“Just have the desk call when you want us to come back and pick you up, Mr. Grabowski.” The chauffeur of the black Lincoln Navigator with the tinted windows was pulling an expensive-looking leather suitcase out of the back of the SUV. The man he’d opened the back door of the vehicle for was standing, looking up at the Grand Tetons looming to the east over Carter’s Ranch, an exclusive Idaho dude ranch near Grays Lake and nudged into the folds of the Caribou National Forest.
The man, who was movie star handsome and well built, probably in his forties, but very well taken care of, looked familiar to me, but the name “Grabowski” didn’t ring any bells. He was expensively dressed, already taking on the theme of a Western dude ranch, but his clothes were hardly broken in—just another dude from one of the coasts. There was a sadness, a slight nervousness, to his aspect, though, as he looked up to the mountains. It wasn’t clear that he had heard the driver.
But then Boyce Carter himself was marching over to the cabin from the main house, his hand extended and a welcoming smile on his face. It was clear that this new arrival was someone important, which was saying something, because all of the guests of the ranch were someone important, someone seeking privacy and retreat and able to pay for it. The ranch was the height of discretion about its guests. It also had an extensive medical staff. The ranch was a retreat for those recovering from any of a full range of medical and psychological ailments they wished to keep out of the public purview.
“Mr. Grabowski . . . you’ve arrived. Welcome to Carter’s Ranch. I hope you had a pleasant journey.” Carter had hesitated on the name. He went on to give the man the customary introductory spiel on the ranch and what it had to offer, while Grabowski himself continued to look up at the mountains with a remote, guarded expression on his face.
In the middle of the dissertation, Carter addressed me, saying, “Take Mr. Grabowski’s bags into the cabin, Mike,” and I did so, not hearing anything else that Carter had to say to the new arrival. I did the usual checking that the two-room cabin was ready and the drapes opened on the windows as Carter brought Grabowski to the door and they parted there. The guest came inside and stood there, looking at me. His expression seemed a bit more engaged then it had been outside, and he seemed to be looking me over really well. When I moved away from the window next to the bed, he went there, as I was checking out the bathroom, and looked up at the mountains again. When I came out of the bathroom, he turned and gave me a smile.
“I think the cabin is in order, Sir, I said. If you need anything, call reception on the phone there by the bed or out on the table next to the sofa in the living room.”
“Thank you . . . Mike, is it?”
“Yes sir.”
“If I call, will you be the one who responds?” he asked.
“Most likely, if I’m on duty,” I answered. I did it in a straightforward voice. I knew what he was suggesting. This was a dude ranch that would provide those services.
“I do hope to see you around the ranch, Mike.”
“I’m sure you will, Sir. Those of us in the bunkhouse do a little of everything around the ranch.”
“Are you part of the permanent staff or just here for the summer?” he asked. “You look quite young to be working full time.”
“I’m here for the summer. Ben Carter, from the family of the ranch owners, is my uncle. This is a summer job for me. I’m studying at the University of Colorado, in Boulder.” I edged my way toward the cabin’s front door. It was time to move along. One of our rules was not to become too familiar with the guests—unless they said they wanted us to. If they wanted us too, we were instructed to fall into whatever they wanted. This was an exclusive, full-service dude ranch. The dude was right about everything, even if it was demanding or kinky.
“If you need anything, just give the front desk a call,” I repeated, stepping over to the door.
“And you’ll come for me?” he asked. His smile was a bit lopsided. I think he was making sure how I would take that double entendre. We’d been here before—him wanting it to be me who responded to his calls. He wanted more of an affirmation from me.
“If I’m the one on duty, I’ll come right over. If I’m not and I’m the one you want, just tell them and they’ll track me down,” I said. Then I slid out of the cabin. I didn’t know for sure if he was signaling to me or not. If so, I was sure he’d do it again. He looked like I wouldn’t mind taking him.
As I was coming off the cabin’s porch, the ranch overseer, Spurs Smith, was walking up from the big barn. His first name was Stanley, but you’d get a beat down if you tried calling him that, rather than Spurs. He was a tall, thin, leathery cowboy with a weather-beaten, not unhandsome face, in his late thirties. He showed out to be the model of what a cowboy should look and dress like. That no doubt was a big reason he had the position he did here at the ranch. If you weren’t good-looking, interesting to talk to, flexible, and looked the part of a rugged cowboy, you didn’t get a job here. On the other hand, He had few words and spoke in a low drawl, bringing to mind a rattlesnake to those who were supervised by him here. He ruled the bunkhouse with an iron fist.
“You managed to escape the cabin after Trident’s arrival,” he said to me, as he came up and placed a possessive hand on my arm. So much was conveyed in the gesture.
“Trident?” I said, but then it hit me why the man had looked familiar. Spurs didn’t have to explain, but he did anyway.
“He’s here as Peter Grabowski,” Spurs said, “but he’s that TV star, Trent Trident, whose hit show has been canceled because he’s been swept up that MeToo sexual abuse movement in movies and politics for hitting on young men. He’s hiding out here, hoping he can ride it out. You’ve heard about that, haven’t you?”
Yes of course I had. And I started reviewing my encounter with him in the cabin for more blatant meanings than I’d given them credit to have.
“If he wants you to lay down for him, you will, of course.”
“Of course. I understand,” I responded
“Come back to the barn with me,” Spurs said, squeezing my arm with his strong hand. “I want to show you something.”
I knew exactly what he wanted to show me in the barn. When Spurs wanted me to lay down for him, I laid down for him.
* * * *
“I saw the looks Trident gave you. It’s got to be a mental illness with him, and he can’t help himself. You know we could make some hay out of that.”
Speaking of hay, that was where we were, in a hayloft. I’d followed Spurs into the barn and then up the ladder to the hayloft, where bales of the stuff were scattered about. Our shirts had gone down on top of one of the bales, and Spurs had bent me over the bale, covered me from above and behind, mounted me, and fucked me. It had been almost clinical. Sort of like he thought, it’s the time of the day I’ll fuck the kid. Just “getting your rocks off” exercise for him. A way to keep in shape, although there was the extra thrill of fucking one of the “family.” I’d known that was what he would do when I followed him into the barn. Spurs did what he wanted, and he’d determined that I’d help him with his daily exercises and take cock before he agreed to me getting this job. He had that much power here at the ranch, even though I was an extended family member of the Carters who owned the place.
After we’d both come, we lay there, him still on top of me, still inside me, as we concentrated on him going flaccid, neither sure whether there would be seconds, and he whispered in my ear what he’d been thinking while he was fucking me. With Spurs, it was always about the angle that would benefit him.
We? I wondered. “What do you mean?” was what I asked.
“This guy is loaded and vulnerable. He’ll pay for silence. He’s already done that. Over $100,000, I’ve heard. He was only outed because someone who saw him assault the young guy blabbed about it. The victim—like the other guy’s Trident has spiked—was too starstruck to making an accusation on his own. With all that’s going about with the MeToo movement, the story got traction. It had more impact when he was first fingered for man-on-man. That’s gotten his film projects to toss him out, but the authorities are after him and he couldn’t afford another case coming up. You could be that case that comes up. I saw the way he looked at you before you went into the cabin. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d jumped your bones there in the cabin. Did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” I answered.
“He didn’t even make a pass at you?”
“I didn’t really notice that he was interested in me.” I wouldn’t mention the possible “come for me” double entendre to Spurs.
But, then, was saying I hadn’t gotten the idea he was interested in me the same as saying I had no inclining he’d have such an interest in me? Can I say now that I know he was in retreat on charges that he’d drugged and fucked young men that there was nothing to seen? Well, upon reflection . . .
“Why would this be a windfall for me? If I stay out of his way, why would it involve me at all?” I asked.
“Well, we could make sure you didn’t stay out of his way. You don’t think he’s a sexy dude?”
“Yes, he is.”
“So, we dangle you in front of him. He acts. A good time is had by you both, and then he pays.”
“Where do you fit into this?” I felt dirty by the whole idea, but I wouldn’t argue that point with Spurs. Nobody wins by arguing with Spurs.
“I help set it up. I’m the witness who can confirm it happens. I’ll hit him up for a payoff. You can act like you don’t know about that at all, only that he’s taken advantage of you without permission and messed up your life. You get a little emotional over it, and I play the middle man. What he sees is me doing him a favor in convincing you to take money rather than charging him. So, I benefit as well.”
“I don’t . . . I just don’t know.”
“It will be a piece of cake. You can think about it for a day or two. It will take me some time to set it up. We should be able to keep this away from the Carters so that it all goes down smoothly and we don’t get bounced from here. It’s really going to be easy. But we’ll work that out later. For now, you know what I want.”
Yes, I knew what he wanted. The first fuck might be matter-of-factly clinical, but the second one that led into was usually the result of a lust buildup. He could get heated up even while he was plotting a crime. There was no question what he wanted now, and I groaned and went limp, my arms dangling off the side of the hay bale, while Spurs took what he wanted.
Later, one of the other young ranch hands, Ken Taylor, came upon me staring off into space in the bunkhouse and sat down beside me.
“He’s been after you, hasn’t he?” Ken asked softly.
“No, I was here when he arrived and got him settled in his cabin, but he didn’t make any moves.”
I looked up at him when he didn’t answer and saw that he had a confused expression on. “Who do you mean?” I asked. I’d assumed he was talking about the TV star who was referring to himself as Grabowski, but I could see now that he probably wasn’t. I hadn’t had anyone but the actor in mind since Spurs revealed his plan—our plan, he said—to fleece the man, to take advantage of his vulnerability.
“Spurs. I see that he’s done what he can do to get you alone. He’s a predator. He’s done that to me too.”
“Oh, him,” I answered. Yes, he had, as Ken put it, “been after me.” But I’d known that went with getting this job. And he was good at it—better the second time. He had a really good body, and he was satisfying on the repeat. Of course, everything was done by his control. “I can manage him, thanks.”
“OK, but just so you know, he’s doing this to others as well. If it gets to be too much for you and you need backup in going to Old Man Carter, let me know.”
“Thanks, Ken,” I said, genuinely glad of his support but still with most of my thoughts going to the actor Trent Trident, registered here as Peter Grabowski.
* * * *
“You know I’m not really Peter Grabowski . . . well, I am. That’s my legal name. But it’s not my movie name.”
Spurs had called me up to the bar in the ranch’s club room, where he was serving as bartender that evening. I rarely helped out in the bar, but Spurs had told me they were shorthanded and that he needed me. As far as I could see, they weren’t shorthanded. There seemed to be more ranch hands in the bar than guest and only the guests had privileges in the club room. The hired help was there to serve whatever needs the guests decided they had. That often was staving off loneliness here on the ranch.
“Yes, I recognized you, Mr. Trident,” I said. I hadn’t. I’d had to be told who he was, but I figured it would flatter him if he thought I had recognized him, and it seemed to do that.
“Call me Trent,” he said, putting a hand on the forearm I had pressing on the top of the bar. “The reason I told you is so you’d know I wasn’t shitting you when I said you could be a model or an actor—if you’ve got talent. And I could help you with that. To be honest, it’s more learning the moves than talent anyway.” He moved his barstool a little closer to me. Spurs was on the other side of the bar, watching us like a hawk. I knew he wanted me to respond to Trident if he was making a pass. I knew now that they weren’t shorthanded in the club room tonight—that Spurs wanted me here to set Trident up.
The actor had been drinking before I got here and was quite comfortable with life.
“Here, it doesn’t look busy tonight. Have a drink with me,” he said.
“I really can’t, I’m sorry, Mr. . . . Trent. I’m on duty and I’m not really old enough to be drinking in a bar either. The ranch could lose its liquor license.”
“Really? Not old enough? How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” I answered. He looked please.
And that’s when Spurs intervened. “You can have one with Mr. Grabowski,” Spurs said. “Let’s keep the guests happy. I’ll pour a weak one.”
“Well, OK,” I answered, reluctantly. This was going just the way Spurs wanted it to go. I caught the wink Spurs gave Trident, like he was telling the man the drink wouldn’t be that weak—that he’d get me drunk if that’s what Trident wanted. For all I know Spurs would slip me a Mickey if that was what Trident wanted—one of the things he was being charged with was drugging his victims.
So, I got a drink and a dissertation on breaking into Hollywood. When I said I wasn’t at all interested in acting but was, in fact, studying lighting and staging design at Boulder, Trident deftly switched to being able to help me with that. “But I think you’re missing the boat by not at least considering modeling and acting. You’ve got the body and face for it. I bet you drive the girls wild.”
“I think Mike’s interests go in another direction,” Spurs murmured, presumably sotto voce for only Trident to hear, and gave the man a wink. He turned away to help another bar patron, but he’d clearly gotten the message across to the actor, who looked quite interested. He placed his hand on my forearm again and left it there. I made no effort to move away from it.
I supposedly was distracted when Trident tipped a bit of powder into my drink, but both I and Spurs had seen that. Spurs drew the actor’s attention elsewhere long enough to exchange my drink. He leaned into me and muttered, “Pretend like it’s taking effect and leave. He’ll come after you and I won’t be far behind.”
A bit later, I passed a hand over my face and said it had been a taxing day and I thought I should get to bed early—that I didn’t feel too hot. Both Trident and Spurs clucked their sympathy and agreed with me.
The bunkhouse was beyond the guest cabins from the main house, where the club room was. Trident caught up with me before we got to the guest rooms.
“You OK, Mike? You’re just shuffling along. Maybe you shouldn’t have had that second drink.”
I had had only one drink and hadn’t finished that. But I suppose if I were wobbly from being drugged, I wouldn’t be fully aware of how many I’d had. Chances were good that he wanted to know whether I still was enough in control to remember I’d only had the one.
“Yeah, maybe I should have stuck with one. I feel a little dizzy,” I answered.
“Here, let me help you to the bunkhouse. Put your arm around my neck.”
I did so, but he didn’t guide me to the bunkhouse. He stopped short of that, taking me into his cabin. He let me fall into a sofa and said, “Sit here. I’ll get you something that will help.”
What he gave me to drink may have helped him; it certainly didn’t help me. I had been quick enough to think that he’d drug me a second time, and I didn’t drink it all when I realized it was spiked, but I’d had enough to slow me down.
He came down on the sofa and touched me, just on the thigh at first, but when I didn’t flinch or move away, he touched me on the cheek and then on one of my nipples, through my shirt, and then, when I didn’t recoil, he put a hand on my basket and left it there.
He whispered to me how nice I was and how he wanted to be good to me. I let him touch me intimately some more and didn’t pull away when he kissed me on the neck and then on the lips. I didn’t pull away from any of it. Even without Spurs’s scheme, I would have been expected to let a guest have this if he—or she—managed to get me alone like this.
“Are you going to let me have it, Mike?” he whispered. He was rubbing my crotch with two fingers.
“Have what?” I asked, slurring my words, knowing that I was supposed to be more than a little out of it here. I didn’t like the idea that this fell into the shakedown plan Spurs had, but I kept thinking what Mr. Carter would want me to do if there was no Spurs plan. Carter would want me to let the man lay me—and to let him lay me as he enjoyed to. This obviously was a fetish of his.
“You going to let me lay on top of you, Mike? Cover you? You going to let me lay you? You going to resist what I think you want to do with me?”
“No. I mean yes. Shit, I mean I think you are sexy, Mr. Trident.”
“You OK with me doing this, Mike?”
He unzipped me, fished around through the slit in my briefs and gave my cock air. I was half hard already. He stroked me fully hard with his hand while he opened my lips with his tongue. I hadn’t answered his question, but he had assumed that my cock spoke for me.
When he pulled me up from the sofa, I expected him to take me into the bedroom—and I would have let him—but he didn’t. Instead, he guided me out the back of his cabin and into a patch of cottonwoods by the stream that ran through the ranch’s living compound, allowing it to have vegetation. He lay me down beside the stream, undressed me, kissing what he uncovered. He undressed as well. He was well-built and was hung as a bull—and in full erection. He spent considerable time running his hands over me—everywhere. And then he was good to me.
“I’m going to put it in you, Mike. I’m going to fuck you. You going to let me? I’m very good at it. You going to be OK with that? Say yes, Mike, and remember that you did.”
“Yes,” I answered, making my voice sound groggy, so there would be some leeway to say I was too drugged to say no, if it came to that.
He turned me on my back, our clothes bunched up and under my hips, and knelt between my thighs. He kissed me on the lips—deeply—and pressed my head to the sandy soil with one hand palmed on my brow, while the other one was working my cock and balls and penetrating me with his fingers, opening me up. I groaned as he moved his dick in place, grasped my hips in his hands, and entered me, but I raised my pelvis to him to give him full access. He took that for assent, which it was, and went in deep, withdrew, and then went in deep again. I moaned as he settled into place and set up a rhythm.
He fucked me missionary style for a few minutes and then turned me on all fours and fucked me like a dog. He finished me in a side split. Once he’d gotten his dick inside me, I gave him everything. I opened up for him, moved with him, moaned and groaned with him, and gave him the sounds I knew he wanted to hear in reaction to his deep thrusts inside me. It wasn’t hard to do. He was a master at the fuck and he gave me the full treatment.
When he was done, I lay there with my eyes closed, breathing shallowly, seemingly finally having succumbed to the drug. I wanted to see what he would do if what he had wanted to do with the drug was what happened—if it had put me out for a time altogether. I was surprised and a little frightened what he wanted to do, which is what he did. He kissed me all over and fondled me. Then, using both of our belts, he bound my wrists and my thighs and turned me over onto my belly. With my channel restricted, he saddled himself on my ass and fucked me again, bound. This time, though, he did it without protection. He barebacked me, coming inside me.
Afterward, he removed the belts, cleaned what cum he could out of my ass with his handkerchief, and sat next to me, waiting for me to come to enough to have some idea where I was and what had happened in the first fuck. I played to it, slowly coming half, but not fully conscious, as far as he could see.
Murmuring how nice I was in our “one” fuck, he redressed me and himself and virtually carried me to the bunkhouse and settled me on a rattan sofa on the bunkhouse front porch.
When I could manage, I rose, with a groan, and went into the bunkhouse and too the showers and then to bed. He had fucked me as good as anyone else ever had done before—even the kinky part was arousing. I got checked regularly so a guest could bareback me if he wanted to, even though the ranch didn’t publicize that it gave that service. I just had to hope that Trident was clean too.
The next morning Spurs took me aside. “Did he do it? Where? I was waylaid before I could get out of the club room to follow directly behind you. But I couldn’t see you inside his cabin and you weren’t in the bunkhouse when I went there. I saved the glass he’d put the drug in and got one of the guys to witness me thinking it might have been drugged and wrapping it up safely.”
“We sat out under the stars for a while, talking . . . talking,” I said. He still wanted to talk about what I could do with a lighting and stage design degree. I think he’s mainly just lonely. I think we’re assuming too much.
“But he spiked your drink at the bar. I saw him.”
“And I’ll bet he saw you looking and decided it was all too risky to do anything. We just talked.” I’d loved what Trident had done to me—with me. I wasn’t ready to set him up and blackmail him just because Spurs was hot and heavy for us to do it—maybe mostly because Spurs was hot and heavy to do it. “Let’s just forget it,” I said, even while thinking about the next time I could be alone with Trident that Spurs didn’t know about.
Spurs just gave me a sour look. I wasn’t playing his game as he wanted me to but he couldn’t call me in a lie. He couldn’t have known that I lied.
* * * *
“I’m sorry if I got out of hand the other night . . . I think the liquor got to me and you are just so . . . so . . . I didn’t ask that it be you to take me riding today. If you don’t want to be the one—”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind taking you out,” I said. I was cinching up the saddles on our mounts and not looking directly at Trent. I knew exactly why I was picked to take him riding today—why Spurs was matching us. Spurs thought that Trent hadn’t made a move on me yet and Spurs wanted his plan to trap the actor and then fleece him to get a move-on. At the same time, I didn’t think that liquor had gotten to the hooked actor the other night but, rather, that he had been trying to make sure that the liquor had gotten to me.
“And you’re a guest here. We’re here to make the guests happy.”
“But I know that that doesn’t give me license—”
“It’s all right, really,” I said. “It wasn’t like I hadn’t done it before and didn’t know that there was a good chance I’d be doing it with you. You’re a real hunk. I don’t think you need to try so hard to get a guy to lay down for you. Most guys would be happy to. I would have been happy to even if I hadn’t been feeling a little strange. I gotta say that I haven’t had it as good as you gave it to me for a long time, if ever. You’re a stud.”
He clearly was pleased. “Well, I mean it. If you don’t want to take me up into the Tetons, I can ask for—”
“Which the ranch foreman would take as a rejection of my services,” I answered dully, turning to look at him for the first time in this discussion. “He’d take that the same as you complaining about me. We’re not supposed to make the guests uncomfortable with us servicing them. I’d probably lose my job here. They’d probably take it that you wanted to lay me, which is fine with them, and I’d said no. And I didn’t say no. You fucked me and I raised my tail for you.”
“No, no. Of course that’s not what I want,” he blustered. “Again, I’m sorry. I won’t make any trouble for you and we can just take that ride.”
“But you were hoping that some cowboy would be sent with you who you liked and wanted and who would let you jump his bones?”
“Is that what all of the men who work here do—let the guests jump their bones?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“No, that’s not what I expected. Well, yes, it was. But there are other rides. We could just enjoy the mountain scenery on this one . . .”
“Let’s mount,” I said, holding his horse steady for Trent to rise up on and throw his leg over. “The foreman is watching. I think he’s wondering why we’re taking so long. And don’t worry, if you’ve forgotten to bring rubbers, I have them. If you want to jump my bones again, you’re more than welcome to. You want to mount me again and ride me up in the hills, I won’t buck you off. We should do it with protection, though.”
I didn’t look at him to see his expression as I rose up in the saddle of my own horse, but I heard him give a little gasp. I gave Spurs a hard look—I knew exactly why he had set this up—and absorbed the hard look he gave me back.
We didn’t go any higher than the western foothills of the Tetons. Trident seemed interested in gazing at the mountain peaks as we rode nearer to them rather than being up there on the snowy peaks.
“I’ve never seen them from this side,” he said. “I go to Jackson Hole frequently, and I enjoy viewing the mountains from there and from Yellowstone, but they are just as magnificent on this side—maybe more rugged and pristine without all of the park setup and people on roads below them.”
“But you came to the western side this time,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered, without explanation. I knew that he did, this being the less populated side, because he was under fire nationally from having been caught up in the MeToo movement and having lost his television show and movie gigs and maybe even facing criminal prosecution. He wanted to get away from all of that. The press probably knew he went to Jackson Hole, which is the reason he didn’t go there this time. There were claims that he liked his men young—some maybe too young—and in the throes of passion the other night he had remarked several times of how young I seemed—even though I was old enough to be doing what we were doing. Or, I should consider, that he had been doing to me. It was clear that he didn’t require permission to fuck me and had thought he had me compromised to where I couldn’t say no. I think I’d put him off center by letting him know I would have said yes anyway.
He just didn’t know that I wasn’t as out of it as he thought, that I was into it more than he realized, and that Spurs wanted me to make Trident feel like he was taking something from me. That, of course, was the crux of the matter—the root of Trident’s problem and of his vulnerability. He wanted to trick it out of his sex partner and have the feeling it wasn’t by consent.
After a couple of hours of riding, we stopped in a grove of trees beside a foaming stream tumbling down from the mountains. I took the saddles off the horses and laid them out near the side of the stream, hobbling the horses and leaving them to rest and graze on the grass.
“Would you like to go for a swim?” I asked.
“It looks much too cold for me—and that’s quite a current.”
“Cold it is, but the current is strong only down the middle. Off to the sides, it isn’t so deep, and it’s pure mountain water. It’s like nothing you’ve experienced before. After the first temperature shock, you don’t notice the cold.”
“I’ll still beg off, but feel free to go in, if you like.”
“I think I like. It’s a real treat after the primitive showers at the bunkhouse.” I stripped, knowing full well what effect I might have on the man. This had been a scenario that Spurs had said I could try. “Do it innocently,” he’d said. “Knowing the man’s fetishes, I’m sure he’ll go over the edge.”
The kicker was the battery-powered miniature video camera Spurs had given me to set up while I was working with the horses. Attached to a tree taking in the area of where the saddles had been put, the camera would give Spurs a front-row seat to the action when we got back and he looked at the film.
I knew that Trent watched me strip and wade into the stream, diving in when the freezing water became overwhelming. Going whole hog was the best way to get past the coldness of it. He was standing there between the stream and the saddles, with a towel in his hand when I came out of the water, my teeth chattering. He enveloped me in the towel—and in his embrace. He buried his face in the hollow of my neck. He moved him hand down to my groin and took possession of me. I was trembling as much from his passionate, insistent embrace as from the cold water of the mountain stream.
He didn’t talk. I didn’t beg him—neither to leave me be nor to fuck me. He didn’t ask for permission or signal in any way that he would respect my wishes if I didn’t want to do this. He had approached me with more than a towel. He also had strips of leather, which, after he’d manhandled me over to the saddles and pushed me belly-down onto one of them, he used to tie off my wrists above my head. He also tied off my ankles. He treated me a little rough.
I knew then that he wanted a little resistance, so I did a little “Go slow; don’t hurt me” pleading and added appropriate groans and sobs. He ignored the pleadings. He probably enjoyed ignoring them immensely.
And then he knelt behind me, eating me out and pulling my cock through my legs and sucking me off and, when he was satisfied I was open enough, he folded himself over me, thrust inside me—still fully dressed with only his meaty erection in the open—and rode me and rode me and rode me. He’d brought his own rubbers. After an initial pretense of struggle to give him the sensation of forcing me, I joined him in the ride, bucking with him and taking his hard cock deep and strong, gripping it with my channel walls, and making love to it as much as it was working to ravish me.
When he was ready to blow, Trent rolled off me, ripped the condom off, knelt by my head and ejaculated onto my cheek. He pulled back to lie against the other saddle, a hand still stroking his long cock, and sat, staring at me as he controlled his heavy breathing.
“Is that it then?” I asked. “Will you untie me now and we can continue our ride? I told you you could fuck me again and you’ve taken it from me like maybe I didn’t want it from you.”
“I’m sorry, Mike,” he murmured. “I can’t help myself. It’s what arouses me. You are so young and sexy. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, yes,” I said. “I knew you’d fuck me. I’d hoped you would fuck me. What now? Are you going to release me or fuck me again?”
He didn’t say anything, but his actions said it all. He was stroking himself to another erection with one hand and fishing around him his jeans pockets for another condom packet. He made no move to release me.
“You’re going to fuck me again bound, aren’t you?”
“Does it make you feel helpless to my lust—like I’m taking you by force?”
“Yes, it does,” I answered, knowing this was what aroused him.
“Yes, Mike, I’m going to fuck you again as a captive. You’re just too nice to resist. And this is the way that I like to do it best. To just take it. I like my young men to be helpless in the fuck. I can’t help it. I tie them up or otherwise incapacitate them and fuck them.”
“Then don’t untie me,” I said. “Take it the way you want it. I’ll give it to you anyway you want it.” That explained the drug even though he had the body to get what he wanted without that. It probably also explained the trouble he was in.
That visibly surprised him. He hesitated, but he didn’t untie me.
“I’m going to fuck you again,” he said. “I’m going to rip it out of you. You’ll be helpless to stop me.”
“Then do it,” I said. “I’ll try to resist. I’ll tell you I don’t want it, that it’s not the way I like to be with a man. But you’ll do it anyway—you’ll take it from me by force.”
This was what he wanted to hear. This time he stood and stripped off his clothes. He had a magnificent body for a man his age.
He turned me over and released my ankles—but not my wrists. My shoulder blades were plastered to the ground, the small of my back rising up the side of the saddle. My ass pointed up the sky, as he knelt between my spread thighs, his fists holding my ankles high and spread.
“No! Oh, shit, please no!” I cried out. “I’ve never . . . I can’t . . . I don’t want . . . Oh, fuck, you’re killing me. You’re too big. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I knew it was what he wanted to hear. I reduced my responses to whimpers and sobs. It was all an act and we both knew it. It was more resistant and pained then sex with him had been before. But I could tell that it moved him to higher realms of arousal.
He fucked me interminably in long, initially slow, but eventually vigorous and deep strokes, this time not pulling out until he’d filled the bulb of the condom.
Once again, I went with him, bucking against him, meeting him thrust with thrust, willing my channel muscles to make love to the cock, and crying out in want for everything he could give me. He could give a lot and he gave it expertly.
When we had both come, he leaned down into me and took my lips in a kiss.
“You are a real honey,” he said.
“We at Carters’ Ranch are determined to serve,” I answered.
“Is that all it is, Mike? Do you take cock like you just did because it goes with the service at the ranch? I got the impression you were fully into the fuck when we got going.”
“No, it’s not just because of what’s expected of the guys as the ranch,” I said. “I liked it from you. I liked it the way you did me. I could take it from you again and again. That last time was the best. It was—”
But then I noticed that he was looking a little reserved. “I have to be honest with you, Mike. The first time was the best for me—and the other night when you were a bit out of it—when you were defenseless and vulnerable it wasn’t just what you wanted me think. I’m sorry, but it’s—”
“I understand,” I said. And I did. It was his sickness—the prison of the fetish that he was trapped by. I also understood, though, that he couldn’t have it all; he needed to start thinking about compromises. “So, we won’t—?”
“Not unless I could recapture the feeling that it was the first time and you didn’t have the control over yourself to fully agree to it, even if you said yes. We’ve done it more than I usually do. It’s because you’re so nice. But there are some other prospects at the ranch. I’m sorry. I hope you can understand. The first time, and without fully in control. That’s best for me.”
“Yes, of course I can,” I said, pulling in my emotions. The man had moved me. He was actually everything I wanted in a partner—except for this little quirk he had that was getting him into trouble. “But tell me, Trent, wasn’t the last time—when you knew I was acting but I gave you what you wanted to hear—wasn’t that good for you? You seemed to be well into it.”
“Yes, it was good, but it wasn’t . . . I don’t know, it wasn’t everything.”
“You know you can get a guy to act like this for you without forcing him or getting him drunk—or giving him drugs.”
This gave him pause. He probably thought he had gotten away with the drugs.
“You’re a stud of a man and a movie star,” I continued. “How important is ‘everything’ for you? You had a good time with the role play. What’s more important to you—taking everything from a guy, especially one who won’t go with you again after you’ve tricked and used him without his OK, or running from the cops all of the time, not being able to have a job you love, and risking prison?” I didn’t wait around for an answer, but I could tell he was going over it in his mind while I dressed and began to gather the gear up.
We packed up and headed back down the trail. He had gotten everything he’d come into the mountains to get from me. I hadn’t, but that wasn’t his fault. I couldn’t blame him for being the way he was. He’d been honest with me—at least after he’d gotten his rocks off the way he preferred. I hadn’t been honest with him. I hadn’t been the innocent one.
Spurs met us at the barn and gave me a questioning look. I put on a sad face and shook my head. After he’d escorted Trident back to his cabin, he came back as I was rubbing down the horses and getting them back into their stall.
“Did he fuck you? Did you get footage? And did you make sure you struggled and made him take it from you? I know he’d enjoy doing that.”
“No dice,” I said. “He didn’t lay a hand on me. There’s no footage to show.” In truth I hadn’t even set the video camera up in the trees. I’d known before we rode up into the mountains that I wasn’t going to cooperate in setting Trident up. He was already in deep trouble over his fetishes. What I knew and had experienced wasn’t going to make it any worse for him.
He couldn’t help himself, and, at least with me, it hadn’t been one-sided. I had wanted what he did to me, and I had taken his help in getting connected in the movie industry when I’d finished my lighting and stage design studies at Boulder. The men he was giving references to would know exactly why Trident was providing the references, and he had been clear that they would want favors in exchange for favors as well. This system wasn’t going to die in Hollywood just because of the current strength of the MeToo movement. And, to tell the truth, there were those in the movement who knew what was required to give their careers a boost and were prepared to take that step for a ride on the fast track. Few of them were innocents in the woods.
I certainly wasn’t an innocent. I was going to ride the fast track if I could.
At the same time, I recognized how evil the system that raised the MeToo movement was—and I did my little bit to support it. Maybe what I’d told Trident had sunk in a bit. Within months he was back in movies—Hollywood can be so forgiving, fickle, and two-faced in that way—and I didn’t hear of him getting in sexual assault trouble again. Back at the ranch, Ken and I used the video camera to establish what Spurs demanded of those he hired to work at the ranch, and the next summer when I came to work at Carters’ Ranch, the foreman was a forewoman.
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