Summer of Twenty-Nine

It wasn't like I hadn't gone out to gay clubs in New York from time to time over the last decade and gotten casual rough and impersonal sex there. I wasn't the total innocent to being fucked. I had left Hunt's Ranch eleven years ago having experienced it all. But I hadn't brought myself to that act of desperation more than four times in the last decade.

He was a good cocksman—I'd had only limited experience in this for some time, but he was good inside me. He'd been good eleven years earlier, when he'd popped my male cherry and ridden me again and again throughout the summer before I went East to college—and then had passed me on for others to use and abuse. I never forgot how good he was. His cock was thin, but long, and he knew what to do with it. He'd deny me the use of it until I begged and then he'd fuck the shit out of me. He was strong and wiry and good at exotic fuck positions. He loved bondage and immobilizing the guy he was fucking—wearing them down, enjoying getting to the point where they surrendered to him and couldn't get enough of him.

He could take me to that point eleven years ago. He could take me to that point on this night. After he fucked me like a dog, hogtied and completely at his mercy, he unbound me, and turned me on my back, and growled, "You gonna lay down nice and wanting it from me now? Open your legs for me if you want me to fuck you again." He was looking down into my face with a cruel smirk, waiting for me to beg for more.

I didn't disappoint. I bent my legs, placing my feet flat on the surface of the bed and raising my pelvis to him. Taking his sustained erection in my hands, I guided the head of his cock to my hole. That was welcome and declaration of surrender enough for him. Laughing, he thrust up inside me. I gasped at the cruel penetration. He grasped my wrists in his fists and forced my arms over my head. I grabbed the brass rails of the headboard as he bottomed in me and held there, cruelly, capturing my eyes with his, and waiting for me to surrender to him, to beg him to give me the cock. I did. Whining, "Fuck me. Don't make me wait. Do me now," I rocked against his stretching shaft and, laughing, he began pistoning his hips and brutally fucked and fucked and finished me off.

I realized then that this was what I'd come back to the ranch to get. This was what had become my fetish in life. This was what I had been unable to deny myself of in my life after Rafe in the big city. I just didn't think it would be Rafe I'd get it from. Eleven years ago the bunk house had been full of randy cowboys who fucked me after Rafe gave me to them. It was one of them I had thought I was coming back for. Cowboys are hard-bodied and rough. That's what I'd come back for.

* * * *

In the morning, I was alone at the breakfast table. I was a city boy now. Jack had eaten four hours earlier and had already put in half a day's work on the ranch by the time I was eating. I had a hearty breakfast—enough that would have made Amy gag and leave the table—and I was sore as hell. I did cruise on occasion in New York, looking for what Rafe gave me the previous night, but I had been fighting it. I hadn't used those particular muscles in months—months of pretending and trying to be what I wasn't. But I was humming too. I left the table, took my computer out to the front porch, where I could see the mountains, and banged away on my novel.

Both ranch staff and guests passed me. They smiled at me and I smiled back. When Rafe passed me and tipped his hat, though, giving me a sly smile that encompassed both control and a question, I called him back to me. "Rafe," I said. "Oh, God, Rafe." I couldn't keep the pleading tone out of my voice. He laughed, came up on the porch, took my hand, and guided me inside.

Rafe had me for lunch—in my bedroom, on my bed, my wrists tied to the headboard and him on his knees, raising my pelvis to him, my ankles hooked on his shoulders, and Rafe pounding the hell out of me. Out here on the range, the cowboys were rough in everything they did. I had been in the city so long that I needed it rough to feel alive with it. When he was leaving, I was begging him to stay. I was lost to him. I'd suffered from eleven years of sneaking around or trying to do without for large chunks of guilt time. This was a dude ranch dedicated to just what Rafe and I were doing all noontime. There was no need for pretense here. I was twenty-nine, nearly thirty, and I had lost time. I had to make up for lost time or wither away. I needed to feel.

* * * *

"Rafe?" I'd been lying there, on my back, in the pup tent on the rocky ground far up into the mountains of the Routt National Forest, still several miles from the ranch's hunting lodge. I'd been waiting, both in some fear and anticipation. Rafe had been rough with me both times down at the ranch. He seemed to think I'd continued with this since I'd been with him eleven years ago. I hadn't, not regularly. And when I had done it, it had filled me with guilt, all the more painful as it left me unsatisfied as well. I'd fled him in fear and worry then, worry about choosing that life, fighting it after having escaped him into another life. And I'd fallen back into it so easily—not just the sex with a man, but melting to sex with a demanding, cruel man. I'd done everything Rafe had demanded of me then. And I did everything he demanded of me now. And he demanded total submission to his every desire—sexual slavery.

I waited for him to come to me and do it again.

I lay there, naked, on top of the sleeping bag, legs spread and bent, feet flat on the ground, fingering my cock and hole, ready for him to thrust up into me and do whatever he wanted with me. I'd agreed to ride up to the hunting lodge with Rafe—and Jack—on three horses, taking two other horses as well, all weighed down with supplies. We'd come this far before camping for the night.

I was wide awake, waiting, when I heard the flap of the tent being pulled aside and felt the presence of two, heavily breathing, men in the oppressive confines of the canvas. Only one of them was me.

"No, it's me, Jack. Will you deny me? I watched you the other night with Rafe. I want you so bad."

I was surprised, but ready with the answer. "No, never. I thought you'd never want . . . that you'd never ask—"

"I've wanted you since you were here last. I wanted you then, like the other guys in the bunkhouse were having you. Every time I thought of one of the ranch hands on top of you, inside you, I wanted to be there as well. But Sylvia kept me on a tight rein." His voice sounded belabored, saturated with lust. I couldn't see him well in the dark, but I saw enough to take in the massive, muscular chest, the Roman-shield-like abs, the huge erection. Yes, the man was hung.

I didn't say yes, but I didn't say no, either. And I didn't close my legs as he was crouched there, on his knees, between them. When I bent my legs, feet flat on the ground, and hugged his hips with my knees, he knew I would let him inside.

"Fuck, your body is beautiful." He was running his hands over my naked torso and legs—and hard cock—and I wasn't stopping him. "You are sexiest man alive. Shit. I can't wait. Sorry, I have to . . ." And he was leaning over me, putting one arm around me, pulling my pelvis up to him.

"Oh shit. Fuck!" I exclaimed, realizing he was going to take me with that huge cock with little or no preparation. He did. There was spit, but not nearly enough. Holding me close, my pelvis raised to him, my torso streaming out on the sleeping bag, my arms stretched out, clutching at the earth—and anything I could. My eyes were staring wildly up into the frame of the tent, my mouth was open in one long mournful cry, as he used his other hand to put the head of his cock in position and slowly, but surely enter me.

"Open to me, dammit. Open. Relax. Let me in!"

I looked into his eyes then. They weren't wild with want. They were simmering with lust, and there was a hint of something else there—the warrior. He wasn't forcing me dry with a monster cock because he couldn't hold off. He was doing it because the height of his arousal was in taking a smaller young man with a cock his size without preparation. Rafe's thing was to immobilize me—tie me up and take me hard, and to share me—Jack's was to tax me hard, unprepared, with a huge cock. What did I think in both cases? I realized their fetishes were mine as well. I screamed, "Fuck, you're split me!" and started panting hard when his mushroom cap breached my sphincter. I collapsed under him, looking into his eyes. He was enjoying this immensely. So, despite suffering—despite the taxing of his cock and the captivity and hard taking of Rafe, I enjoyed the taking as well.

"Open up! Take it! Take it!"

And I did. I suffered for Jack. I arched my back and pressed my pelvis up into his groin and groaned deeply. I took his too-big dick. I suffered for him because I knew it gave him power and control—and thus did the same for me. Because while I suffered, he owned me and conquered me and spiraled up into arousal heaven, but I had the power to give him what he wanted or to deny him. But what he wanted, I wanted as well. He took me up there into heaven with him.

"You can take it. Take it; take it," he growled.

I did what I could. And then I was spreading for him. I needed to. His was the thickest cock I'd ever taken.

"Is it too much? Do I need to . . .?"

"No," I cried out. "Do it. Hurry. Fuck me! Pump me! Give me your cum."

The light in his eyes dimmed a bit. He had wanted me to beg him to stop. But he wouldn't have stopped.

"Shit. Too big. Too big. Maybe . . ." I groaned, watching the light come back in his eyes.

But then he was in, in to the hilt. thick and deep. The muscles of my passage walls were undulating over the shaft. I lifted my knees to hug his hips and moved my hands to his shoulder blades, digging in. "Yes, yes, yes. Work me," I whispered, with a deep moan. The rhythm of the fuck started . . . and continued, me rocking against him, throwing my head back, crowing to the night . . . and the fuck continued and continued. We fit now. We were working together. We were fucking. I was just big enough for him. He was getting the close fit he wanted. The muscles of my passage were making love to the throbbing shaft. In, out; in; out. It ended in a flood of cum inside me, him breathing heavily, wheezing his victory. I'd already come up his hard belly.

He hadn't worn a rubber. I didn't give a shit that he hadn't.

I thought it was over then, but it wasn't. He pulled out and off me. "Turn over. Give me your ass."

With a groan, I did so, going up on my knees, him pressing my cheek to the ground with a fist in the back of my neck. His other hand was milking my cock. His face was in my crack, eating me out. He regained an erection and mounted me, riding my ass high, sliding inside me—me reamed to his need now—and fucking me again. Midway through the fuck, the fist at the back of my neck withdrew, came around my throat, and cupped my chin, pulling my torso up into his chest. He buried his face in my throat, murmured, "I've wanted to do this for so long," and he fucked and fucked and fucked.

An hour later, Jack was on his back and I was saddled on his hips, riding his cock, my torso leaning back and my hands palming his knees, when the tent flap was pulled back again, and Rafe was there. He saddled himself behind me, pressing my chest into Jack's. He tied my wrists together behind my back, and, putting his cock in position, slid it inside me above Jack's buried staff. Jack and I held, as Rafe fucked me. I'd like to lie and say I'd never done this before, but I had. When I was here before Rafe had me do everything, including this. Every cowboy in the bunkhouse who wanted to come to the party—and few cowboys could pass up getting rocks off no matter how it was done—did me separately and together, with Rafe watching and goading us on, before I had escaped into trying for another life.

This couldn't have been spontaneous or the first time these two had done a guy together. There was no surprise—at least from Jack and Rafe—and their movements were too coordinated for this not being something they regularly did. First it was Rafe's cock thrusting, with Jack holding, and then they'd trade motions and later trade again. This was coordinated. They didn't just take me in that position. They readjusted, turning me on Jack so that I was stretched out on top of him, my head resting between his pecs and his legs woven through mine to raise and spread them, while Rafe knelt between my legs pressed my shoulders into Jack's chest, slid his cock in above Jack's buried dick, and fucked me in a missionary.

The next day I found out just how planned it all was.

* * * *

When we reached the hunting lodge, four guys were there—two of them in their late twenties or early thirties and two in their forties. All were muscle men and were good-lucking enough not to throw out of bed. They all were shirtless, wearing shorts, boots, and ten-gallon hats. They weren't out hunting elk, which I remarked on as we unloaded the supplies, but were setting up for a grill. It was twilight before we arrived.

One of the younger guys grinned and said, "We're doing a different kind of hunting today," to my casually thrown-out comment of "I think you'll find the elk higher up on the mountain."

What they were hunting was me. After the grill dinner, using supplies we'd brought up on the horses, we sat around a fire outside of the lodge, quaffing beer and smoking pot. I'm sure they were getting mellow for the main event and were softening me up for it as well—getting me a little high, but not too high that I zoned out or didn't feel every stroke of what they had to give me.

At a suggestion from Jack that it was time, we moved into the lodge, Jake and one of the hunters carrying me between them. Jake and the hunter stripped me as the rest of them stripped down.

Jack leaned over and whispered in my ear, "You good with this, Rick? Rafe said that before, when you were here before . . . in the bunkroom . . . and you let Rafe and me double you."

"Do it," answered. This was the release I'd come back to Colorado to get.

They put me on the dining table on my back, stretched my arms out, and used rope to tie my wrists off, using the table legs on each side of the table at my head for anchors. They spread and raised my legs, tying the ankles to hooks in the ceiling beams over the table.

Even though groggy, I told them they didn't have to bind me for what I knew was coming—and wasn't resisting, Rafe having told me it was what he wanted me to take.

"They want to do you this way," Rafe said, with an evil grin. "This is part of the fun."

And then they did me that way and had raucous fun gang banging me. I took each of the six of them separately and two doubles. Some barebacked, some didn't, as they wished. They stuffed pillows under the small of my back to roll my pelvis up to show my hole. They each climbed up on the table, big cocks and medium-sized cocks. No small cocks. All hard erections. Each grabbed my hips and brought me to them. Some slowly slid in; most reared back and thrust in, watching my eyes flash, my mouth open in a scream. They were a gang. They were a team. They were all half drunk and hopped up on pot.

They kept my passage full of cock for two hours and after resting and drinking more beer, they all did me again.

The cheer of "Olé!" went up with each initial penetration and then again with each ejaculation. I arched my back and yelped for each one of them. Entertaining them, Suffering for them. Spiraling up to arousal heaven with each one on the initial thrust and then again on the coming. They wanted me. Each one of them had to have me. Determined to enjoy this, I went with them each time.

More than once, a drunken voice called out, "Shit. Look how big that hole is now. Fuckin' shit."

Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting. "Olé! Olé!" It went on most of the night; I came three times. Though I panted heavily and yelped and screamed from time to time, I made no objection—even to being trussed up, defenseless. I never said "no" or "stop." They assuaged their lust by declaring I was a professional whore. I wasn't. I didn't want it to stop. I was free—fully liberated of all inhibitions and pretense. It was what I wanted. I wanted to have that effect on men.

I was royally gang bang fucked. Olé! Olé!

I'd been dreaming of this—and trying not too—for eleven years. Rafe had done this with me in the bunkhouse the summer after my high school as well, and I'd never forgotten it. Six men on me; six men inside me. Banging away. Fucking a Hunt. They all fantasized gang banging a Hunt. The session with these hunters didn't have the edge that it had in the bunkhouse, where a ranch hand fucking a Hunt had special meaning, but that was their issue—the ranch hands as opposed to these hungers; the effect on me was the same with both. It was a high-lust fetish I'd only rarely had scratched.

Young and tender, I cried through it, but I didn't say "stop," and I didn't tell anyone they'd done it—not even when they did it again. When they did it again, I recognized the power I had over them and I wanted it. Rafe had wanted me to do it. I did whatever Rafe wanted me to. Rafe, my lover; Rafe who had taken me to the mountains the summer after high school, bent me over a saddle, bound my wrists and ankles, and fucked my virginity out of me. And then had fucked me again . . . and again—until I was lost to him and begged for it.

I was fighting with myself over whether to include the scene in my current book, knowing it would be hard to find a publisher if I did. But it was real. It was something that really happened to me—more than once as of the night at the hunting lodge. It was honest and the full story. I was a slut for it. It made me feel alive. I knew now that I'd put it in the book—and whatever else came in sex with men—and publishing be damned.

I couldn't walk the next day, or ride a horse. They had to load me over a horse's saddle on my belly and lead me down the mountain. That was best anyway—being on my belly rather than on my ass on a horse that was jolting back and forth down a mountainside. I wasn't talking. I was burbling. But I was smiling.

* * * *

"Are you OK?" Jack asked two days later, at dinner, the first time I'd seen him since we'd come down off the mountain. I'd isolated myself in my room, pounding away at the computer. I'd made more progress on the novel here in the valley over the last few days than I'd made the previous year in my New York apartment.

"Yes, I'm OK," I answered. "That was planned, though, wasn't it?"

"I knew from the time I picked you up at the airport that it's what you needed. And that I needed to be part of it."

"As intense as that?"

"Rafe told me you'd done all of that before. Are you angry that it was done again?"

"No," I answered, honestly.

"It's a service we give to the guys up at the hunting lodge when we resupply them and if they pay for it. We have a couple of ranch hands who will lay down for a party like that. You'll get paid for having done it, of course."

"I'm not concerned about the money," I said. "I won't argue with you that it was what I needed, what I was struggling over—for several years."

"So, you'd do it again? The night before—me and Rafe. That was checking to see if you'd do it."

"It wasn't because you and Rafe wanted to do it—to do me that way? Together? And you, like you did me? You took me hard—and dry—the first time. You acted like you couldn't hold off. You've got a lethal cock for doing that."

"Of course I wanted to fuck you. I told you that. I wanted to fuck you when you were younger. And you didn't lose your appeal. I wanted to own your ass then; I want to own it now. You were the sexiest thing at the ranch at eighteen and you are the sexiest thing at the ranch at twenty-nine. Your jaw will drop when you learn the tip the hunters gave me for being allowed to use you. They thought you were a model I'd brought in from Vegas. They were sure you were a seasoned whore."