cause I was hating the idea of locking you up if you wanted to
leave. Can't let you walk home drunk, after all." There was good humour
in Marcus' voice, but the blacksmith wasn't sure how much of a joke it
was. He didn't care. He had realized through the evening that the sheriff
had a very pointed and bleak sense of humour at times. It suited him, a
razor's edge as sharp and beautiful as it was dangerous.

"I can't let you walk home without clothes, either," the sheriff
continued, helping his new friend back to a standing position. He put one
of his big hands on the front of Richard's trousers, feeling the
throbbing hardness that was trapped within with a soft squeeze.

The smith gave a shy smile, not used to the situation. Usually, he had
gotten his relief in a less formal setting. Just two men getting a quick
coupling together, and going their separate ways as soon as they were
spent. This felt completely different to him, thrilling and wrong-footing
him in equal measures. He glanced down at the taller man's crotch, and
saw that the other man was showing at least as much arousal through his
own garments. He also saw exactly why he had felt such a stiff,
unyielding hardness in his back earlier. "I think you should take off
your gun before I undress you, Sheriff Corbett."

To his credit, Marcus had been caught up in trying to determine whether
he was making a mistake or not that night, that he had forgotten that
step. He stepped back for a moment, undoing his holster and putting it
next to the oil-lamp on his table.

"I told you," he said with a deep growl filled with hot lust, "call me
Marcus." As he returned to Richard, he began to quickly unbutton the
worn shirt after helping his shrug off his suspenders. "I want to hear
you say my name, my big hairy blacksmith," he continued in that low
voice that promised pleasure as he revealed the breadth of Richard's
massive chest. It was covered in a thick layer of coarse red hair that
almost left ripples in the wake of the sheriff's fingers.

"Oh, Marcus," the stocky man moaned as he felt the taller man's fingers
pinch his nipples. Forcing himself not to just give into the sensation,
Richard began to unbutton the other man's shirt. The vest with its
glittering badge had disappeared earlier in the night when they'd come
back. He wasn't sure when, and he was certain that the shirt had been
buttoned up higher when they were at Doreen's, but the blacksmith
couldn't focus on that. He could only clumsily undo what felt like an
endless number of puzzles to pull the white shirt free and toss it on top
of his own on the back of a chair.

For his trouble, Richard was rewarded with a chest that was at least as
hairy as his own. A thick pelt of fine blond hair coated what seemed like
every inch of Marcus. His shoulders and arms weren't nearly as large as a
smith's, but they were still hard with the rangy muscle of a man that
rode himself through life hard. It made him think of a wolf, a sleek and
deadly form that still held all the beauty of the natural world in its
feral form. He let his hands roam around to the back of the taller man,
and brought them close again in a rough embrace. "You're amazing," he
murmured before letting himself be lost in another long kiss.

"You're the most beautiful man to step off that damned train for a long
time, Richard Fife," Marcus said softly as he began to undo the ties of
the other man's pants. "When that deputy brought you in from the
station, it took a lot of willpower to keep from making a mess right in
my drawers looking at you. Making small talk with you every few days,
trying to feel you out..." He broke off his lusty talk suddenly,
"Please, untie that damned knot you put there. I can't figure out what
you tied with this much rye in me," he looked into his friend's eyes
with equal parts heat and frustration.

"Your drawl gets stronger when you're drunk," Richard noted as he tried
to undo the knot in his trousers. As he did so, he heard the heavy clunk
of the lawman's buckle drag his pants to the floor with its weight.
Luckily, he had more success than his companion did, and soon they were
both standing in just their drawers. It left little to the imagination,
especially as the smith reached over and began to massage the thick,
menacing tent that had formed in the worn shorts.

Marcus shuddered in pleasure as he felt the other man's immeasurably
strong grip begin to milk his hardness through the cloth. "So does
yours," he forced himself to respond to the earlier statement, aware
that he was quickly losing the ability to focus on anything but the
muscled manflesh that was standing almost unclothed in his private
quarters.

They gave into another long kiss, this time Richard taking the initiative
and forcing his thick tongue into Marcus's mouth. He ended up pushing
them back onto the bed, their legs tangled in their trousers, the bed
creaking at the strain of two large men suddenly putting their weight
onto it. The redhead pressed his stocky body deep into Marcus', feeling
their still covered erections duel with each other in the throes of
complete excitement. He humped himself deeply into Marcus' groin as they
continued to kiss, before finally drawing back. As he drew in a deep
breath to steady himself, he was aware that the room was slowly starting
to smell of their musk. Both of them had been sweating from a combination
of the hot night and the whiskey that they had found their courage with,
and now the air itself was stained with their intentions. The smell of
clean sweat was heavy in the air, along with a slow, growing current of
the heavy scent that a man produced when he was aroused.

"Take your boots off," the smith breathed as he reached down to get his
own gone. He worked quickly, eager to ensure that there was nothing
between them at all. Every inch of the fabric of society had already been
removed from between them, letting them view their intentions clearly and
without issue, so it was only fitting that there be nothing between their
flesh either.

The stocky redhead almost hissed in relief as he pulled his drawers down
and threw them aside, like his trousers and boots before that. He had
been blessed by a thick slab of meat, nearly thick as his friend's wrist,
six and a half inches of solid, veiny length. Two large orbs hung
beneath, heavy and low in a sac covered in the same coarse red hair that
covered the rest of him. It stuck out ramrod straight, drooling his sweet
sap from a head the same diameter as his shaft, half-covered by his thick
foreskin even in full arousal.

"Dear Lord," Marcus swore as he gazed upon the angrily flush cock of
his new friend. He hadn't known what to expect of the shorter man, but it
turned out that his softspoken blacksmith was more like a bull than
anything. He reached over, and began to fondle the massive testicles that
seemed to fit the rest of the burly man's physique. Marcus wasn't
disappointed by the groan of pleasure that escaped Richard's lips, nor
when it only took Richard a second afterwards to begin stroking his own
hardness.

The sheriff's piece was much like the man himself. Rigid and tall, it
stood at least seven and a half inches proud. The hood had fully pulled
back during arousal, but it moved easily as the smith began to pump the
shaft with his fist. The blond man's piece wasn't quite as thick as the
redhead's, but it was still girthy enough not to disappoint the shorter
man, and he enjoyed the feeling of how the soft, golden hair continued
almost halfway up the shaft. He particularly liked how large and swollen
the man's cockhead was, red and angry from the lust that had taken them
both. The blond's balls were similarly covered in the almost invisible
blond hair that was almost invisible in the wrong light, and wonderfully
fuzzy to the touch.

They continued like that for a while, wordlessly breathing hard as they
sat facing each other on the bed. There were no words necessary for what
they knew in those moments, only raw instinct. It didn't matter that
outside of this room, there could be consequences for their actions. It
didn't matter that Marcus needed to couch his intentions in such a
roundabout way, nor that Richard had tried to bury every time his mind
had tried to tell him to give into his attractions. All that mattered was
that they were two men in the prime of their lives, alone with each
other, and able to give each other exactly what their hearts desired.

The sheriff broke their silence first. "Would you think less of me if I
said that I want to taste you?" He got his answer even before the words
were out of his lover's throat from the sudden jump of the redhead's cock
in his hand, along with a glob of his juice erupting from the swollen
head.

"Only if you didn't share yourself with me," Richard heard himself
rumble the words in the deep brogue that he usually tried to keep out of
his voice. But, like Marcus, he found that the spirits had loosened their
tongues in more than one way.

The sheriff pulled him down against mattress, and they continued in a
long, leisurely kiss as they lay entwined. Even as their hands groped
fervently at each other, every moment was savoured as they continued on
it their exploration. Richard found no words for what they were doing
besides a wordless groan into his lover's hungry mouth. And when Marcus
withdrew himself, he could only find himself wracked by sudden
anticipation as the tall man tried to rotate himself so they were
opposite.

"Oh, Marcus," repeated the smith as he felt the blond man's hungry
mouth envelope his manhood. The hot, wet maw that had brought him
pleasure through its lashing tongue was now bobbing up and down his
shaft, eagerly accepting the challenge of his girth. The redhead's breath
was caught in his throat as he felt the lawman's immaculate handlebar
mash into the ruddy tangle at the base of his cock. It was all he could
to do breathe. It was all he could do to be gentle as he began to nurse
at the turgid, dripping piece of meat that was right in front of his
face.

Sheriff Corbett moaned his appreciation as he felt the blacksmith begin
to suck him with equal gusto. Both of them were absorbed in their tasks,
enjoying the feeling of another man surrendering himself to an equal.
Enjoying the heady taste of the sweet syrup that was spewing from their
cocks as proof of how aroused they were. Enjoying the feeling of heavy,
hairy muscle that wasn't their own under them, hot and sweaty against
their own mature bodies.

"Marcus," the smith gasped as he pulled free from their hypnotically
blissful coupling, "I'm close," he warned.

"Are you able to go twice in a night?" The blond man asked the question
with a hunger underlining his deep voice. "Because I would love to taste
your deepest seed, but I also don't want tonight to end just yet."

"Yes!" The smith almost hissed the words eagerly. "At least twice on a
randy night. Maybe more."

"Thank heaven," the blond swore quickly, "because I'm almost ready to
spew my first." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Marcus
dove back to this task, and began to suck at the blacksmith's cock like a
man possessed. With one hand, he began to knead the massive, hairy nuts,
while the other milked at the base of his shaft as the blond brought his
head down in deep strokes.

Richard groaned even as he returned to Marcus' dripping cock and began to
devour it. He wanted nothing else at that moment but to bring his lover
to completion. He could feel the urge to breed the bigger man's face
brewing, even as his weights began to draw up in anticipation. From the
shallow panting that he could hear his lover make around the cock in his
mouth, he knew that Marcus was almost as close as he was. The smith began
to massage the hairy blond balls with one big hand, frantically aware of
how close he was to completion.

Marcus' voice rumbled loudly through the smith's body even as Richard
felt his mouth fill with shot after shot of heavy seed. The man's essence
was hot and sticky in his mouth, a heavy thickness in consistency to
match the strong taste that washed over the burly blacksmith's tongue. He
devoured it eagerly, almost unable to swallow quickly enough as nearly a
dozen large spurts filled his cheeks with the proof of the man's
virility.

He was so aroused by everything about the moment, that nearly as soon as
when he tasted the first blast of the sheriff's load into his mouth,
Richard began to cum himself. He bucked his cock deep into Marcus' mouth,
almost gagging him even as he felt nine massive blasts of seed loose from
his rock-hard shaft. They both were lost in their debauchery to the point
that only when they found their flesh beginning to soften did they find
their wits and voices again.

"That was like sucking on a shotgun," Marcus said with a surprisingly
boyish enthusiasm as he crawled back to lay next to the blacksmith
properly. His handlebar moustache was finally dishevelled, for the first
time that Richard had ever seen, and a trail of his white seed ran from
underneath the bushy blond hair down the side of his cheek.

"You missed some of the buckshot," Richard chuckled as he swiped his
tongue up Marcus' cheek and lapped it up before sharing it in their first
post-coital kiss.

"Damn," the lawman swore as they finished trying to dig out any stray
spunk from each other's mouth with their tongues, "I don't know what's
more unbelievable; how amazing that was, or that I think I might like the
taste of your batter over my own."

That made the blacksmith giggle for some reason. He would've never
expected to hear those words out of the mouth of the man that he swore
had been the offspring of a rifle and wolverine. "I think I've got the
same question, Marcus Corbett, but I think I need to taste your seed some
more to come to an answer."

"I told you," the sheriff growled playfully, "You can call-" Marcus
caught himself in a snort before he finished the sentence, and quickly
caught his mistake, "-call me Marcus. You don't need to use my full
name." He managed to dig an arm under the stocky man and draw him into a
deep hug.

"I'll call you Marcus like this," Richard whispered, "but I don't want
anyone to wonder why I'm calling you anything but Sheriff Corbett after
this night is done."

"You worry too much," the blond man snorted. "Madame Doreen, the
apothecary, ol' Finn at the saloon, they all use my name to my face. They
know that it shows that I've got their respect and they have mine. It's a
bit of a soft power, since the rest know that if they dared call me
familiar like, that I'd pistol-whip them into a cell for it."

"Alright," Richard said thoughtfully. He knew he wasn't going to win
this fight, so he added another word, "Marcus." He could see that there
were going to be fights he wasn't going to win, and not just because
Marcus was a scary piece of work when he set his mind to it, but because
he was so pig-headedly ornery about some things that backing down was the
better part of valour.

"Just don't call me Marc. I knew a Mark, and I hated that little prick
like nothing else. Daddy thought he'd name me after a Roman emperor or
something, so I better well honour his wishes." He paused for a moment,
realizing something. "I know I called you Rich, but if you don't like
it, just tell me and I'll stop. I like the sound of when you use my name,
so I figure that track might run both ways."

Richard nuzzled his head deep into the sheriff's neck. "I'm fine with
Rich. My boyhood friends used to do that, so I think it's nice to hear
someone else use it."

"Good," Marcus said as he stroked the smith's rust-coloured hair. "I
would hate to make you put up with something just because I thought it
sweet."

The smith made a contented sound. "I think it's sweet. You're sweet too,
Marcus." It was the truth, Richard realized as the words left his lips.
Marcus was a bit like an onion, and once someone peeled away the layers
of cynicism, arrogance, and harshness, there was a wonderful and
tender-hearted man that few would ever get to see.

The tall blond had a similar sound rumble out of his chest. "Nobody has
ever called me sweet before," he said quietly as they lay together. The
lawman was quickly aware of how their sweat was drying on their bare
skin, so he managed to pull the blanket out from under them and cover
them both. Both of the men were very aware of how protective his motions
and actions were in that moment, and they both realized then and there
how right it felt the way that their bodies fit together.

They stayed that way for a while, enjoying the quiet warmth of each other
by the guttering lamplight, and speaking on a variety of topics. They
shared a couple more drinks to help them relax a bit further, which led
to more of their kissing and exploration.

"My beautiful blacksmith," Marcus said softly as he gently stroked the
smith's chin and beard.

"My studly sheriff," Richard said, his smile only getting broader. He
didn't want to think about what those possessive words meant to his
heart.

"I may play stud for you, if you keep saying things like that," came
the words in the hungry growl that Marcus used when his mind was filled
with lust. "Would you like that, my big bull? Would you care to be
mounted?"

Richard's breath almost shook as he exhaled. He nearly made a mess right
there, his cock untouched, from the thought. "Only you," he said
simply. And he knew it was true as he said it. Richard had never really
been interested in being the one taken before, but his mind spun with the
need to feel the rangy blond man in every way he could before the night
was out.

The sheriff left the bed and came back with a small jar of oil. The scent
wasn't unpleasant, Richard thought, as Marcus begun to slick up his pole.
Idly, his mind told him that it was probably the seed oil that he used to
mix with wax for his moustache. At his lover's direction, Richard lay
down on the edge of the bed, and let the taller man begin to slowly work
the lubricant in his hole.

"You're like me, hairy all over," Marcus chuckled as he felt how
eagerly the blacksmith's big arse accepted his intentions.

"Yours is nicer, gold like the sun," Richard said as he looked at the
handsome man. He had always preferred golden hair, even on the rare
occasions where he thought of a woman instead of a man, but he had never
dreamed a man like Marcus. Even with his hair sweat-dampened, his
moustache drooping, he was still a beautiful bastard with the most
amazing eyes he had ever seen.

"I like your copper better." As he said that, Marcus was rewarded by a
moan as he slipped a second finger inside of his lover. It was obvious
that only his force of will was what was keeping his steady preparatory
pace, from the way that he kept looking at the naked smith with so many
blazing thoughts apparent on his features. He ran one hand up Richard's
hard belly, stroking the flesh that was as powerfully muscled as any
bull, feeling every strand of that thick red pelt that had contributed so
much as to why he could feel his leakage continually drip down his shaft.

He continued up to three of his big fingers, slowly working them in and
out of the stocky man's hairy hole, even as he began to slowly milk the
redhead's thick cock with his left. All through it, he kept voicing how
hard he was for the blacksmith, how all those work-hardened muscles were
driving him crazy, and how he didn't know if he found the man's rugged
face or incredible cock more pleasing to behold.

The stocky man drew up his legs a bit further as he felt Marcus move into
position. There was little that he could do besides curse in anticipation
at how tantalizingly slow everything seemed to be. He could feel his
blond stud's manhood poke against his entrance as Marcus reached down to
guide himself. And as he felt the big head of the sheriff's cock begin to
slide into him, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Every part of the stocky redhead's body was screaming its anticipation of
this, and through it all, he couldn't break his gaze from those
blue-green eyes. He gave into every feeling he had, the whiskey and his
own eagerness helping make it an easy motion as much as the slick oil.

"Damn," the blond swore as he felt his big head pass the ring. It had
been too long since he had let someone take care of a man's needs. His
indulgences with whores had been few and far between, and he had never
given in to urge to lay with one of the occasional pretty boys that would
service deviants. He had never wanted that, he had only wanted to lay
with someone that he could see as he did himself. Someone that was
equally hard-formed by the world and who understood the rough desires
that coursed through his veins.

They soon fell into primal grunting and moaning as they found a rhythm
that brought them both their desires. The big redhead's legs were almost
pinned to his chest as Marcus bent him further to give them both the
pleasure of every inch of his prick. The blond's hair had fallen over his
brow, and drips of sweat found their way down the side of his face to
hang perilously on his jaw before falling onto the sea of hair. Almost
like before, their faces held so close to each other that they could not
look at anything else, even if they wished. Not that either had any
interest in anything but the other. Marcus' lust-drunk grin was painted
with almost boyish excitement, and his usually hard eyes were
appreciative of the open-mouthed ecstasy that dominated Richard's bearded
face.

As Marcus' pace quickened, Richard knew that his lover was close. Neither
of them seemed capable of speaking with reason in their haze, but it
didn't seem necessary. Even with the sheriff's body keeping his own cock
trapped and out of reach, the shocks of pleasure that the tall man was
delivering to his guts with every thrust was more than enough for him. He
reached up, and grabbed the back of the blond's head, drawing him in
closer so they could taste their desire again.

The bolt of excitement was just enough to set off the lawman's trigger,
and he slammed his body hard into the bulky man as he unloaded every shot
in his barrel into that tight passage. Again and again, he tried to drive
himself deeper, caring only that he was marking this big red bull with
his essence, knowing that this was what he craved. He felt his sweaty
limps shudder with his climax, and the mindless roars of his rut were
muted only by the hot mouth of his man.

Such a powerful reaction only drove the blacksmith over his own edge, and
he matched every primal grunt with his own as Richard felt his own climax
be set off by pulsing prong deep inside his flesh. His eyes rolled back
in his head as he felt the rock-hard tool become even thicker, and then
he could feel it unload wave after wave of hot seed deep inside him.
Untouched, his own prick began to spurt against his hairy torso, trapped
by the body of the lanky man that was giving him the best of nights. The
smith could feel his hole tighten with every jet, making the taller man
groan further as their pleasure was magnified at the height.

Marcus collapsed onto the shorter man, so spent that he could do nothing
more than pant. After he recovered his senses, he straightened himself,
and with a wince, withdrew his still sensitive flesh from his lover.
"Hold still," he muttered, reaching for one of the rags he used to
clean his sidearm. Hocking a wad of spit into it, he gave Richard's
trench a quick wipe before taking care of himself.

As the blacksmith rearranged himself on the mattress with a sigh that
signalled intense satisfaction, his companion quickly joined him after
tossing the rag. Even though it was decently sized bed, it was still
cramped for the bodies of two grown men. "Roll over," Marcus whispered,
and as soon as his lover did so, he quickly wrapped his long limbs around
the shorter man, holding his close as life.

With the blanket on top of them, it seemed like all the world was far
away from this warm, soft refuge. Richard was quietly appreciative as he
felt the other man's big hands slowly stroke the hair of his chest.
"I've never wanted anything like this before," the blond sighed as he
tightened his grip on the stocky redhead.

"I never dared," the smith confessed.

With a pleased snort, Marcus continued. "I know that that some day I'll
have to leave this place, either in a coffin or to greener pastures.
Always thought I'd go find some pretty thing, take that account swollen
with my ill-gotten gains, and go play at being a respectable man far away
from here."

Richard felt his heart become heavy as lead at those words. He had known
in his soul that a few hours of happiness was more than he deserved in a
lifetime, but the price of this night was higher than he imagined it
could ever be. "Sometimes a man needs a fresh start," he said, trying
to keep his voice steady. He hadn't cried since he was a lad, but at that
moment, it felt like a wasp had lanced his heart with its stinger.

He felt the blond man's arms loosen a bit, his hands still on his chest.
"Rich..." he said slowly, almost woodenly.

"Please, Marcus. Don't." The smith felt the emotion in his voice,
crackling with sudden pain. He couldn't finish his thoughts. He didn't
want to admit that he had felt a lifetime of happiness with this man in a
single evening, and that it was time he went back to finding solace only
in dog-eared books and moonshine.

"Richard..." The stocky man felt a shake at his shoulder, but didn't
want to acknowledge it. Instead, he slid himself down the bed and made to
free himself of the taller man's body.

"It's alright. I can-"

"Richard Fife, you sit your arse down in my bed right now!" There was a
sudden fierce heat in the sheriff's voice, the sort of steel that made a
man sit down, shut up, and listen to why he was now a dead man. He forced
the stocky smith to face him, and looked him dead in the eye. There was a
fire still burning in those blue-green eyes of his, with what wasn't
quite rage flushing his cheeks. No, his moustache twitched even in its
droopage, bristling with frustration. "I am not making you walk the
streets this close to midnight, not tonight or any other night," he
finished almost biting off the words forced through gritted teeth.

"But-" There were so many things that Richard wanted to say. How both
of them could end up hung in a makeshift gallows, how it had been bad
enough once before for him. But he never got a chance to.

"I know exactly what you're thinking, and I can't guarantee you
happiness here or anywhere else," the blond man grabbed one of the
blacksmith's gnarled mitts in both his hands, "But I also know better
than to disobey the instincts that have always guided me down the best
path in creation."

He stood up suddenly, and turned his back to the bewildered smith. "Look
at this," he ordered, holding one hand on a massive, jagged scar that
crossed nearly half of his rump. "The first and last time I didn't
listen to what the world was telling me, I got a warning right there.
Could've died if he wasn't so stupid and such a bad shot, nearly would've
if it got infected, but I'll never let anyone try something like that
again to me."

The big-shouldered redhead didn't know what to say to that. He could only
nod as his friend sat down next to him again, and looked at him with deep
concern. "I didn't think I was wrong when I thought about why you were
such a humble man and so shy in your ways. I didn't think I was wrong
when I noticed that you didn't try and bribe me once for a favour. I
didn't think I was wrong when I figured out a way to see you alone like
this. And I don't think I'm wrong now when I say that the reason your
heart is racing is the same reason my own does."

"The fact is, is that all men get precious few chances in life. I've
been blessed that my whole future is already paid for, no matter what it
might be, because I took the right chances. Fought the right fights. And
every time, I knew that it was only a moment of opportunity, a split
second where my life would change forever based on what I said."

Richard didn't know what to say to that. His head was swimming with the
impact of that statement, wondering if maybe he needed to listen to
himself that way. It was almost always the way his life had gone, to take
the safest path and just work at it with all his heart. The only times he
had gambled on which fork in the road, they had always turned out wrong.
"You... I-" He felt the words get trapped on his tongue, not wanting to
say them out loud. He knew that if he kept them in his mind, he might be
able to deny them enough that one day, he wouldn't dwell on them.

Seeing that he needed to be a little more blunt, Marcus simply grabbed
his lover and planted a rough and deep kiss on him. Feeling the broad
shoulders against his body relax and acquiesce to his intention, he let
the smith's short beard rub against his own incoming stubble for a long
moment before drawing back again. "I'm not nearly as drunk now for that,
and I'm never going to regret it," he said with an almost amused
finality.

"It's like taking a shot from a train," he added. "On horseback, you
can ride around and maybe get another chance, but you can't stop the
train no matter what. You get one moment, one perfect second where you
can look down the sights and take it. And if you screw it up, you can't
go back." Marcus sighed deeply, shaking his head. "I know it's a lot to
ask of you, to trust me when you've had so many more times where you've
seen the sort of man that I can be. But I wouldn't ask this of you if
every fibre of my being wasn't drawn to you like a compass needle, and I
hope that you can trust that I'm a man of my word and would never put
scars on you, body or soul."

The light from the oil-lamp had been growing steadily dimmer, flickering
as the reservoir remained unfilled. Richard wondered if it was a trick of
the light that made the sheriff look almost boyish with that sad, hopeful
smile on his face. He decided against it, there was just too much honesty
and raw emotion there. "I'm really bad at making the right choice," he
said slowly, hearing his voice crack with the effort of forcing out those
words. It seemed like the blond man was petrified as he waited for that
slow sentence to end, and Richard felt almost guilty that he was making
him wait that way. "So I might need you to help me make the right ones a
lot."

For the first time in his life, Richard Fife knew he had made the right
choice. He knew it immediately as he felt the hardest, most dangerous man
he had ever met collapse against him with relief. He felt calmer now,
more focused now that he dared chance something that he had believed
could never happen to a man like him. And when Marcus straightened
himself up, and looked at him with eyes bright with emotion, he knew
immediately that every single word that the infamous sheriff had said to
him had been brutally true.

As the oil-light finally burned out, they sat there in the darkness, only
a touch of moonlight through the window to make them more than shadows in
that messy loft. For a long time, they didn't need words, only the quiet
acceptance that came when a man made a hard choice in exchange for the
promise of high reward.

"So what happens now?" Richard finally said the words, not knowing what
else to say.

"I'll figure it out," Marcus promised, his usual confidence filling his
soft drawl.

Even though he couldn't see it clearly, Richard could tell that there was
a self-satisfied smirk on the sheriff's face. "You already have a
plan," he said in a low voice.

"Not quite, but I think I can get there," came the reply. There was an
intense satisfaction there. "There's more than one way to make an idea
work, especially if I have someone else to consider too."

"Do plan everything?" The smith didn't know what made him say that, but
it came out a lot harsher than he expected.

"Actually, no," his lover said with a serious tone. "I was hoping I
might get the feel of you, maybe give you a tumble if I was lucky enough,
but with God as my witness, now and forever, I never thought I'd fall in
love with anyone. Especially not over dinner." He leaned in, and rubbed
his cheek against the stocky man's bearded one before continuing. "But
don't ask me how many times I had to try to break that stupid buckle,"
he added under his breath, almost to himself.

The burly redhead could feel Marcus' body stiffen with something he knew
well. The man in his arms was tight again with fear, knowing that he
might've ruined everything. Richard didn't know what to say to that, but
he gave his answer with his lips, and let the way he wrapped his massive
arms around the rangy man speak to how his heart was captured. "As long
as we're together and honest with each other," he rumbled in a low voice
as he began to kiss his way down the blond man's chin. He knew exactly
what sort of horse he had hitched his wagon to. He had taken the measure
not from the way the man had survived, but from everything that he had
seen underneath a proud man that didn't dare expose his heart to a cruel
world.

"It's not in me to lie to you," came the words almost hurriedly
whispered into his hair. "Not to someone that let me feel like this. Not
to the only person to ever hold my heart as closely as you already do."
He exhaled a long breath, frustrated that he didn't know what else to
say.

As he felt the lanky, flawed man relax against him once more, Richard
knew exactly what to say. It was something he needed to say to he man
that had brought so much chaos into his life in such a short time, who he
probably would've never been laying against him if he had made different
choices of his own. It was the second time he would actually know it was
the exact, right thing.

"I'll be yours as long as you'll have me, Marcus."