The Hired Hand Bent Me in the Barn

The branding iron had gone cold, but scorched hide still hung in the air over the corrals west of Sheridan. Late August, the Bighorns gone blue in the last light, cottonwoods along the ditch rattling dry. I was thirty-four and built for this work, shoulders thick from fence wire and a decade on the welder, sunburned across the neck, salt dried white in the creases of my elbows. They called me Cole. Everybody else had already piled into the trucks for town. I stayed to rack the irons and throw the latches.

Dante came out of the chute alley wiping his neck with a red bandana. Twenty-nine, a former linebacker out of Laramie, hired on three weeks back when the owner needed a body that could throw a calf and not complain. His tee was sweat-gray and stuck to a chest that looked carved out of a bigger man. Arms heavy with muscle, veins up the forearms, a dark line of hair at the collar. He had been watching me all week. I had been watching him right back, especially the hour he stripped his shirt to work the calves and the sun hit the groove of his spine.

- You locking up?

- Yeah. Town can wait on me.

- Then I'm not riding in either.

He hooked a thumb at the barn. The look he gave me had been sitting between us since the first morning he caught me staring at his hands on a rope.

- Barn's empty.

- Then lock it before I change my mind.

I threw the big latch and the door boomed shut behind us. Dust lifted in the last stripe of sun through the loft boards. The barn smelled like hay, oiled leather, and the iron of the tools on the wall. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the saddle rack. His chest was wide and furred dark down the center, nipples drawn tight, stomach cut from hay bales instead of mirrors, a yellow bruise on one rib where a calf had kicked. I got my own shirt off. Salt and sunburn across my shoulders. He stepped in, set a broad hand flat on my chest, and dragged his thumb through the hair. That was the last either of us managed before his mouth was on mine.

He kissed me hard, stubble scraping my lip, tongue pushing in like a week of looking had used up his patience. I grabbed his waist and hauled him until our belts knocked. His cock was already thick against my thigh through the denim, heat I could feel through two layers. I worked his belt, popped the button, and shoved jeans and briefs down those heavy thighs. His cock sprang up fat and a little curved, the head dark and wet. I wrapped my hand around it and felt it jump against my palm. He made a low sound into my mouth and got my jeans down just as rough. Cool barn air hit my cock. Then his fist did, callused and tight, stroking me slow while he bit my lower lip and ground his hips into mine.

I went to my knees on the packed dirt. Hay stuck to my shin. I took him in, salt and skin, the broad head heavy on my tongue, and worked down until my lips met my fist at the base. He was too thick to swallow clean, so I didn't fake it. I sucked him steady, spit slicking my chin and his shaft, one hand rolling the weight of his balls, the other gripping the hard curve of his ass. His thighs trembled under my palms. He threaded his fingers into my hair and held the rhythm, hips rocking shallow, not forcing, just taking what I gave him. I looked up through the sweat in my eyes. His stomach flexed. A drop ran from his chest into the dark trail below his navel. His mouth hung open. His eyes stayed on me, dark and fixed.

He pulled me off with a wet sound and hauled me up by the arms. We hit the saddle rack. He turned me and bent me over it, leather cold against my chest and belly, my cock hanging heavy and already leaking. He spit into his palm, stroked himself until he shone, then pressed two wet fingers against me. The stretch burned sharp and good. I pushed back onto his hand. He opened me slow, then deeper, knuckles working, until I was panting into the saddle and dripping onto the dirt between my boots. He lined up behind me. The head of his cock nudged, hotter and thicker than his fingers. He sank in an inch. I bore down and took another. The burn spread into a full heavy fill that locked my arms on the rack.

He fucked me in long strokes at first, hands clamped on my hips, thumbs dug into the muscle above my ass. The slap of his thighs was loud in the closed barn. Every thrust shoved the air out of me and dragged it back when he withdrew. He reached under and fisted me in time, rough palm, thumb smearing the slick at my head. I pushed back to meet him. The angle changed and he hit the place that turned my knees loose. The rack creaked. He drove harder and shorter, balls slapping me, the whole length of him buried and dragging out and buried again.

I came without warning. It tore up out of my gut and striped the leather and the dirt, my ass clenching around him so tight his rhythm broke. He held me down with a forearm across my back and fucked through it, hips stuttering, then shoved deep and stayed. I felt him pulse, hot, filling me, his chest crushed to my spine, his mouth open against my shoulder. We shook there, breathing hard, his hand heavy on my hip.