Saturday night, most of the ranch hands saddled up and headed into town for the bar. They were all hot on the trail of women, though none of them had much luck with that crowd.
Gene, Joe, Colt, and Tommy Ray stayed back. None of them were interested in chasing skirts, and besides, a cooler of beer, Mrs. Harlan’s peach moonshine, and a deck of cards promised more fun than half the tired barmaids in town.
They pulled a table into the middle of the common room of the bunkhouse. Joe shuffled the deck with a grin and said, “Boys, I say we play poker—but with a twist. Strip/paddle poker. Chips first, then clothes. Loser goes over the winner’s knee for a few licks with this.” He held up a small paddle someone had knocked together out of scrap oak.
The others laughed, but no one said no.
The first few rounds were tame—just chips flying across the table. Tommy Ray lost his stack early, cursing under his breath. That’s when Joe grinned and said, “Alright, time for the next ante. You’re playin’ with clothes now.”
One by one, shirts came off, then socks, then jeans. With each lost hand, the winner yanked the loser across his knee and laid on the paddle—number of swats equal to the chips lost. The smacks echoed off the bunkhouse walls, followed by yelps, laughter, and plenty of ribbing.
The more they drank, the filthier the trash talk got.
Joe leaned back bare-chested, his sparse dark hairs showing just a faint trail. Colt reached over and rubbed his own hairy pecs, treasure trail running down to his jeans. “Damn, Joe, that’s all you got? Looks like someone glued on a few stray whiskers.”
The table howled.
Tommy Ray had dropped his pants and stood to fold them, his fiery red bush exploding out like wildfire. Joe pointed and said, “Looks like an albino snake crawlin’ outta that jungle!”
Tommy Ray laughed, but bent over, shaking his bare ass. “It’s always hard to find a pair of jeans that can handle this ass,” he said, giving it a slap, then spreading just enough to show the pink pucker framed by fiery fuzz.
Colt whistled low. “That’s one big red barn.” He stood up, wagged his hips, and pulled down his shorts to unleash his heavy uncut cock. “And this here’s the horse cock that loves to fill it.”
That had them roaring, and the alcohol only fueled them.
Joe stood, dropped his own jeans, and his thick cock swung free. “Monster cock and balls like these explain the bulge in my jeans,” he said, grabbing himself.
Gene just smirked, leaning back, his own prize swinging heavy. “How the hell do I walk around with this thing?” he teased.
It even turned into a side-by-side show-and-tell—Colt and Gene comparing length and girth, Joe showing off his thickness, Tommy Ray presenting his long, pale snake against a backdrop of fire-red hair. The jokes were endless, the teasing merciless.
By then, Joe and Tommy Ray had lost everything—chips, clothes, dignity. Both sat naked and sore, asses pink from their time over the paddle.
That left Colt and Gene for the final showdown. Chips clinked, cards slapped, sweat dripped. Gene grinned as he laid down the winning hand. “Looks like you’re mine, Colt.”
Colt stripped off his last piece of clothing and went willingly over Gene’s knee. The paddle cracked across his ass—once for every chip lost. Colt grunted, teeth clenched, but didn’t complain.
Then came the card draw punishment. They shuffled, drew, and the numbers tallied high. Gene raised the paddle, and the sound filled the bunkhouse as Colt kicked and cursed, his hairy ass glowing red by the end.
By the time it was over, the air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and arousal. Tommy Ray bent over the table, shaking his red ass, winking. “Barn’s open, boys.”
Colt staggered up behind him, cock swinging, and with a wicked grin he actually neighed like a horse as he drove himself into Tommy Ray’s “big red barn.”
The table erupted with laughter even as Tommy Ray groaned and pushed back.
Joe didn’t wait—he pushed Gene against the wall and rammed into him, their bodies slapping loud enough to match the sounds from Colt and Tommy Ray’s bed.
The common room shook with moans, grunts, laughter, and the rhythm of fucking until they collapsed in sweaty heaps, spent and breathless.
Still laughing, still hard, they stumbled down the hall to their separate rooms—Joe and Gene in one, Colt and Tommy Ray in another. Soon the bunkhouse was filled again with moans, beds creaking, voices rising in pleasure.
Hours later, the other ranch hands came back from town, drunk and empty-handed. As they stumbled down the hall, the sounds were impossible to miss: Gene pounding Joe in one room, Colt rutting Tommy Ray in the other.
One of the bar-hoppers shook his head and muttered, “Guess it pays to be gay. Men are always up for fucking.”
The hall erupted in laughter, even from the ones still moaning behind closed doors.
No comments:
Post a Comment