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Shane’s back hit the wall hard. For a moment he worried someone might hear their commotion, but the Spirit’s Eve festival was in full swing, providing a steady backdrop of noise. Besides, they had met behind the general store where no one ever wandered. A sturdy retaining wall faced them, and atop it sat the thorny hedge maze the wizard had set up.
Heavy boots nudged his feet apart. Shane could feel his head grow murky. He hadn’t been this turned on by another person in…years, easily. Then he felt a tug around his waist, and his belt clanged open. Wasting no time, Clint opened Shane’s fly and reached down his jeans.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane gasped, feeling the blacksmith’s strong hand wrap around his cock and squeeze hard. He could feel precome ooze from his tip and soak into his boxers. Fuck, how far are we gonna take this? Right here, in public?
The night had started as all Spirit’s Eve festivals do: with most of the town flocking to the banquet tables laden with Gus’s delights, followed by a few folks daring to try the hedge maze that no one ever finished. Year after year, more food, another maze. This was the first year Shane had attended without a notable blood alcohol level. He’d never noticed how intensely awkward these town events were. He’d wandered past the tables, hungry but not terribly interested in most of the food, nodding to be polite anytime someone made eye contact with him. It was only after someone had bumped him from behind for the third time that he’d whipped around, ready to tear whoever it was a new asshole. Instead, his words dried up in his mouth as the blacksmith’s ruddy face stared back at him, a smirk hidden behind his thick but well-kept beard. Shane saw the glimmer in Clint’s dark eyes. His heart thumped in a way it hadn’t for a long, long time.
Shit, I literally just came out to like four people. How did he even…? Has Clint been…? This whole time…?
“Oh you’re thick,” Clint breathed onto Shane’s face, bringing him back to the present. The words sent a shiver through Shane, causing his cock to pulse in Clint’s hand. Clint, in turn, squeezed him harder, milking him as best he could manage with his hand stuck down Shane’s pants. “Guess I’ll have to be the one to fuck you.”
Clint’s compliment made him woozy. Though he tried to keep it together, he couldn't help but whimper, picturing Clint grabbing him around the waist and pulling Shane backward onto his cock.
It was true: Shane had been gifted—if you could call it that—with a thick body. He had wide shoulders, a wide torso, and meaty calves that made buying boots difficult. Back when he was drinking a twelve pack a day, he carried a beer belly without it so much as showing under his work clothes. Since he’d switched to sparkling water and started working more on the hobby farm, that meat had moved to his shoulders and forearms.
Maybe he should have been a blacksmith.
“Too bad I didn’t think to bring any condoms or lube,” Clint continued, his voice a parody of disappointment. Shane’s gaze sharpened as discouragement stabbed at his heart. Of course. It’s just my luck that the first time I’m about to get any in years, we don’t have the right—
Clint’s fist moved on him again, and he moaned despite his best efforts. “Guess I’ll just have to finish you like this.” Clint released Shane’s cock then, and with one sharp movement, pulled Shane’s jeans and boxers down to his ankles. Shane gasped, the sharp fall air nipping at his exposed skin. His cock stood at attention, almost painfully hard, his head oozing from Clint’s rough service.
Clint placed a hand on Shane’s chest, pressing him firmly against the wall. Clint then wrapped his other hand around Shane’s cock, masterfully moving along his length.
“Ungh,” Shane gasped, feeling his legs go weak. Clint’s hand felt like an extension of Shane’s body—he moved with the assuredness of someone who knew what he wanted and knew just how to get it. Clint’s callouses rubbed just a little harshly, balancing Shane’s pleasure on a knife’s edge between joy and pain.
His hands grasped the air, finding Clint’s heavy blacksmithing apron. Clutching the thick fabric as though his life depended on it, he squeezed his eyes shut, focusing every ounce of his attention on the sensation of Clint’s hand milking his dick. His breath came in ragged gasps, and pressure built in his lower belly. As it did, he felt his cock grow thicker, saw his head grow purple beyond Clint’s wide fingers.
It was almost too much. It was just enough.
He shuddered, feeling his legs wobble.
“Aww yeah,” Clint growled. “Come for me, you fucking slut.”
Clint’s words burrowed their way into the crevices of his brain. He keened, gripping Clint’s apron harder, and felt his balls oblige. Hot come erupted from him as though he were a teenager, shooting past Clint’s sidestepped body and onto the grass behind the general store. Again, and again, he pulsed, the intensity strong enough to make him feel faint. Clint’s strong hand worked him still, coaxing more out of him than he thought was possible. Quiet, high-pitched sounds escaped his throat despite his best efforts.
Eventually the tension in his limbs eased, and his body sagged. Were it not for Clint’s stiff hand holding him against the wall, he might very well have collapsed.
He panted, every fiber of his body exhausted, as though he’d just run a mile at a full sprint.
Clint released Shane’s dick and wiped his hand on his apron. Then Clint brought his face to Shane’s, his breath as hot as coals against Shane’s icy sweat.
“What a good fucking boy you are,” Clint growled. Then he covered Shane’s mouth with his own, his lips and tongue urgent, his beard unexpectedly soft against Shane’s 10 p.m. shadow. Shane started to move his hand to the back of Clint’s neck to deepen the kiss and revel in the man’s steamy breath. But Clint pulled away, leaving Shane feeling suddenly cold and empty.
“Your turn,” he muttered. His hands moved under his apron, moving quickly. Shane heard the metallic rip of a zipper being opened, and Clint swept his apron aside with one thick forearm. “Show me what you can do with that mouth.” His other hand grasped Shane’s shirt and pulled, causing Shane to stumble to his knees. He nearly lost his balance, but flung his arms onto Clint’s hips to steady himself.
Then he looked up, finding Clint’s hard cock staring him in the face.
He glanced further up, but couldn’t make out Clint’s features from the shadows that shrouded him. It didn’t matter; Clint’s hand grabbed the short hair at the back of his head, thrusting him forward.
Shane’s heart leaped to his throat. It had been over a decade since he’d sucked a dick. And back then, Shane had been nearly blackout drunk, using his inebriation to explain away his actions, keeping the reality of his desire locked behind a soul-crushing blockade of shame and self-hatred.
Not anymore. Tonight I get to suck a dick while stone-cold sober.
His lips parted, but the urgency of Clint’s hips sent his cock to the back of Shane’s throat with one swift movement. Shane momentarily gagged, the sensation initially strange. But his desire quickly kicked in, and he steadied himself, centering himself on his knees, working saliva toward the back of his mouth.
“Oh that’s nice,” Clint groaned, pulling at Shane’s hair. “You like that? You like feeling my dick in your mouth?” He thrust his hips again, sending his cock along Shane’s tongue. “You like the way I taste, you little fuck boy?”
Shane whimpered, the sound muffled on Clint’s cock. His instinct was to protest the nickname, to deny that he was a fuck boy, the way he had denied his bisexuality his entire life until just recently. But as Clint continued to fuck his mouth, Shane realized he didn't mind it—he didn't mind being Clint's fuck boy, if that's what he wanted. In fact, he liked it.
Oh, he loved being Clint's fuck boy.
He was going to be the best fuck boy.
Clint's cock tasted of sweat and a bit of piss—a tangy mix that filled Shane’s nostrils and made his mouth water. He shifted his hands on Clint’s hips, finding a steady pace with which to match Clint’s thrusts. The more he was prepared, the less he felt like choking. He tried to reconcile Clint’s grunts with the sensation of the dick in his mouth—should he do something with his tongue? Should he work up more spit? Clint thrust again and again, using his hand on the back of Shane’s head to maneuver Shane like a toy.
He could feel himself getting hard again, though his cock was tender from Clint’s earlier grip. The bitter night air tried to work against him, but Clint's urgent movements and rock hard dick in his mouth were winning out.
“Ungh,” Clint moaned, his voice quiet yet urgent in the crisp night air. “I’m gonna come in your mouth pretty soon, you good boy.” His hips snapped faster now.
Shane’s heart raced. He didn’t remember what it felt like to have someone come in his mouth. What should he do? Would it be fast, or slow? Would he choke, would he embarrass himself and—
“Ungh, here it comes fuck boy. Here it comes.” Clint grasped the back of Shane’s head with both hands, pulling him onto Clint’s cock as it pulsed and grew even harder. Shane felt his face flush, so clearly able to imagine what Clint was feeling right then, imagining the feeling of his own balls spasming, his memory of the intense flood of relief still fresh on his mind.
And then it hit the back of his mouth, tangy and tasting mildly of fried food. Instinctively, Shane swallowed, gripping Clint’s hips for balance as the entirety of his attention focused on what was happening in his mouth. He swallowed again, though felt come drip from the side of his mouth. Again Clint pulsed in his mouth, holding Shane’s head in place now. Shane’s nose was buried in the flesh of Clint’s pelvis; had Clint’s dick been any longer, Shane would have certainly choked.
The blacksmith shook once, twice more. Shane's cock was so hard he felt like he could come again right there on his knees. With a quiet sigh, Clint’s grip on the back of his head eased, and Shane swallowed one last time. The action made Clint spasm again, and Shane felt a few last drops hit the back of his tongue.
“Fuck, chicken man. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did this all the time.”
Shane balked slightly at the moniker, though decided the way Clint said it hadn’t been condescending. He sat back, resting on his heels, and wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He glanced down, noting a smear on the sleeve. Gotta remember to wash this. Don’t want people in town noticing.
Clint breathed heavily, and Shane watched his belly expand and contract. With surprisingly few movements, he tucked his cock away and zipped his pants, moving his apron back into place. He reached out a hand, inviting Shane’s. Shane took it, briefly struck by the intimacy he felt when taking Clint’s calloused hand in his own. He rose, and then they stood face to face, Clint an inch or two shorter than Shane, but with a presence that far outweighed his.
Clint placed his hands on either side of Shane’s face, bringing him in for another kiss. His tongue moved forcefully against Shane’s. Shane inhaled sharply, intensely aware of the remnants of Clint’s come in his mouth. He was now fully hard again, his lower belly roiling with unspent desire.
“Next time, my place,” the blacksmith grunted, his eyes dark coals against the backdrop of inky blackness. “Unless you like gettin’ fucked in public. Which I suppose I could oblige.”