Big Ben(d) Ch 01

Big Ben(d) Ch 01

Two management trainees really bond at retreat

All characters described in this story are over 18. © 2025, Brunosden, All rights reserved.

The story is told in the first person by Sam Crocket....

Every October Elon Oil, headquartered in El Paso, Texas, arranges a trip to Big Bend National Park for its newest crop of management trainees. It is a week-long trip, including two long bus rides (about four hours each) and a half-day in Marfa, the renowned, but very remote, center for the arts. Believe it or not, this is not considered a boondoggle. It is a week that is rigidly organized and managed for "team building."

You know the routine: lots of group activities and group discussions designed to develop camaraderie, trust and team spirit (with good food and a lot of booze). In other words, yes, a boondoggle. This year there are twelve new hires, released from our corporate mentors for a week, and three facilitators (quickly dubbed "cheerleaders" by the group). Many of us would gladly skip the experience. But, attendance was mandatory and a precondition to graduating from the trainee program--and remaining employed.

(Curiously, after many years of DEI-produced management trainee groups that included women, this year's class was entirely male, although there were two Latinos and a black.)

Big Bend Ranch, Texas, is probably the most remote and inaccessible National Park in the entire system. El Paso is the closest large city and airport although there are a few small towns about fifty miles from the entrance with motels. Accommodations in the park are primitive--tents or cabins, privies, and a canteen with a very limited menu. The isolation and natural challenge were deliberate for the retreat. No distractions. No internet. No cells. No TV. Just the slightest hint of a survival experience, presumably if we come to trust each other.

I wondered about the trust. I had thought we were already competitors on the corporate success ladder. I had already experienced the competition and, if not actual back-stabbing, at least joking jibes over mistakes, in the summer months that we had spent at HQ. That was the ethos of Elon. Already I was unsure of myself in this environment. I'm kind of a go-along, take-orders kind of guy, but trying to develop the macho corporate ethos. I'm not there yet.

It's still hot in Big Bend in early October--but nothing like the 110 degrees plus in the summer. Dry. Very dry. Raw desert wilderness. We were told that the uniform of the day included shorts, tees and sneakers (or hiking boots). And of course a cowboy hat, preferably of straw. Possibly a hoodie or a sweat shirt after the sun went down. The company would provide tents, sleeping bags, towels and grub.

I'm Sam Crockett, 24, with a newly-minted MBA from The Thunderbird School of Global Management at ASU. I'm one of the twelve. We had known each other for about two months, but to the best of my knowledge, we hadn't built any relationships or even partied together. We were already competitors. The all male atmosphere (except for the three facilitators) meant that we were probably in for a pretty raw and raucous week. The three female facilitators were all over 50, psychologists and no-nonsense Mamma-types. But, they were bunking together in a cabin about a mile from the campsite. So after dinner, the camp was going to be stag.

I guess you'd call me a cowboy. I'm from Fort Worth. My family has a good-sized cattle ranch outside Fort Worth (where oil and gas had been discovered many years before which was now the mainstay of our middle class financial lives). I'm about six foot, sandy long wavy hair, blue eyes, chiseled face, lightly muscled, usually deeply tanned since I love being outdoors. Not a Marlboro man. More like a Matt Barr from one of my favorite movies, Hatfield & McCoy. More pretty boy than rugged outdoorsman. I was born on a horse, and riding (a horse) remains one of my favorite pastimes. I'm pretty shy, but I'm an athlete. So on the court or the field, I'm considered a "regular guy," maybe a little passive. I'd spent time camping in the Texas Hill Country, typically alone. So I didn't think Big Bend was going to be much of a challenge for me. I was looking forward to the vacation--if they didn't spoil it with too many group-think sessions. And assuming the gang didn't force me into challenge exploits or raunchy male stuff after the women left.

I've dated a little--mostly in Glendale while at TSGM. Many of those were group dates or where she took the initiative. Currently, there is no one special in my life. I'm not a virgin, but I have to admit to a very vigorous relationship with my right hand and the images on my laptop. So obviously, I'm not an alpha.

All of us arrived at the company parking lot before eight a.m., most still a little sleepy after a Sunday night partying. We boarded the bus after loading our duffels in the hold underneath. We spread out, one to each seat, prepared to sleep most of the trip away. But the cheerleaders were having none of that. Each of us had been handed a number when we boarded (I got seven, and I was paired with eleven--a very good omen).

Before departure, we were moved, seated in pairs and given an assignment: "Spend the next thirty minutes getting to know your partner. Then, we'll have a series of questions. One of the pair will write down answers, and the other will have to guess those answers. The team with the best score gets first choice of tent location. Time starts now." I guess the game playing had already started.

I introduced myself, and my partner, Brock Adamson, did the same. Neither of us had spoken more than a few words before. I was headed to finance, and he was going to be a "landman"--the guys who go out into the countryside to persuade landowners to allow O&G exploration activities on their land--for a potential share in the royalties. Usually very personable, extroverted marketing types. Often the self-confident alphas in any class. We took turns describing ourselves--where we came from, our education, our families, our likes and dislikes, our travel, our favorite subjects, books, food and drink, activities, the kinds of girls we were attracted to, our favorite TV, anything that we thought they might ask.

Neither of us admitted to any solo or male on male stroking, but we probably both had had a little experience. And we both exaggerated our success in getting into coeds' pussies. Curiously when he described his sexual exploits, Brock dropped his hand on my thigh--and left it there.

In 30 minutes, we were instant "old" friends. Brock was 22 and radiated danger: darkly tanned, with black hair, deep brown eyes, long eye lashes and more muscular, particularly the pecs, guns and thighs. His face was long but movie-star square. His cheeks were hollow, and he had groomed scruff facial hair. He had been raised as a "city boy" in Houston. Looked street smart, definitely a man of the world. Definitely an alpha. He had dated--a lot--and claimed to have a significant number of notches in his belt. Private Christian school. UT-Austin. His only forays outside Texas were annual ski trips to Aspen, Big Sky and Jackson Hole--he was an avid, expert skier. And clearly his folks had enough dough to indulge his hobby.

It was obvious to me that on a personality scale we were almost exact opposites. He was a joker, a party-er, an extrovert and a player-taker in the sexual marketplace of life--despite his Baptist ancestry. Perhaps the only thing we had in common was the love of riding in the wilderness--although he preferred doing it with a posse of potential playmates at the end of the ride.

I was instantly attracted and captivated by him. And, if the truth be known, envious and frightened.

Then the questioning began. Brock was one of the six given the answer sheet first. Ten questions were shouted out. The first few were easy. Places, schools, family structure. Then, they got more personal.

How would you spend a perfect afternoon?

Describe your perfect mate?

What is your best feature?

What is your biggest weakness?

How would you describe your current partner in this game?

Little time was given for thought. They wanted spontaneity--and maybe a little soul-baring. They were going to try to embarrass us into opening up about ourselves, spilling intimate details. I had read that this kind of group therapy was becoming rampant in US corporations, but it was my first real experience. I wasn't sure I liked it.

It was soon my turn to guess his answers. We were called out one by one, answering out loudly to often hilarious ribald comments from the others. Particularly when we were dead wrong about something.

It turns out, however, that I mostly guessed correctly about Brock: perfect afternoon--among a group of friends (which he had organized), maybe riding together on the range--or in bed (the organizer quickly corrected me--only one answer permitted); his perfect mate was a beautiful, blonde, big-breasted nympho (an answer that virtually everyone gave!); he loved his body in general (that brought a chorus of boos), but particularly his big hooded dick (another boo, but a favorite among the team); he admitted to acting quickly, often without thinking over the consequences; and he described me as loner, an intellect, an innocent, and wannabe-player. All in all, not so bad. Although his eyes were drilling into me throughout.

Others gave strikingly similar answers. It was clear that we were all thinking about sex, getting off and having fun. This conclusion was proven after we played the game again, with reverse roles. But where were the girls?

With roles reversed, his guesses about me emphasized my intellect, my passivity, my vulnerability. He hit me right over the head, metaphorically. He was definitely establishing his status within our team. I was the beta to his alpha.

The atmosphere was set: a group of young, mostly athletic, sex-starved over-achievers were out for fun. To sabotage the facilitators as best we could, perhaps by grossing them out from time to time.

Brock and I scored highest, by a slim margin. This was going to be a tough group in competition--if that is what it turned out to be. And I guess we were going to be tent-mates, by lot.

After the game, we still had over an hour and were invited to chill. For most, including me, that meant sleep. You can imagine my surprise when I woke 45 minutes later. Brock was slumped against the window, still apparently asleep, but he had thrown his sweat shirt over my lap and his left hand was on my thigh, gripping, while his fingers had strayed into my crotch, lazily massaging the inside of my right thigh and brushing my dick. He hadn't told me he was ambidextrous! I had an uncomfortable semi, (well, maybe a little more than a semi) barely concealed in my cargo shorts. I carefully got up to stretch, without waking him it seemed. Probably just some "sleep walking" (sleep wanking?). I didn't think much more about it. But, I was wary. He was clearly a predator. And there were no available women around.

We spent the afternoon in Marfa, wandering around the art studios, mostly making fun at the trashy crap that was passing for modern art. Without demonstrable technique. Self-absorbed. Typically profane or anti-something. The uglier, the more shocking, the better. Probably selling for astronomical prices to a gullible audience in some big city.

And then we were off to the campsite--another hour deep into the park. The tents had been erected in a wide circle, all facing into the center where a canopied area held tables--for some of our sessions and our meals. Latrines (portables--"Take nothing from, leave nothing in the Park.") and showers were set off to the side. And a camp kitchen, which looked like an adapted food truck was on the opposite side of the circle. It didn't appear that any tent was particularly advantageous--so we chose the one farthest from the latrines--which brought us nearest to the meandering stream which widened into a small potential swimming hole--and the food truck.

The tents were small--deliberately so, we decided. We couldn't stand inside even at the peak, and the two bags were tight, side by side, on air mattresses. There would be no privacy--perhaps another element of the team building.

The rest of the day was a reprieve, what little of it there was. Cold beers around a campfire. Round-robin self-story telling, probably mostly fiction, continued into the starry night. Each story of some long ago exploit got more and more ridiculous. But, I was enjoying it all. Big Bend is one of the "dark sky" spots on earth, and the stars were absolutely incredible. And there was a nearly full moon, enough to cast moon-shadows. So I allowed myself to shut down and gaze at the night sky and into the distant desert from time to time. Hardly noticing that Brock would occasionally reach over and stroke my lower back or tap my ass.

Then we headed for the tents, lit only by dim LED lanterns--and the moon. We looked inside, shrugged, then stood in front of the flaps and stripped--as did most of the other ten guys. I noticed a few kept clothes on. Some kept underwear. But we didn't. Neither Brock nor I was particularly hairy, except for the prominent treasure trails. His pubes were trimmed. Mine were not. Brock had not been lying about his endowment. I thought I was reasonably big (and a shower), but he had me beat by at least an inch or two, although maybe I was a little thicker. He glanced over at mine, not at all fearful of being caught staring, and smiled, seeming satisfied that he had already won the size completion. It's definitely a guy thing. It validated his alpha status.

The night was still hot. So we crawled into the bags, and quickly unzipped and pulled off the quilted top. We were going to sleep nude--and uncovered at least for the first few hours. We were very close, only inches apart. Every movement caused the air mattress to nudge the other.

The campsite went silent. The night sounds of the desert began to come alive. Various forms of life seeking prey--or mates--under the cover of darkness.

We were both obviously restless, tossing over and over as our eyes adjusted to the darkness and our minds to the sounds. Even inside the tent, with the flaps drawn back, there was enough light to make out images. Finally, Brock whispered, "I can't sleep unless I stroke one off first. You can watch, roomie, if it turns you on." I made the pretense of looking the other way, but the sounds of his stroking were nevertheless loud and mesmerizing. So I looked back.

His cock had grown to about eight inches, and the hood had drawn back. It looked dark and dangerous, pointing directly upward to the canvass from a thick pubic bush. With what appeared to be a decided and quirky bend to the right. His legs were stiff. The other hand was under his balls, presumably pressing on the root under the taint. I saw his abs contract, forming a deep concavity, coiling for action. He froze. I guess he was enjoying that intense moment of pleasure just before the release. I saw him release the root and cup the head with his left. Seconds later, he stiffened and his spunk fountained from the slit, mostly caught in his fist. Then, he did something that I would never have imagined. He brought the fist to his mouth and licked it clean. Fuck, he was eating his cum! And the tent was filled with the aroma of his musk. Who was this guy? I could never have done that. Had he been honest about himself on the bus? Was he trying to seduce me? Or gross me out?

Minutes went by in silence. I couldn't help it. I was rigid. "Go ahead, Sam. I know you want to. You have my permission. A guy's got to do what a guy's gotta do."

Fuck, I didn't need his permission. Without another thought, I gave in and started to stroke tentatively--the first time that I had ever done so with another person around presumably looking on. My dick immediately responded and stretched to its max. Brock rolled over facing me. "Not bad, roomie, but I think mine's bigger." Then he reached over and wrapped his fist around. His fingers barely met. "Let me help with this. Somehow it's better with a little help from a friend."

I was about to protest. He rolled closer and fit his semi into the joint between my gut and my right thigh. It did feel pretty good. It was still moist with his cum, hot and alive. Shit, why not. Nobody needs to know. So instead, I pulled my hand away, wrapped it around his dick, and let him do me. The first hand other than my own that had ever touched that skin. A girl's stroke through denim simply doesn't count. And my first time holding another's guy's baby-maker, still warm and semi-hard from its recent performance. He never lost the semi. And he moved in even closer.

He was good. But what guy wouldn't be--with all that practice? He stroked me a half dozen times. He knew I was close. My ass was lofting up off the air mattress. My gut was pulling in. Then he stopped suddenly and jammed the heel of his hand onto my taint and pushed hard into the root that would carry my stuff. His thumb and forefinger circled the base of the shaft and squeezed. I came down instantly. I think maybe I howled. And tightened my hand on his hardening cock. Then his fingers reversed and began to stroke my taint, all the way to the rim. Fuck, he was edging me! Something that is almost impossible to do to yourself--the urge is way too strong. I think I must have gasped, moaned or whimpered. "Like that, huh? There's more where that came from if you're a good boy." Throughout, I was gripping his like it was the strap on a runaway train in which I was standing. He didn't seem to mind.

A minute or so later, he released the pressure and started to stroke again. I could feel the spunk building and boiling in my balls. I must have been about to scream or shout--and Brock didn't want the noise. So he rolled over me and clasped his other hand over my mouth--the one that he had just cum into. I breathed in his musky spunk. And it was just too much. I blasted into his hand, filling it to overflowing with several spasms. One hand released my mouth, "Quiet, boy. They'll hear us." And the other finally released my still-rigid pole. He brought it to my lips. "Time to clean yourself up, boy."

On auto pilot, I opened and his cum-coated fingers pushed in. Fuck, I was eating my own cum. And it wasn't really so bad. In fact, I even sucked on his gooey fingers.

Later, Brock pulled my hand back onto his dick and, using my hand, stroked another one out, coating my gut with his spunk before he rolled back onto his side and pulled me into him. His large hands went to my cheeks and massaged. "Nice and soft. I like that in a boy." Then he reversed me and backed me into his spoon. My first ever real man on man sexual experience was over. I was bunking with an experienced bi--or maybe a gay guy and a definite alpha top. I could feel his semi on my ass and smell the cum of two virile young cowboys hanging in the air. It was hypnotic. Fuck, I was still semi-hard and his fingers were cradling my ball sacs. What the fuck did that mean?

This week was definitely going to be an interesting bonding experience! Very different from anything that I had expected. But probably way more interesting. Certainly team building.

******

We had a hearty Texas breakfast the next morning--including, of course, chicken-fried steak, biscuits with gravy, beans and eggs--the kind of breakfast that would add inches to my slim 32" waist in months if continued.

Then we were paired off--different partners this time. It was a rally hike--set up like a car rally, except that our directions were compass-driven over faint desert paths with "step counts" rather than odometer readings. The object was to hit the checkpoints and return to camp--with timed legs and return arrival time. We were started at ten minute intervals--so it took an hour to start. And we finished just before lunch. No one ever explained how this was "team building," but it was a very enjoyable morning walk in the desert. We didn't do well. Just okay. In the middle of the pack.