[Author's note - This is my first attempt at a longer, slow burn story, so bear with me. Story will have more authoritarian themes as it progresses]
Chapter One
The locker room smelled like it always did after practice—sweat, disinfectant, and the faint tang of chlorine drifting in from the showers. Tyler sat on the wooden bench, his singlet bunched in his lap, watching steam rise faintly from his broad shoulders. His body ached in that familiar, satisfying way, every muscle stretched and punished from hours on the mat, his lean wrestler's frame still humming with exertion.
Across from him, Jackson stood at his locker with the door open, a towel hanging precariously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his hip bones. He was grinning at something on his phone, his dark blond hair still wet and curling at the ends, droplets tracing lazy paths down his broad, sculpted chest that gleamed with the fresh sheen of a shower. Jackson's body was a testament to years of wrestling—powerful thighs, defined abs rippling under taut skin, and arms corded with muscle that flexed subtly as he typed.
“You’re gonna sit there brooding all night?” Jackson asked without looking up, his thumbs tapping quickly, his voice carrying that easy confidence that always made Tyler's stomach twist just a little.
“I’m not brooding,” Tyler muttered, his gaze lingering a second too long on the way Jackson's towel clung to his hips.
“You are. You’ve been brooding a lot these last few practices.” Tyler and Jackson were both seniors, and their four years of college wrestling were coming to an end, leaving a hollow ache in Tyler's chest he couldn't quite shake.
Tyler shrugged, tugging his hoodie over his head to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Guess I’ll miss it.”
Jackson looked over, his eyebrows raised, those piercing blue eyes locking onto Tyler's with an intensity that made the air feel thicker. “The grind? The sweat? The coach yelling in your face?”
“Yeah,” Tyler said as he chuckled.
Jackson’s grin widened, revealing a dimple that only added to his rugged charm. He tossed the phone into his locker and pulled the towel off without a hint of self-consciousness, standing shamelessly naked as he dug for clean boxer briefs. Tyler tried not to notice the thick glutes, the way his cock hung heavy and casual between them, partly in the shadow but impossible to ignore. His throat tightened, a familiar tension coiling low in his belly. He busied himself with tying his sneakers, fingers fumbling slightly.
Jackson slid on his boxer briefs, the fabric stretching over his firm ass, then jeans, zipping them with a sharp snap that echoed in the quiet room. “Listen, man, you should come with me this summer.”
“Come with you where?” Tyler asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
“To the ranch. Out in Wyoming.”
Tyler frowned, forcing his eyes up to Jackson's face. “What ranch?”
“The dude ranch I worked last summer, remember. Guests pay to play cowboy for a week—horses, trail rides, campfires, all that shit. Good money. Better than slinging burgers.”
“Me… on a ranch?” Tyler couldn’t help it; he laughed.
Jackson shoved him in the shoulder, his touch lingering a fraction too long, sending a spark through Tyler's arm. “You’ll fit in fine. You’d be surprised how quickly city boys can learn to rope and ride.”
“I’ve never even seen a horse up close.”
“Then come with me. You’ll see plenty.” Jackson leaned forward, his eyes sharp now, more serious beneath the grin. “And it’s not just work, Ty. It’s… different out there. Whole other world. You’d like it.”
“You really think I will fit in?”
“I’m sure of it.” Jackson slapped his chest lightly, the contact firm and electric. “And besides, you might find it gives you exactly what you miss about wrestling, if you know what I mean.”
Tyler wasn’t exactly sure what Jackson meant, something in the way he said it—low, promising, with a hint of something deeper—lodged deep in Tyler’s gut. He nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure why. “Alright. Maybe I’m in.”
Jackson’s grin flashed wide, triumphant. “Good. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”
–––
After graduation, diplomas tucked, Tyler joined Jackson in his beat-up pickup and started rumbling down the highways toward the ranch in Wyoming. The drive west seemed to stretch forever. Tyler took the wheel after a while, Jackson riding shotgun with his boots propped on the dash, sunglasses perched on his nose, humming to country radio like he belonged to the open road. Fields rolled by—green, gold, then scrub and dust.
They’d stopped at gas stations with peeling signs, ate greasy burgers under buzzing fluorescent lights, traded the wheel back and forth when one of them got tired. Jackson never shut up—stories from last summer, guests who came in from the city and couldn’t ride worth shit, his laughter filling the space between them. Tyler half-listened, half-watched him: the way he tilted his head when he laughed, exposing the strong column of his neck; the way his arm hung out the open window, muscles shifting with every bump in the road, veins standing out against tanned skin.
By the third day, mountains rose in the distance like silent guardians. Purple shadows against the horizon, capped with lingering snow. The sky stretched so wide it made Tyler dizzy, clouds like white ships sailing slow across a sea of blue.
“Almost there,” Jackson said, sitting up straighter, his thigh brushing Tyler's as he shifted, sending an unintended jolt through him. “You’re gonna love this place.”
–––
The truck crunched up a gravel drive, kicking up dust that hung in the air like a veil. The ranch spread out before them: about ten cabins scattered like toy blocks across the rolling lawn, each with a small porch and rocking chairs swaying gently. A wide main lodge sat square in the middle, logs stacked thick, a porch wrapping around with lanterns swinging in the breeze. Corrals stretched beyond, horses tossing their heads, tails flicking lazily, the air thick with their musky, earthy smell.
Tyler stepped out, his boots sinking into the soft dust. He inhaled deep, the air sharp and clean, tinged with pine and manure, a far cry from the city's stale humidity.
“Feels like the middle of nowhere,” he muttered.
“That’s the point.” Jackson replied.
Bootsteps approached, steady and purposeful. Tyler turned, and the man coming toward them made the ground feel smaller somehow, his presence commanding the space like a force of nature.
Tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders filling out a faded denim shirt, sleeves rolled to elbows that revealed strong forearms roped with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His hair was salt-and-pepper under the brim of a worn cowboy hat, face weathered but strikingly handsome, with a square jaw like a slab of stone and a faint scar along his cheekbone that added to his rugged allure. His eyes—steel-gray, steady, and piercing—took them in with a weight that made Tyler’s skin prickle, a slow heat spreading from his chest downward.
“Jackson,” the man said, his voice low and gravelly, resonating like distant thunder. “How have you been, boy?”
“I’ve been good,” Jackson replied, stepping forward into a hug. “Good to see you again, sir.”
Thomas’s embrace was firm, his large hands pressing against Jackson's back, holding him a moment longer than necessary before letting go. Then his gaze slid to Tyler, cool and appraising, lingering on his face, then down his body.
“And you must be Tyler?”
“Yes, sir,” Tyler said, straightening instinctively, his pulse quickening under that intense scrutiny.
Thomas’s eyes locked on Tyler's, and he gave a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but hinted at depths unspoken. “‘Sir’—I like that. You already know your forms of respect. I hear you’re also a wrestler?”
“Yes, sir,” Tyler replied, his voice steady despite the way Thomas's gaze made his skin flush.
“Good. You’ll need grit here. Ranch work’s not a vacation.” Thomas's tone was authoritative, his posture exuding a quiet dominance.
“I can handle it,” Tyler said, meeting those gray eyes.
A faint nod from Thomas, his lips curving just enough to deepen the lines around his mouth. “We’ll see.”
–––
Thomas walked them through the grounds, his strides long and confident, voice carrying with unhurried authority, each word measured like a command.
The main lodge: long tables where guests ate together, a stone fireplace rising two stories high, crackling with potential warmth. A kitchen that smelled faintly of fresh bread and wood smoke. A long corridor led to a few closed doors, which Tyler assumed were Thomas's private quarters.
The guest cabins: rough-hewn logs, rocking chairs creaking in the breeze. Inside, quilts on the beds, braided rugs on the floors, simple yet inviting.
The stables: rows of stalls, horses snorting softly, hay scattered across the floor, dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight. The tack room lined with saddles, bridles, ropes coiled neat as snakes, the leather scent mingling with Thomas's own faint musk of sweat and earth as he leaned close to point them out. Thomas’s hand slid along a rail as he explained chores—feeding, mucking, grooming—his fingers callused and strong, drawing Tyler's eye.
“Guests expect the fantasy,” he said, his eyes flicking to Tyler with an intensity that made Tyler's breath hitch. “Your job’s to make it real.”
Beyond the buildings stretched pastures, fences running like lines on a map, grass rippling in the wind. Trails cut into the hills, leading into forests thick with pine. A river glinted silver through the woods in the distance.
“And that,” Thomas said at last as they made their way back to the main lodge, pointing with his chin to a small building behind it, “is the hands’ cabin. You’ll both stay there.”
The cabin was smaller, tucked against the trees. Inside: two narrow beds, one dresser, a single lamp casting yellow light across wood-paneled walls. The air smelled faintly of leather and sweat, old and lingering.
“Dinner’s in an hour,” Thomas said, then turned and left without another word, his broad back disappearing into the fading light.
Tyler let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his body thrumming with an unfamiliar energy. Jackson only smirked, his eyes gleaming with knowing. “Told you. Whole other world.”
–––
Dinner was cozy, the three of them gathered at a small staff dining area next to the kitchen. Thomas explained that since it was a relatively small ranch with only ten guest cabins, he operated it with a lean staff. Aside from Jackson and Tyler, there was only one other ranch hand, Oscar, who was in town getting supplies but would return the next day. There was also a chef who helped cook for the guests—but she lived in town and wouldn’t start until after guests arrived later in the week.
Tyler watched Thomas intently as he talked, mesmerized by the way his big hands curled around his glass, veins prominent and pulsing; at the thick cords of muscle shifting beneath his shirt as he carved the meat with precise, powerful strokes. Command sat on him like a second skin, an aura of control that made Tyler's thoughts drift to what those hands might feel like elsewhere, guiding, demanding.
Jackson was surprisingly quiet, chewing slowly and listening, his usual loud, cocky demeanor subdued since arriving at the ranch. He must be tired after the long drive, Tyler assumed, though he noticed the way Jackson's eyes flicked to Thomas with a deference that bordered on something more.
When the meal ended, Thomas stood, his chair scraping back with finality. “Up early. We’ll go through chores at 9 a.m. sharp in the lodge. Don’t be late.” His eyes landed on Tyler a beat longer—before he walked out, leaving a charged silence in his wake.
–––
Darkness fell thick over the ranch, crickets singing in a rhythmic chorus, horses shifting restlessly in the distance. Tyler lay on his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, the air warm and close, pressing against his skin.
Across the room, Jackson stretched out shirtless, hands laced behind his head, his chest rising and falling slowly, the play of shadows accentuating the ridges of his abs and the trail of dark hair leading downward. “Not bad, huh?” he murmured, his voice husky in the quiet.
“It’s… different,” Tyler replied, his gaze tracing the lines of Jackson's body despite himself. He could feel his cock starting to stir.
“Wait till you see it in the morning.”
Tyler closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. His body buzzed with exhaustion and something sharper, restless under his skin—Jackson's touch, Thomas's gaze. Throughout college, he had tried to maintain his straight-acting jock façade—but it was getting harder and harder. He worried that all that pent up sexual energy might finally explode soon.
A sound. A creak of floorboards.
Tyler’s eyes snapped open.
Jackson sat on the edge of his bed, slipping into jeans with practiced quiet. Shirtless, his skin pale in the dim lamp glow, muscles carved and lean, moving with surprising grace. He laced his boots, movements fluid, deliberate, his back flexing.
Jackson opened the door slowly. Cool night air spilled in, carrying the sharp scent of sagebrush. Without a word, he stepped out in just his boots and underwear, and pulled the door shut behind him, vanishing into the night.
The cabin was silent again. Tyler stared at the ceiling, wondering what Jackson was up to. His pulse thrumming like he was back on the mat, facing an opponent he couldn’t see, couldn’t name—but one that promised to pin him down in ways he both feared and craved.
Fatigue finally overcame him, and he drifted into uneasy sleep.
