[image of James West]

Leather and Chains

by Taliesin

[image of Artemus Gordon]

Ghost towns make me nervous. Jim says it's just my imagination getting the better of me, but I can't help thinking there's more to these places than just deserted buildings. People leave more behind than the odd unwanted belonging -- hopes, dreams. I'm not sure. All I know is that ghost towns make me nervous.

Our enemies' tendency to make use of the abandoned buildings only reinforces the feeling.

"Come on, Jim; let's get out of here." I push open the door to the deserted sheriff's office, but don't see Jim in the dim interior.

"It's just your imagination, Artie."

"Did I say anything?" I follow his voice through the dim, creaky building to the cells in the back room. "The Marshall hauled Ellsworth and his men off more than an hour ago. Now isn't it time we go home?"

"Patience, Artie." Jim's standing on the bunk in one of the cells, looking out the barred window. "Come take a look at this."

"Can't it wait until we're outside?"

"No." He turns his head and catches me eyeing the floorboards. "The building isn't that old, Artie. The floor's not going to collapse under you. Now get over here."

"All right, all right. Hold your horses." I join him by the window, and he hauls me up on the bunk by the elbow. "Okay, what's so important?"

"Look." He points out the window.

"At what? There's nothing out here."

"Just look."

He sounds excited. I scan the barren ground just outside, then cast my gaze wider. I can't help it; Jim so rarely allows himself to be excited about things that I just have to see what's gotten into him. He jumps off the bunk, but I ignore it; I'm used to his restlessness by now. It's the clang of the iron bars behind me which drags me around.

He's standing on the outside, the keyring dangling from his fingers. I turn sheepishly away from the window and take my time in approaching the bars. There's no rush; he's got me precisely where he wants me.

"Care to tell me the rules of this game?"

"No rules, Artie." Whistling, he tosses the keyring onto a hook near the door and walks out.


"No use shouting, Artie," Jim's voice floats back to me. "There's no one around for miles."

The loose straw mattress was stolen by the birds long ago, and the bare boards of the bunk are less than inviting. Two seconds sitting, and I'm up pacing the cell again. Despite their age, none of the bars are more than superficially rusted, and all are firmly seated in the floor. The outside wall and floor are, as Jim said, quite solid. I'm not carrying a lockpick, and I used up all my explosives dealing with Ellsworth.

I'm not exactly worried. Jim would never actually go away and leave me locked up, or keep me behind bars for any length of time. And I can hear him moving around in the other room. All that aside, his games can be... thrilling. But waiting makes me nervous and he knows it.

"Damn it, Jim!"

"Patience, Artie."

Frustrated, I growl. I can hear him chuckling. For want of anything better to do, I go back to standing on the bunk, looking out the window. There's nothing to see; Ellsworth cleared out the area before he set up shop here. No one around for miles, as Jim said.


He's barefoot, which is why I didn't hear him coming. His feet aren't all that's bare, and I know my mouth is hanging open. It's only the second time I've seen him like this, and I swear it'll never stop derailing my entire train of thought. When I first confessed to him, months ago, how arousing I found those black leather chaps, I initially thought I'd made a horrible mistake. Until he showed me just how completely I'd underestimated what the sight of him in his chaps, and only his chaps, could do to me. I had assumed he'd forgotten the incident, even if I never will. Jim never forgets anything.

Bare feet. Bare chest. A black leather vest I've never seen before hanging open, concealing nothing. Those chaps.

"Oh god." It comes out as a strangled moan.

"That's what you said last time." He grins at me, letting the predator show for a moment. Jim closes the door behind him and leans against it. He runs the flat of his hand over the soft leather of the vest, then lets his fingers brush his chest, skirting the revealing line of the garment. They don't stop at the vest, sliding down to tease along the edge of the chaps over his bare thigh.

I can't take my eyes off him. Misremembering the distance, I stumble a little as I step off the bunk, but barely notice. The bars are still solid and the door still locked. "Jim..."



"Strip, Artie." His voice hardens a little.

Hands shaking, I obey. He lets his head roll back against the door as he watches through half-lidded eyes. I throw off my clothes as fast as I can, fumbling with the buttons and ties. Jim's hand runs down his chest again, and encloses his erection. Taut flesh shines in the diffuse light; his hand slides smoothly over his cock, as if he oiled himself before coming to me. He strokes himself as he watches me strip.

Naked, I shiver a little in the cool cell, though the fire burns low in my belly. He doesn't move as I approach the bars and wrap my hands around cold metal. His hand continues its leisurely motion, taunting me with the pleasure he inflicts on himself.

"Touch yourself."

I don't even think about it. My hand drops to my own hard cock and begins to move to the tempo he sets. Usually, I prefer to start with a more subtle touch: my nipples, inner thighs, that place on the curve of my hip which isn't quite ticklish. But his eyes command: quicker, harder. I lean my forehead against the cold bars and obey.

I can't take my eyes off him. The clean hard lines of his body. The black sheath of leather which seems molded to his limbs. The leather shines in the light, almost as enticing as the skin it both hides and reveals. And his hands: caressing his own flesh, moving with sure strength over his body. My hand moves in time with his and the rising pleasure in my body weaves its pattern between us, until I can feel his skin under my fingers, my cock in his hands.

The room begins to dim before the onset of orgasm when suddenly the rhythm stops. Cool air assaults my cock as my hand is pulled away. Cold metal encircles my wrist.

I blink. Jim's standing very close, his heat brushing against me through the cage. He gently tugs on my wrist, pulling my hand through the bars, and reaches through to take my other hand and do the same. There's the touch of cold metal on the other wrist, and a soft snick. Jim takes a step back and the unholy gleam of amusement in his eyes warns me to look down.

His handcuffs are fastened securely about my wrists.

My cock aches fiercely with need and, for the moment, that's all that matters. Without thinking, I slide my hands down, only to be stopped by a crossbar connecting the bars a little above waist height. I can't reach myself.

"Jim..." My voice trembles. Jim's once again leaning against the door, watching me. "Please..." If he expects an eloquent plea, he's overestimated my ability to put together a coherent sentence in this state.


He touches himself again. This time with more subtlety. The way I like, the way I touch him whenever he lets me.

He starts by running his finger over his parted lips, then down the curve of his jaw to his neck. One hand strokes down the center of his chest, then returns to brush against the soft nub of a nipple. Then both hands move to his nipples, caressing and squeezing gently. His right hand drops to stroke lightly back and forth over his belly, tracing along the buckle of the chaps. Teasing himself. Me.

I'm panting for breath and he hasn't even reached his waist yet. I can't take my eyes off the movement of his hands, and my own twitch involuntarily, knocking the cuffs against the bars with a loud clang.

His eyes meet mine for a moment, and a feral smile touches his lips. One hand traces down the edge of black leather to its lowest point on his inner thigh, then back up again, not quite touching his hard cock. The other slides over his hip and disappears behind him. His lips part, and I helplessly imagine him caressing the perfect curve of bare buttock. As if unable to delay a moment longer, his hand closes tightly around his erection, fisting it with slow power.

A moan escapes me. Desperate to touch, I move closer. I flinch away from the cold bars at first, then push heedlessly against them when his commanding eyes meet mine. He seems to respond, finally, to my desperation, and comes to stand before me. His fingers stroke lovingly over the weeping head of his cock and lift to my mouth. I lick them clean, my tongue burning with his spice, then suck on his fingers until he retrieves his hand.

He touches me through the bars, long vertical strokes searing into sweaty skin. As much as possible through the metal impediment, Jim traces on my body the same erotic designs he made on his own. My nipples burn after he leaves them, and the touch of his hand on my buttock is so light it flays the skin. I cry out at the tight perfection when he takes me into his hand.

Suddenly, Jim releases me, leaving me gasping. He disappears from my sight so abruptly, I wonder for a split second where he's gone. My whirling mind finally commands me to look down. He's kneeling. Before that image fully penetrates, the hot cavern of his mouth takes me in, drowning me utterly in a sea of sensation.

The cold iron bars burn into me as I push fitfully against them, trying to get closer to this delicious torment. My hands strain down to touch him, my fingers just barely brushing against his soft hair. Jim's slow teasing patience is gone; his hard mouth works me fast, sucking the pleasure out of me in a relentless torrent.

Panting, leaning weakly against the bars, I barely hear the metal clang of the door opening through the veil of sated exhaustion. Strong hands take my hips, pulling me back a step, then one hand presses flat between my shoulders, pushing my head down. The fog clears in a single searing stroke as his hot shaft cleaves into me. My surprised cry echoes in the small room as I scrabble for purchase on the bars with my cuffed hands.

There is no patience or gentleness left in him now. Nor would I want there to be. Jim sets a punishing pace, thrusting into me with all his strength and desire. He pushes my feet farther apart without pausing his hard strokes, and suddenly I can feel the cool slick leather on my inner thighs. When he leans forward, the vest brushes against my back. I push my head against the bars and whimper.

Jim's fingers tangle in my hair; he pulls my head back and around, almost to the limit of my flexibility. His mouth plunders mine, possessing me with the same arrogant fire with which his cock moves in my body. When he releases me, my lungs burn for air. His hands return to their bruising grip on my hips and he shoves into me harder.

I open my eyes for a second and catch sight of my chained hands. A thrill of fear and arousal shivers through me as I remember my helplessness. Jim can do anything he wants to me. The leather chaps chafe against the tender skin of my inner thighs with every powerful thrust. I arch my back to take him even deeper.

He growls, and alters the angle of his thrusts. Suddenly, his pounding cock is rocking against that special place inside with every stroke. I see bursts of lightening behind my eyelids each time he thrusts home and, though my swaying cock is lax and drained, I feel as if I climax each time he thrusts into me. My cries mix with his soft grunts and the sound of flesh meeting flesh until he freezes suddenly within me, his arms closing bruisingly around my ribs as his loud cry heralds the hot seed pouring out of him. I imagine it searing me with his desire, his self.

Jim clings breathlessly to me, trusting to my shaky limbs, and the imperturbably steadfast iron bars, to hold him up. Finally, he slips carefully from inside me and reaches for my wrists. He fumbles a moment before finding and using the key, releasing one of my hands.

I find myself sprawled on the floor, with Jim pulling me half onto his legs to hold me closer. Silver metal still dangles from one wrist. His breath feathers my hair, and I push closer to his warm chest, throwing a bare leg over his leather-clad thigh.

"Leather's mine," I breathe against his sweaty skin, "so I guess chains must be yours."


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