"New Hand on the Ranch"

Another long hot day of branding is winding down. The setting sun casts an orange glow across the Wyoming landscape. I sit on the fence and watch the guys as they start gathering up the tools and gear strewn around the coral. My hunger for action has me looking more closely at the hands. Most of guys are decent looking, all of them well built from the hard work on the ranch. One in particular holds my attention. Dale is at the far end of the enclosure winding up rope. My eyes have been on him all day. A pair of pale suede chaps wrap around his dusty Wranglers, exploiting his rock hard ass and full package. His arms bulge under his blue striped shirt as he moves. A white hat with a snakeskin band shields his blue eyes. A constant growth of stubble gives his young face a rugged look. When Dale showed two weeks ago looking for work I knew I had to have him. At twenty-six he is the hottest hand I've seen in a long time.

Through the dust he catches me watching him; a sly smile crosses his tanned face, causing my dick to harden. Since he arrived we have only exchanged knowing glances over breakfast, in the stables or at the nightly drinks on the porch of his bunkhouse. Even on a big ranch there are few opportunities to be alone. In this macho environment you have to be careful about who you approach and when. It's never a secret who's gay and who isn't, it's just never discussed. Eventually the right time to hit up Dale will present itself.

Leaving the guys to their work I break away to have a smoke. A chair on the porch of my bunkhouse is the perfect spot to watch the sun set. A shadow wonders my direction through the glare. Without a word Dale walks up to the water trough in front of the porch. Acknowledging me with a nod he unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall off his shoulders to the dirt. He fills his hat with water, lifts it up and pours it over his head. The cool water flows down his well-toned pecs and flat stomach. His smooth wet skin glistens in the late afternoon sun. His upper body is hairless except for the dense hair in his armpits. He shakes his wet hair, locks eyes with me and runs his hand over his basket before turning away. I stroke the growing hardness in my jeans, watching him walk away.

A few days later I cut through the stables on my way to the tack room. It's a hot day and I'm not looking forward to spending the afternoon in a stifling room full of leather. I can hear someone working when I enter the stalls. Passing the second row of stalls I see Dale throwing hay at the far end. I cut down the first row trying not to make any noise. Dale is concentrating on his work and doesn't notice me standing against the wall a few yards back. He is shirtless in the heat. The muscles in his back and shoulders ripple under his sweat slicked skin with each throw of the pitchfork. His pale skin shines in the light. I fixate on the dense growth in his pitts. Wetness is dripping down his bulging lats. A thick leather belt with a large rodeo buckle holds tight jeans to his slim waist. Every time he leans forward a small tear