Hunted

The rented Jeep Wrangler sputtered and died as Ben was approaching the base of the Vallecito Mountains northeast of Durango, Colorado, and, with a muttered "Shit," he guided the vehicle over to the side of the road. There wasn't any secret why the old Wrangler had died. It was out of gas. Ben had rented the car for the summer from a used car dealer down in Durango as soon as he'd arrived here. It had taken a while to figure out that the gas gauge was misleading. He'd fought with that all summer. Today, he'd been coming down from his uncle's place in the mountains to fill the Wrangler up, but he'd made a wrong turn, spent an hour getting back onto a road he recognized, and the gas hadn't held out.

With another curse, he grabbed the gas can from the floor in front of him, got out of the car, and, looking up at the hot sun and cursing that he'd come away just in jeans and boots and no shirt, he started the trudge down the mountain. He had no idea how far he'd have to walk on the side of the dusty road before he got to a gas station. He'd been filling up in Durango when he could and from his uncle's tank up on the mountain property most of the time, but he'd found out that morning that his uncle's tank was tapped out and wouldn't be refilled for a couple of more days.

Although well under six foot, Ben was built solid. He was in his second year in the football program at Penn State and had been sent out to his uncle Will's remote place in the Vallecito Mountains for the summer to toughen himself up more, trim down a little, and help Will with the renovations of the A-frame hanging on the side of a mountain slope that Will had bought. That done, he'd gone on to put in a fence around a horse paddock. By late July he'd accomplished his mission. He was deeply tanned, with blond highlights coaxed out of his hair by the sun. Through hard work, as planned, his torso had been cut to perfection, and his thigh and arm muscles were bulging. He'd run nearly every day, clocked by his uncle, and had cut several seconds off his mile. Having gained muscle and weight while trimming off excess fat and running time, he'd return to Penn State as a perfect scat back—fast, agile, and with a low center of gravity. The house renovations were done and the fence finished and half painted.

He'd be leaving to go back East in two weeks, and it couldn't be quick enough for Ben. The summer workout had been great and his goals met, and the dry summer climate of southwest Colorado and the perpetual sunshine and semiarid scenery of the San Juan mountains had been invigorating. But the isolation of the mountains and the company just being him and Uncle Will day in and day out had been frustrating. Ben had needs and in State College an older man, a rich Penn State alumni who owned a string of car dealerships, took care of Ben's needs—both financial and sexual. Here there was only Uncle Will, who Ben wasn't sure about in the sexual department. Will was quite presentable, but he was Ben's uncle. So he was taboo, serving more as a source of frustration than a help in Ben's summer of doing without.

Ben was keyed up and more than ready to get back into the grove and into Chas Engleston's bed in State College.

It was these thoughts of sexual frustration and ticking off the days until he had a man who could get him off that were droning through Ben's mind as he walked in the heat down the dusty edge of the road in the direction of Durango, more than twenty miles to the southwest, with little promise of a gas station before that. At least Ben couldn't remember having seen one when he'd driven down to Durango before.

Ben was brought out of his reverie by a beat-up old blue and rust Ford pickup passing him from behind and pulling over on the shoulder ahead of him, kicking up rocks and dust.

When Ben reached the passenger door of the truck, it opened, and the man at the wheel straightened back up in the seat and turned his face toward the passenger door. He was dark skinned; bare-chested, like Ben; chiseled-bodied, with straight, black hair cascading down to his shoulder blades; and worn faded cut-off jeans, dusty construction boots, and a black leather necklace, with a turquoise-studded amulet dangling between two bulging pectoral muscles. He was tattooed, the most prominent one being the wings of an eagle stretching across his upper chest. He was probably pushing forty but not too hard. The squint lines in his face reflected many hours working outside in the sun. He had a slightly Asian cast to his face, and his smile was guarded.

"You stranded?" he asked as Ben came up to the open door, scrunched down, and looked into the interior of the truck, which was in a lot better condition than the bodywork was.

"Ran out of gas," Ben answered, raising the gas can to back up his claim.

"That your Wrangler back there?"

"My rented pile of shit, yes," Ben answered. "The gas gauge lies."

The man laughed. "Climb in. I'll take you to a gas station. None close by, though. Put the can behind the seat."

"Thanks," Ben answered, slid into the passenger seat after depositing the gas can and closed the passenger door. "Thanks, man. Hot out there."

"Yep. Not a day to be walking out of the mountains without a shirt."

"No, that wasn't smart of me," Ben said.

"Maybe it was. It got you a ride," the man said. "You're one good-looking, cut dude. My name's Ed." He rushed in getting the name in, as if, once having given a signal, he gave Ben an excuse to ignore it if he wished and concentrate just on the name exchange. Ben caught the signal and didn't want to ignore it. He was sexually charged, and the man was sexy and gorgeous. There was an aspect of mystery about him—and danger. Ben had seen some Native Americans around this summer, and this guy could easily be one.

"I'm Ben. Just here for the summer, working for my uncle up in the Vallecito Mountains. Would you have stopped for me if you didn't think I looked good?"

The man turned his face to Ben and gave him a steady look. Ben returned the look. They were beginning to reach a mutual understanding of interests.

"No, probably not," the man admitted. He flashed a smile at Ben but then turned his attention back to the road, waiting for the next gambit, if there was going to be one.

Ben had been here before, done this before. "Nice country around here, but a little dull. I've been here all summer and haven't seen much action yet."

"Been down to Durango? That's about all the place there is for action around here. What sort of action were you looking for?"

"Well, clubs, bars. The sort of place a guy would go to be with other guys." There, Ben thought, it was out. It was up to this hunk to pick that up or not. After a short period of silence, he added, "But am I assuming badly? Did I say something that upsets you?"

"No, you asked just the right question . . . Ben. There's Colorow's down in Durango. That's a men's club. Just men. A hookup bar. I can vouch for that."

"Colorow's? What sort of name is that?"

"That's where the name of the state—Colorado—comes from. Colorow was a famous Ute chieftain. The name got corrupted into Colorado."

"A Ute chieftain? Is that what you are? Are you Ute? My uncle says there are a couple of big Ute reservations around here."

"Yes, I'm Ute," Ed answered. "The Southern Ute Indian Reservation covers most the territory south of here down to the border of New Mexico. I come from there. But I work on a ranch on the border of the reservation southeast of Durango."

"I've never been with a Native American before," Ben said.

"You mean you haven't been in bed with one before—a Native American man?"

"Yeah, I mean I've never been laid by one before." Might as well get the top-bottom issue sorted out, Ben thought.

"We have dicks just like every other man," Ed said. "In fact maybe bigger than most." Then he gave a dry laugh. He didn't follow that up immediately, as if maybe he'd gone too far—that maybe Ben wasn't signaling as clearly as Ed hoped he was and would ask him to stop the truck and would get out. But Ben didn't do that.

They drove for a while in silence.

"So . . . ," Ed said, trying to be nonchalant about it and staring straight out of the windshield and over the hood of the trunk, "So, you take dick, do you?"

"I prefer to bottom, yes," Ben answered.

"You know," Ed said, "When we do get to a gas station, it's going to be a long haul for you to get back to your Jeep . . ."

"But maybe you'd be willing to take me back?" Ben asked. "If you've got the time and I'll do you a favor in return? Do you top?"

"I've got the time," Ed answered in a low, guttural voice. "And I give cock—if a guy thinks he'd like to have cock from me."

"What's not to like?" Ben said. They rode on for a bit in silence before Ed spoke up again.

"You say you haven't seen the Ute reservation yet? I know where there's a really nice lake on the reservation not far from here. Maybe you'd—"

"Sure, I'd like to see that," Ben said.

"Gotta say I like what I see. I got hard just seein' you on the road."

"I had my hopes about you too," Ben responded.

Ed parked the truck in the shade in a stand of trees at the top of a hill overlooking a small lake. When he'd turned off the ignition, he moved an arm along the top of the seats behind Ben's head and turned his face to Ben's, giving him a tentative smile. His hand went to the back of Ben's neck, and he ran strong fingers up into the sun-kissed blond hair at the back of the young man's head.

They moved into the kiss together, Ed gently pulling Ben's head toward him, and Ben leaning in for the kiss. Ed's other hand went to Ben's crotch, finding him hard, and Ben moaned at the intimate touch of another man that he hadn't felt all summer.

When they came out of the kiss, Ed murmured, "I'd like . . . ," but Ben had anticipated him and was already dipping his head, working the older man's zipper, and pulling out a thick, hard cock. Ben's lips descended down the shaft, squeezing it tight, and Ed, moaning deeply, lay back in his seat, the fingers of both hands dug into the hair on Ben's head, as Ben gave him an expert, but not fully completed, blow job.

"You've done this a lot before," Ed murmured, with a deep sigh.

"Never with a sexy Ute before," Ben answered.

"It's not too—?"

"You're huge in thickness. Just the way I like them."

"You're a slut," Ed said, with a guttural laugh.

"At the moment, I'm your slut. Use me. Give it to me hard; be my daddy."

Ben sat on the cock in Ed's lap in the passenger seat, facing the dashboard and rising and falling on the shaft by the leverage of his feet, as Ed grasped Ben by his pecs, worried Ben's nipples with his index fingers and thumbs, and licked and nipped between Ben's shoulder blades.

With a groan, he pushed Ben off his lap, growling a "Not yet. In the back of the truck."

He pulled Ben out of the truck and virtually carried him around to the back. He lowered the tailgate, revealing a couple of sacks of feed in the bed of the truck. Inserting Ben's ankles into the loops at each corner of the truck chassis that held the tailgate up, he laid Ben on his back on the sacks of feed, pulled the young man's buttocks to the edge of the tailgate, grasped his hips, thrust inside him, and fucked him to a mutual ejaculation.

All the time, using his core muscles to rhythmically thrust his pelvis up to meet Ed's downward thrusts and to help establish the quickening pace, Ben egged him on, telling him how beautiful his body was; how masterful and big he was—and indeed he was what they called beer can thick; how powerful his thrusts were; how well he filled and worked Ben's channel; how deep he was getting, which was pure emotion, as Ed wasn't all that long; how far up into the heavens he was taking Ben . . .

At the moment of release, Ben already having beaten himself off, Ed held, as deep inside Ben as he was going to get, throbbing, and Ben clutched the older man's buttocks, digging in his nails, and Ed came down for a kiss, reaching for Ben's tonsils with his tongue. Ben trembled and Ed shuddered, releasing his ejaculate and filling out the bulb of his rubber.

This wasn't the usual fuck for Ben. This was intense, emotional—something special to think about. Someone special.

As the rust-blue truck pulled up to the side of the Jeep Wrangler an hour and a half later, and Ben gave Ed a grin and a last kiss and gingerly exited the truck, full gas can in hand, he said, "Colorow's in Durango, you say?"

"That's the place," Ed answered. "They'll love you there. Just be careful. Cowboys can be rough."

"You'll be there sometimes?"

"I'm there often enough. Always up for some sweet ass."

"I'd like you . . . again."

"Me too," Ed answered. "You're something special. I don't want to sound casual about it. You're something special."

Ben smiled, almost shyly. "Thanks, man," he said, raising the gas can in salute.

"No, thank you," Ed countered, turning his grinning face to the road, and raising dust and small stones as he pushed off.

* * * *

Will Lassiter stood there in the doorway of Ben's bedroom, somewhat confused, as Ben packed his bags.

"It's been great, Uncle Will," Ben said, "but we've finished with what I came here to help you with and spring football training is starting early. I might as well leave early."

"But your plane reservations," Will said.

"Have been changed already. I'll go into Durango for tonight and drop off the Wrangler. Then I'll fly out tomorrow, up to Denver, and from there, a direct flight to Philadelphia. No need for you to come into Durango to see me off. We can say our good-byes here."

And that was that. After lingering over lunch so that Will wouldn't think that Ben just couldn't wait to be gone—although that was the case, even if that partly was because Ben needed to resist temptation—they said their good-byes, and Will stood at the door of the A-frame cottage and watched Ben drive away.

Was it Ben's imagination, or did it seem that Uncle Will was particularly disappointed to see him go? Will had drawn closer to him over the last week or so, touching him more, leaving his hand to linger on his arm or shoulder or the small of his back more—like now, when they were saying good-bye and Will continued holding Ben's hand for longer than necessary. Was it because Ben had recently been so completely laid that he saw the interest and longing in Will's eyes now? If Will wasn't his uncle—and they'd rarely come in contact before, so it wasn't like they really felt related—Ben could have gone with Will. Ben preferred older men and Will was quite well put together. The rugged life of the Colorado mountains helped keep him in shape and he was a handsome man. But he was Ben's uncle—well, half way, as Ben's mother's mother and Will's mother weren't the same—so Ben wouldn't give into that temptation.

An hour later, Ben had entered the gates of the 1,700-acre Shadow Ranch southeast of Durango, snuggled up against the Ute reservation, the position that gave the ranch its name, and drove the half mile to the main house. He was met at the front door of the house by the towering figure of Jock Crane, decked out as the classic big ranch owner in flashy Western duds, sporting a leathery tan, a flowing gray mane, a large frame with enough meat on it for him to be considered overpowering without quite being fat, and a big welcoming smile.

A servant took Ben's suitcase out to the bunkhouse where Ben was to spend the last week and a half of his originally scheduled visit in the West, and, putting an arm possessively around Ben's waist, Jock Crane guided him into the master bedroom of the main house, tossed him onto the bed, tore off his clothes, and banged the shit out of him for an hour. Late in the hour, the gangly and wiry, but iron strong, ranch foreman, Sling, entered the room and tag teamed with Jock, banging the shit out of Ben himself and slapping him around, in turn, while Jock watched, tossed back scotch, smoked a cigar, and pulled on his cock. When Sling was done, Jock gave Ben another half hour of his cock, and the two left the young man there, panting, his legs still bent and spread, his mouth formed in a slight, satiated smile, when the dinner gong sounded and the two ranchmen went off to inhale their steak and potatoes.

This change in Ben's plans for the end of his summer vacation out West had come about three days earlier, when Ben, being sent down into Durango by Will Lassiter to bring in some supplies, had made a stop near the edge of town, within sight of the stockyards, to check out Colorow's, the gay bar the Ute, Ed, had told him about.

Ben found the bar in the early afternoon. In keeping with the pace of work in the area, the place was nearly deserted when Ben went in and bellied up to the bar. He ordered a beer; was carded, and, to the barkeep's surprise, passed; and was barely getting around to asking the barkeep about business and gay nightlife in Durango, when two men entered the bar. The one taking the lead was a tall, older, commanding-figure man decked out in Western wear. The guy following in his wake was a thin, wiry, slightly younger man in the serious ranch working gear of a tartan plaid shirt, worn jeans, scruffed cowboy boots, and a worn Stetson hat.

Seeing Ben at the bar, the two whispered briefly to each other and then approached, the older man settling onto a barstool in the direction in which Ben was facing, and the wiry one saddling up behind Ben.

"Can I buy you a drink, son?" the older man asked in a confident, overloud voice.

"I've already ordered a beer," Ben answered.

"I'll cover it," he said, nodding to the barkeep, who nodded back. "Howdy, Clyde," the man said to the barkeep, thus establishing himself as a regular here.

"Howdy back at ya, Mr. Crane," Clyde answered. "The usual?"

"Right," Crane answered. "And whatever Sling wants. And this good-lookin' young man is on my tab now too."

"That OK with you, sport?" the bartender asked Ben in a "Do you know what this signified?" voice.

"Sounds good to me," Ben answered.

Scotch on the rocks was presented to the older man and a beer to the man standing behind Ben, the older men served before Ben.

"New here, son? I don't think I've seen you in here before." Crane looked at Clyde, the barkeep, who nodded a signal that Ben was legal.

"Yes, my first time," Ben answered, impressed by the size and bearing of the man. "Just here for the summer—two more weeks. I go to school in Pennsylvania—college." Adding that it was college was his way of signaling he was legal. Ben had entered the bar prepared for some action.

"You know what kind of bar this is?" Crane asked, eyeing Ben pointedly.

"Yes sir," Ben said, giving Crane a level stare back. "I asked around to find out where someplace like this was in Durango."

"So, you know that young, good-lookin' guys like you come in here to get laid."

"Yes, sir," Ben answered, without batting an eye. "That's what I came here for."

"You're not at all shy, are you?" Crane asked, with a big smile.

"No, sir. You don't mince words either. Does it put you off that I don't tease?"

"Not in the least," Crane said.

That's when Ben felt the hand of the man behind him. He'd taken hold of Ben's belt in back. Ben knew he wasn't going anywhere now without effort. He hadn't come in here to back away from an encounter, though, and the man facing him looked rich and he looked like he knew what to do with someone with Ben's needs. He also looked like chances were good he was hung and masterful—not just from his size but from the cocky way he carried himself. Ben wasn't that sure about the guy behind him, holding onto his belt, though.

"And you get that old farts like me come into places like this to find young guys like you to lay."

"Yeah, I can understand that, I guess."