Cowboy Roundup

Taming Brooks by R.W. Clinger-1

Taming Brooks by R.W. Clinger

My arrival at Ranch Brooks in Stockton County, Oklahoma is sweaty-sweet. My instructions are simply stated on the back of Dallas Brooks’ business card: Go to Cabin Longwood, unpack, rest, and meet up with the staff at eight P.M. in Custers’ Hall for introductions.

I’m early, I realize. After unpacking, I decide to meander around the ranch to become acquainted with my new surroundings instead of resting. Dallas Brooks’ ranch is over three thousand acres, and tucked away in the northwestern part of Stockton County, next to the one-light town of Dunford. There are currently four ranch hands; I’m the newly hired fifth. The ranch is spacious and arid, a cowboy’s dream. Everything is thick with the scent of hay and barbecue, and sweetly tainted with ragweed and Queen Anne’s lace.

I find my way to the barn, kitchen, and other various sites of interest on the ranch. A charming and smiling dark-haired Sioux Indian boy tells me that the plumbing on the ranch has gone bad, and if I need to bathe, I’ll have to use the nearby stream, Copperhead Creek. The guy takes me in with a heavy interest: five-eleven frame, one hundred and ninety-five pounds, scruff on my chin and cheeks, short black hair that’s mussed, muscular chest and thighs, too-tight jeans. The bronco kid wants me, but can’t have me. Oh well.

Of course I need a bath and end up on the southernmost side of the property where I find Copperhead Creek. I ease up on it slowly, listen to its rushing waters, and feel the sullen breeze lick at my bare neck and hands. Crickets chirp in the surrounding fields as I see a Mustang tied to the limb of an ancient oak tree. Keeping my view on the horse, I walk directly to a pile of clothes on the hard ground by the stream, stop dead, and stare down at the lump: tan-colored Stetson hat, jeans with a silver Dustin Stockyard belt, and Ariat Heritage Lacer boots.

* * * *

Nervous as hell; this is how I feel about being at Ranch Brooks. Out of my head for getting the guts to come here. Money is needed, though. A life. My life. I need a change and a cowboy’s world is what I want. Anyone will agree with me. Anyone at all.

Stinking hot here. Too hot when I arrive. Sticky and wet all over. Smell like a horse’s ass. I like summertime, but there’s a little price to pay for the nice weather, isn’t there?

The heat always makes me horny, and it makes me want to come. Never fails. Horny as a bull. I’m the kind of man who needs to unload his d**k and often. Pent energy swirls within my balls. A man has needs and I want to get laid. Maybe another ranch hand can help me out. They’re handy, right? There’s a lot of privacy on the ranch, though, and I can jerk off if I want to in one of the pastures, next to a set of birch trees. Brooks doesn’t need to know about it. And neither does his hands. It’ll be nice if Brooks will get the job done for me, though.

I want to stay calm, cool, and collected. I have to. Don’t want my nerves to get the best of me. This will be failure. I swear to God in heaven I have to keep it together, but I’m not the type of ranch hand to take the Lord’s name in vain, am I? A sinning man doesn’t get to heaven, right? Nosiree.

Truth is I don’t know if I can keep it together: mentally, physically, and emotionally. I know how to be a ranch hand, but am I going to be good enough? Is a cowboy ever good enough? Don’t know. Not sure. Another mystery that is somewhere in my near future, whether it has an answer or not.

Maybe, just maybe Brooks and I can share some cowboy talk together. He and I. Alone time. The two of us. He’s not queer, though, is he? I’m dreaming, fantasizing—something. Cowboy talk with the man will never happen. Never. Who am I kidding?

* * * *

I look into the shimmering water and take in the sexiest, most handsome, and naked cowboy with soap in hand, bathing. The site of the cowboy catches me off guard, causes a flurry of embarrassment to skitter up and along my neck, and redden my pale, boyish cheeks. Out of curiosity, I stand behind a nearby oak and keep a steady gander on the prime, grade-A beef in Copperhead Creek, and discover a s****l longing for the cowboy.

Everything about the cowboy is chiseled and hot. As he sits in the clear stream, rolling an orange bar of soap over his dark-golden skin, I study his hazel eyes as they reflect brilliantly in the evening’s light. The cowboy’s muscles are lined with hard veins that cover his pumped limbs like the lines on a map. He has wet blond hair grazing his abs and pecs. As I lick my lips and feel something stir within my Wrangler’s, my eyes gawk at the two hard n*****s that are covered with white suds on the man’s bulky chest. Slowly, the cowboy rinses in the clear water, stands up, spreads his legs, and begins to lather up his firm thighs.

With my heart triggering and pounding in my lean chest, I see the uncut c**k between his legs. The man moves the bar of creamy soap from one thigh to the other; strong palms working skin and suds and muscles. He now stretches the bar up and over the blond triangle patch of pubic hair that looks like canyon brush. Next, the bar of soap slowly moves down the wide d**k. He pulls on the end of his cockhead, stretching its rope-like length with ease and enjoyment.

The cowboy looks like glowing leather in the evening sun. Moistened just right with droplets of oil. Working leather that is smooth and soft, so perfect for my bare hands to manhandle. The stranger rinses again and causes his long d**k to grow slightly hard, arched and pointing to the south. Our eyes meet in a questionable, blending action that usually doesn’t take place between assumed straight men. “Who are you?” the cowboy squints his shimmering grass-green eyes and asks from the water. He stands with dripping liquid over his iron-crafted body, completely trim and perfect, already beginning to dry in the evening breeze.

“Randy. Randy Marke is the name. I’m the new ranch hand.” I’m nervous and hard, and lick my dry lips. I can’t come out from behind the strong oak because of the limb that’s under my denim. With my head c****d to one side of the oak, I affix my solid gaze on the erection.

My history is rather simple: ranch hand since I was a young boy; born and raised in Houston; often visit my aunt and uncle in El Paso; anti-f*******: or any other modern social communication with the world; Louis L’Amour reader; interested in working with wood and building things; aggressive and butch mannerisms; have never really had a long-term relationship with another man.

* * * *

“Randy the ranch hand.” A crisp smile is on the cowboy’s rugged face as he begins to walk out of Copperhead Creek. He steps up and onto the dry bank with his arched d**k swinging in the wind. He introduces himself, “Dallas Brooks. I believe we talked on the phone. I was the one who offered you the job.”

I have to step out from behind the tree to shake his outstretched hand because it will be considered rude and unmannerly not to. Almost immediately he notices my long c**k hidden by Wrangler jeans, meets magnetic eyes with my denim, smiles, and rubs the blond bristles on the end of his chin with a free hand. As he shakes my nervous palm, still observing and concentrating on my handy goods, he says, “By your look, Randy, I think you’re going to do just fine on my ranch.”

“Thank you.” I become crazy-hard. Crazy hard. My hand is strong in his grasp, steady and all power.

Brooks is beyond rock-sharp and stud-like. He is a rugged rancher of perfection in front of me: six-two, two hundred and ten pounds, muscular from head to toe, naked with a semi-hard and drooping c**k. The cowboy smiles like a Hollywood actor and is candy-handsome…and looks like a legendary actor. I place him at thirty. No, thirty-two. He eyes up my bulky chest, Mexican-dark eyes and hair. Eventually, he ends our handshake and brushes a palm against my tight jaw, turns my head from left to right in a steady and stern action, and checks out my smooth and boylike features. He drops his hand and says, “I know I asked you this on the phone during your interview, but how old are you again?”

“Twenty-four.” My eyes shift from his rugged-muscular chest to his long, uncut c**k that hangs between wet thighs. It is a stunning thing in the light and causes my own c**k to bounce within my jeans.

He instructs, “Turn around for me, Randy.”

I listen to him, because he’s my employer, because I don’t mind at all, because if I don’t he just…

He presses his tight hands into my shoulders, my biceps, stands directly behind me and continues to instruct, “Lift your arms.” He finds the compact muscles on my sides, wraps arms around my crafted and pumped chest, and investigates my lower torso with delicate and probing fingers. “Feels great, cowboy. Enough muscle to get the job done in these parts.” He spins my body around, stares directly down at my crotch, moves his right hand to my package, cups balls and stiffening d**k, and asks in his cowboy drawl, “Showing off, aren’t you?”

In a cocky action I respond with a country boy’s smile, “Just proving a point that I’m the man for the job.”