A Babyfaced Stud Named Kyle

Chapter Two

I was up very early the next morning.  After grabbing a cup of coffee at the dining hall, I spent time sorting through my tackle in the locker room adjoining the bunkhouse.  By 6:30 a.m., I was back in the dining hall.  The other guests at the fishing lodge were sleeping in so I was on my own again.  My mind daydreamed a bit as I stared out the windows at the lightly falling snow and sipped more coffee.

The kitchen door swung open and a black man with a handsome face stuck out his head.  “Jeff!” he exclaimed.  “Chef Jones!” I answered happily and stood.  He walked to my table in his large white apron, and we gave each other a bro hug.  Big Jack Jones was a legend at the old fishing lodge.  He had been the head cook for almost ten years but had worked there for more than two decades.  He wasn’t a father figure to me, however.  We were about the same age in our mid-forties, give or take a few years.

As we embraced, I felt his hard chiseled physique.  Chef Jones wasn’t your typical cook who put on those extra pounds from one too many tastings in the kitchen.  He was a ripped, bodybuilder.  One season, I had spied him shirtless while he chopped wood for his cabin on the property.  He was a sight to behold.  Big smooth pecs and large brown nipples.  Each time he raised his ax, he revealed his hairless pits.  Sweat poured off his forehead, chest and abs.  My 8” cock had hardened watching him at work.  I always suspected he knew I was spying on him and put on a show for my benefit.  But we had never talked about it.  I can’t deny wondering about the size of his dick.  It was probably magnificent in its girth and length.

“Good to see you, really,” Jones said, “I always look forward to your annual visits.  Sorry to miss you at dinner last night.  It was my day off.”

“Sandy told me that,” I said, referring to the lodge manager, adding, “And I love catching up with you Jack.”  Chef Jones had never married and seemed satisfied to be a lifelong bachelor.  Given the attention he lavished on his muscular body, I had the smallest of inklings he might swing my way and even be attracted to me, but it was a topic we had never broached.  Bob spent the offseason in Palm Springs then traveled north to the lodge where he ran the kitchen from late May to mid-October.

“Happy the season’s almost over?” I asked.

“Nah, it went by too quickly,” he said, “I could stay on another month.”  He stepped back and regarded me more intently.  “You look great, Jeff.  I can see you’re putting a lot of work into that Dad bod,” he said chuckling.

I laughed and said, “Well, you’ve always kept in shape Chef.  You’re my inspiration.”

I couldn’t help but notice Jack’s gaze had traveled southward to my bulge.  He paused then smiled and nodded his head, “Mighty fine…yes indeed.  Well, see you later and welcome again.  Tight lines today!”  With that, he was gone.

After a filling breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and assorted fruit, I picked up the lunch bag prepared by the kitchen staff and went back to the locker room to collect my rod, waders, boots, extra layers and fishing vest. 

I was just exiting the locker room with my gear in tow when my babyfaced guide Kyle arrived in his blue Ford Ranger truck towing a guide boat.  The Ranger’s cargo bed was covered.  He jumped out of his cab and quickly walked over to me.  “Can I help Mr. Richards…I mean Jeff?”  

“I’m okay,” I said, “Just open up the back of your truck and I’ll throw this stuff inside.”  He smiled, showing me his dimple once more, then turned and went back to the Ranger—giving me a nice view of his bubble butt pressing against his stretchy tan pants.  I felt my cock begin to swell.  Kyle wore a mid-weight, light blue parka.  He had on the same blue ball cap as he had the day before.  Today the bill faced forward.  He hadn’t shaved so the brown scruff around his chin was a bit more pronounced.

Soon we were headed in his truck towards the access point to the southernmost section of Rock Creek.  It was an eleven mile or so stretch of water with fast riffles and deep holes filled with hungry Westslope cutthroat, rainbow and brown trout.  The snow was continuing to fall as Kyle drove down the bumpy road. 

We chatted amicably about the fishing conditions, the likely flies he’d rig up, and the past trips he’d guided down the same section this season.  I learned he had graduated from Montana State a few years earlier, which made him about 25, the age I had guessed in the fly-fishing shop the day before.

By the time we reached the jump off point, unloaded the boat, rigged our lines, and got everything ready, it was about 9:00 a.m.  The snow had stopped falling and the temperature was already about 38 degrees.  Fortunately, there was no wind, which can really screw up a back cast and lead to all sorts of line tangles.  Even though it was overcast, we had both donned sunglasses to protect our eyes and ward off glare from the water.

Kyle waded in behind the boat while I took up position behind the gunnel in the back of the boat.  He pushed us out into the current and vaulted sideways onto the deck before settling into the captain’s chair in the middle.  He grasped the boat’s oars and started rowing us out into the main current.  I began casting my line close to the undercutting banks where trout liked to congregate.

Three hours later, Kyle had proved himself a superb guide indeed.  I had landed more than seven large cutthroat and two browns.  All but one of the fish was more than 15” long.  And it had been exciting to see the fish rise to the dry fly more than take the nymph fly below the water. 

At a few inlets, Kyle had anchored the boat and we both fished the stream from the banks.  He caught a 22” brown almost immediately, proving he was not only a terrific guide but also an experienced fisherman in his own right.

The day had become surprisingly warm, hovering around 60 degrees.  By early afternoon, when we took our lunch break, the clouds had parted and the sun shone down on us, heating things up more.

As we were getting back in the boat, Kyle said, “Hey, do you mind if I take off my parka and long sleeve shirt.  I’m kinda boiling and I’ll be sweating bricks rowing us this afternoon if I don’t take them off.”  I was somewhat surprised but not dismayed by his request.  “Sure, why not?” I replied, playing it cool.

Kyle smiled and pulled off his jacket and his long sleeve blue shirt.  I watched as his tight gray tank top with the Montana State Bobcats logo in dark blue came into view.  His tanned shoulders were every bit as muscled and ripped as I had imagined.  His broad back tapered to a narrow waist.  His large pecs and nipples strained against the gray fabric.  From what I could see of his torso, he appeared to be smooth but I wasn’t sure.  His pits had light brown curls.  The kid was a muscle hunk and comfortable showing off his body.  He sat down in the captain’s chair once more as I assumed my position in the back of the boat.

The problem with sunshine in the afternoon on a stream is that it tends to kill the fishing.  Overcast weather is better in general.  And sure enough the hatches and rising fish we had seen all morning vanished.  I had taken off my parka but not my shirt.  I casted for another hour or so without a single strike.  Reeling in my rod, I said, “They’re pretty much asleep for now.  I’m gonna give it a rest.”

“No problem,” he said brightly, then turned back and gave me another wink—just as suggestive and cocky as the one he had given me in the fishing shop the day before.  

We floated down the river initially in silence.  I was getting a bit worked up watching Kyle's broad muscled shoulders as he periodically rowed to keep us in the main current.  

Breaking our silence, I remarked, “I’m curious if you were a collegiate gymnast.”

He turned my way again, replying, “I didn’t do gymnastics.  I was on State’s wrestling squad.”

“Ahhh,” I said, “That makes sense.  Your compact physique made me think of gymnastics but I’m sure it stood you well in your wrestling matches.”

“Thanks,” he said, “I won more than I lost.  And I’ve…I’ve kept it up since, doing some…amateur stuff down in Bozeman every other weekend.”

He had said that last part in a somewhat halting manner.

“What kind of amateur stuff?’ I asked.

“Oh, it’s…it’s an underground wrestling league.  We even post some of our matches online for money.  Helps make my ends meet.”  Pause.  Another wink.  “You familiar with the underground scene?”

Now it was my turn to hesitate.  “Ummm,” I began, “Yeah…I…I am.  I wrestled in college myself and still do in a league in New York City.  It can get a bit rough, especially if it’s no holds-barred.”

“Nice!” Kyle said turning back towards me with a big grin, “I noticed you had decent guns.”

I chuckled, “Well, nothing like what you got, but I keep fit.  What are your stats?”

“My stats?” he said, “Well, I’m 5’8” and weigh 200 pounds.  I got a 50” chest and 21” biceps.  Only a 32” waist and 34” quads.”

“Impressive,” I responded, then said, “I almost feel like asking you to flex for me.” 

My tone had been light, as if I was just kidding the kid.  Kyle didn’t respond right away but reached over to a lever and pulled it.  The anchor dropped and the boat jerked to a halt.  Kyle stood up and faced me, with a somewhat mischievous look on his babyface.  Slowly, he raised his arms and went into a double bicep flex, showing off the peak along the ridges of his ceps and exposing the light brown hair in his pits.

I was captivated.  My 8” dick involuntarily thickened.  Fortunately, my waders hid any visible penis outline.  He grinned as he turned sideways and transitioned into a tricep flex.

“Wow,” I said, “You could do amateur bodybuilding contests, too.”

“Yeah,” he replied, dropping his pose.  Then he pulled off his tank top.  His torso was smooth except for a light dusting of brown hair around his tanned pecs and a treasure trail leading downward from his navel.  His nipples were hard and he began rubbing them and his pecs.  Then he smirked, “Like what you see…Daddy?”

Wow, I thought to myself, my boyish guide was flirting with me.  I gulped and said, “Yeah, Babyfaced Stud, I think you figured me out.  You must have a pretty good gaydar.”

He snorted, “Yeah, I’m good at figuring out stuff like that.  You out?”

“Yes, back in New York.  Not really here in Montana,” I answered, adding “You?”

“Oh, I’m not gay,” he said with a hint of protest, “I’m fine being around gay guys.  Heck, I wrestle them in the underground.  But I prefer women.”

“No worries,” I said quickly.  I was admittedly disapppointed.  But I wasn’t so sure.  Maybe he was “gay for pay” in the matches he posted and sold online.  Maybe he was bi and just hadn’t accepted that part of him.  My bias was to believe that most “gay for pay” wrestlers at least swung both ways regardless of what they said.

Suddenly, I had an idea, remembering the black rubber mats the lodge manager Sandy had installed in the bunkhouse.  “Hey, I was thinking.  You want to come back to the lodge for dinner this evening?  And maybe…a little wrestling?  We got a bunch of mats laid out in the bunkhouse at the moment.”

“Are you sure, Daddy?” Kyle smirked, “I’m probably a lot stronger than you.  I won’t take it easy on you.”

“Kid,” I replied, in a bit of a cocky tone, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Are we wrestling for anything?” he asked with a devilish grin.

“Oh, yes, Babyfaced Stud, we are.  We definitely are.”

(To be continued.)