Sunlight sliced through the cabin’s thin curtains, casting golden bars across the wood floor. Tyler stirred, his muscles stiff from the narrow bed. He blinked awake, the events of the night flooding back—Jackson slipping out into the darkness. Across the room, Jackson was already up, pulling on a fresh shirt, his back to Tyler, his strong lats rippling as he moved.
“You left last night,” Tyler said, voice rough with sleep, sitting up slowly. He watched Jackson’s shoulders tense just a fraction.
Jackson turned, flashing that easy grin, but a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Yeah? Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk. Fresh air out here clears the head.” He shrugged.
Tyler narrowed his eyes, not buying it. Who goes for a midnight stroll in just his underwear, he thought. There had to be more to it, but he let it drop for now. “Right,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the bed and standing, feeling the pull in his thighs from yesterday’s long drive.
They finished dressing in silence, putting on jeans, a white muscle tee, and brown work boots—the expected uniform for ranch hands, as Thomas had to them. Tyler stole glances at Jackson’s broad frame, the way his jeans hugged his thick muscular ass and thighs, stirring that familiar heat in his crotch.
–––
The main lodge wafted with the scent of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon as they entered at a quarter before 9 a.m. Thomas was already there, leaning against the long wooden counter in the staff area, his massive frame dominating the space. He wore a black denim shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal a hint of salt-and-pepper chest hair, his gray eyes sharp as they landed on the two of them.
“Morning,” Thomas rumbled, his voice low and commanding. He walked over to pour steaming black coffee into two mugs for them. His gaze lingered on Tyler again, appraising, making Tyler’s skin flush under the scrutiny. “Here you go. There’s bacon and eggs on the counter. Eat up quickly. The ranch isn’t going to run itself.”
As the two ate, he went through their duties with the precision of a man who had lived this life for years. He pointed at a whiteboard hanging on the wall with each person’s duties for the day—Tyler saw his name in one column, next to Thomas, Jackson and Oscar. Thomas explained he kept the chart updated every morning, and each person was to start with what was assigned to them at 9 a.m. sharp. They were allowed an hour lunch break at 12, followed up more work in the afternoon. The day finished at 6, and they were given an hour of free time to relax or hit the small gym in the lodge, before staff dinner at 7.
“Looks like you run a tight ship here,” Tyler observed as he looked at the detailed schedule.
“You bet boy,” Thomas said. “Once a marine, always a marine. I like the run my ranch with the same discipline.”
“Oh wow, I didn’t know you were in the Marines.” Thomas’s strict authoritative demeanor was starting to make sense, Tyler thought.
“Served a tour in Iraq and another one in Afghanistan,” Thomas said as he continued to eye Tyler intently. “Do you think you can handle the level regimen here?”
“I think so. We had to follow a strict schedule and regimen for wrestling too.” In a way, Tyler almost missed that structure in his life—the strict diet, the training schedule, with everything planned out for him. Knowing that he was in for similar level of discipline over the summer was oddly comforting in a way.
“Good, I have high hopes for you,” Thomas said with a flicker in his eye.
“Now Jackson, since you have more experience with the horses, you have stable responsibility in the mornings,” said Thomas as he went on to go through the duties in detail—feeding and grooming the horses, measuring out hay, filling the troughs, and cleaning the stable.
Tyler was to do housekeeping in the morning. “Guests are paying for the rugged lifestyle, but they still want comfort,” Thomas explained. “Most of these city folk are expecting glamping. Every day, you need to make the beds with fresh linen, scrub the bathrooms till they shine, stock fresh towels, do the guests’ laundry, replenish firewood, and make sure porches are swept. It might seem like grunt work, but it keeps guests coming back.”
Afternoons would be mostly spent outdoors. Clearing and maintaining trails, mending fences, gathering fresh firewood, and making any necessary repairs to the buildings.
“One you’re ready, you’ll lead rides for the guests,” Thomas continued, his arm brushing Tyler’s as he gestured to a map on the wall. “We’ll start you on the easy loops for beginners, while the rest of us can take more experienced guests up tougher ones up the ridges.”
Tyler absorbed the list, imagining himself bent over tasks under Thomas’s watchful eye, the thought sending a shiver down his spine. As Thomas wrapped up, the sound of tires on gravel echoed outside. “That’ll be Oscar,” he said.
Oscar pulled up in a dusty truck loaded with supplies—feed bags, tools, groceries stacked high. He hopped out. He looked to be in his thirties, with olive skin glowing under the sun, black curly hair tousled from the drive, framing a face with sharp features and an easy smile. Well-built, his body honed from years of ranch life—broad chest straining his flannel shirt, powerful legs in worn jeans, arms thick with muscle as he hefted a sack over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
“Boys,” Oscar greeted, his voice warm with a faint accent—maybe Latin American roots—shaking hands firmly. His grip on Tyler’s lingered, dark eyes sparkling. “You’re the fresh meat, huh? Welcome to the grind.”
Thomas stepped forward, clapping Oscar on the back, but the touch turned intimate—a hand sliding to the small of his back, fingers pressing possessively. “Missed you,” Thomas murmured.
Tyler quickly found out that Oscar was very chatty and as they refilled coffee, he learned his backstory. Oscar had enlisted in the Marines after high school and Thomas was the sergeant in his unit in Afghanistan. They both left the service ten years ago and not long after, Thomas’s uncle passed away and left him his ranch in Wyoming. He took the opportunity to move out west and turn it into a dude ranch—calling up Oscar to be the first ranch hand. Freed from the confines of the military and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, one thing led to another—and two were married five years later.
“I came here ten years ago and never left. It’s like Hotel California,” Oscar said with a wink, his arm draped casually over Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas’s hand rested on Oscar’s thigh under the table, a subtle claim that didn’t escape Tyler’s notice.
The conversation shifted to the guests—the first of which would be arriving the next day. “Mostly city folk chasing the cowboy fantasy. Many of them are gay—looking for an outdoors escape…and maybe a bit more,” Thomas said, his gray eyes again flicking to Tyler with that piercing stare.
Oscar chuckled as he leaned back, muscles peeking from under his shirt. “Oh hush, don’t scare him. The guests are amazing and we do our best to take care of them. Don’t worry, you’ll have a great time here.”
Tyler flushed. Apprehension curled inside him as he watched the two older men at the table—each radiating a raw masculinity. But it was mixed with a thrill he couldn’t deny.
–––
The rest of the day blurred into work—with Tyler giving the cabins a final scrub down before the first guests arrived the next day. The physical labor left Tyler’s body aching in a good way, muscles swore under his sweaty tee by evening. Dinner was a cozy affair with the four of them, with Oscar telling stories about the ranch over the years, his laughter rich and infectious. Thomas’s eyes met Tyler’s across the table more than once, while Jackson seemed restless, his knee constantly bumping against Tyler.
Back in the humid cabin, Tyler lay awake in the dark listening to Jackson’s soft breathing mixed with sounds of crickets chirping outside. Despite a long day’s work, he was restless and had trouble falling asleep. Jackson’s breaths evened out—or so it seemed—until the creak of the bed frame betrayed him. Tyler slitted his eyes, watching Jackson step into his boots once more, shirtless, his toned body gleaming in the moonlight filtering through the window.
Jackson paused at the door, glancing back, but Tyler feigned sleep, heart pounding. The door clicked shut, and silence descended.
Tyler waited in the dark. Ten minutes. Twenty. Jackson still didn’t return. He got up and looked out the window. There was no sign of Jackson anywhere in sight. His gaze drifted to Jackson’s duffle bag laying at the foot of his bed, half unzipped. His curiosity burned. What secrets where Jackson hiding?
Tyler talked over to the duffle bag, his hands trembled as he unzipped it, rifling through mostly worn clothes—tees, underwear, socks—until his fingers brushed something firm.
His breath caught.
A dildo.
He pulled it out: at least 10 inches of pink silicone, thick and intimidating, the base flared wide. And it was wet and slick with lube, clearly recently used.
Tyler’s breath hitched, arousal flooding him like a wave. Had Jackson been using it earlier while in the bathroom—Tyler had wondered impatiently at the time why he was taking so long in the shower. Tyler’s cock stirred, straining hard against his shorts. He pictured Jackson—broad back against the shower tiles, water streaming over his muscles as he spread himself wide, groaning while this very toy opened him up. Tyler’s own hole clenched achingly.
All the pent up tension took over Tyler. He stripped off his pants. His hard cock slapped up against his stomach, thick and already leaking. He dug through the duffel again and found a pair of Jackson’s boxer briefs—damp with sweat and something mustier. He pressed them to his face, inhaling deeply. The ripe musk hit like a drug and he moaned before he could stop himself.
He sprawled back on his bed, legs wide. He brought the pre-lubed dildo up to his hole and teased his tight hole with the tip, gasping at the cool slickness. Slowly, he pushed it in, ignoring the pain, opening him up inch by inch.
“Fuck…” he moaned into Jackson’s sweaty underwear. He pushed toy pushed deeper and writhed, sweat breaking across his chest as his hole swallowed more of it. He’d played with fingers before—but nothing like this. This was thick, relentless, overwhelming. His muscles fluttered around it, clenching and releasing as he forced his body to take more.
Faster now, Tyler started to pick up the pace as he fucked himself, the dildo plunging in and out with wet smacks, his cock leaking copious pre-cum onto his abs. The underwear’s scent overwhelmed him—Jackson’s essence intoxicating—pushing him closer to the edge.
His free hand wrapped around his cock, pumping hard, smearing pre-cum down the shaft. He thrust the toy in deeper with the other hand, his hips bucking as he found his prostate, sparks exploding behind his eyes.
Tyler arched, biting the fabric as he came hard—ropes of cum splattering his chest, hot and sticky. His hole clamped down around the dildo in desperate spasms. He continued to fuck himself, hips jerking, milking every last spurt until he collapsed back, trembling and drenched in sweat.
The dildo slid out from him with a slick pop, leaving him empty, aching, and spent. He collapsed, breathless, the night air cooling his sweat-slicked muscles. Guilt and satisfaction filled his chest as the cabin spun back into focus.
