The heat fell over the valley like a soaked blanket.
Inside the saloon, the air was thick—saturated with cheap whiskey, stale sweat, and the heavy thud of boots on wooden floorboards. Cards slapped against tables, glasses clinked.
Cody didn’t move.
Back resting against the bar, arms crossed, he watched.
Hat pulled low over his eyes, he chewed on a piece of straw. Broad-shouldered, his arms streaked with dust and veins, he radiated that kind of masculinity that made you look away… or forced you to hold his gaze.
And tonight, someone dared to look back.
The man in the back, leaning against a beam. Younger. A sharp jawline, unshaven. A dirty white tank top clinging to a chest built to take hits. And that stare.
Raw. Shameless. Like a hand down the pants before it’s even time.
Cody smirked, raised his glass—slowly.
Their eyes locked like two chained dogs.
The tension already hummed. No words exchanged. No need. The code was older than time:
I see you. I know what you want. Come get it.
The other set down his beer, adjusted his belt, stepped forward.
Cody didn’t move.
But under his half-open shirt, his abs were already tight, ready. And in his jeans, something was knocking against the leather, eager to bite.
— “You got a problem, cowboy?” the other growled.
Cody chuckled low. He set down his glass and stood, tall and slow. He stepped in, chest to chest, breath to breath.
— “Yeah… I’ve got a nasty fuckin’ problem. And I think you’re just the man to fix it.”
The last shot still burns in their throats when Cody rises, slow, his boots thudding on the wooden floor. He holds out his hand—saying nothing. The other hesitates for a second, then grabs it. Firm grip. Silent. Like a promise.
They walk out under the dying neon buzz of the saloon, swallowed by the desert’s hot night. The horses wait, tied to the porch rail. Cody whistles low. A star slips across the sky. The other mounts up without a word, heart pounding as loud as the saddle beneath him.
They don’t speak. They ride. One ahead, one behind.
Across naked land, across fields of silence, across shadows stretched long beneath the moon.
When they reach the barn, the air is heavier. The hay smells like sun-soaked earth.
And both men have something in their jeans about to burst free.
The sharp slam of the wooden door behind them echoed like a promise. Barely swallowed by the shadows, they were already on each other—jaw to jaw, chest to chest, mouths open, spit against spit.
Cody shoved the other man against the stable wall, wedged between dusty saddles and the oiled leather of harnesses. The smell was animal, raw—hay, horse, sweat, and hot iron.
He growled as hands slipped under his shirt, gripping his obliques, sliding up to his solid pecs.
— “You’ve got some balls, kid…”
The reply came as a sharp bite to his neck, hard enough to leave a mark.
— “Shut up, old bull. This is what you came for, isn’t it?”
Cody grabbed him by the throat, just enough to send adrenaline surging. The younger man gasped, his hips already hunting for contact. Denim rasped against denim, two belts creaking with pent-up tension.
And when Cody yanked that buckle loose in one swift motion, the snap of leather cracked through the humid silence like a whip.
— “You’re hard like a bull before the ride,” he growled, voice deep, half-laughing.
He dropped to his knees in a single motion, pressing rough palms against the other’s tense thighs.
He opened the jeans. Slowly. Like drawing a weapon.
What he found down there wasn’t a revolver. It was something wilder. More dangerous.
A promise of war.
He looked up, smirking, his fingers tight around the base, eyes dark with want:
— “Hold on tight, cowboy. The rodeo’s about to begin.”
The sun dipped behind the hills, casting a golden glow inside the barn, suspended in the dust particles floating through the air.
Cody had approached him without a word. His presence alone was enough to raise the tension, as if the air grew heavier with every step he took. He still wore his hat, but his shirt had fallen, draped over his shoulder like shed skin.
He was glowing. With sweat, with dust, with that raw tension waiting to erupt.
The boy leaned against a wooden beam, hands shoulder-height, back arched, hips shamelessly offered.
He had taken off his t-shirt. The fabric lay crumpled on the ground.
His back was tight, striped with the marks of labor or lust—no one could tell anymore.
His abs dipped into a V beneath the slightly opened jeans, a white waistband half-pulled down, revealing the top of his ass—already damp, already trembling.
Cody came up behind him.
He didn’t touch. Not right away.
He looked.
Long and hard.
Then he placed his palm in the small of the boy’s back.
The boy flinched.
And that’s when the breathing changed.
Cody slipped two fingers under the waistband, tugged slowly.
Revealed.
Exposed.
— “You worked hard today,” he murmured, almost tender.
His hand slid upward, broad, calloused, warm. It traveled up to the shoulder blade.
Then came down hard, palm flat, in a dull, deliberate smack.
The boy gasped.
A fine haze of dust rose around them, mixing with sweat and heat.
His back arched more. Breathing quickened.
Cody pressed his clothed hips against him, just enough to make sure he felt it.
To make him know what was coming.
What he’d been waiting for, for days.
And what he wouldn’t be allowed to beg for.
Not yet.
He had shoved him without gentleness, back against the wooden wall, the rough boards scratching skin already slick with sweat.
The boy hadn’t resisted.
He wanted it. Bad.
And Cody knew it.
His palm slammed onto the still-heaving chest, sliding down in a rough caress along the twitching abs, down to the waistband of the soaked underwear.
— “Don’t pretend you’re shy now.”
A smile split the cowboy’s lips.
He could feel the power in his grip.
He loved that submission still trying to fight back—this mix of fear and craving, that look begging to be finished—but without mercy.
With one swift motion, he dropped his own pants, belt slapping the dusty floor.
His cock was out, hard, heavy, arrogant, pointed straight at those parted lips that hadn’t dared to move forward.
He didn’t wait.
His fingers hooked around the boy’s nape, pulled his head forward.
He guided.
He forced.
And he groaned as those warm lips finally closed around him.
— “Yeah… just like that…”
Cody let his head fall back, abs clenched, hips pushing slowly forward, imposing his rhythm.
The boy adjusted.
He wanted to please.
And fuck, he did.
That tongue worked him, swallowed, drooled.
Knees cracked under the strain.
Cody moved faster.
He planted both hands on either side of his head, trapping him against the wall.
His hips pounded—again, harder, rougher.
The sounds were obscene: wet slaps, gasps, filthy gulps.
And when he’d had enough, he pulled out in one sharp motion—his cock dripping, still pulsing.
He made him stand.
— “I’m gonna fuck you like you’ve never been fucked.”
And in the harsh light of the barn, his shadow cast on the wall looked like a rutting demon.
The ground scratched and burned bare skin, but Cody didn’t give a fuck.
He had shoved the boy to his knees in the hay, thighs spread wide, palms flat on the dirt like a dog trained to obey.
The position was perfect. Indecent. Irresistible.
Cody stepped back. Took a good look.
The arched back, shoulder blades sharp under the filtered light through the planks, that curve down to the ass—tight, tense, so fucking offered.
He’d never seen an ass speak to him like that.
He spat into his hand, more than once, slow and steady.
The other groaned, already ready, already trembling.
— “You can’t take it anymore, huh?”
He moved in, skin against skin, the swollen tip of his cock brushing the burning crease.
He rubbed—just enough to make him beg, just enough to hear that breath stutter.
Then he shoved in.
One thrust. Deep. Brutal. No warning.
A ragged cry tore the air, muffled by the arms crossed beneath his head.
The body stiffened—then gave in.
Cody growled, his sweat-slick chest pressed tight against the boy’s back.
He sank his teeth into his shoulder, left a red, brutal mark.
His hips started the rhythm.
— “You’re mine now.”
The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoed inside the barn.
Every thrust was hard, sharp, claiming.
With each movement, hay flew, hips twisted, breath quickened.
The boy held on as best he could, fingers clawing at the dirt, face wrecked by the sheer violence of pleasure.
— “Fuck, Cody… more…”
And Cody went harder.
He wanted to make him scream.
He wanted to make him cry.
He wanted to make him come without even touching himself.
And he was going to.
Cody’s hips kept slamming forward — hard, steady, merciless.
Each thrust sent the man on his knees shuddering, gasping, giving in just a little more.
His thighs trembled, his elbows faltered, but Cody held him there — tight, unyielding — fingers digging into his waist like fangs claiming their territory.
The wet, heavy sound of bodies meeting echoed through the barn. Raw. Wild. Primal.
“You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me, filthy little thing…”
He panted against the back of his neck, his breath hot enough to raise every hair along the boy’s spine.
No words came in return — just moans, broken gasps, silent pleas. The kind that spoke louder than anything else.
So Cody bit him.
Hard.
Right between the shoulder blades and the base of the neck, holding until skin gave way under pressure.
A mark. A seal. A promise.
He growled low in his throat and pulled back his hips, just enough to thrust deeper, harder.
“You’re gonna come for me. Like the good, well-trained stud you are.”
One hand slid under, found what it was looking for.
Hard. Soaked. Pulsing with need.
He wrapped his fingers around it and began to stroke — slow at first, then matching the rhythm of his own driving hips.“Let go. Come for me.”
The boy cried out. His back arched violently. His mouth fell open to the heat and the void.
And then it hit him — the release, the tremor, the shock of it tearing through his chest.
He came hard, spilling over the ground, his legs shaking from the force of it.
Cody didn’t stop.
Not yet.
His own climax rose sharp and fast. He gripped the boy’s hips, growled one last time—
And let go deep inside.
A beast’s snarl.
A conqueror’s cry.
He stayed there, shaking, chest pressed to his partner’s back, their skin slick and tangled, bound by sweat and heat and the aftershock of something wild.
They had collapsed onto each other, spent, still gasping, skin damp, muscles raw.
The boy lay on his back, arms spread wide like he’d been crucified on the old barn rug.
Cody, half-draped over him, rested his cheek against a chest still rising and falling too fast.
Nothing moved.
Even the horses behind the wooden divider seemed frozen, honoring the sacred silence.
Cody lifted his head, his rough beard grazing a still-hard nipple. He looked at him.
His eyes were distant, still lost in the afterglow — a mix of exhaustion and pride.
“You were good, cowboy…” he murmured with a crooked smile.
The boy let out a hoarse chuckle.
He couldn’t speak yet.
His throat was dry, his voice stuck somewhere between a cry and a moan.
Cody slowly sat up. He was naked, glorious, his sun-worn skin streaked with sweat and dust.
His abs still tense, his cock glistening between thick thighs.
He leaned forward, grabbed the boy’s crumpled shirt, and with a slow, deliberate motion, wiped the cum off his lower belly.
“You’re gonna smell like bull all night, kid.”
He gave him a firm slap on the thigh, stood up, and walked to open the barn door.
The evening air swept in — warm, dust-heavy, tinged with hay and heat.
The boy didn’t move. Not yet.
Just a dazed, blissed-out grin.
He was marked.
By the bite.
By the pleasure.
By Cody.
And he knew — this was only the beginning.
