Alex: Bunkhouse Heat

By the time Alex’s thumb snagged a ride off the interstate and onto the winding backroads of Vermont, the late-summer air had turned crisp, carrying the scent of cut hay, woodsmoke, and the faint musk of cattle drifting from distant pastures. The driver—an older farmer in a rusted pickup, knuckles like walnuts—dropped him at the edge of a sprawling cattle ranch just as dusk painted the Green Mountains in bruised purples and golds. A hand-painted sign, its letters flaking, read RIVENDELL RANCH – HIRING HANDS. Alex’s stomach rumbled louder than the truck’s engine; his wallet was thinner than his patience, and the soles of his sneakers had begun to flap like loose tongues. He shouldered his pack, the nylon straps cutting into sun-pink shoulders, and followed the gravel drive toward a low-slung bunkhouse glowing with lantern light that spilled amber across the dust.

Two men lounged on the porch steps, boots scuffed to suede, hats tipped back on sweat-damp hair. Both were sun-browned and rope-muscled from long days wrangling steers, the kind of bodies earned by throwing hay bales and wrestling calves, not sculpting in fluorescent gyms. The taller one—lean, sharp-jawed, with a dark five-o’clock shadow that looked sharp enough to slice bread—stood first. A faded pearl-snap shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms corded with veins and dusted with golden hair.

“Evenin’, city boy,” he drawled, voice like bourbon poured over river ice. “Name’s Cole. This here’s Beau.”

Beau was broader, red-haired, freckles exploding across thick forearms like constellations. His grin flashed white against a week’s worth of trail dust, and when he pushed off the step, the boards groaned under his weight. “You lost or lookin’ for work?” His eyes—hazel shot through with green—raked Alex from scuffed sneakers to the damp curls at his nape.

Alex explained the cross-country hitch, the empty pockets, the need for a meal and a horizontal surface. Cole’s storm-gray eyes lingered on the way Alex’s threadbare t-shirt clung to his slim torso, the cotton translucent with sweat in the hollows of his collarbones. Beau’s gaze dropped lower, appraising the way denim hugged the subtle curve of Alex’s ass.

“Got a spare bunk,” Cole said, thumb hooking in his belt loop. “One night. Help with mornin’ chores, you eat free.”

Alex nodded, pulse already quickening. He recognized the look they traded—predatory, amused, hungry—like wolves scenting a lone deer.

Inside, the bunkhouse smelled of pine boards, oiled leather, and the faint, unmistakable tang of male sweat baked into wool blankets. A single room: four iron beds with sagging mattresses, a pot-bellied stove ticking as it cooled, saddles hung like trophies on pegs, their stirrups glinting. A single bare bulb swung overhead, casting shadows that danced across scarred floorboards. Cole poured three fingers of whiskey—cheap, smoky, throat-burning—into dented tin cups. Beau kicked the door shut with a boot heel. The latch clicked like a starting gun.

They didn’t waste time on small talk. Cole’s calloused hand—rough as bark, warm as fresh bread—cupped Alex’s jaw, tilting his face up. The pad of his thumb brushed Alex’s lower lip, testing its plush give. “Pretty thing like you—bet you’ve been trouble on the road.”

Alex’s breath hitched, a soft, needy sound. “Some.”

Beau chuckled behind him, the vibration rumbling through the floorboards. His thick fingers were already working Alex’s belt, the leather sighing free of its buckle. “Let’s see how much trouble you can handle.”

Clothes hit the plank floor in a rustle of denim and cotton. Alex’s t-shirt peeled away, revealing a torso still boyish but road-lean, skin pale where the sun hadn’t kissed it. Cole’s shirt followed, buttons popping in haste; his chest was a map of sun and scars, a thin trail of dark hair arrowing down to the waistband of jeans already straining. Beau stripped with economical grace, freckled shoulders rolling as he shucked denim and boxers in one motion. His cock—thick as Alex’s wrist, flushed a deep, angry red—slapped heavy against his thigh, a bead of precum pearling at the slit and stretching in a silver thread as he stepped closer.

Cole shoved Alex gently but firmly to his knees between the bunks. The wood was cool and splinter-rough against his shins. The cowboys stood shoulder to shoulder—Cole’s cock long and pale, curving upward like a scimitar, the foreskin peeled back to reveal a glossy head; Beau’s shorter but impossibly thick, veins like cables under velvet skin. The contrast against Alex’s fair complexion made him dizzy with want, a pulse throbbing behind his eyes and between his legs.

Cole threaded fingers through Alex’s damp curls, guiding him forward. “Open.”

Alex obeyed, lips stretching wide around Cole’s length, the taste of salt and clean sweat flooding his tongue. He traced the prominent vein underneath with the flat of his tongue, hollowing his cheeks until Cole’s hips jerked. Behind him, Beau knelt with a creak of joints, rough hands spreading Alex’s cheeks. The air was cool on his exposed hole for a heartbeat—then a warm, wet dollop of spit landed dead center, followed by the blunt press of Beau’s thumb. Alex moaned around Cole, the vibration drawing a sharp hiss from the taller cowboy, whose grip tightened in his hair.

Beau worked him open with deliberate, almost cruel patience. One thick finger breached him, knuckle popping past the ring of muscle; Alex’s back arched, a strangled sound muffled by Cole’s cock. A second finger joined, scissoring wide, twisting until Alex’s thighs trembled and his toes curled against the floorboards. Spit and lube—Beau produced a small tin of something that smelled faintly of pine—made obscene, wet sounds as he stretched him further, crooking his fingers to graze that electric spot inside. Alex’s own cock, untouched, leaked a steady stream onto the wood below, a puddle forming between his knees.

When Beau finally replaced fingers with his cock, the stretch burned bright and perfect, a white-hot line of pain that melted into molten pleasure as the head popped past resistance. Alex’s cry was muffled by Cole, who pushed deeper, setting a slow, relentless rhythm—out until only the head remained, then gliding back in until his balls nestled against Alex’s chin. Spit-roasted between them, Alex surrendered to the push-pull: Cole’s hips rocking into his throat, the salty drip of precum coating his tongue; Beau’s powerful thrusts driving him forward onto Cole again, the slap of sweat-slick skin echoing like gunshots. The bunkhouse creaked in time with their bodies, iron bedframes rattling, the stove ticking like a metronome.

Sweat slicked every inch of skin—pale on bronze on freckled red. The air thickened with grunts, the wet slap of flesh, the raw scent of men unfiltered: musk and hay and the sharp tang of arousal. Beau’s hand—large enough to span Alex’s entire hip—snaked around to grip Alex’s leaking cock, stroking in brutal counterpoint to his thrusts. Calluses dragged over sensitive skin; precum smeared over his palm, easing the glide. Cole’s grip tightened, holding Alex steady as he fucked his mouth with increasing urgency, the head of his cock nudging the back of Alex’s throat until tears blurred his vision and saliva dripped in silvery strings from his chin.

“Gonna fill you up, kid,” Beau growled, voice ragged as gravel. His rhythm stuttered; his free hand dug into Alex’s hip hard enough to bruise.

Cole echoed the promise seconds later, pulling out just enough to paint Alex’s tongue in thick, bitter ropes before pushing back in, forcing him to swallow every pulsing drop. The taste—sharp, slightly sweet—sent Alex spiraling.

Beau followed with a guttural curse that rattled the windows, burying deep and stilling as heat flooded Alex’s core in heavy, endless pulses. The sensation—full, claimed, overflowing—tipped Alex over the edge. Untouched now, he came in messy, shuddering pulses across the worn floorboards, his vision whiting out, a high, broken keen vibrating around Cole’s spent cock.

They eased him onto a lower bunk afterward, the mattress sagging under their combined weight. Cole’s long fingers traced lazy, possessive circles over Alex’s chest, thumb flicking a nipple still peaked from cold air and overstimulation. Beau pressed a surprising, tender kiss to Alex’s temple, his beard scraping damp skin.

“Chores at five,” Cole murmured, amusement curling his lips. “Sleep fast, pretty boy.”

Alex drifted off sandwiched between sun-warmed flannel and the steady thump of two ranch-hard hearts, the taste of whiskey, cum, and pine lingering on his tongue. Outside, Vermont night wrapped the bunkhouse in quiet approval, the distant low of cattle the only sound beneath the soft snores of men sated and, for one fleeting night, no longer alone.