**Warning to Readers- This story contains male-to-male penetration in a consensual non-consent situation.
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"Dallas Moore is riding in!" The announcer's voice brought screams from the stands, high pitched and unyielding. "Eight time IFR Champion Tie Down Roper. This boy's got a resumé a mile long. And from the sound of things, the ladies don't find him tough to look at, either!"
The sound of the screams echoed through the arena, but he barely noticed. He bit down on his piggin' string and kicked his horse into the box, backing him into the corner. Red ears perked forward and he stared straight through them, focusing on the calf in the chute.
"And he's out!" the announcer screamed.
Two swings, a throw, and he was off his horse, racing down the rope.
"There it is! Two wraps and a hooey! This is gonna be fast!"
It was fast, but was it fast enough? He threw his hands in the air to stop the clock and hurried back to his horse waiting patiently a few feet away.
"Stopped the clock at a six point eight! That's goin' to the lead if the calf stays down!"
That calf wasn't getting up. In his entire career only four calves had managed to get out of his tie, and this wouldn't be the fifth. He took a deep breath then smiled, tipping his hat to the crowd. They screamed, and the signs they held with his name painted across them danced in the stands.
Six seconds later and he was holding his hat in the air, showing off his perfect smile. He rode out of the arena and stopped in the holding pen, turning his horse back towards the arena to watch the last competitors in his event. Only the top twenty in the world made it to the International Finals Rodeo, also known as the IFR. Unlike the National Finals Rodeo, which had long been considered the Super Bowl of rodeo until it was replaced by the IFR twenty years ago, the IFR included cowboys from every continent. So when he won a world championship title, he truly was a world champion.
While he waited his eyes began to hunt, scanning the crowd. Women held signs confessing their love for him. Others held signs with encouraging words for him, some even rooted on his horse, Ransom. Every year since he was twenty years old he had claimed the tie down roping title. For the past eight years he had been Western America's golden boy with the golden hair. And now here he was again, his ninth time here, and already leading the first go round.
Her blue eyes and fire hair stood out in the sea of blonde, watching him from her spot in the box seat on the edge of the arena. Her fingers grasped the small silver key she always wore around her neck, her smile taunting him while she ran it up and down the thin chain. His jaw tightened and his teeth bit down on the inside of his cheek. She had told him if he won the first round she would let him out of his cage. Let him inside of her. And while he missed the feel of her warmth, he worshiped the way she withheld it from him.
No. She had said she would let him out. She had never said she would let him inside of her. After five years in her servitude, he knew semantics meant everything when she spoke. And he worshiped her for it. For all of it. He worshiped her as often as she would let him, in every way she would let him. Her toes, her pussy, her breasts, her ass. Whatever part she would allow him to touch. And his parts? They were at her disposal.
The screams of his fans broke his thoughts, and he realized the round was over. His 6.8 had held, and the announcer was calling him back into the arena for his victory lap. He kissed to his horse, following the flag girl through the gate. He pulled off his hat and held it out towards the crowd, the true cowboy wave.
What if they knew? To them he was everything a cowboy should be: charming, strong and smoldering with old fashion masculinity, rough hands and a smooth voice. But would he still be their golden boy if they knew?
He often thought about how it could happen, and the looks of horror on their faces. Maybe he would get injured. His clothes would have to be cut off in front of thousands, revealing his cage and her brand. Or she would decide enough was enough and out him to the world. Come to the middle of the arena after a winning round and drag him off his horse, tell him to bend over and take him roughly in front of the crowd. The scenarios played in his head often, always making him ache inside of his prison.
The lights and sounds from the arena faded behind him as he rode away leaving him in a quiet darkness. He weaved through the trailers in the contestant parking area searching for his own under the dim lights scattered randomly throughout the lot. In the sea of white Bloomers, Harts, Four Stars and Elites he finally managed to find his own, easily recognized by his name written in huge black letters across the hayrack and his accomplishments and sponsors listed boldly down the side.
Ransom's breath blew from his nostrils like white smoke in the cold air while he unbridled him and put the halter on. He shivered in his button up shirt, the cold seeping into his skin now that his adrenaline was no longer keeping him warm. He opened the door to the living quarters, grabbed his jacket off the couch, then quickly stuffed his hands through the sleeves and zipped it up.
When he stepped back out of the trailer he could see her short blue dress and long coat making their way towards him. His heartbeat sped up like it always did when he saw her. He assumed it was because it sensed his brain was sending all his blood between his legs and needed to compensate somehow.
The dress, the darkness, and the sight of her petite frame making its way through the trailers reminded him of the night they first met, though that night the dress had been red. He had won the rodeo earlier in the day and spent the afternoon with his friends at the makeshift bar on the rodeo grounds. A brunette barrel racer whose name and face he couldn't remember had been more than eager to bring him back to her trailer, and he had happily obliged. He didn't remember much of the encounter other than it being similar to all his other encounters- short and to the point. He was still slightly more than drunk when he tumbled out of her trailer and began staggering through the lot trying to find his own in the middle of the night.
Even though he had recently had sex, he hardened when he saw her. She was walking his way wearing cowboy boots and a red dress, surrounded by a few of her friends. He told her she was beautiful, then in his drunken state asked her to bend over so he could see her pussy. She had replied she would bend over for him to kiss her ass. He said he would love to. She laughed and hiked up her dress, daring him. He got to his knees and buried his face between her cheeks. He had never licked a woman's ass before, but it was everything he had dreamed it would be.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, bringing him back to the present.
"The taste of your ass, Mistress," he replied, careful to keep his voice low to prevent being overheard.
She pushed up on her toes and flicked her tongue playfully over his lips. "I love you," she said, lightly brushing her hand over the crotch of his jeans.
"I worship you." He bent down to press his lips to hers, praying for a taste of her tongue.
"You need to unsaddle. They're waiting to interview you after you put Ransom away."
"Yes, Mistress," he replied, unbuckling the back cinch. She bent down and started pulling off the splint boots, wrapping them around his stirrups so he would be ready for tomorrow. Once he pulled the saddle off she threw the winter blanket over Ransom's back and began buckling the straps.
Ransom's shoes echoed on the concrete while the three of them walked towards the giant building across the parking lot. From the outside it looked like a simple gray warehouse, but the inside contained a massive warm-up arena and hundreds of stalls. He enjoyed his last few moments of peaceful darkness before stepping through the door and being blinded by fluorescent lights.
"Nice run, Dallas," several people commented while he made his way to the stall.
"Thanks," he replied, pausing to shake hands that stuck out in his direction.
