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it's the circle of life;
England ran his hand over his gun. A Westley Revolver, one of the those with the long barrel, drawing forward to a tip. First he was leaning in his chair, elbows on his knees. He was wearing his black gloves, the ones that when he leaned forward too much, a sliver of skin showed between his sleeve and the glove. His fingers were hooked over the butt of the gun, the white cloth smoothly and rhythmatically going over the barrel.
He was saying something, but America wasn’t listening. He was looking at that long barrel and how England was rubbing the cloth over it, first at the broad end, going down to the narrow point, and back again, almost caressing it with his fingers. He thought about England’s fingers, in those cold gloves, a little bit of heat, but not enough, cool and grasping the gun firmly. He wanted to have England’s fingers on his cock and to rub him in those gloves and to put his mouth against his cock and suck.
England didn’t seem to notice that America wasn’t listening. He placed the flat of the gun in between his legs of the rocking chair, and when it almost fell off when he reached for the bullets, he grabbed the gun and placed it even deeper to his crotch, in between his legs. And then America thought it was getting hot, because the Southern sun was beating over the small wooden hut, and it was only them for miles around, them and the horses chewing in the nearby field, and England was adjusting the gun between his legs, rubbing it against his groin, the shine glinting off the gaze.
America loosened his collar, the sweat sticking at the small of his back and underneath his armpits. England was still talking, except this time he lifted the gun, and he put it near his mouth, and a small pink tongue flickered out and licked it. It was just once, experimentally, and America stared, fascinated. This time, the tongue reached out and stayed there, at the barrel of the gun, and then England started to lick it. He moved the gun down, moistly trailing against the metal, and his eyes were watching America, gauging his reaction.
He reached the tip of the gun, and then he engulfed the tip. It was only the tip, passing through his moist lips, and he let go again, this time to run his tongue down the metal, to where his fingers still held the base of the gun. Then he moved it back up, rapidly, shifting his pace, occasionally drawing back his lips to show his tongue curling around the gun, and then he was taking the tip of the gun in his mouth again, except this time he didn’t let go. He didn’t draw back his lips, but he bobbed his head down onto the gun, slowly, taking in a little by little, and then drawing back fast and hard, and the gun was wet and America was a little wet too in his underwear and he watched as England tilted the gun downward at an angle and he descended on the gun, but this time he wasn’t coming up yet, not just yet, taking more and more, deep-throating the entire nozzle, before he drew back and this time he did draw back his lips, just to show his tongue lingering at the tip of the gun before he finally released it.
After that, he took up the cloth again and cleaned the gun again, and propped the bullets back inside and slipped it into his waistband. He told America that next time he saw him, he would fuck him with the gun, fuck him hard and rough.
He also told America to get better lemonade, and then left him sitting on the porch, hard-on and all.
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