Wyoming Ropes and Open Skies

Rick had never expected to find himself at a dude ranch in the middle of Wyoming, but then again, he'd never expected a lot of things that had happened since he'd met Steve. The scuba diver turned cowboy — or was it cowboy turned scuba diver? — had invited him out for a weekend at the ranch where he worked part-time, and Rick had surprised himself by saying yes before the question was even fully out of Steve's mouth.

The drive from the airport had been long and flat, the landscape stretching out in every direction like God had forgotten to add the interesting bits. But Steve had been behind the wheel of a battered pickup truck, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on Rick's thigh, and that made the monotony bearable.

"You're gonna love it here," Steve said, flashing that easy grin that had gotten Rick into trouble more than once. "Different from the ocean, but it's got its own kind of pull."

Rick glanced at him. The cowboy hat sat low on Steve's brow, and his forearms were tanned and corded with muscle from years of working both rope and reef. He looked like he belonged here, which was strange considering Rick's strongest memory of him was underwater, tangled in kelp, Steve's body pressed against his as the current moved them both like they were part of the sea itself.

"You said that about the diving too," Rick replied.

"And you loved the diving."

Rick couldn't argue with that. He'd loved everything about it, honestly. The weightlessness, the silence, the way Steve's eyes had caught the filtered light as he pulled Rick close in thirty feet of water. The way things had escalated from there, Steve's neoprene suit peeled down to his waist, Rick's hands finding bare skin in the cold Pacific. That had been Rick's first real adventure in years, and it had cracked something open in him that he was still figuring out how to live with.

The ranch appeared over a rise like a movie set — low buildings, weathered fences, horses dotting a distant field. A big barn dominated the property, its red paint faded to the color of dried blood, the doors wide enough to drive a truck through.

Steve parked the truck and killed the engine. "Bob's probably around here somewhere. He runs the horse operation. You'll like him."

"Another one of your recruits?"

Steve laughed. "Bob doesn't need recruiting. Bob volunteers for everything."

They found Bob inside the barn, halfway up a ladder, throwing hay bales into the loft with a casual strength that made Rick's mouth go dry. He was young — mid-twenties, maybe — with a square jaw and a body that suggested he'd never met a physical challenge he didn't want to wrestle into submission. He wore a tight gray t-shirt and jeans that hung just right on his hips, and when he spotted Steve, his face broke into a grin wide enough to split his face.

"Steve! You made it!" Bob climbed down the ladder in three long steps and clapped Steve on the shoulder. "And this must be the famous Rick."

Famous. Rick shot Steve a look that promised retaliation later. "He talks about me?"

"All the time," Bob said, offering his hand. His grip was firm and warm, and he held on maybe a beat longer than necessary. "He says you're a natural in the water."

"He's exaggerating."

"I never exaggerate," Steve said, leaning against a fence post with that cowboy swagger that was half performance and half genuine. "I just appreciate talent when I see it."

Rick felt the heat of both their gazes and busied himself looking around the barn. It was bigger than it looked from outside, with stalls along both walls and a wide open center where the ladder stood. The air smelled of hay and leather and something animal and warm that Rick couldn't name. Rope hung in coils from hooks along the walls, and a collection of tack — saddles, bridles, harnesses — was arranged on a rack near the back.

"Nice place," Rick said, because someone had to say something.

Bob grinned. "It's better at night. When the guests are all back in their cabins and it's just us."

There was something in the way he said it — a casual emphasis on "just us" — that made Rick's pulse pick up. He looked at Steve, who was watching him with the same patient, knowing expression he'd worn underwater right before he'd pulled Rick's regulator out and kissed him in the kelp.

"So," Bob said, brushing hay off his shirt. The motion pulled the fabric tight across his chest. "You want the grand tour, or you want to skip to the good part?"

The sun was setting by the time they started on whiskey, sitting on hay bales in the center of the barn with the big doors closed against the cooling air. Bob had produced a bottle from somewhere — "emergency supplies," he called it — and they passed it around while the light through the high windows turned golden, then orange, then the deep purple of twilight.

Rick was between them, which felt deliberate. Steve's knee pressed against his left, Bob's shoulder brushed his right when he laughed, which was often. Bob was funny in a broad, physical way — he told stories with his whole body, acting out the parts, and twice he'd ended up practically in Rick's lap demonstrating how a particularly stubborn horse had thrown him into a fence.

"So the horse just left you there?" Steve asked, skeptical.

"Walked off like I wasn't even there. Like I was a sack of feed it had finished with." Bob mimed the horse's dismissive walk, his hips swaying, and Rick laughed despite himself. "I had hoof prints on my chest for a week."

"Sexy," Steve said dryly.

"You'd be surprised," Bob replied, and winked at Rick. "Chicks dig scars."

"Do they?"

"Hell if I know. I don't mess with chicks."

The statement hung in the air, plain and unapologetic, and Rick watched Bob's eyes move from him to Steve and back. There was no awkwardness — just a frank acknowledgment that settled over the three of them like a shared understanding.

Steve took a long pull from the bottle. "Rick and I met diving," he said, as if that explained everything.

"The kelp thing," Bob said, nodding. "He told me."

Rick looked between them. "You told him about the kelp thing?"

Steve shrugged. "Bob tells me everything about his life. Seemed fair."

"What exactly did you tell him?"

"That you're a fast learner." Steve's hand found the back of Rick's neck, warm and steady. "And that you've got good instincts."

Bob had moved closer, or maybe Rick just hadn't noticed how close he'd been. "I like people with good instincts," Bob said. His voice had dropped, not to a whisper but to something more private, like the three of them were inside a conversation that had walls.

Steve's thumb traced a slow circle on Rick's neck. "We were thinking," he started, and Rick could feel the vibration of Steve's voice through his fingertips. "If you were up for it."

"Up for what?" Rick asked, though his body already knew the answer. His skin had gone tight and warm, and the whiskey taste in his mouth had sharpened into something electric.

Bob reached out and took Rick's hand. Not aggressively — just held it, turned it over, looked at his palm like he was reading something there. "Steve says you like to try new things."

"I didn't say that exactly," Rick managed.

"What did you say?" Bob asked, still looking at his hand.

Steve answered for him. "I said he likes being pushed. In a good way. That he trusts me to push him right."

Rick's breath caught. It was true — all of it — but hearing it laid out like that, in front of a near-stranger whose hand was warm and rough against his palm, made the truth of it feel bigger than it had in the water.

"I'm not going to lie," Bob said, finally looking up. "I've been hoping Steve would bring you out here since he first mentioned you. The way he talked about you — like you were something he found on the ocean floor that nobody else knew was there yet."

"That's poetic," Rick said, his voice rougher than he intended.

"Bob's full of surprises," Steve said. His hand slid from Rick's neck to his shoulder, pulling him back slightly so Rick was leaning against Steve's chest. "Give him a chance."

Rick looked at Bob, who was watching him with an expression that was equal parts eagerness and patience. Then he looked at Steve, whose heartbeat he could feel against his back, steady as a current.

"I'm not saying no," Rick said.

Bob smiled. "That's all I need."

Steve's arms came around Rick from behind, hands settling on his chest, and Rick let his head fall back against Steve's shoulder. Steve kissed his neck — once, twice, a third time that lingered — and Rick closed his eyes as Bob's hand moved from his palm to his knee.

"You sure?" Bob asked, his voice quiet.

"I'm sure," Rick said.

Bob leaned in and kissed him. It was different from Steve's kisses — quicker, more playful, like he was testing the water before committing to the dive. His lips were warm and tasted like whiskey, and when Rick opened his mouth, Bob's tongue found his with an eagerness that made Rick groan.

Steve's hands moved down Rick's chest to the hem of his shirt, tugging it free. "Let's get this off."

Rick raised his arms and let Steve pull the shirt over his head. The barn air was cool against his bare skin, but Bob's hands were warm as they spread across his stomach, and Steve's chest was hot against his back.

"You've been working out," Bob said, running his palms up Rick's torso.

"He dives," Steve said. "It changes you."

Bob stood up and pulled his own shirt off in one fluid motion. His body was everything Rick had guessed under the gray t-shirt — broad shoulders, defined chest, a stomach that looked like it had been carved by actual physical labor rather than gym routines. A thin line of dark hair ran from his navel into his jeans.

"Like what you see?" Bob asked, catching Rick's stare.

"You know I do."

Steve moved from behind Rick, standing to strip off his own shirt, and for a moment Rick just watched them both — Steve lean and roped with the kind of muscle that came from hauling tanks and swimming against currents, Bob thicker and more solid, built for throwing hay bales and wrestling horses. They were different enough to be a study in contrasts, and Rick wanted both of them with an intensity that surprised him.

Steve rummaged in a gear bag he'd brought from the truck and came back with several lengths of soft cotton rope — the kind used for harness work, thick and smooth, won't chafe. He held them up with a raised eyebrow.

Rick's pulse kicked. "You planned this."

"I packed for possibilities," Steve corrected. "Bob, you got a preference?"

Bob's eyes had gone dark and focused. "Wrists. I want to see his face."

Steve nodded and knelt beside Rick, taking his right wrist and wrapping the rope around it with practiced loops. The rope was snug but not tight — firm enough to hold, loose enough to flex. Steve tied off the end to a beam above them, pulling Rick's arm up and to the side, then repeated the process with the left wrist.

Rick tested the give. His arms were spread, held above shoulder height, with enough slack to move but not enough to reach anything. His heart was hammering, and his cock was already straining against his jeans.

"Good?" Steve asked, checking the knots.

"Good," Rick said. His voice came out breathless.

Bob had moved behind him, and Rick felt hands at his waist — Bob's hands, thick-fingered and sure, unbuttoning his jeans and working them down his hips. The cool air hit his skin, and then Bob's palms were on his ass, kneading through his underwear, pulling him back against Bob's body.

"Fuck," Rick said.

"Not yet," Bob said, and Rick could hear the grin in his voice. "We're just getting started."

Steve knelt in front of Rick, looking up at him with those eyes that had haunted Rick since the first time they'd met. He hooked his fingers into Rick's underwear and pulled them down slowly, letting the waistband drag across Rick's skin. Rick's cock sprang free, hard and flushed, and Steve made a low sound of approval.

"Look at that," Bob said from behind, his hands still gripping Rick's ass. "Steve wasn't exaggerating about anything, was he?"

Steve wrapped his hand around the base of Rick's cock and leaned in, his breath hot against the head. He looked up at Rick one more time — checking, always checking — and then took Rick into his mouth.

Rick's hips jerked forward involuntarily, and the ropes caught him, holding him in place. Steve's mouth was hot and wet, his tongue working the underside of Rick's cock with a slow, deliberate rhythm that Rick remembered from the kelp field. Steve had learned his body underwater, and he hadn't forgotten.

Bob's hands spread Rick's cheeks apart, and a thick thumb pressed against his hole. Rick gasped, the sensation mixing with the wet heat of Steve's mouth until he couldn't tell where one feeling ended and another began.

"Easy," Bob murmured. "I've got you."

Steve pulled off Rick's cock with a slick pop and stood, stripping off his jeans. His body was lean and hard, his own cock jutting up against his stomach. He spat in his hand and stroked himself a few times, watching Rick with heavy-lidded eyes.

"You want him first or me?" Steve asked Bob.

"You," Bob said immediately. "I want to watch."

Steve produced a bottle of lube from the same bag — "emergency supplies" apparently covered a lot of ground — and slicked his fingers. He pressed one against Rick's hole, and Rick pushed back against it, needing more.

"Greedy," Steve said, but he pushed in, and Rick groaned at the familiar stretch. Steve worked him open with the same patience he brought to everything — slow, thorough, reading Rick's body like a dive computer, adjusting pressure and angle based on the data Rick's sounds and movements provided.

Bob had moved to sit on a hay bale nearby, jeans open, stroking himself as he watched. His eyes moved between Steve's fingers disappearing into Rick's body and Rick's face, which Rick knew was showing everything he was feeling because he'd lost the ability to hide it.

"More," Rick said.

Steve added a second finger, then a third, twisting and spreading until Rick was shaking in the ropes. Then Steve pulled his fingers out and pressed the head of his cock against Rick's entrance.

"Ready?"

"Fuck, Steve, just do it."

Steve pushed in. One long, steady thrust that buried him completely, and Rick shouted — not from pain, from the overwhelming fullness of it, from the way Steve filled him and held still and let Rick feel every inch. The ropes creaked as Rick's body tensed and then relaxed, accepting.

Steve started to move. Long, slow strokes at first, each one pressing deep, his hands gripping Rick's hips. Rick pushed back to meet him, and they found their rhythm — the same rhythm they'd found underwater, fluid and instinctive.

Bob stood and kicked off his jeans. He was fully naked now, his cock thick and curved, and he stepped close enough for Rick to feel the heat of him. "Open your mouth," Bob said.

Rick did.

Bob guided his cock between Rick's lips, one hand braced on Rick's bound shoulder. Rick took him in, tasting salt and skin, and tried to focus on sucking even as Steve fucked him from behind with increasing force. It was almost too much — the stretch and fullness in his ass, the weight on his tongue, the ache in his raised arms, the rough rope against his wrists — but the overwhelm was exactly what he'd wanted, what he'd trusted Steve to deliver.

Steve's thrusts got harder, faster. "Close," he grunted. "Rick, I'm close."

"Do it," Rick said, pulling off Bob's cock just long enough to speak. "Inside."

Steve drove in deep and held, his whole body going rigid, and Rick felt the pulse of Steve's orgasm, the heat of it spreading inside him. Steve let out a sound that was half groan, half laugh, and slumped forward against Rick's back, breathing hard.

Bob stepped back, his cock slick with Rick's saliva, and watched Steve carefully pull out. Rick felt the slip of cum down his thigh and groaned at the sensation.

"My turn," Bob said, and his voice had gone rough and low.

Steve, still catching his breath, moved to check the ropes. "How are your arms?"

"Fine," Rick said. They ached, but in a good way — a reminder that he was held, that he'd given up control.

Steve loosened the knots slightly, giving Rick more range of motion, then stepped back and sat on a hay bale to watch. He looked wrecked and satisfied, his cock softening against his thigh, and he wrapped a hand around it lazily as he settled in for the show.

Bob took Steve's place behind Rick. He was broader, thicker, and when he pressed two lubed fingers into Rick's already-open hole, the stretch was different — more demanding.

"You can take it," Bob said. Not a question.

"I can take it," Rick confirmed.

Bob replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing in with a steady pressure that made Rick's breath stutter. He was bigger than Steve, and Rick felt every bit of it as Bob sank in to the hilt. Bob paused there, hands on Rick's waist, his chest pressed warm against Rick's back.

"Fuck, you feel good," Bob said against Rick's ear.

"Move," Rick said.

Bob moved. He fucked differently than Steve — less rhythm, more intensity, each thrust a deliberate push that drove Rick forward against the ropes. Rick braced his feet and pushed back, and Bob responded by fucking harder, gripping Rick's hips hard enough to leave marks.

Steve watched from the hay bale, his hand moving slowly on his cock, which was starting to harden again. "He likes it rough," Steve told Bob. "Don't hold back."

"I wasn't planning to."

Bob reached around and took Rick's cock in his hand, stroking in time with his thrusts. Rick's vision blurred. He was full of sensation — the rope on his wrists, Bob's cock driving into him, Bob's fist working his shaft, Steve's eyes on him from across the barn — and it was building toward something that felt enormous.

"I'm going to come," Rick said, and his voice cracked on the words.

"Do it," Bob said, stroking faster. "Come for us."

Rick came. His whole body seized, the ropes going taut, and he shot across Bob's hand and the hay-strewn floor in thick pulses that seemed to go on forever. Bob fucked him through it, milking his cock until Rick was shaking and oversensitive, and then Bob pulled out, stripped off the condom, and came across Rick's lower back with a groan that echoed off the barn walls.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Then Steve was there, untying the ropes with steady hands, lowering Rick's arms and rubbing the circulation back into his shoulders. Bob found a cloth and cleaned them both up with surprising tenderness for a man who'd just fucked Rick through a hay bale.

They ended up on a pile of hay and blankets that Bob produced from somewhere, the three of them tangled together in the dark barn. Rick was in the middle again, but this time it felt less like a position and more like a destination. Steve was on his left, one arm across Rick's chest. Bob was on his right, his head propped on one hand, grinning down at Rick.

"So," Bob said. "Same time tomorrow?"

Rick laughed. It came out exhausted and honest. "I need at least twelve hours."

"Eight," Steve countered.

"Ten," Rick said.

Bob held up a hand. "I'll flip you for it."

They bickered about the schedule while the night settled around the barn, crickets starting up outside and a horse stamping in a distant stall. Rick lay between them, warm and loose and thoroughly wrecked, and thought about how strange it was that a diving trip had led to a barn in Wyoming, and how neither of those things had been on his radar six months ago.

"I'm going to be sore tomorrow," Rick said.

"That's the idea," Steve said, and kissed his shoulder.

Bob flopped back onto the hay with a satisfied groan. "Best damn weekend I've had in months. Steve, you can bring your ocean friends out here anytime."

"He's not an ocean friend," Steve said. "He's more of a... discovered treasure."

Rick snorted. "You're both ridiculous."

"Ridiculously good in bed," Bob corrected.

"Ridiculously humble," Steve added.

The horse in the stall whinnied, loud and offended, as if it disagreed. Bob sat up. "That's Duchess. She gets jealous."

"Of what?" Rick asked.

"Of anyone having a better time than her."

Steve laughed against Rick's skin. "I think we're safe on that front."

Rick closed his eyes and let their voices wash over him, the same way the ocean current had months ago — carrying him somewhere he hadn't planned to go but was glad, deeply and specifically glad, to have reached. His wrists ached where the ropes had been. His ass throbbed. His legs felt like they belonged to someone who'd run a marathon.

He'd never felt more comfortable in his own skin.

"When you said you ran the horse operation," Rick murmured to Bob, "I didn't realize that was a euphemism."

Bob's laugh was bright and unguarded. "Stick around, city boy. I've got a whole ranch to show you."

Steve's arm tightened across Rick's chest. "He's coming back," Steve said, with a certainty that Rick didn't bother to question, because it was true. Whatever this was — the diving, the ranch, the rope and the hay and the two men who'd somehow become the most interesting thing in his life — Rick was coming back.

Duchess whinnied again.

"Fine," Bob called into the dark. "You can watch next time."

"Jesus Christ," Rick said, and laughed until his ribs hurt.