"Just have the desk call when you want us to come back and pick you up, Mr. Grabowski." The chauffeur of the black Lincoln Navigator with the tinted windows was pulling an expensive-looking leather suitcase out of the back of the SUV. The man he'd opened the back door of the vehicle for was standing, looking up at the Grand Tetons looming to the east over Carter's Ranch, an exclusive Idaho dude ranch near Grays Lake and nudged into the folds of the Caribou National Forest.
The man, who was movie star handsome and well built, probably in his forties, but very well taken care of, looked familiar to me, but the name "Grabowski" didn't ring any bells. He was expensively dressed, already taking on the theme of a Western dude ranch, but his clothes were hardly broken inâjust another dude from one of the coasts. There was a sadness, a slight nervousness, to his aspect, though, as he looked up to the mountains. It wasn't clear that he had heard the driver.
But then Boyce Carter himself was marching over to the cabin from the main house, his hand extended and a welcoming smile on his face. It was clear that this new arrival was someone important, which was saying something, because all of the guests of the ranch were someone important, someone seeking privacy and retreat and able to pay for it. The ranch was the height of discretion about its guests. It also had an extensive medical staff. The ranch was a retreat for those recovering from any of a full range of medical and psychological ailments they wished to keep out of the public purview.
"Mr. Grabowski . . . you've arrived. Welcome to Carter's Ranch. I hope you had a pleasant journey." Carter had hesitated on the name. He went on to give the man the customary introductory spiel on the ranch and what it had to offer, while Grabowski himself continued to look up at the mountains with a remote, guarded expression on his face.
In the middle of the dissertation, Carter addressed me, saying, "Take Mr. Grabowski's bags into the cabin, Mike," and I did so, not hearing anything else that Carter had to say to the new arrival. I did the usual checking that the two-room cabin was ready and the drapes opened on the windows as Carter brought Grabowski to the door and they parted there. The guest came inside and stood there, looking at me. His expression seemed a bit more engaged then it had been outside, and he seemed to be looking me over really well. When I moved away from the window next to the bed, he went there, as I was checking out the bathroom, and looked up at the mountains again. When I came out of the bathroom, he turned and gave me a smile.
"I think the cabin is in order, Sir, I said. If you need anything, call reception on the phone there by the bed or out on the table next to the sofa in the living room."
"Thank you . . . Mike, is it?"
"Yes sir."
"If I call, will you be the one who responds?" he asked.
"Most likely, if I'm on duty," I answered. I did it in a straightforward voice. I knew what he was suggesting. This was a dude ranch that would provide those services.
"I do hope to see you around the ranch, Mike."
"I'm sure you will, Sir. Those of us in the bunkhouse do a little of everything around the ranch."
"Are you part of the permanent staff or just here for the summer?" he asked. "You look quite young to be working full time."
"I'm here for the summer. Ben Carter, from the family of the ranch owners, is my uncle. This is a summer job for me. I'm studying at the University of Colorado, in Boulder." I edged my way toward the cabin's front door. It was time to move along. One of our rules was not to become too familiar with the guestsâunless they said they wanted us to. If they wanted us too, we were instructed to fall into whatever they wanted. This was an exclusive, full-service dude ranch. The dude was right about everything, even if it was demanding or kinky.
"If you need anything, just give the front desk a call," I repeated, stepping over to the door.
"And you'll come for me?" he asked. His smile was a bit lopsided. I think he was making sure how I would take that double entendre. We'd been here beforeâhim wanting it to be me who responded to his calls. He wanted more of an affirmation from me.
"If I'm the one on duty, I'll come right over. If I'm not and I'm the one you want, just tell them and they'll track me down," I said. Then I slid out of the cabin. I didn't know for sure if he was signaling to me or not. If so, I was sure he'd do it again. He looked like I wouldn't mind taking him.
As I was coming off the cabin's porch, the ranch overseer, Spurs Smith, was walking up from the big barn. His first name was Stanley, but you'd get a beat down if you tried calling him that, rather than Spurs. He was a tall, thin, leathery cowboy with a weather-beaten, not unhandsome face, in his late thirties. He showed out to be the model of what a cowboy should look and dress like. That no doubt was a big reason he had the position he did here at the ranch. If you weren't good-looking, interesting to talk to, flexible, and looked the part of a rugged cowboy, you didn't get a job here. On the other hand, He had few words and spoke in a low drawl, bringing to mind a rattlesnake to those who were supervised by him here. He ruled the bunkhouse with an iron fist.
"You managed to escape the cabin after Trident's arrival," he said to me, as he came up and placed a possessive hand on my arm. So much was conveyed in the gesture.
"Trident?" I said, but then it hit me why the man had looked familiar. Spurs didn't have to explain, but he did anyway.
"He's here as Peter Grabowski," Spurs said, "but he's that TV star, Trent Trident, whose hit show has been canceled because he's been swept up that MeToo sexual abuse movement in movies and politics for hitting on young men. He's hiding out here, hoping he can ride it out. You've heard about that, haven't you?"
Yes of course I had. And I started reviewing my encounter with him in the cabin for more blatant meanings than I'd given them credit to have.
"If he wants you to lay down for him, you will, of course."
"Of course. I understand," I responded
"Come back to the barn with me," Spurs said, squeezing my arm with his strong hand. "I want to show you something."
I knew exactly what he wanted to show me in the barn. When Spurs wanted me to lay down for him, I laid down for him.
* * * *
"I saw the looks Trident gave you. It's got to be a mental illness with him, and he can't help himself. You know we could make some hay out of that."
Speaking of hay, that was where we were, in a hayloft. I'd followed Spurs into the barn and then up the ladder to the hayloft, where bales of the stuff were scattered about. Our shirts had gone down on top of one of the bales, and Spurs had bent me over the bale, covered me from above and behind, mounted me, and fucked me. It had been almost clinical. Sort of like he thought, it's the time of the day I'll fuck the kid. Just "getting your rocks off" exercise for him. A way to keep in shape, although there was the extra thrill of fucking one of the "family." I'd known that was what he would do when I followed him into the barn. Spurs did what he wanted, and he'd determined that I'd help him with his daily exercises and take cock before he agreed to me getting this job. He had that much power here at the ranch, even though I was an extended family member of the Carters who owned the place.
