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“In Tumbleweed, there is only one law: my law. My law is the law, and my law is just and fair, and extremely unforgiving. Challenge me, and you will discover a new definition of justice. My definition.”
John Marston raised a brow at the Tumbleweed sheriff, dropping his arms to his sides in exasperation. “Are you kidding me? The only person I ‘challenged’ was the feller who tried breaking my nose with a damn barstool.”
“And, yet, here you are, giving me backchat.” Sheriff Freeman had his shotgun trained on John’s chest. “The way I heard things, you’ve been throwing around too much of your weight, boy. Starting trouble in my town. You know what we do to troublemakers, here? What I do?” He pumped the shotgun for emphasis. “You saw my men bring in that Del Lobo, boy. Judgement in the eyes of the law moves swiftly and with precision, here in Tumbleweed.”
“Jesus, just—” John put his hands out in a placating gesture. “Just hold on, alright? I got a wife and a kid. I can’t get shot for a barfight and leave them to rot. Kinda seems like a waste, don’t it?”
“Perhaps that should’ve been reason enough that you’d avoid starting a fight altogether?” Freeman’s aim didn’t waver. “In my town, any form of misbehaviour will be punished extremely harshly.”
“I’m sorry, alright? Christ… I came here looking for bounty work. Now I ain’t so sure.”
“Bounty work, is that it?” Sheriff Freeman eyed him, looked him up and down. “I suppose you’re able-bodied enough for it. This lack of respect for the law, however, will simply not do.” He stepped aside, finally allowing John out of the corner he’d pinned him in. The bartender, who’d braced himself against the drinking glass shelf behind his bar counter, let out a sigh of relief – he wouldn’t need to clean John off the wall. John gave a sharp exhale of relief too. Sheriff Freeman simply gestured with the nose of his shotgun for John to start walking to the entrance of the saloon. “Make use of those legs and head for the jailhouse. And don't try anything cute; I have no qualms in pulling this trigger, family man or not.”
“I was defending myself, come on.” John hesitantly did as he was told, sidestepping the nose of the shotgun and picking his way through the ruins of the bar. Admittedly, he did a number on the guy who started the fight, and they both did a lot of property damage… but John didn't think that was worth jail time. “Can't I just pay for the damages? I probably have enough to cover it.”
“I'm sure you do, boy, and you will pay for the damages.” Freeman followed along behind John. He didn't lower the shotgun. “I'm going to learn you what it really takes to uphold the law, especially if you want to do so in my town. So, be grateful; you're getting a second chance, here. And if you throw it away and start causing more issues? I'll shoot you like a dog in the street, and send my condolences to that wife and child of yours. Do you understand me?”
John rolled his eyes, thankful the sheriff couldn't see his face. “Sure. I get it.”
Sheriff Freeman marched him into the jailhouse, closing the door behind them. Inside, one of his deputies was leaning against the brick wall furthest from the entrance, arms crossed, watching John with bored eyes. “This the other feller, sir?”
“Mhm.” The sheriff left John to stand facing the wall between the benches and the jail cell, gone for only a second, returning before John could even turn around. With one hard shove, Sheriff Freeman pushed John into the brick wall beside the jail cell. He’d taken a pair of handcuffs off the hook that they'd been hanging from behind his desk, started getting them around John's wrists. “Wants to do some bounty work, he says.”
The deputy scoffed. “A fine way to get into the business, ain't it?”
John winced at how tightly the restraints were locked onto his wrists. “Is this really necessary…? The cell's right there, I can walk in from here.”
“You ain't gettin’ jailed, son,” said the deputy, still unmoving from his spot. “Not right now, anyways.”
John flinched again as the other cuff locked into place. “I'd rather just pay the fines…” he muttered. The cuffs were cold and heavy on his wrists. They didn't give him any room to move, jointed at the middle with a thick cast iron rod that only allowed for minimal movement. He repeated himself, this time with less of a dry tone behind his words, a little more earnest: “Is this necessary?”
“Certainly. Now, face me, boy. Let me get a proper look at you.” John huffed and, again, did as he was told. Sheriff Freeman, now resting his shotgun over his shoulder, scrutinized John. He raised his other hand, and John drew back, thinking he was about to get struck. Instead, Freeman flicked John's hat off. “Young, aren't you? A little too young to be trusted with bounties?”
“I ain't that young, sir.” John had to restrain himself from the attitude he felt boiling hotly in his chest. He didn't appreciate his hat getting knocked off, and he never appreciated folk assuming his worth on his age. Even when he still ran with Dutch, that shit got on his nerves. He held back on his choice words, because Sheriff Freeman didn't seem like the type of feller he should be letting his attitude loose on. “I've done bounty work before, for what it's worth. Never had a problem in the past.”
“Uh-huh…” Sheriff Freeman didn't give off the impression that he believed John. To his deputy, he said “Give the kid a hand, will you?” He turned and sauntered to his desk, set his shotgun on it before sitting in his chair.
Though he wasn't entirely clear with his request, the deputy seemed to understand perfectly. He pushed off the brick wall and came to John's side. There was a glint in his eye that John didn't like – and his gut proved him right when the deputy snatched a handful of John's hair, forcing him to walk forward. He stopped at Sheriff Freeman's desk, a few feet away from where the man sat, and didn't let John go.
John grit his teeth. To the deputy, he hissed “What the Hell is your problem, buddy?”
“Calm down, son.”
“I might, if you weren't tryna to rip out a handful of my hair.”
“Enough with the backchat, boy.” Sheriff Freeman leaned back into his chair, lacing his fingers on his lap. “You got a damn mouth on you. You ought to remember who you're talking to.”
“Don't mean no disrespect. It ain't comfortable, is all… and, frankly, it ain't needed. Ain’t like I’m gonna be able to run away, all trussed up like this. Hell, ask me nicely and I’d walk where you tell me to.”
“It's plenty necessary,” Sheriff Freeman growled with a sharp edge in his tone. He leaned forward slightly. “You come to my town, upset my people, and then you disrespect me and my men. Is that comfortable for the people of Tumbleweed, seeing some tough guy roll through town and act like he owns the place? Do you think my people would feel safe if I turned a blind eye and let that slide? Because the answer is ‘no,’ boy. So, a little bit of discomfort may do you some good, in exchange for the discomfort you've caused the good people of Tumbleweed.”
“I'd rather be arrested.”
“Deputy Evans, if you don't mind.”
The deputy kicked in the back of John's leg, dropping him to his knees. John grunted in pain. He didn't say anything that'd put him in a worse position, as he was wont to do. He did, however, give Sheriff Freeman a dry expression that read something along the lines of “Are you serious?” He'd been dropped practically between the sheriff's knees, making it so that he had to look up to make eye-contact with the man. Fucking demeaning, is what it was.
Sheriff Freeman leaned forward completely, resting one elbow on his knee and looking down at John. “You don't strike me as the type of feller whose passion is in law-keeping. You strike me as a boy who's only ever done what he wants, and worried about the consequences later. Well… now you can worry. But I promise you this, tough guy: I'll make a proper, law-abiding bounty hunter of you by the time we're done here.” John didn't like that Freeman's other hand rested on the stock of one of his holstered revolvers. “And then I will gladly let you come and go as you please, taking whatever bounties I have for you. Together, we can make Tumbleweed a shining light of American obedience. We can bring civilization to this land of dark savagery. We, the obedient ones, are the civilized ones. Remember that, boy.”
“What're you gonna do?” John drawled, unable to bite back the sarcastic words in time. “Monologue at me ‘til I ask for a job as a deputy? Is that what buddy behind me had to do, or… did he not smash up a saloon and get the lecture?”
Foreman chuckled, cracking an entertained grin. “Like I said, boy… you got a damn mouth on you.” He eyed John a couple seconds longer, then sat back. “What's made you come here for bounties?”
“… Money?”
“Wrong answer. You're picking up bounties for the good of America, boy, not for the good of your wallet. As law-abiding citizens of this great country, we have a duty to keep things in order if we're able for it. And you…” Sheriff Freeman gestured to John as a whole. “You're more than able for it. So, let me ask you again… Why're you doing bounties in my town?”
“‘Cus it's the right thing to do…?” John spoke slowly, watching Freeman's face for approval. He raised his eyebrows when Freeman when he saw no such expression. “Or… ‘cus I'm… ‘able-bodied’ and… love America?”
“You lack critical thinking, don't you?”
“Alright, listen. This is Goddamn ridiculous,” John laughed bitterly, shifting back on the spot as much as he could with Deputy Evans' fingers still knotted in his hair. “I'm looking to make some money, that's it. I got debts need repaying, and bounty work is the closest thing to what I know how to do. I'm sorry I got a little too rowdy in the saloon, and it won't happen again. All this damn drama… it ain't necessary. I'm not here to cause trouble. Just looking to make some extra cash.”
Sheriff Freeman pulled out the revolver he'd been resting his hand on, pointed it directly at John's face. “Is there something funny? Do I seem like a joke to you? Is that it?” He pushed the nose of the revolver closer, pressing the cold iron against the skin under John's chin. “Is it?”
John would've shrunk back if he could. “No.”
“No, sir, it is not. Correct. No. Behave.” He glanced up to his deputy. “That's all for now, Deputy Evans. Thank you.” Evans released his grip on John's scalp, roughly shoving his head forward before walking back to where he'd been when John and Sheriff Freeman arrived. To John, Freeman said “Now… come here, boy. Closer. There you go, right there…” He stopped John directly between his thighs, the revolver's nose still pressed under John's chin. He surveyed John's face, searching for something. Then he asked “Have you ever had a man in your mouth, boy?”
“What?” John tensed up, the back of his neck starting to burn red-hot. It took him a moment to understand what the sheriff meant, and, when it clicked, he didn't like it. Through his teeth, he said “I told you… I got a wife. I'm married.”
“You weren't always married, lest your parents sold you off for a few pennies as a child.” Sheriff Freeman tilted his head sardonically. “Is that the case?”
“No.”
“No? No, what?”
“No… sir.”
“Better. Answer the damn question. Have you ever had a man in your mouth, boy?”
“No, I haven't… sir.”
“Do you believe yourself to be above that sort of thing?”
“No, sir. Never… had an interest in that ‘sort of thing.’ That's all.”
“Do you find it belittling, sitting between another man's legs, supplicating yourself to him?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Sheriff Freeman nodded slowly. “Good. No man who wants to work under the law in my town gets where they are without learning to take some good old-fashioned humiliation. Isn't that right, Deputy Evans?”
Evans chuckled out of sight. “Yes, sir.”
Freeman went on: “It won't be stupidity or bravado that'll get you killed while pulling in bounties, boy. It's hubris. It's pride. One may argue it's all the same. What you really need to do is learn to accept defeat, or to take criticism at face value. That's what will get you far in this career. Do you think the Del Lobos care how highly you think of yourself? You think they'll care if you run into their den and act like a tough guy? Because they won't. Humble yourself, boy.”
“Sir, I am humble. I'm just… foolish. That's it.”
“You are foolish. But not humble.” Sheriff Freeman sat back, removed the revolver from under John's chin. He rested his hand on his desk, still pointing the sidearm at John's head. He pointedly pushed his knees further apart, watching John expectantly. “You're awfully good at running your mouth. Put it to better use.”
John stared at the sheriff incredulously. Jesus Christ, what has he gotten himself into? He shifted uncomfortably on his knees, having no idea how any of this escalated so quickly. One minute, he was smashing a drinking glass over a guy's head. The next, he was being asked – no, threatened – to put a dick in his mouth. He exhaled in disbelief, trying to find his voice. Finally, he managed to say “I can’t. I'm married, sir.”
“Then you'll die married, boy.” Sheriff Freeman tapped the butt of his revolver on the hard wood of his sturdy desktop as if John could have forgotten it was there. “Tumbleweed has no tolerance for troublemakers. But… because I like you, and you have potential, I'm making an exception. Take the opportunity, learn something from it, and walk away with a bounty poster. Otherwise… Well, you know how we deal with riff raff in my town.”
“Well--… But--… Look, I just can't do that, OK? I can’t. I won’t. What the Hell kind of sheriff are you, anyways?” John was well aware of the glowering expression creeping onto Sheriff Freeman's face, and he was certainly aware of the revolver pointed at his head. Even still, he couldn't help himself. “Ain't ever heard of a sheriff who threatens fellers under gunpoint to suck their dick. What kind of town are you running, man?”
Sheriff Freeman narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you haven't noticed, boy, but the only kind of problems we have in Tumbleweed are from outsiders like you. I deal with criminals and lowlifes how I see fit, and I train my men to tame their pride. No bounty hunter who works for me will come through my town, kicking up dust and acting like a jackass.” He pulled his lips into a snarl, baring his teeth. In a low, seething voice, he hissed “And you will call me ‘sir,’ boy. Show me some Goddamned respect, or I'll have you in an unmarked grave so fast that you won't even know what hit you. Do I make myself clear?”
John balked. Oh, he thought, I see. He's fucking unhinged, then. Good job, Marston, picking a fight with the craziest lawman on this side of America.
Aloud, he said “Alright, alright… Yes, I understand… uh, sir.” He had a hard time keeping Sheriff Freeman's intense gaze. “Isn’t… isn't there any other way to… humble me? I… don't think I can do this.”
Freeman huffed dryly. He seemed placated enough, for the time being. “Of course there's another way,” he said plainly, pulling back the hammer of his revolver, cocking it. “I very much doubt you'll opt for it, however. I'd stick to what I'm offering if I were you, tough guy. It's easier this way, and you'll get much more out of it. The only thing you'll get in the other option is a hot piece of lead and a visit to the undertaker. Understand?”
“Yeah, it's just I… I…” John couldn't take his eyes off the cold iron. Of all the ways to die, huh? He felt paralyzed. “I’ve…” God, there's absolutely no way I can tell Abigail about this… He swallowed thickly. “I've never done this before… sir.”
“That's fine, son. There's no shame in that.” Sheriff Freeman ran the palm of his free hand over his crotch, only once. “Bring your mouth here. Introduce yourself, first.”
John's brows twitched together, but he reluctantly inched closer. The Hell am I doing? He stopped his face close enough to Freeman's groin that he could feel the heat radiating from it. He took some comfort in noting that the sheriff wasn't hard, not getting off solely on the idea of all this. Or he's got remarkable self-control…
“Put your mouth on it. Treat me nice, same as I'm treating you. Show my manhood respect.”
John was sure his face was as red as his neckerchief. He was embarrassed, and not just because he was following the lewd orders of this psychopath, leaning in completely and gently placing his lips on the flaccid bulge that he knew was the sheriff's cock. He was also embarrassed because he felt an all-too-familiar tingling sensation in his own manhood. This… whatever it was… shouldn't elicit that kind of reaction from him. He chose to believe that the adrenaline was what was affecting him.
“That's better. I assume you've had this done to you before, yes? Do what you know feels good.” Sheriff Freeman watched him, his face neutral. John could only think to move his lips over the clothed cock, up and down, slow. Sheriff Freeman didn't help matters when he hummed and said “That's a good boy…”
At that, John quickly pulled away, wanting to disintegrate at the way his own cock tried jumping to attention from that comment. He had a hard time looking Sheriff Freeman in the eyes, try as he might. “I could… do without the comments. S-sir.”
“Oh?” Sheriff Freeman quirked an eyebrow. “It makes you uncomfortable, does it?”
“A little. Yeah.”
“Good. Back to it, then.”
Me and my big mouth… John sourly thought to himself. The deputy behind him chuckled, presumably at John's expense. John ignored it, steeled himself before returning to his task. He understood his choices. And… he really did need the money. Debt from the ranch kept climbing with every new thing he needed to get, every expansion they had to build, and the bounties in New Austin paid well. Well enough to justify sucking up his pride and doing what was demanded of him. He could always drink the experience away later. Surely, there was some amount or combination of alcohol that would scrub this from his memory?
As he dragged his mouth over the clothed dick, John couldn't help but hope that Sadie didn't cause any issues in Tumbleweed if she ever came down this way for work.
“Use your tongue, boy. I want to be able to feel it.”
John loured, letting his tongue slip out every so often at Sheriff Freeman's request. He didn't know what he expected the rough cloth to taste of, but he wasn't surprised to find it tasting of the dust and sand so frequently kicked up in New Austin. The texture was harsh, too, quickly leaving his tongue with a dull ache after several minutes of working his mouth and tongue over the hardening bulge.
He mouthed the sheriff's cock through his pants for a lot longer than he would've liked. He could feel the outline through the pants, feel the flared mushroom head and a meaty shaft. He found himself working the perimeter of the outline with his lips, dragging his tongue along the clothed bulge. It’d grown even hotter, making John’s face feel unbearably warm. He kept working. At a certain point, it was kind of easy to forget that it was a man’s cock he was working with his mouth, to instead pretend it was just a hot, damp piece of fabric. And it wasn't long before John left a dark, wet spot on Sheriff Freeman's trousers, his lips tingling and his tongue sore from the work.
“Good, good…” Sheriff Freeman purred after several minutes of this. John sat back on his heels when he was motioned to, licking his prickling lips. “Let's see you really get acquainted, now.” He unlatched his gun belt with his free hand, let it drape down the sides of the chair. He fiddled with the button and zipper of his trousers, getting them undone singlehandedly with surprising ease. John watched in dismay as Freeman shucked his pants and drawers down his waist a few inches, setting free a semi-erect cock. It wasn't particularly long, nor unusually thick, but the uncut length was big enough that John knew he'd struggle. Sheriff Freeman readjusted himself now that he was set free, gave himself a few strokes for good measure. “Close your mouth, boy. I don't need you drooling on the floorboards.”
John didn't close his mouth. He'd hardly registered the words. Seeing the thing now, it'd suddenly become too real. He hadn't been lying when he said he'd never done this before. It was overwhelming. It was too much. How the Hell was he supposed to do this? And how the Hell was he going to look Abigail in the eyes ever again after this? Clenching his jaw, he lowered his head slightly, balling his hands into tight fists behind him. It wasn’t just the fact that he knew he’d have to do this that filled him with such embarrassment and shame. It was the fact that his insides were churning in anticipation, filling him with little sparks of electricity. What kind of husband was he?
Sheriff Freeman coaxed him through his reluctance. “Come on, then. Bring your mouth over here again.” John waited a moment, feeling like he was moving in slow motion, and followed his orders. He didn't look at Sheriff Freeman's face, even as he continued to coo at him encouragingly. “Now, just take the tip in your mouth, son. Nice and gentle-like.”
John did, his tongue slipping out to meet the cockhead first. Salty. Not unpleasant. That surprised John. He wrapped his lips around the cockhead, unsure of what to do next other than start sucking. Jesus, I'm such an idiot, he couldn't help scolding himself for indulging this man. Should've tried making a run for it when I had the chance. Stupid mistake.
“There you go, just like that…” Pointedly, Sheriff Freeman added “Such a good boy, with such a good mouth. Your lips are nice and plush after all that hard work, too. See what happens when you listen to me, boy?”
John closed his eyes tightly. Fucker. He wanted to fall into a hole and disappear, the way his guts wrenched at the comments.
“You like that, do you, boy?” Sheriff Freeman laughed, not bothering to hide his entertainment. “You like a little pat on the head, to be told you're doing a good job?” He did just that, smoothing John’s shoulder-length hair back, petting him like some sort of dog. A little harder, he gave one of John’s cheeks a light slap, getting him to open his eyes. “Look at me when I'm speaking to you. There you go, tough guy…”
John didn't answer. He continued doing as he was told. Always Goddamn doing as he was told, the ever-obedient good-boy. He opened his eyes to look at Sheriff Freeman when he spoke. The sheriff had one corner of his mouth lifted into a grin, clearly enjoying himself. He shifted one leg, and John let out a sharp gasp when he felt a sudden pressure on his dick, pulled his head back instinctively.
Sheriff Freeman grinned again, putting a bit more pressure on John's cock with the flat of his boot. “We're enjoying this, are we? Look at you, all red-faced and hard… And here I was thinking this would be a punishment. Maybe I should lay you out over my desk, seeing as you're enjoying this so much?” He laughed. Deputy Evans laughed alongside him. He slid his boot off John's dick, slipping it under the bulge of the strained fabric. “What do you think, boy? You want a proper fucking?”
John reflexively arched his back a little, pushing his hips against the friction. He was annoyed at himself for how his body reacted so willingly to the touch. “Christ…!” He squirmed, trying to move back and spare himself more embarrassment.
“Don't you go running off now, boy. I'm not done with you.” Sheriff Freeman gripped John's jaw, stopped him from moving away, looked him in the eye. He frowned. “And here I thought you had a wife? Does she not take care of you the way a man's wife ought to? Or… have you gone and disappointed her one too many times in the sheets?”
John ripped himself from the sheriff's grip. “Ain't had many complaints, there.” He faltered a bit. “I… ain't seen her in a while, is all. It's a long story, I pissed her off something good. I'm trying to get this money together to make it up to her.”
“Aah, I understand… and I’m not at all surprised. You have a penchant for causing problems, don’t you, son? And look where it got you.” Sheriff Freeman motioned to John. “Well, if you take care of me, be a real good boy, I'll take care of you. Now, get back to it, before I lose it.” Before John could protest, he put his hand on the back of John's head and pushed him back down onto his cock. John almost wasn't able to open his mouth in time. “Keep on sucking, now. Don't just sit there with it in your mouth.”
John reckoned this man didn't particularly care about John's marital woes, moreso saw an excuse to stick his dick in something warm. Jesus, what am I? He thought to himself bitterly. A two-dollar whore?
Sheriff Freeman guided John further down his shaft, letting out a pleased hum when John merely let him. “That's a good boy, isn't it? Just taking it as it's given to you. And you're putting that tongue to use. Are you sure you've never done this before?” The question was facetious. Not that it mattered, seeing as he didn't let John up to speak. “Cheeks all sucked in like I’m planning on paying you after this.”
It was a strange sensation, being able to feel another man’s cock harden in his mouth. John wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad sensation, but certainly strange. Frankly, he was just thankful that Sheriff Freeman had taken to moving John’s head up and down for him. Having to focus on what he was doing, feeling the eyes of Deputy Evans on the back of his head, worrying about the gun pointed in his direction, and trying to ignore his own bodily reactions was… Well, it was too much all at once.
Without any warning, Sheriff Freeman forced John down to the root of his cock, pushed his hips up. John would’ve let out a noise of surprise if he wasn’t loudly gagging around the cock in his throat. His eyes watered instantly, his nose started to run a bit as he struggled for air. It was hard enough to breath with a cock down his throat, but Sheriff Freeman’s strong grip kept his nose buried in the thick, black pubic hairs of the sheriff's groin. The sheriff hissed and lolled his head back a bit, thrusting a few times down John’s throat, drawing out more retching sounds as John’s throat constricted around his dick instinctively. Nothing came up, thank God, but drool instantly flooded his mouth, dripped down his chin and neck.
“Through your nose, boy…” Sheriff Freeman purled soothingly without letting up. “Breathe through your nose, go lax. Don’t let it overpower you…” John did his best. It was hard to concentrate on that when it felt like he was choking, unable to breathe at all. Sheriff Freeman slowly let him back up, until John was able to fall back on the seat of his pants, coughing and sputtering. “There we go. Good boy… That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What the Hell…?” John managed acridly between coughing fits. He could feel the saliva soaking into his neckerchief, dripping off his chin and onto his partially-exposed chest. He tried wiping away the tears on his shoulders, though his eyes were still watery. “Christ, man…! A little bit of warning would’ve been nice!”
Sheriff Freeman ignored him. “Deputy Evans, get him to his feet.” He also stood, taking his shotgun off the desk and leaning it against the wall under the paneless window. He ignored the confused sound John made, shoving the papers sitting on his desk into one big pile, shuffling the items out of the way.
John watched, thinking Jesus, he’s really going through with this?
“Sure,” the deputy didn’t at all seemed phased by what he was witnessing. He did as he was ordered to, grabbed the still-sputtering John by the collar of his shirt and yanked him to his feet. “Up you go, son.” He curiously peered around John’s shoulder, taking a look at the front of his pants. He let out an impressed whistle. “Damn, he weren’t lyin’…”
John scoffed, trying to compose himself. “Fuckin’ creep…”
“What was that?”
“I called you a fucking creep.” John shook Deputy Evan’s hand off, taking a few quick steps away. “I don’t need no comments from the Goddamn peanut gallery.”
Deputy Evans started to say something, moving sharply toward John. Sheriff Freeman intercepted by sticking a hand out between them. “Leave him, deputy.”
“But sheriff—”
Sheriff Freeman stepped between John and the deputy. It was kind of amusing, watching him tower threateningly over the man despite having his cock and balls out, bobbing and swaying heavily with each movement he made. “What did I just say, Evans? Leave him. I don’t recall asking for your help in doing anything other than getting the boy to his feet. Did I? Am I mistaken?”
“… No, sir.”
“That is correct. I did not. In this building, you do only as you’re asked, deputy. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Again, you are correct.” Sheriff Freeman pointed to the door of the jailhouse. “Go make sure the soak who started the fight was rounded up.” Deputy Evans dipped his head, not daring to argue against his orders. When the door closed behind him, Sheriff Freeman turned to John, who had pressed himself against the brick wall. “And you… I thought I talked to you about your attitude problem?”
“And I thought I started the fight? Guess we both had a lapse in memory for a second there, huh?”
“So it would seem…” Sheriff Freeman huffed, evidently willing to let that pass. He looked John over, a hungry glint in his eyes now. He stripped out of his black shotgun coat, tossed it over the back of his chair before working at the buttons of his partially-untucked white shirt. “I’m going to fuck you, and you probably won’t like it. Sit there and stay quiet, that’s all you have to do. You can take that bounty poster and leave when I’m done.”
“Jesus, I--…” John watched the sheriff spread his shirt open, undoing the shirt cuffs and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. His bared chest was coated in the same dense layer of coarse, dark hairs that ran down his arms. “I get the point you were tryna make earlier. I ain’t trying to cause you any problems, but…” he tapered off, licked his swollen lips. He gave a resigned sigh, knowing he was going to go through with this, that he had to. There weren't any other choices. And, besides, there was a part of him that was… intrigued. Nervous, yet intrigued all the same. He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. “I’ve done what you asked. Just do me a favour and be gentle about it. I ain’t… gonna stop you.”
Sheriff Freeman contemplated him for a moment, looking a little surprised at the capitulation. He raised one eyebrow, his expression going from pissed and serious to curious and amused. “Oh, I’ll be gentle with you, boy…” he purred, approaching John. He grabbed a handful of John’s shirt, pulling him away from the wall and standing him in front of the width-end of the desk. He undid John’s trousers, shoved them down his thighs with one hand, not breaking eye-contact the entire time. Then he spun John around, shoved him down onto the desk with a hollow thud. “Where it counts, at least.”
John cringed, turned his face to protect his chin from smashing into the desk. “Damn…!” Having his full ass exposed to another man like that, arms bound behind his back, left him feeling a little too vulnerable for comfort. That feeling was emphasized when his pants were pulled down around his ankles, a boot toed off so that one of the pant legs could completely be pulled off. Sheriff Freeman hooked his foot around John’s ankles, pulling his legs further apart in turn. John closed his eyes again, bracing himself for the worst. Instead, he felt Sheriff Freeman running his hands up his thighs, over his ass, before settling around his waist. John opened his eyes to look back at the sheriff questioningly.
“You got this little waist, little like a lady’s.” He grabbed two handfuls of John’s ass, hands rough. “And an ass like one too. Goddamn, boy. Goddamn…” He spread the asscheeks, spat on John’s hole. He pressed his index finger against the hole, massaged it to try relaxing the muscle. “You’re just this tight little thing, aren’t you? Sleek and slender. A nice, tight body, and a beautiful, tight, pink hole just begging to be stretched open…”
“Oh, Christ…” John hated how eagerly his cock jumped to those comments. He whimpered into his shoulder when the finger pushed into him, the other hand releasing his asscheek to grab his dick. He squirmed, not to get away this time. If his face had been red before, he had no idea what deep shade of scarlet it was now.
“Do you want me to fuck you, boy?” Sheriff Freeman’s breath was hot against the skin on the back of his legs. He must’ve crouched down to get a better view. “You want me to be all sweet and gentle with you, like you're a lady?” He gave John's cock a deliberate tug, slowly pushing his finger down toward the knuckle. “You want me to treat you the way a lady ought to be treated during her first time with a man?”
John screwed up his eyebrows, doing his best to conceal any signs of encouragement. “Goddamnit…” he managed to get out, teeth clenched, “… I'm a man, you… bastard...”
“So, you'd rather I fuck you like one?” Sheriff Freeman pulled his finger out so suddenly that John exhaled in surprise. He gripped John by the hips again, pushed him roughly to the length-end of the desk so that he was facing the wall behind it. Freeman walked around the desk, back into John's line of sight. He reached for John's gun belt, came away with his hunting knife, brought it to John's throat. “You'd rather I fuck you like a man,” he repeated, this time as a statement, “I'll do just that.” He pushed the cold metal against the skin of John's throat, hard enough that in threatened to bite into him. John didn't dare move. “Mouthy bastard.”
He removed the knife, scraping it across the stubble under John's chin as he moved out of the line of sight again. John craned his head back again, trying to keep an eye on Sheriff Freeman. “The Hell are you doing with my knife?”
“I should be burying it in your chest, boy, the way you've been speaking to me these last few minutes.” Sheriff Freeman growled from behind. He grabbed John's cock again, giving it a few slow tugs. While he roughly worked John's cock, he brought the tip of the blade to the back of John's thighs, lightly running it across the surface of the skin.
John shuddered involuntarily, goosebumps shooting up his back, along his arms. He stamped a foot down on the old floorboards, frustrated at his lack of control over his own reactions.
“Lucky for you, I have a much better idea of where I can bury this,” the sheriff continued, giving John's cock one last pull before spreading his asscheeks again. John started to protest, the worst-case scenario flashing through his mind. Sheriff Freeman paid him no mind. He slapped one of John's asskcheeks a few times with the flat side of the blade, spit on his hole, spit twice more elsewhere, and then John felt something blunt and cool press against his hole. He quickly realized it was the handle of the blade.
“Oh my God…!” He laid his head on the desk, not even realizing he was pushing back against the handle the moment it slipped through his hole. “Hah, shit…”
“Can you hold onto this for me, boy?” Sheriff Freeman toyed with the handle, pushing it in and out a few times to elicit strangled, throaty sounds of pleasure from John. Then he pushed the handle down to the hilt, letting the four inches or so of blade stick out from between John's asscheeks.
John clenched around it, breathing shallowly. Back when he was with the gang, probably a few years before the Blackwater incident, he'd overheard Bill and Javier arguing about the appropriate name to call something in a man's ass that Javier insisted was the ‘prostate,’ and Bill insisted it was the ‘sweetspot' or ‘sensitive bit.’ He overheard that, whatever they called it, it was supposed to make a man come faster. John hadn't any interest in sex with another man, having just gotten back together with Abigail (in another one of their short-lived ‘honeymoon phases,’) but he'd been interested enough that he decided to figure it out for himself. He used his fingers the first time, coming only seconds after finding the little bundle of nerves and massaging it inexpertly with the pads of his index and middle finger. Embarrassingly, he was desperate enough at one point for something different that he once used a carrot, which he promptly snapped in half and tossed into a thicket of bushes after coming. That was the last time he used anything other than his fingers, finding himself feeling awfully strange and ashamed afterwards. Besides, it was a waste of food to use fresh produce like that.
While he treated this small pleasure as a dirty, shameful secret, he was no stranger to the sensation. He was also no stranger to just how sensitive he was. His entire body spasmed when he shifted slightly and the handle grazed that spot. He arched into the desk and gasped out “F-fucking Hell…!”
Sheriff Freeman had to take a step back and look over his handiwork. “My God…” His breathless voice seemed equal parts amazed and aroused, like he'd entirely forgotten he'd brought John here to prove a point rather than have his balls drained. He braced one hand beside John's shoulder on the desk, leaning over to watch his face. Using his other hand, he fidgeted with the blade some more, moving the handle in slow circles or pulling it to and fro. “You really are just this horny thing, with those tiny hips and round ass…” he growled, almost sounding like he was going to come, too. “You need a man in you, boy, and I'll do just that… if you ask nicely.”
“Sir, I'm…” John's toes curled in his boot, the bare toes of his other foot curling against the floor, as he tried to practice some sort of self-control, but it wasn't something he was particularly good at (his son being a byproduct of this.) He couldn't stop himself from writhing. “I'm gonna come…”
Freeman didn't let up. “I'm going to let you come, boy. You owe me that respect, since I'm being so tender. You'll come, and then you're going to use that mouth of yours to beg me to fuck you.” He paused as John let out a guttural groan that shook through his body. “You'll beg me to fuck that tight hole of yours, to bury my manhood in your little ass. Isn't that right?”
“Y-yes, sir…” John's words came out garbled, hardly words at all. He wished he had something to bite down on.
“Good boy.” He leaned back to see how John was doing, a hum of delight rumbling in his chest. “You're making a mess on the floorboards, leaking all over the place. That rosy pecker's just about to burst, isn't it? Jesus, you're loving this.” Freeman let out a growl, like he suddenly couldn't contain himself. “You're going to come, and I've hardly even touched you… You've been so compliant, haven't you? Letting me finger you like a Goddamn woman, getting off on your mouth being used and your little hole being stretched out. How precious, the way you squirm around, boy… I'm going to fuck you ‘til you can't see. Would you like that? Hm?”
“Ah! F-fuck-ngh… Yes…!” John's hips jumped forward, slamming painfully into the desk. He was coming, holy shit, he was coming and he hadn't even touched himself. It shot through him so hard that it stole his breath away. He was vaguely aware he could hear himself crying out loudly. As a heavy wave of euphoria washed over him, he didn't much care. He shuddered with each shot of come, and continued to shudder through the aftershocks. When he had breath in his lungs again, he sighed contentedly. “Aah, shit…” he blew out with a laugh. “Mmmm-my God…”
“There we go, son. That's a well-behaved boy…” Freeman cooed, slowly pulled out the blade's handle.
John exhaled heavily when the handle was removed and he clenched around nothing. It'd been months – maybe even more than a year, it was hard to keep track – since he'd had such a powerful orgasm. Between constantly searching for honest work, moving locations, and fighting with Abigail, there haven't been many chances to really get off in a way that wasn't just a buffer between orgasms. Fuck, it felt good, and he babbled and prated nonsensically about it, not even sure of what he was saying, only knowing that he was trying to convey how fucking good it felt.
Sheriff Freeman seemed amused by it – endeared, even. He could apparently understand parts of John's slurred words, because he said “You ought to take care of yourself more, boy. It's not healthy, holding that in all the time.” He brought the blade to the back of John's thighs, holding at such an angle that he could lightly scrape the blade along his skin. “I won't be having any of my bounty hunters getting shot because they're too distracted by what's in their pants. It reflects poorly on the state, and on my town.” The blade moved over John's ass, down his taint, stopping at his balls. “Deal with yourself, lest it clouds your judgement and gets you killed. I don't give a damn if that wife of yours is involved or not, so long as you get it done. Do you understand me, tough guy?”
John felt hypersensitive to the touch, his cock and balls already tingling again. In a strange way, he kind of agreed with Sheriff Freeman's point, though he doubted Abigail would accept ‘clearing his head' as an acceptable excuse for sex. He could figure something out. He always did. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Now…” Freeman carefully moved the blade further down to the base of John's mostly-soft cock. He used the tip of the knife to very lightly trace along one of the visible veins. “You have a question to ask me. And you're going to ask me like your life depends on it. You're also going to be nice and polite about it, because I will not take Goddamn orders from you, but I'll consider requests.”
John loves his wife. Abigail is the world to him, right next to Jack. Even though they've had their issues, there wasn't a thing in the world he wouldn't do for them. But in that moment, he was willing to pretend neither of them had ever entered his life. It made it easier to rationalize his actions when he shifted to spread his legs and craned his head to look back at Freeman. In a low, hoarse voice, he asked “Will you please fuck me, sir?”
Evidently, Sheriff Freeman was expecting him to still be stubborn about it. He fumbled with the hunting blade, nearly dropped it. Recovering, he sheathed the knife back into John's gun belt, moving so quickly that John almost missed it. He grabbed John by the waist again, hoisting him up and moving him back to the width-end of the desk with a grunt. He leaned over John, his cock, weeping and blazing hot, pressed against the side of John's thigh, leaving a wet streak. Placing a hand on the small of John's back, he growled in his ear “I'll fuck you hard enough that you forget your own Goddamned name, since you asked so nicely.”
John's voice cracked when he quietly begged “Please.”
Sheriff Freeman opened one of his desk drawers, fishing around until he came away with what he was looking for. He set a tin down ahead of John, who curiously turned to see what was in it. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the tin contained petroleum jelly. Thank fucking God. He's never done this shit before, not with anything other than his fingers and that fucking carrot. He couldn't be more thankful that Sheriff Freeman was keeping true to his word in being gentle where it counts. There was no damn way he was doing this dry.
“Let's get my boy nice and ready for me, shall we?” The sheriff spoke absently as he smeared the petroleum jelly around John's asshole, pushing his thumb in before scooping up another fingerful of jelly and pushing it as far into John's ass as he could. “Such a sweet, tight little hole needs extra care. Isn't that right?” He swirled his finger around, pulled it out with a satisfied noise in his throat.
John was already getting hard again. Whatever apprehension he had about being fucked for the first time was masked by the rush and arousal of it all. There was a flurry of excitement bubbling and rising in his chest, and it was so overpowering that all he could do to let it out was moan out a small, pathetic “Fuck…”
Sheriff Freeman scooped more petroleum jelly onto his fingers. He was breathing hard, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath. John could hear him slicking up his own cock, hand moving quick, rushed. “There you go, boy…” he huffed, calloused hands gripping John's hip tightly, “… there you go…” He used a thumb to pull John's asscheeks apart, slapped his cockhead against John's hole.
“Hah-aah…” John squeezed his eyes shut when he felt pressure being put on his hole. He gasped as Sheriff Freeman's cockhead slipped through. When Freeman kept pushing, John started to have second thoughts about just how eager he was. He grimaced, wheezed out an undecipherable complaint at the discomfort.
“Good God almighty, you're tight…” Sheriff Freeman continued slowly pushing in. “Relax, boy. Don't tighten up like that, you've got to let me in…”
John did the best he could, though he wasn't expecting this to hurt the way it did. He was expecting to immediately be blinded by the pleasure, for his body to already know what to do. Having a man in his ass was an entirely different beast to his fingers, or even a Goddamned carrot. It burned angrily, the way it ached. Still, he desperately wanted it. Fucking Hell, did he want it.
As Sheriff Freeman eased himself down to the base of his cock, resting only for a moment before slowly sliding back, John simply couldn't handle it any longer. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed, tossing his head back a bit, “please, sir! Just… do it…!” He clawed desperately at the air behind himself, unable to do much more with his hands. “Fuckin' Hell, you're bigger than I thought…” Sheriff Freeman grunted. In response, he drew back before slamming into John, skin slapping on skin. John saw stars for a moment. “Shit…!” He exclaimed, and when the sheriff repeated the motion: “Augh, sssh-shit!”
“You're OK, boy,” Freeman cooed, returning briefly to easing in and out. “You're doing fine. Real fine.” He caressed John's hips, one of his hands still clammy from the petroleum jelly. The motion was strangely soothing to John, something he didn't fully expect from the deranged lawman who'd somehow gotten him to willingly accept this situation. Freeman was probably able to tell that John really hadn't done this before, and John was grateful for it. The sheriff was an overzealous man, but he exercised some self-control.
For a moment, John desperately wished he could step outside of himself and see the scene they were presenting. Him, pushed over the end of a desk, ass out, dick hard, eyes unfocused. The sheriff, half-unclothed, buried in John's ass, fingers tight around John's hips, breathing hard and fast. Oh God, what a sight they must've been. Just the thought left him clenching around Freeman wantonly, fingers splayed out. He knew he was going to be thinking about this for a long time, tapping into this memory every time he needed a quick jerk.
The painful burn faded quickly, leaving a pleasurable kind of pain. It was like digging fingernails into a fresh mosquito bite, wherein the gratification outweighed the sting that'd soon follow. The sensation was breathtaking, and John greedily wanted more despite knowing how sore and sensitive he'd be when this was over.
Sheriff Freeman ran his hands over the small of John's back, sliding them up under his shirt. “This Goddamn body you have…” he growled as his hands moved over John's shoulder blades. “I should've had you take this all off so I could really see you.” His calloused fingertips moved down, lingering on John's ribs before appreciatively brushing his waist and returning to his hips.
“Next time, sir…” John wheezed, only realizing what he said after it came out of his mouth. He felt ashamed for all of two seconds, at which point he thought to himself You know what? Fuck it. Ain't like Abigail's ever heading out this way anyways. That's when the shame probably should've doubled. Should've.
That pleased the sheriff, his delight rumbling in his chest. He grabbed the iron bar that connected the handcuffs, using it to help guide John. His other hand firmly gripped John's shoulder, pushed him closer. He leaned over John, growled in his ear: “That's what I like to hear, boy.” He began rocking his hips into John, starting slow, mouth still near John's ear. “I want you to keep begging. Let the fine folks of Tumbleweed hear you, let them know exactly how much you love it.”
John melted into Sheriff Freeman's movements, wanting more, needing more. “I do,” he groaned, “I do, sir, I do...”
“I know you do, boy. I knew you would.” Freeman picked up speed, still pressed tightly against John, humping into him like a horny hound. He grunted, his breath hot on John's cheek. “You feel good, so tight and hot and hungry.”
The way Sheriff Freeman was leaned over him, John could curl his knuckles into the sheriff's chest hair, push his fingers into the fat padding Freeman's pecs. Sex with a man was so different, in more ways than just the obvious. All the women John had been with in his life were soft, smooth, even if they weren't conventionally ‘delicate.’ Women had body hair, but not like this. Feeling Freeman's rough body hair pressed against his bare palms, the exposed skin of his lower back, was strangely comforting and erotic at the same time. John didn't really know Freeman at all beyond the fact that he was an asshole and a psycho, and yet he still he had the strangest urge to press himself flush against the man's body, feel the hard muscle in his arms, simmer in the smell of man. Sex with a woman felt fucking amazing, and John didn't think anything could top sinking himself balls-deep into a hot, wet cunt. Turns out, he was wrong. Turns out, getting fucked in his hot, wet cunt was just good enough to top it.
Of course, he figured he'd have to reflect on that later, when he wasn't getting fucked into the end of a desk. His opinion might change once he can think straight.
Sheriff Freeman straightened out, digging the heel of his palm into John's shoulder. With this better position, he fucked into John proper. He maintained his speed from before, now just thrusting into John harder, more wind-up behind the power in his hips. John let a low, staggered moan escape him, staccatoed in time with the sheriff's harsh movements. John wasn't going to last long, at this rate, and he thought about asking Freeman to slow down. It wouldn't matter, he knew that. So, he moaned through pursed lips, and Sheriff Freeman took that as a cue to roll and dip his hips as he fucked, shifting until he found that small, hard ball of magic that left John caterwauling and incoherently begging for more.
“O-oh my G-God…!” John gasped, rolling his eyes up into his skull, eyebrows contorting as he was overtaken by the pleasure. He could feel himself drooling, could feel what a mess he was, and absolutely basked in it. “Sheriff, please…! Hah-hngg… H-holy shit…!”
“I don't think they can hear you, boy!” Sheriff Freeman barked between thrusts. “Do you like it, tough guy?”
“Agh, fuck! I like it,” John hoarsely managed to punch out, “I fuckin' love it!”
Between John's euphoric cries and the desktop slamming harshly against the wall, he was certain that the entirety of Tumbleweed could hear them. Hell, he was loud enough that anyone from Tumbleweed to Armadillo could probably hear them. He played along with Sheriff Freeman, because he had no reason not to.
Sheriff Freeman took on a far more punishing pace, doing his best to get them both off. He slammed into John so ferociously that there would surely be bruises on his hips left by desk, which groaned and moved with each buck from the sheriff. He let go of John's shoulder and the bar of the cuffs, tightly gripping John's hips instead. He used them to guide John up and down his cock, moving faster, more frantic than before.
The previous orgasm had been strong, but the one that'd been coiling in John's groins like a rattlesnake was impossibly powerful. He sucked in a loud, sharp gasp, which sounded a little too womanly to his own ears. Everything locked up, his muscles tensing painfully. His pathetic, throaty whine increased in volume until he was practically sobbing into his shoulder. It hit him so hard that his chest tightened, his breath was stolen – even his hearing temporarily dulled in one ear. His voice cracked at the first spurt of come, his cock bouncing around like it had a mind of its own every time he shot a load. He was clenched down around Sheriff Freeman, unable to relax himself even after the come stopped dribbling from his dick. If John was tight before, he couldn't imagine the vice grip Freeman was in now.
That seemed to be all Sheriff Freeman needed to go over the edge. He didn't have anything to say, for once. No heavy-handed lectures or words of praise. He simply fucked into John faster and harder until he reached his climax. He pushed deep into John, holding him in place by the hips, thrusting out and back in between shots of come. He was breathing hard, his skin so hot and damp with sweat against John's. The guttural, gravelly, animalistic sounds he made as he shot his come deep into John's gut made John wish he wasn't so worn out that they couldn't keep going.
“Good fucking boy,” Freeman hissed through his teeth, one of his hands roaming up John's back under the shirt. “That's a good Goddamned boy, huh?” The motion was like soothing an agitated animal, and the likeness doubled when Freeman used his other hand to smooth and brush John's hair back, to roughly caress his cheek, essentially petting him again, this time with more sincerity. “There you go, boy, there you go. Shit, you feel good…”
John didn't protest to Sheriff Freeman unloading himself in his ass. He didn't have the energy to, even if he cared. The feeling of the hot seed in his gut wasn't unwanted, either. It helped with the emptiness he felt when Sheriff Freeman pulled out and collapsed in the chair behind the desk. Once again, John was left to clench around nothing. He didn’t have the energy to complain about it in that moment.
They stayed like that for a few minutes, the sounds of their heavy panting the only thing breaking the silence. John had pushed himself further forward onto the desk so that he didn't have to struggle to support himself on shaking legs. Freeman leaned back in his chair, arms dangling at his sides, coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Both exhausted, both a mess, and both satisfied beyond words.
After a while, John wheezed out a weak laugh and a sigh. “Shit…” he mumbled tiredly, his tone light and loose. He could help the dumb smile plastered on his face. “Ain’t gonna lie… I kinda feel like a saloon whore...”
To John's surprise, Sheriff Freeman cracked an honest grin and shared the weak laugh. “Yeah... me too.” He huffed, still trying to get his lungs back. “That was good, though. Real good.” He braced himself and stood to pull up his pants and tuck away his mostly-deflated cock. From the little shelf with the worn paint that the cuffs had been hanging from, Freeman plucked a key and stood over John. He clumsily fumbled with the lock of the first cuff, got it undone, and did the other. When John was finally free, he took the cuffs and the key, returning them to their spots. Then he fell into his chair. He lolled his head back and closed his eyes.
John flexed his wrists gingerly, stretched his arms out. He hadn't realized just how much the joints in his shoulders were aching until he tried to move them and grimaced. He pushed himself up off the desk, wiped the drool off his chin and cheek. “Goddamn…” He took a few unsure steps back to look for his boot. When he found it, he redressed, slipping his other leg back into his pants, stuffing himself away, tucking in his shirt. He'd deal with the mess Freeman left him with later. He was going to need a bath, anyways. As he worked himself back into his boot, he glanced up at the desk.
Come streaked the siding of the desk, formed little pools and droplets on the floor John had been standing over. When he peered over to look at the front of the desk, the scene was similar, biggest difference being the come had mostly soaked into the porous wood.
John brushed a few strands of his hair out of his face, trying to put himself back together. He rose to his feet to get his hat, turning back to the sheriff as he replaced it on his crown. Freeman was still sitting there, eyes closed. John frowned and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He came around and sat awkwardly on the corner of the desk, already a little sore. “Sheriff,” he started, holding the cigarette pack out. He took one for himself, waited expectantly for Freeman to open his eyes and take one. When he did, John struck a match on the heel of his boot and lit them both up. As he shook the match out, he said “John Marston.”
Sheriff Freeman quirked an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me?”
“You promised I'd forget my name, sir.” John took a long drag. On the exhale, he said “I didn't. It's John Marston.”
Again, Sheriff Freeman laughed genuinely. He puffed quietly on the cigarette for a few moments, then threw and arm over the back of the chair. “I'm not in the habit of getting on a first-name basis with out-of-town troublemakers.” He paused, searched around his desk for an ash tray. Before John’s enthusiasm could deflate, Freeman looked back at him. “Samuel Freeman.” As if he had counteract the relatively normal moment, he waved John off. “It's ‘sheriff' or ‘sir,’ to you, boy. Don't let me hear you call me by any other name.” He found a clean, metal ashtray in one of his desk drawers, set it between them on the desk.
John chuckled. “Yessir.”
Sheriff Freeman looked him up and down, slow and meticulous, entirely unabashed. John like the way the hard creases of his face softened when he did that. The sheriff stuck his hand out to John. “It's been a pleasure making your acquaintance, John Marston.” John clasped his hand to shake it, wincing slightly when Freeman's grip turned bone-crushing. He leaned forward. “Don't ever come through my town starting fights and stirring shit up.” He paused, only for a few heartbeats, and then added “If you're aiming to get fucked, you can just ask me. Don't ever cause problems in my town again. Do you understand me, boy?”
John didn't miss the glint of amusement in Sheriff Freeman's eyes. He let the corner of his mouth upturn into a half-grin, watching Freeman carefully. “I understand, sir.”
Things weren't the same after that visit to Tumbleweed. He knew it the moment he left the jailhouse. Charles could sense it when John returned to the ranch, he said as much. Even Uncle made a comment on the change in John's demeanour. He didn't try to hide it, whatever it was; he wasn't even sure what it was that made the others look twice. One thing was for certain, though: The men who passed through Blackwater weren't enough.
John took to lingering around the Blackwater saloon or the post office, waiting until he saw a feller whose face he didn't recognize. He'd offer to buy them a drink or two, acting like some impromptu ambassador of the town. When they were nice and loose and comfortable, he'd make a move – sometimes, all he needed to say was something like ‘a feller travelling alone must be frustrating, not being with anyone.’ Sometimes he'd need to be more direct, setting a light hand on the man's thigh. If they weren't interested, they'd fuck off, insulted, but do nothing other than whinge to themselves. Most of the time, fellers were desperate enough to follow John to the outskirts of town and either let him suck them off or fuck him into the dusty ground. When they finished, they might wordlessly leave John to clean up, a few offered him money (which he took, because why wouldn't he?,) and some pitifully thanked him. At the end of the day, under the circumstances that the feller was clean, he didn't care how they parted so long as he got what he wanted.
Even still, he found that he couldn't really be sated by the average greenhorn just trying to get himself off. Sure, they could be rough the way John wanted, but they more often than not came in John after only a few minutes. He needed more, he frustratingly craved it. It got to the point where he'd even started gauging Charles, trying to see if he'd take the bait and indulge him. He tried everything except for outright begging Charles, from walking around the ranch house nude to ‘air dry' after bathing, to deliberately letting Charles walk in on him jerking off and not covering himself. Some of his other more pathetic attempts were passing through a doorway at the same time, pointedly brushing his ass across Charles' crotch, or the time John tried to get Charles to loosen up with a few bottles of whiskey – an endeavour that ended with the both of them too drunk to walk straight, Uncle goading them on to keep the party alive after so politely inviting himself to join them. Needless to say, no one saw any action that night.
Charles wasn't showing any interest. John figured he might still be sore about Arthur, and fooling around with what was essentially Arthur's younger brother probably left a bad taste in his mouth. John gave up on Charles after a few weeks, annoyed and secretly thankful. He wanted to stay on good terms with Charles, and fucking around would probably put a strain on their relationship. Didn't make John any less frustrated over it.
Even after Abigail and Jack came to the ranch and settled in, and things with Micah had been squared away, John couldn't help going into town in search for some feller with low inhibitions and blue balls. He didn't tell Abigail. No, he couldn't tell Abigail. It would ruin her. She wouldn't understand, and there was no plausible way to explain himself for going out and getting men to fuck him. The Hell was he supposed to say about it? He'd sound completely unhinged.
John worked around the ranch daily, and he worked hard. They paid off their debts and he worked to make a comfortable living. John never left his wife and son in need of anything, always made sure they had food, money, water, and protection. But John did leave, every couple of weeks. He explained himself as needing work that kept him on his toes. That excuse was hardly enough for Abigail, but she could at least understand what it meant. And it wasn't entirely a lie, either, because John still took the bounty work. He felt it was good for him. Getting his blood pumping, keeping his skills sharp, that sort of thing.
The first time John had made his reappearance at the Tumbleweed jailhouse, Sheriff Freeman seemed reluctant to acknowledge anything had happened. He didn’t resist for long, especially not when John outright told him what he wanted. Freeman seemed a little surprised, admitted that “fellers don't willingly come back for more,” where he was concerned.
To that, John said “I ain't ever been known for making good choices.”
He'd spent that day eagerly lapping at Sheriff Freeman's cock like the very good boy he was, wallowing in every uttered praise and petting stroke, until Freeman decided to fuck John against the jail cell loud and hard. In his own opinion, he'd gotten better at using his mouth. He'd blown handfuls of men who came through Blackwater, and his new-found expertise threw Sheriff Freeman through a loop. He nearly had the sheriff spilling down his throat that first day. He got a good scolding for it in the form of a torturously long, teasing fingering over the sheriff's knee. He had John coming down his pant leg twice before finally taking pity on him and marching him to the jail cell, pinning him against the bars and fucking him senseless.
Weeks later, months later, and it had become a regular ‘thing.’ John would show up in Tumbleweed, he'd disappear with Sheriff Freeman either into the jailhouse or the rented room above the gunsmith. Sometimes there'd be fantasy to it, wherein John would get cuffed or locked up or restrained in some manner and pretend to struggle, and sometimes Freeman would just fuck John until neither of them could move. The next day, John would take a bounty poster and get to work. When he came back with the bounty (and he always did,) they'd go at it again, sometimes in the jailhouse for the bounty to see. Freeman was particularly rough when a bounty was watching, like he had something to prove, and John loved it. Sometimes the bounty would talk shit before receding to the corner of the cell to pleasure themselves. Other times, they'd threaten to tell the whole town at their hanging. Either way, it honestly didn't matter. It wasn't like everyone in Tumbleweed wasn't already painfully, acutely aware of what Sheriff Freeman and John were up to when they disappeared behind closed doors. Folk were too afraid of Sheriff Freeman to call him out on it, and that worked just fine the two of them.
They'd wrap things up. Sometimes John stayed for a day longer. He never stayed any longer than that. He'd return home, kiss Abigail lovingly, and get back to work on the ranch. It was a simple routine, and it happened every couple of weeks like clockwork. Abigail would be delighted to see him return home alive and with pay, John would toil around the ranch tirelessly to ensure everything ran smoothly for her. He would go fishing or do some chores with Jack, try to talk to him, see what he was up to. And at night, Abigail would fall asleep before John, only offering to jerk him off a few times a month, and to fool around even less. She was firm in not wanting another child, and John agreed. She seemed so earnestly appreciative that John didn't push her for sex, or try to meet in the middle ground and ask for anal (something that they tried only a few times, each time ending early at Abigail’s request, finding herself too uncomfortable and unhappy.)
That was fine. John didn't mind at all. It made it easier for him to justify his excursions to Tumbleweed, or the lone travellers he’d let fuck him between trips to see Sheriff Freeman. The man knew how to fuck, and he never held back on John. He could scratch that itch like no one else, leave John feeling dazed and content. Sometimes he'd feel a pang of guilt when they were finished, sweaty and tired and sharing a cigarette between them. If they were in a bed, John would be leaning back on Freeman’s bare chest. Sometimes, especially if John fidgeted guiltily, Freeman would brush his fingers through John’s hair, murmuring absolute nonsense into his ear. It would be enough to lock them both into a state of repose, until they decided either to go at it again, or to clean up and part ways.
They weren’t lovers. John didn’t even know if he could classify them as friends. Neither of them particularly cared to classify it. They’d fuck, have a little cuddle while they recovered and shot the shit, then clean up and go about their days. John knew he should probably put an end to it all, but he couldn't bring himself to. Things had dovetailed so perfectly for him that it'd be a real shame to cut it off. Things weren't the same, and they'd never be the same again.
John never felt more content with life.