Cross-Country with My Uncle Ch. 13

Part 13. During a cross-country drive together, Mikey, a studly 18-year old finds himself intimate for the first time with Mike, his namesake 24-year old uncle whom he's idolized all his life. Steve is the 20-year old collegiate gymnast who hitches a ride with them.

"So," Steve asked, "Mikey, tell me: What do you know about this dude ranch? And what kinda experience do you have with horses?"

"Well," I began, "To answer both your questions: Not much and not much, really. The last two summers before this one I spent time at a horse camp in the Adirondacks. Of course it's in the east, but it's all western riding. The first year I was there six weeks, and all you really do is get a fair amount of experience riding and taking basic care of the animals. The second year was ten weeks and I got a lot more experience in dealing with different horses, some easy, some pretty tough. We rode every day, rain or shine, bellied horses through rivers, learned to gallop, and of course every day morning and night we worked with the horses. I'm no farrier, but I can now spot a hot hoof or hot knee when I see it. I don't make a claim to being any kind of a horseman, but I kinda got it in my blood, and I really like working with horses. Mike, you went to the same camp back when you were a teenager, too, and it seemed to set you up pretty well for work on the ranch, didn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, "it did. I learned enough about horses to do the job, especially since on the ranch you work under the supervision of some really classy wranglers who know what they're doing. Actually, what I learned on the ranch was more about the guests than horses. People, they're fuckin' crazy, especially compared to horses."

Steve said, "And where is this dude ranch? Didn't you say it was like in southern Colorado somewhere?"

"Naw," Mike answered, it's on the Western Slope, what, about 40 miles north of Hot Sulphur Springs not far from a little town called Rand. It's really beautiful there!"

"Yee-haw!" Steve whooped. "You gotta be kiddin' me! Forty miles north of Hot Sulphur Springs! Mikey, hand me that atlas!"

I did and in the waning light of a long summer's day he confirmed his assumption. Mike and I had been thinking of it as being somewhat isolated on the Western Slope, a good two and a half hours from downtown Denver (which it was). But what we had not realized is that Steve's family's ranch was also west of the Medicine Bows. Though in different states, the dude ranch, the H Bar Z, was only about 90 miles of back road from Steve's ranch.

Steve showed me on the map, and he said "Don't you see, Mikey, the rest of the summer we'll be under two hours apart! You can come up to our place and meet Mark and my folks, we can get together, hell, every weekend or whenever you can get off! I can drive down to pick you up! Boy, this changes everything!"

He grabbed me in his big arms and reached up and gave me a big smacky kiss right on my mouth, and he, well, he kind of did a little jig right where he was sitting.

Then in his best Steven Tyler voice he goes:

I go crazy, crazy, baby,

I go craaaa-zeee,

(modifying the lyric, he continues)

You turn me on, I get a bone,

Yeah you drive me

Craaaa-zeee, craaa-zee, craaa-zee for you baby!

I was stunned. I could hardly believe it. I had been trying to think of some way to keep in touch with Steve, maybe somehow getting a few days off and getting to Denver and then to Cheyenne and then to the Steve's family's ranch, but it had seemed like it was going to be a pretty complicated damn big deal. But, like Steve said, this changed everything! All summer long he'd be no further away than two hours. Hey, even on an afternoon off I could get up to his ranch, if I could borrow a car or truck or something from one of the hands!

Steve continued, "Hey, I'll lend you a car and you can drive up any day you have off. You can take the Boxster or the Honda, I don't care. And call the dude ranch and tell 'em not to pick you up at Denver International next week. As soon as Mike's wedding is over, you fly back, I'll meet you at the airport and you can come up until you're due at the dude ranch, and I'll deliver you!"

It was one of those few rare occasions in a lifetime wherein the whole course of one's life seems to take a sudden, irreversible change in direction. It seemed that way potentially in real time; and now in retrospect it has turned out to be so. Instead of our parting tomorrow morning, perhaps forever, who knew, our relationship would have a chance to grow and develop and deepen! It took me a couple of seconds longer to grasp what Steve had realized the moment he heard the words "Hot Sulphur Springs," but not merely the accidents of the situation but the profound meaning of it all percolated through me, and I joined Steve in another exultant chorus:

I go crazy, crazy, baby,

I go craaaa-zeee,

You turn me on, I get a bone,

Yeah you drive me

Craaaa-zeee, craaa-zee, craaa-zee for you baby!

My uncle Mike looked over with an indulgent grin and said simply, "You lucky fucks! You lucky fucks!" and touseled first my hair and then Steve's.

That set us off on another round of non-stop singing, for simple joy. But this time, no Dwight Yoakamy blues were permitted, no REM "Everybody Hurts" kinda shit, but one exultant anthem after another, "We are the champions," and we hit the Wallflowers, Cake, and George Strait.

It didn't look like we were going to make it to Lovelock after all. At Battle Mountain, Nevada, Mike pulled off the road. It was almost 9 pm. We walked into the lobby of the surprisingly comfortable-looking motor hotel there. The night clerk was a nice-looking kid who couldn't have been more than 20. I wouldn't say he 'cruised' us exactly, but he did unmistakably size us up, especially since the three of us were still in nothing but our running shorts, and we had asked for one room with a king bed. He said, "By the way, I'm on duty until six am, so don't hesitate to call if you need anything. I'm Scotty."

Our room was on the second floor and it was really rather spacious, with a nice big bath, and the kingsized bed. Mike said, "God, I'm starving, I could eat a cow. I'll go pick up something and bring it back." There were only a couple of choices in Battle Mountain at that hour, and he said he'd walk across the parking lot to a nearby chicken joint. It's not what we would have preferred maybe, but at that place and that hour that was what was open.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Steve said, "Look, you and I are going to have all summer, but this is going to be my last night with Mike. Let's make it a night he'll remember!" I agreed and we quickly made a some sketchy plans, and Steve ran downstairs to get something we'd need from the back of the truck.

When Mike opened the door and walked in past the bathroom and into the main part of the room, he never had a chance. Steve and I sprang from the bathroom and from behind, put a pillowcase over his head, and by arrangement I grabbed his right arm, and Steve his left. He dropped the chicken and struggled mightily, but taken by surprise by two big guys with a plan, like I said, he never had a chance. We easily man-handled him over to the big bed where I had already ropes from the truck tied to the bed posts at the head of the bed. They were soft cotton ropes, chosen by Mike back in Pennsylvania so as not to chafe the furniture we were carrying in the back. And without too much difficulty we secured Mike's arms.

Of course he knew it was only us, but he wasn't giving up easy and he thrashed around, but it was hopeless, and we secured him very well. We next cut the lights off and replaced the pillowcase with a tee-shirt, neatly folded and tied as a blindfold. And using a bit of the rope we bound a folded sock over Mike's mouth. Nothing uncomfortable, but a clear indication that we wanted no speech from him. And then turned the lights back on again.

I tugged off Mike's shorts and shoes, leaving him entirely nude, and Steve and I quickly secured his legs. While he was gone, we had tied quite long ropes to Mike's duffle and mine, and these ropes we now tied to my uncle's ankles. The ropes were maybe six feet long each and these we wound around the duffles somewhat to shorten them. The bags weren't particularly heavy or bulky, but they served the purpose. Steve took one and I took the other and we placed them on either side of the bottom of the bed, so that Mike was completely spread-eagled. In fact, his legs were extraordinarily wide-spread, closer to 90 degrees than the sort of typical 60 degree angle one might imagine.

We stepped back to inspect our work and we were pleased. The powerful body of my uncle was rendered entirely helpless, and he was completely at our mercy. And it was a most remarkably handsome body, too. His rather massive chest muscles, covered in dark golden hair; his trim, but well-muscled and hairy abdomem, leading right down to the well-defined sulcus that marked the end of his trunk and where his massive thigh muscles began; his large and defined calves, like his thighs and big arms, covered in sun-bleached curly hair. He was still testing his bonds somewhat, but by then he knew resistence was hopeless, and in any case he knew as well as we that the whole enterprise was designed to afford him the most exquisite delight we could arrange.

We started slow, Steve on Mike's left and I on his right. Maintaining silence as we would during almost all of this long execise, and taking the most infinite care, Steve and I, using just a fingertip each, begin to touch Mike here and there, with the tiniest and gentlest of strokes, just a fingertip, and for just a second or two, strokes that hardly ran three-quarters of an inch, if that. And to start, only in peripheral areas: a tiny touch on his right ankle, just above his ropes; a touch on the back of his left hand. Blindfolded, he never knew where the next teasing, loving touch would fall. But though these touches were tiny, and peripheral, they had a very powerful effect on Mike, and as soon as we had begun them, his penis began to grow, slowly extending, the veins filling and becoming more prominent. The process was beautiful to watch, as each pump of his heart sent more of his life's blood to his phallus, converting him from a defeated man to a sex god, though in bonds. The penis engorged more and more, lengthening, lengthening, and growing fatter and fatter, and by stages straightening, rising, rising, rising, until it flopped onto his belly, from which it continued to stiffen, even redden, the veins growing more and more distinct until they rose notably above the surface of the cock as it rose from his belly to tremble an inch above his thick belly hair, the cockhead hovering above his navel. And as it expanded, his glans lost first its fine wrinkles, and then its velvety matte finish disappeared as it took on a high gloss as it reached its maximum expansion, surely a thing of beauty, with its wonderfully defined shape, and, we knew, its capacity for exquisite sensation.

This time, Mike's balls were not low-hanging and pendulous, for he was carrying them much closer to his body. Because of their very large size, they were very prominent, but his scrotum was a somewhat more confining pouch than it had been on other occasions. They looked wonderful, the very essence of male power.

Steve and I hugely enjoyed our work, and we were in no hurry whatsoever. We continued with these random touches, tiny, and subtle; perhaps alternating them with a tiny, gentle tug on a bit of body hair, on a calf or thigh. Very gentle, just enough to give a tiny stimulus to our victim and our beneficiary.

Gradually, we moved from the most peripheral attacks to a few, rare, touches on something more central: a touch on an inside middle thigh, perhaps; or a surprise touch on Mike's golden goatee, just below the point of his chin; or the tiniest touch of a single curl of his left armpit hair, so subtle that he could not really be sure he had been touched at all. But we didn't come anywhere near his sex organs.

From these tiny touches, we expanded slightly and gradually. To a two-finger stroke, of slightly longer duration, and something close to, but not really a kiss. Bringing our mouths close to his body and exhaling upon it. These wicked tricks we could do even with his phallus, if we didn't come too close.

During all this Mike was not relaxed and enjoying himself! He was in a state of energy and tension, and when these touches came from out of the blue - being blindfolded he never could know where the next tiny, loving attack was going to fall! - he would react with a shiver or a gasp. His capacity for reacting amazed us, for he never seemed to accept our ministrations with quiescence. And his cock seemed to grow stronger and stiffer and more insistent all the time.

Finally, at a hand signal I gave to Steve, we upped the ante. I took his right nipple between my lips at the exact split second that Steve did the same with his left nipple. Mike almost jerked off the bed, but while he writhed his arms and his legs, his chest merely expanded as he gasped. We were merciless. With our tongues and lips we teased, we kissed, we sucked; we took the straining erect nipples between our teeth, ever so gently, and sweetly, carefully worked them, even as our tongues worked the nibs extending past our incisors into our mouths.

Not wishing to render them sore with too much stimulation, after a full workout we moved on. Now we finally moved to true strokes of the hand, and starting with his feet, we made a tour d'horizon of his body, I still on the right, and Steve on Mike's left, working more or less in parallel. When we got to Mike's mid-thighs, however, we suspended our work, and pulled back. Mike couldn't have known where next we would attack, but it turned out to be merely on his hands. Here, for once he could in some measure communicate, and as we massaged his hands he struggled to grasp our hands in his, and, we consenting, he held our hands in his, and with his thumbs he gently stroked ours.

Then, suddenly, he kind of cheated! He managed to get his right hand up onto my wrist and forearm, and by the feel of my crisp, dense hair there, he suddenly knew that it was me on his right, and thus Steve on his left! At my signal, we broke away completely and disengaged. We made sounds as if we might be changing sides, but actually we didn't. Once again, Mike couldn't know who was where, and we resumed our enterprise, again stroking and now even rubbing Mike, and widening our range. We worked his big forearms, his powerful upper arms and shoulders, and now we had but his trunk to go.

For this we decided on something different. From somewhere we'd gotten a couple of common combs, and we used these in parallel to comb through Mike's chest hair, and then, working from the side toward the middle, to comb the hair on his abs and belly toward the center line. Not wishing to touch his cock yet, we had to give this up down around his navel, for his cock stood suspended in space just a short distance above it, and then, finally, to comb through his pubic hair, from the sides anyway. Throughout the comb work, the tiny tips of the rubber combs evidently were a major new kind of stimulus to Mike, and he trembled and again strained against his bonds.

Smoothing him all over with comprehensive stroking with our full palms, except for the region of his genitals, we gave special attention to his pits, his neck, the inside of his elbow and a few other places we had neglected.

Finally we were ready to attack Mike's totally engorged and throbbing phallus. We couldn't quite decide how, though. Steve came up with an idea. He rummaged through his backpack and found the mate to the crew sock that was bound over Mike's mouth, and held it up to me. Working as always in complete silence and together, we held it above his cock like a sheath, and then suddenly brought the first inch over his cockhead. The soft confining sock infinitely stimulating his now aching cock, the coronal ridge expanding the sock so that it was patently obvious through the soft white knit. Slowly, ever so slowly, Steve on the left and I on the right, we tugged the sock quarter inch by quarter inch over Mike's great penis. As it passed down, the inflamed hood of Mike's cock, parted the soft, soft gripping orlon, and as it slooooowly slid past, and newly gripped the corona, we could hear choked moans from Mike, despite his gag. He had been so primed for so long, and for so long denied any touch on his aching cock, that probably a kick from a running shoe would have been welcome, but this, this was unbearable! For fun, we pulled the sock up an inch or two, and then continued sheathing his great organ; and then reversed directions still yet again. Finally - surely it had taken two minutes! - the sock was entirely sheathing his phallus, which distended it, filled it. We pulled it down still further till the flaring cockhead was filling up the toe of the sock, with more gathered at the root of his phallus.

With Mike's cock in this rather absurd situation, we decided to work on Mike's mighty balls. Dicks are one thing; balls another. Dicks are resilient, powerful, thrusting, exploring. Balls, though, instinctively need protection, and arguably the whole power of the male body is designed to defend them. So when I knelt between Mike's wide-spread legs, and gently hefted his left ball in my fingertips, he flinched mightily, and struggled against his bonds once more. He knew, of course, that our whole purpose was to give him all the pleasure we possibly could; and that there was no one in the world, Alice presumably excepted, to whom he could trust his balls in more confidence than to us. But nevertheless there was a tension, a war, between the two concepts, an urgent visceral compulsion to protect, and an intellectually-based confidence that it is not only safe, but fun to submit. This tension only heightened Mike's infinitely sensitive reactions to my tender attentions, as I stroked the hairy scrotum with my fingers; and cupped the balls in my hands, and kissed them and licked them, balls that were identical to mine in every respect. They were, of course, too big to get in my mouth, but that made them only the more suitable subjects for stroking and petting.

Meanwhile, with an idea of symmetry, Steve removed Mike's gag, and breaking for once our silence, commanded him brusquely, "Keep quiet." With his gymnast's grace and agility, he got up on the bed, put one foot to either side of Mike's head, and, steadying himself with a hand on the bed, lowered himself into a squat, so that his balls dangled over Mike's mouth. And lowering himself still more, he dragged them right onto Mike's lips. Mike instantly knew what to do, and he took the left one gently between his lips, and opening his mouth still wider, and carefully covering his teeth with his lips, took it into his mouth, balanced it upon his tongue, caressing it with his tongue, just as simultanteously I am kissing and licking his balls. Steve rose ever so slightly and his left ball emerged from Mike's lips, and Steve then presented his right ball. It was a remarkable thing to watch from between Mike's legs! Steve repeated with his left ball and finally once more with his right before he departed. Doubtlessly he considered whether Mike might like to indulge in some anilingus, but thought that that decision was better left to a Mike in full possession of his own free will than to a Mike in bondage.

At our next move perhaps Mike thought we at last were going to show him mercy; but he would find that he was very wrong. We slowly, slowly, slowly tugged the sock off his massive erection, and as every quarter-inch rode across the edge of his flared cockhead, he involuntarily gasped, and gasped again. I grasped his phallus low, around its fat and veiny base, my big hand unable to circle it entirely. And I left room for Steve's smaller fist to seize the upper portion. Together we gave him a stroke or two, but it was really just a novelty. Removing our hands, Steve and I whispered together. I expressed lube onto my hands, getting them both really slippery. According to the plan we'd hastily put together, I would use both hands to stroke him, for a total of four dozen strokes, if we thought he could take it. But to make sure that he didn't foil our plans, I'd wait ten full seconds between each and every stroke. It was wicked, it was teasing. In the words of the old, old song, "You gotta be cruel to be kind," and we were.