Death in the Rocies

"Did he do you on the saddle?" Butch asked as I hit the bottom stair to the basement when I'd left Side Slade's office and gone down the stairs as the ranch's foreman had told me to do.

"Yes," I answered, but I wasn't my most attentive to the question. This was what Slade must have meant about Butch testing me on the edges before I was let loose—and they weren't going to waste time in getting that vetting done. I half suspected, again, that Slade knew more about why I was there than he'd been owning up to and wanted me to be fully in the traces before Jason Jenks showed up—and maybe, though, he just didn't have a whole lot of love for cops. In any event, "fully in the traces" seemed quite an appropriate phrase at this point.

My attention first went to the room Butch called me into. This one was about thirty by forty feet and was rock walled—a true subterranean cavern hewn out of solid rock below the main ranch house. It was a fully outfitted S&M dungeon. I didn't waste much perusal time on this, though, because Butch himself—the foreman of the ranch, the man who would closely and personally control everything I did here—was standing before me in the center of the dungeon—in full leather regalia. Crotchless black leather chaps with a plump dick and low-hanging balls fully exposed and rising to half staff as I appeared. The cock had a thick leather band at the root with silver studs on it. Black leather armbands, a full black-leather pouch over his head with holes for mouth and eyes, and a black leather, silver-studded belt criss-crossing his chest. He had a Bowie knife with a thick leather handle in one hand and a hand whip in the other.

But the most magnificent thing about the tall, husky, bulging-muscled man was that he had intricate, full-body tattooing. Tattooed men were a fetish of mine. I didn't much care where the edges were that were going to be explored. As long as I could watch the tattoos undulating as his muscles worked in rhythm with a fuck, I would be happy.

Or so I told myself. There was no use in worrying the issue. This was how it was going to be. But that was more than all right with me. I had begun to tremble with excitement as soon as I hit the bottom of the stairs and took in the scene. The muscles in my channel began to move of their own accord—anxious to go into action, to be pulling something big and throbbing inside me.

"Yes he did me on the saddle," I said.

"Anywhere else?"

"He side fucked me on the desk. I guess that's the fetish you were talking about." Stop talking, my mind was screaming. Take me and use me.

Butch narrowed his eyes and was licking his lips. "He must have liked the goods then. It usually takes him a while to get around to that. Come here."

I walked slowly to him, surprised that he hadn't asked me to strip as Slade had done. But that's what the knife was for, I learned. When I got to him, he grabbed my wrists in a strong grip and raised them over my head. It was only then that I saw the leather leads and wrist constraints hanging from the ceiling.

After strapping me up, Butch sauntered over to the side of the dungeon and turned a crank, which I quickly saw and felt was pulling me up to where only my toes touched the ground. I looked down and saw that there were other leather leads on the floor near my feet and wondered what they were for.

Butch then came and stood in front of me and smiled a wicked smile. I looked down and saw that he was in full erection now.

"You have your choice after I fuck you," he said, making clear that he intended for that to happen whatever else happened. I wanted him, though, so that wasn't a concern I had. "I'm not going to do anything to you that we wouldn't let a ranch client do, but we have to vet that you would do it if asked." Then, without further explanation he took the Bowie knife and began to cut my clothes away. When he was done and I was naked, he lifted the knife and showed it to me. For the first time, I noticed how unusual the handle was. It was a good foot long and it was thick—maybe two and a half inches or more—but the handle ended in two globular protrusions that were at least three and a half inches in radius.

As I watched, he dipped his hands in a bowl on a column nearby that contained some sort of slick and thick lubricant and started rubbing it over the handle of the knife.

"If you stay, I'm going to fuck you with this knife handle. You think you can handle it? It's as big as having two men inside you. You ever have two men inside you at once, Folsom?"

"Yes," I murmured.

Butch broke out into a big grin, obviously pleased. "And if you stay, then I'm going to fuck you and you are going to be stretched as never before—not just your ass but your whole body. And I'm going to punish your channel with the studs on my cock ring and your body with the studs on this here chest belt. Nipple clips will be involved. And I'm gonna whip you. It'll be rough, but not too rough. We don't want to mess up that pretty body of yours before you even begin. So, if this is too rough for you, you don't really want to work here. If you don't want to take that, I'll escort you to a nice guest room for the night, and we'll put you back on an airplane for Chicago tomorrow—after I've fucked you. What's it to be? You want to work here or not?"

"I want to work here. And I want you to fuck me. Hard and long." I had been prepared for this. I had to earn my way into this ranch operation. Besides, I was a slut. I couldn't wait for his fuck.

"The room's soundproof," Butch whispered in my ear, as he stood close behind me. I could feel the bulb of his cock brushing against my thigh and the ball at the end of the knife handle at my hole. "I think you'll want to scream anyway, but this is sort of an audition. The clients who like to do this mostly like to hear that it has an effect on the guy they're doin' it too. So, I'm listenin' for some pain and sorrow here. But I'm also listenin' for you telling the client how good it is."

Expressions of pain and sorrow is what Butch got while he was working the knife handle into my ass—and not all of it was feigned. When he was in to the hilt, he reached his hands around and clipped my nipples, which I didn't much care for—and told him so, which he appreciated. After he worked the knife handle around a bit in my channel, he left it there and I felt him kneeling down and working at my ankles. The first thing I knew I found out what those leads on the floor at my feet were for, because he went back over to the dungeon wall and started cranking something—and I felt my legs jerked out from underneath me and backward, so that when he was finished cranking, I was suspended in air, belly down, legs spread, balls dangling.

I whimpered and moaned as he attached lead weights to my balls that pulled them down toward the floor, and then he was slowly pulling the knife handle out of my ass, and I lurched and cried out and he laughed as he ran the underside of his cock up and down on my hole until I begged him for it. Then he drove his cock hard and deep inside me and began to pump me and pull me back and forward hard on his cock. As he fucked me, the studs on his cock ring rubbing hard against the rim of my entrance, he flicked me on the back and around on the chest and belly with the hand whip. At some point he stopped doing that and reached around my belly with a hand and milked me.

When it was all over, he pronounced that I had passed muster and could stay if I still wanted to.

"Yes, please, I answered. And the next time you fuck me, I'd like it to be face to face so I can watch your tattoos at play."

This seemed to please him.

He explained the daily routine at the ranch and his ground rules as he unharnessed me and handed me a pair of jeans to slide onto my sore legs.

Then he took me to the bunk house I was to call home and introduced me to Hank, who was senior in the bunk house.

"Hank here is a 'G' wrangler," Butch told me in parting. He wouldn't have had to tell me that, though, because an hour later, when I was laying on my belly, exhausted, on my bed, Hank, lanky and dark and hard muscled, played his seniority card by covering my back with his naked body and mining my ass with his cock, the two of us motionless except for the rolling of our pelvises and the harmony of our sighing and moaning.

So, when I woke the next morning and stumbled out of bed and into my new uniform, I'd already been well initiated into the life, pecking order, and privileges of seniority at the ranch.

The first thing I did in the morning was to get my bearings in the macro sense. I walked out a way toward the main gate and looked around. I knew that we were northwest of the nearest town, Granby; that Willow Creek, which was not much more than a drizzle running between stands of cottonwood trees, ran through the ranch; that the mountain peak to the northwest was named Parkview Mountain; that the ranch was located in a dip between that and slopes of the Arapaho National Forest on the east; and that to the south of us was the Willow Creek Reservoir. And all around me, rising in each direction, were the peaks of the Rockies.

My job specialty at the ranch—chosen to give me the greatest freedom of movement—would mean that I might see all of these outlying areas. The locale was beautiful in a bigger-than-life way. The vistas were majestic, and what could be seen closer to hand gave a sense of wild freedom and challenge. The perfect place for high-octane men taking risks and leadership positions in the urban world to retreat to so they could kick back and indulge pleasures they could not own up to craving in their other world.

And speaking of high-octane men, as I was standing by the side of the road taking in the vistas, I felt more than heard the whoosh of a vehicle moving past me at more speed than it should have been on the narrow dirt lane, and suddenly I was choking and coughing from the dust being thrown up by its wheels. When I could clear my eyes, I looked up and saw Arcardi's black Navigator moving out toward the entrance into the ranch at great speed.

My first thought was that Arcardi was being sent off for what he'd done to Jesse on the trip in from the airport the previous evening. But then I saw it slow down and stop right outside the main entrance to the ranch. And when I viewed it doing that, I saw, for the first time, two camouflaged Hummers that had been parked at the side of the main road. The Navigator pulled up to the Hummers and men got out of both of them and walked toward each other.

Where had I seen those Hummers before, I wondered. And then it hit me. They were at the Granby airstrip the previous night when Mario Rapino's corporate jet landed. I couldn't see the men who were approaching each other, in each case, one man in the lead and two bulkier men following. My first thought was Giacomo Arcardi and Mario Rapino were having a showdown and that gun play could be expected, and I instinctively hunkered down at the side of the road. But then nothing happened. They just stood there, talking, and when they got back in their vehicles, they didn't come back into the ranch. They headed south, in tandem, toward Granby.

My next thought was that there was some sort of hanky-panky going on, a switching of allegiances. That one of the parties didn't include their principal. But any way you sliced it, it was something out of line with our thinking of what was going on with these two families. I turned and walked back toward the group of buildings at the operations center of the ranch.

As I walked into the center of the complex where wranglers and the few guests in residence were milling around, I quickly saw the visual distinction between the "T" wranglers and the "G" wranglers. In contrast to what I was given to wear, the "G" wranglers were given no jeans at all. They just had chaps and a G-string, with a cock and ball sack that could quickly and conveniently be tucked under the wrangler's balls to enable immediate action. And their bandanas were blue.

I was surprised to see as I walked back toward the ranch house and was approaching a horse barn that the laid-back Chuck we'd picked up at the Denver Swim Club was a wrangler—he was a "G" wrangler and already was in action, framed by the hay door on the floor above the barn door. The younger of the clients who had come in from the airport the previous night with me, Jim, I think his name was, was leaning against the side of the hay door, framed by the opening and Chuck was behind him, encircling his bare chest with his finely muscled arms and fucking up into his ass from behind. Jim had an expression of sheer bliss.

I was more surprised, though, by what I saw on the ground below. At first I couldn't figure out what the middle-aged client named Ted was doing. I knew it looked like he was between a pair of legs and fucking, but one of the legs had a heavy white cast on it as did an arm I saw hanging on Ted's hip. It took me a few seconds to realize that Jesse must have recovered enough from his ordeal the previously night to be back in action again this morning. I was happy that he hadn't been banged up any worse than just a fractured arm and leg. I felt sorry for him until I walked by enough to look back and see the expression on his face, which reflected pure pleasure. I had found a soul mate—a guy who loved to be fucked. I tarried at the split rail fence that marked the exercise yard of the horse barn to share in Jesse's pleasure.

"Look like they're having fun, doesn't it?" I felt him close behind me, his hands possessively at my waist, his crotch leaning into my butt, letting me feel his need. It was the third client who had come in the limousine with me the previous night—Cliff.

"Yes, I'm glad that the little sandy-haired guy seems to have recovered from last night," I answered, not looking around.

I felt and heard the zipper at the back of my jeans being pulled down.

"I want to fuck you," Cliff whispered in my ear. "I wanted you last night—in the limousine. But Butch said it wasn't allowed there. It's allowed here, though."

"We could go someplace more comfortable," I whispered—my actual thoughts being, "Well, here we go. Showtime. My first one."

"No, I want you here, both of us watching those two fuck on the hay bale."

"Whatever you want," I answered.

So he took me there, his hands holding my wrists out wide on the top rail of the fence and me hunched over the rail a bit as he fucked me from behind.

Afterward I went back to the bunkhouse and showered and rested in my bunk for a couple of hours and thought about the difficulties of protecting Jason Jenks in this environment—especially when it appeared now that he hadn't escaped what was threatening him—that Giacomo Arcardi was here, waiting for him. As I drifted off to sleep, my last thought was one of wondering where Arcardi was now—and what he might be doing to one of the "T" wranglers—maybe in the dungeon in the basement of the man ranch house.

When I awoke, it was time to take on the last hurdle to being fully employed here. Everyone had to take an initial medical exam by Doc—as well as frequent exams thereafter. My exam was thorough—more thorough than any I'd had before, because near the end, the doctor had me lay on my back on the examining table, with my feet in stirrups, and he strapped my arms down and unbuttoned his white coat to reveal that he was naked underneath. He then proceeded to make use of his senior status and feed his fetish by opening a box of surgical wands—small stainless steel tubes of graduated sizes with a rounded end.

"What are those for, Doc?" I asked innocently, knowing full well what they were for, but wanting to steel myself for what was to come.

"Don't worry, son," Doc said in his most professional tone. "It's all quite harmless and can be quite safe if you don't fight it, and you'll enjoy it immensely if you hold very, very still. This is the last of the tests to ascertain whether you will give yourself fully to clients here as called to do so."

"That's OK, Doc," I said. "You don't need to do this; I guarantee I'll lay down on demand."

"Then you'll lay down for this, Folsom. This isn't just a test. This is my prerogative. This is what I enjoy. You are going to hold still, while I insert these surgical wands in your urethra—you know what that is, don't you? Your piss slit—from small to large. If you hold very still, you'll find you like it. And I'm going to make you come with these. And then I'm going to fuck you."

"No, that's OK, we can skip to the . . . ahhhhhh!"

"Hold still!"

I went very still as commanded, as I felt the first of the wands, a tiny one, entering my piss slit and running slowly down the track. I felt every microinch of it move in the tiny channel, gently spreading it.

"Oh, god, Doc . . . oh, god."

"Careful now. Very good. Now I'm going to slowly twirl it. Feel that? Feels good?"

I was trying to control my breathing, holding very, very still, my eyes focused down the line of my body on Doc's fingers at the head of my cock and the top of the surgical wand as it twirled. Beyond that I could see Doc's belly and his now-jutting cock. He was breathing heavily, enjoying this.

"Oh Chrisssst," I moaned as he slowly extracted the tiny wand and reached for one slightly larger.

Several ever-larger wands later, not realizing I'd gone so tense, I collapsed back onto the vinyl table top in my own sweat, with a small cry of release as my cum burbled up around the steel shaft of the sounding wand buried deep inside my cock.

"Very good, you have marvelous control," Doc whispered with admiration in a throaty voice. I felt the bulb of his cock at my ass channel and he started working his way into me without withdrawing the largest of the sounding wands from my piss slit. He reached over and started twirling the wand inside me as his cock ran up inside me. As he fucked me in the ass with his cock, I moaned and burbled cum until he came and declared he was satisfied that I was worthy to be cleared to work at the ranch.