The Rodeo RPS Thing

Callum wasn't quite sure when this began, one moment he was talking to Paul, saying, like, "yeah, you really can ride a horse?" and yeah, Paul grew up on a fucking ranch (and Callum would quite like to see a ranch fuck, it'd be better than a goddamn ranch dressing, right?), and he'd asked whether that meant Paul could do all that cowboy shit, and yeah, he could. And then Dean turned round and said there was a place that hired horses outside Vancouver, he'd started going there when he got the Mountie-job, 'cause Callum wasn't the only guy too method for his own good, even though, yeah, they'd sworn never to mention the feet thing again. Even though that, and Dean is still getting Callum into shit, and Callum doesn't get it, 'cause, he didn't tell Paul nothing.

And now Paul's using one of his shit-eating grins at him across the lunchtable, and Callum wonders if the OJ got spiked some again.

And maybe it wasn't Paul who'd done it, he'd thought that then, but he sure as fuck didn't now, because 1) Mr Nice-Guy Gross was totally evil and b) Proof of point uno was that he was in the fields behind a horse ranch.

And Callum's a city boy, pretty much, a little golf is as close to nature as he usually gets. And he's lost his glasses, which is pretty damn shitty, as is the way Dean and Paul ganged up on him and made him come out here. And did he mention he was in the fields behind a horse ranch?

In the fields behind a horse ranch being chased by two maniacs on horses with identical shit-eating grins (the grins belong to the maniacs, not the horses; though on reflection Callum decides that the grins belong to the maniacs and the horses) and the maniac in chief himself, Canada's Sweetheart Mr Paul Sunshine-Comes-Out-Of-My-Ass-And-I-Sing Gross, has a fucking big piece of rope that he's wirling around his head.

Except it's not round his head no more, it's around Callum's ankles and Callum's falling into the dirt with his hands stuck out in front of him. And he's wishing he had quit smoking 'cause maybe then running would have been less work and he could've dedicated some serious brain runtime to what the fuck is going on and avoiding Paul and his goddamn rope.

Actually, just avoiding Paul would be a good idea, but then, that would entail moving to Hollywood and there're too many people there, and statistics demand that some of them must be crazier than Paul. It's the percentages. The nutjob per capita rate, and right now Callum really wants to kick, and he tries to, but all he does is jack-knife himself in the dirt.

And, christ, that t was new on today, and because he didn't want to show the nice guys who were gonna teach him how to ride up, he'd worn one that actually didn't have his so-called friends edging away in disgust, like say, his cardigan did (Callum didn't see anything wrong with his cardigan, it's warm and cozy, and yeah, the pattern's real cool, like dropping acid, without the acid, and these days Callum's pretty clean living and will take his kicks where he can, like cigarettes, cardigans and golf). No, this t-shirt was a damn nice one, and it's riding up to his armpits as he flails around like a fish, or like a pocket knife with an over-oiled pivot, and it's getting all dirt and stuff rubbed into it.

And sure, Callum's getting all dirt and grass and stuff all over his skin, but skin washes, even when you cover yourself in magic marker measles.

And Paul's fucking laughing, 'cause, yeah, he just hunted his new best friend, who viewers of the new series of due South will really get a kick out of, down like he was a dog small and half-blind cow, and Callum can't say anything 'cause he's still breathing too fast, and is that fucking wheezing him, 'cause if it is, he knows what he's giving up next and you can sign him up to the tofu and sandles brigade.

Particularly 'cause tofu don't go moo.

And Callum can just about hear Dean come 'round on his blind side, and they're ditched the damn horses and he hopes the gee-gees won't get cute and stomp on him with those big hooves or nothing, 'cause that would just crack Paul up even fucking more.

"Guys," he gasps, "why the fuck are you doing this?"

He hates the way his voice sounds, and the fact his ankles are fucking tied together, and then, just as he realises his hands are free, if kinda sore, and he can push himself up and get his feet loose, there's a knee on his fucking back, and it's heavy and it's gotta be Dean...

'cept it's not 'cause, yeah, Dean's in front of him now, looking at Paul grab his fucking arms and tie them behind his fucking back, with string.

And Paul's going, "this is some damn frisky steer we've got here partner," and Callum wants to give him damn frisky.

And, then, the knee's gone and somebody else is getting damn frisky and this is bad because firstly, it isn't Callum and secondly, because they're getting damn frisky inside Callum's fucking pants, and fuck.

Callum's still face down in the dirt, and there's this mountie-big hand snaking inside his jeans, getting all over familiar and Callum's wondering how the fuck they can think they can do this, and then he's thinking how the fuck can he do this?

'Cause not getting hard, and frisky, when somebody puts their hands in your pants, is brain-breaking hard work, and Callum's brain wasn't up to much to start with.

And then there's "I think we need to improve access a bit" and Callum doesn't know which of the pervert mountie twins it is, and that's disturbing 'cause it's bad enough with "Paul and Dean hunt me down tie me and molest me", without "and they stay in character the whole time, because somebody's doped the OJ with something real mean" or "ditto, but because they're psycho-sadists who lure me out here to do bad things to me"

Because the problem is, the hand found Callum's cock ages ago and he's trying to hard not to squirm, to stay still, and then he feels a tug, and his jeans are on his knees, and his boxers, and there's air blowing over his ass, and there's dirt under it, and he can move his legs even less and that makes every squirm even more fucking obvious.

Plus, dust and dirt and boy parts? So not a good mix.

And the dust tickles, so he squirms some more, and has to remember real hard that this does not feel good, nuh-uh, totally ungood, totally manky and disgusting and soiled.

And he has to remember real hard not to get hard in that nice hard hand, which isn't dusty, but kinda warm and softish, 'cause clearly cowboys use handcream...

And there's a sound, Callum thinks it's a gun for a moment, because everything's too loud, too bright, too much; and then he realises it's a bottle, and then there's a slick finger running down the cleft of his ass, and yeah, cowboy-mounties do use handcream, just not, uh, conventionally, and then it hits ground zero, and Callum's head and shoulders leap up, pressing his dick into Paul's hand...

Fuck.

"Please, don't do that, Callum, you'll hurt yourself, and you don't want that, do you?" no, but then Callum's day-plan didn't include get tied up and used as a sex toy by his demented co-stars, "Paul, why don't you do something about that?"

On the bright side, yeah, Dean might sound like a mountie, but he has some grasp of reality, he knows it's Paul, but what grasp of reality has this happening?

Unless it's some insane Paul-gag gone wrong, and they're just waiting to see how far it will go...

It's a pretty good theory, all told, and it's good 'cause it's the one that doesn't end with "and this is how the west was won, as recreated with Callum's hot tight ass and a lot of rope" and yeah, cowboy movies are pretty gay, but then the mountie-gig is pretty fucking gay, emphasis on the pretty 'cause it's Paul in the damn Mountie suit charming every grandmother in Canada, they don't know that he's a foul-mouthed son of a bitch, who would be a motherfucker if it weren't for the fact he seems to be about to fuck Callum, who is not interested, honest.

And Callum's cock likes that bit way too much, but it's still a damn good theory...

So Callum tries it.

"Paul, quit it, let me up; it was real funny, but now I'm freaked, and quit with the cowboy impersonation, 'cause look, I'm laughing..."

Callum never thought his voice could sound like that, so reedy, so...

...bad. And the sound alone is tearing him up inside, because as a piece of acting it sucks, and not just because he can't get his dick to join in...

Christ, if it stays like that, it will be even worse than being tied up rodeo style, it will be Soap Opera and Infomercials and a damn fucking nightmare, and developing a nice personality, and smiling at people...

And Callum's forgetting how to breathe.

Callum's panting and wheezing and panicking, and he doesn't even notice that that cool slick finger has just stopped there, between the cheeks.

And then Paul opens his mouth, and Callum forgets entirely, "You said you want to learn to ride," and Paul's smiling that bastard smile of his, and Callum's forgot how to breathe, how to speak, and then that finger, Dean's finger, plunges in so easily, and Callum forgets...

Everything.

He forgets not to hump down onto Paul's hand, as much as he can.

He forgets that Dean's finger does not feel good.

He forgets that being tied up is for kinky pervert freaks, not guys who play golf and get their kicks with cardigans...

He forgets how to think, how to object, how he wanted "no" so bad.

And he forgets everything as Paul holds him down, almost too gently to be the guy who tied him up like a fucking steer/sheep/sextoy, as those fingers go in and out.

Paul's trying to stop him skidding in the dirt too much, 'cause it's kinda like rope burn, only not that good, and anyway, Callum hasn't got any rope burn 'cause the rope's still over his fucking jeans, still around his ankles, as his t-shirt tries to ruck up over his armpits, rubbing at his nipples in a way that's totally good, as Dean, gotta be Dean 'cause Paul's up at his end, and it's his fingers that are slipping into Callum's mouth and stealing any words he still had away.

Callum long since gave up pretending that he gets his kicks from cardigans and golf, and sucks down on those fingers like they're cigarettes.

Only instead of cool smoke hitting the back of his throat, the heat in the back of his throat is going anyway sucked down with the hot plunging into him like...

Okay, it's nothing like cigarettes, but Callum still knows he's going to be hoarse in the morning.

And then Paul's hand starts moving, which is good for about five seconds, before Callum's yearning for it back, and the world starts turning upside down.

And it takes a minute for Callum to realise that there are hands under his arms and there is a hand and maybe a denim-clad leg sweeping his legs forward, and that, fuck, that bright blue thing is the sky and it's so bright it hurts his eyes, and he barely even notices that he's resting against Dean's chest, still with Dean's dick up his ass, and that he needs to breathe...

And Callum let's out a juddering breath that's almost a gasp and how could he forget that he could sound like this? And Paul's face is swimming in front of him, the light's making it hard to see after so much time staring at dirt, but he can tell it's Paul and his words just wash over him as he's there balanced perfectly on Dean's thighs, on Dean's dick, "Just breathe, Callum, nice and easy."

Callum wants to sock Paul one, say that he already knows "nice and easy", probably knows "nice and easy" better than Mister Paul Loved-By-All-The-Grandmothers-Of-Canada-And-A-Lot-Of-The-Actors-Only-In-A-Way-That-Doesn't-Mean-Writing-Him-Letters-About-Their-Very-Pretty-Granddaughters Gross, he knows "nice and easy" good, but he can't say so because he's too busy breathing "nice and easy" and the dick in his ass in just nice, in a nasty, dusty, cowboy way.

Anyway, he still has Paul's fingers in his mouth. Who'd thought that cowboys could be this fucking co-ordinated?

And everything's kind of still but good, and Callum's almost forgotten the bit where the crazed horse riding maniacs chased him down and tied him up, because it's that good.

And then, Dean starts moving under him, bouncing Callum up and down, and Paul's got the lightest of touches on his chest, just to stop him bouncing too far, 'cause Callum's got absolutely no leverage here, no way out, or off 'cept that which the guys give him; and Callum has to revise his definition of good.

Only his brain-cells are currently occupied, so it goes down on his "to do" list, the one that his manager so does not deal with.

And he's riding Dean's dick, and everything seems to be hitting his prostate and there is nothing out there anymore 'cept light and even that doesn't mean anything, and the only noise is the sound of his own heart as it beats harder and harder, and he doesn't even notice Paul's spit-slick hand leaving his mouth, and closing around his dick...

And Callum closes his eyes only for the light to get brighter and brighter and then it explodes.

Just as Dean explodes in his ass and falls backwards, Callum landing on top of him and not caring, 'cause his dick is so happy it's singing. And it's singing in harmony with his ass, which is such a happy ass, and his ass is full of come, and so's Paul's hand. And Callum sees none of this, notices barely any of this, 'cause he's still got his eyes closed, watching the supernova.

And the only thought in his head is that he needs to give up the golf and get more riding lessons.

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