Hard in the Bunkhouse After Dark

The storm broke over the fence line above my pasture outside Bozeman while Wade Briggs and I were still twisting wire. I was twenty-eight that July, soaked to the skin in a Carhartt that had given up, and Wade was thirty-six, the neighbor across the creek, thick through the chest and arms. Rain glued his shirt to a chest that looked quarried, and every flash of lightning showed me the ridge of his stomach and the heavy swell in his jeans. We grabbed the cutters and ran for my bunkhouse, boots sucking mud, his shoulder bumping mine like he meant it.

Wade shook rain off his arms and the room filled with wet wool, hot skin, and the low tick of the woodstove. Water tracked down his jaw into the hollow of his throat. He looked at me with those pale eyes, chest heaving.
- You gonna keep staring or help me out of this.
- Door is shut. Nobody for a mile. Get over here.
- Been thinking about your hands since you fixed my gate in May.
- Then let me use them.

He stepped in and I took the soaked shirt by the hem and dragged it up over that broad back. It fought his shoulders. His skin was hot under the cold cloth, nipples drawn tight, a line of dark hair running down a stomach that jumped when my knuckles brushed it. I dropped the shirt on the boards. He worked my buttons with thick fingers and shoved the flannel off my arms. We kicked our boots toward the stove. His belt clinked when I opened it. I peeled the wet denim down thighs thick as posts, and his cock swung out heavy, flushed dark, the head already wet. Mine ached until he hooked my shorts down and closed a rough palm around me, thumb dragging through the slick at the tip. After that there were no more words.

I went to my knees on the braided rug. His cock filled my mouth on a slow push, salt and rain and the clean bite of sweat where his hair started. I took him until my lips met that dense thatch and my throat opened around the thick shaft. He set a broad hand on the back of my head, not forcing, just resting there, fingers spread in my wet hair. I worked him with my tongue along the underside, sucking hard on the way up, letting spit slick him until it ran warm down my chin and over his balls. They were heavy in my palm. I rolled them while I bobbed, feeling him swell against my tongue, the vein along his shaft pulsing. A rough sound broke out of his chest. He pulled me off, strings of spit bridging my mouth to the shining head, and hauled me up by the arms like I weighed nothing at all.

He turned me to the iron bed and bent me over the footboard. My chest hit the quilt. His hands spread me, thumbs sinking into the muscle of my ass, and I heard the cap of the oil from the nightstand. Warm slick fingers circled me, patient for a man that size, one then two, working me open while his other hand stroked my cock slow and tight from root to head. I pushed back onto his fingers and he curled them until my knees nearly failed. Then the blunt head of him pressed where those fingers had been. He eased in, inch by thick inch, stretching me until I was full and shaking, the burn sliding into a deep ache that made my cock drip onto the quilt. He held still, buried to the hilt, hips flush to me, the coarse hair at his groin scratching my skin, his chest a hot wall along my back.

He started to move. Long strokes at first, dragging almost out and driving back in until the footboard knocked the wall in time with the rain. Each thrust shoved a broken sound out of me. His hands locked on my hips, fingers dug into muscle, and he found the angle that lit me up, the head of his cock grinding over that spot until the edges of my sight went white. I reached back and gripped his thigh and felt it flex like a piston, and he answered by fucking me harder, the wet slap of his hips loud in the small room. My cock swung and slapped my stomach. He reached under and fisted me, rough palm, twisting over the head on every stroke, and I came apart, clenching around him, spilling in hard pulses over his fingers and the quilt, my whole body locking down on his cock.

He did not stop. He fucked me through it, slower for a few breaths while I shook, then deeper, chasing his own edge. He pulled out, turned me by the shoulder, and I dropped to my knees again with my mouth open. He stroked himself twice, shiny with oil and me, and came across my tongue and my lips, thick and hot, a second pulse striping my cheek and running down onto my chest. I swallowed what I caught and licked the head clean while his hand trembled in my hair. The taste of him sat heavy, salt and bitter heat. Outside, the thunder had rolled off toward the Bridger mountains, and the rain had softened to a steady tick on the tin.

He pulled me up and kissed the mess from my mouth, unhurried, stubble soft with sweat. We fell onto the narrow bed. His arm was a weight across my ribs. My ass throbbed, used and open, and his cock rested heavy against my thigh, still half-hard. He nosed into my neck and his breath slowed against my skin. I stayed awake a little longer, tracing the vein along his forearm, already wanting him again before the storm had even finished crossing the valley.