Me Too


“Just have the desk call when you want us to come back and pick you up, Mr. Grabowski.” The chauffeur of the black Lincoln Navigator with the tinted windows was pulling an expensive-looking leather suitcase out of the back of the SUV. The man he’d opened the back door of the vehicle for was standing, looking up at the Grand Tetons looming to the east over Carter’s Ranch, an exclusive Idaho dude ranch near Grays Lake and nudged into the folds of the Caribou National Forest.

The man, who was movie star handsome and well built, probably in his forties, but very well taken care of, looked familiar to me, but the name “Grabowski” didn’t ring any bells. He was expensively dressed, already taking on the theme of a Western dude ranch, but his clothes were hardly broken in—just another dude from one of the coasts. There was a sadness, a slight nervousness, to his aspect, though, as he looked up to the mountains. It wasn’t clear that he had heard the driver.

But then Boyce Carter himself was marching over to the cabin from the main house, his hand extended and a welcoming smile on his face. It was clear that this new arrival was someone important, which was saying something, because all of the guests of the ranch were someone important, someone seeking privacy and retreat and able to pay for it. The ranch was the height of discretion about its guests. It also had an extensive medical staff. The ranch was a retreat for those recovering from any of a full range of medical and psychological ailments they wished to keep out of the public purview.

“Mr. Grabowski . . . you’ve arrived. Welcome to Carter’s Ranch. I hope you had a pleasant journey.” Carter had hesitated on the name. He went on to give the man the customary introductory spiel on the ranch and what it had to offer, while Grabowski himself continued to look up at the mountains with a remote, guarded expression on his face.

In the middle of the dissertation, Carter addressed me, saying, “Take Mr. Grabowski’s bags into the cabin, Mike,” and I did so, not hearing anything else that Carter had to say to the new arrival. I did the usual checking that the two-room cabin was ready and the drapes opened on the windows as Carter brought Grabowski to the door and they parted there. The guest came inside and stood there, looking at me. His expression seemed a bit more engaged then it had been outside, and he seemed to be looking me over really well. When I moved away from the window next to the bed, he went there, as I was checking out the bathroom, and looked up at the mountains again. When I came out of the bathroom, he turned and gave me a smile.

“I think the cabin is in order, Sir, I said. If you need anything, call reception on the phone there by the bed or out on the table next to the sofa in the living room.”

“Thank you . . . Mike, is it?”

“Yes sir.”

“If I call, will you be the one who responds?” he asked.

“Most likely, if I’m on duty,” I answered. I did it in a straightforward voice. I knew what he was suggesting. This was a dude ranch that would provide those services.

“I do hope to see you around the ranch, Mike.”

“I’m sure you will, Sir. Those of us in the bunkhouse do a little of everything around the ranch.”

“Are you part of the permanent staff or just here for the summer?” he asked. “You look quite young to be working full time.”

“I’m here for the summer. Ben Carter, from the family of the ranch owners, is my uncle. This is a summer job for me. I’m studying at the University of Colorado, in Boulder.” I edged my way toward the cabin’s front door. It was time to move along. One of our rules was not to become too familiar with the guests—unless they said they wanted us to. If they wanted us too, we were instructed to fall into whatever they wanted. This was an exclusive, full-service dude ranch. The dude was right about everything, even if it was demanding or kinky.

“If you need anything, just give the front desk a call,” I repeated, stepping over to the door.

“And you’ll come for me?” he asked. His smile was a bit lopsided. I think he was making sure how I would take that double entendre. We’d been here before—him wanting it to be me who responded to his calls. He wanted more of an affirmation from me.

“If I’m the one on duty, I’ll come right over. If I’m not and I’m the one you want, just tell them and they’ll track me down,” I said. Then I slid out of the cabin. I didn’t know for sure if he was signaling to me or not. If so, I was sure he’d do it again. He looked like I wouldn’t mind taking him.

As I was coming off the cabin’s porch, the ranch overseer, Spurs Smith, was walking up from the big barn. His first name was Stanley, but you’d get a beat down if you tried calling him that, rather than Spurs. He was a tall, thin, leathery cowboy with a weather-beaten, not unhandsome face, in his late thirties. He showed out to be the model of what a cowboy should look and dress like. That no doubt was a big reason he had the position he did Ankara escort here at the ranch. If you weren’t good-looking, interesting to talk to, flexible, and looked the part of a rugged cowboy, you didn’t get a job here. On the other hand, He had few words and spoke in a low drawl, bringing to mind a rattlesnake to those who were supervised by him here. He ruled the bunkhouse with an iron fist.

“You managed to escape the cabin after Trident’s arrival,” he said to me, as he came up and placed a possessive hand on my arm. So much was conveyed in the gesture.

“Trident?” I said, but then it hit me why the man had looked familiar. Spurs didn’t have to explain, but he did anyway.

“He’s here as Peter Grabowski,” Spurs said, “but he’s that TV star, Trent Trident, whose hit show has been canceled because he’s been swept up that MeToo sexual abuse movement in movies and politics for hitting on young men. He’s hiding out here, hoping he can ride it out. You’ve heard about that, haven’t you?”

Yes of course I had. And I started reviewing my encounter with him in the cabin for more blatant meanings than I’d given them credit to have.

“If he wants you to lay down for him, you will, of course.”

“Of course. I understand,” I responded

“Come back to the barn with me,” Spurs said, squeezing my arm with his strong hand. “I want to show you something.”

I knew exactly what he wanted to show me in the barn. When Spurs wanted me to lay down for him, I laid down for him.

* * * *

“I saw the looks Trident gave you. It’s got to be a mental illness with him, and he can’t help himself. You know we could make some hay out of that.”

Speaking of hay, that was where we were, in a hayloft. I’d followed Spurs into the barn and then up the ladder to the hayloft, where bales of the stuff were scattered about. Our shirts had gone down on top of one of the bales, and Spurs had bent me over the bale, covered me from above and behind, mounted me, and fucked me. It had been almost clinical. Sort of like he thought, it’s the time of the day I’ll fuck the kid. Just “getting your rocks off” exercise for him. A way to keep in shape, although there was the extra thrill of fucking one of the “family.” I’d known that was what he would do when I followed him into the barn. Spurs did what he wanted, and he’d determined that I’d help him with his daily exercises and take cock before he agreed to me getting this job. He had that much power here at the ranch, even though I was an extended family member of the Carters who owned the place.

After we’d both come, we lay there, him still on top of me, still inside me, as we concentrated on him going flaccid, neither sure whether there would be seconds, and he whispered in my ear what he’d been thinking while he was fucking me. With Spurs, it was always about the angle that would benefit him.

We? I wondered. “What do you mean?” was what I asked.

“This guy is loaded and vulnerable. He’ll pay for silence. He’s already done that. Over $100,000, I’ve heard. He was only outed because someone who saw him assault the young guy blabbed about it. The victim—like the other guy’s Trident has spiked—was too starstruck to making an accusation on his own. With all that’s going about with the MeToo movement, the story got traction. It had more impact when he was first fingered for man-on-man. That’s gotten his film projects to toss him out, but the authorities are after him and he couldn’t afford another case coming up. You could be that case that comes up. I saw the way he looked at you before you went into the cabin. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d jumped your bones there in the cabin. Did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” I answered.

“He didn’t even make a pass at you?”

“I didn’t really notice that he was interested in me.” I wouldn’t mention the possible “come for me” double entendre to Spurs.

But, then, was saying I hadn’t gotten the idea he was interested in me the same as saying I had no hint he’d have such an interest in me? Can I say now that I know he was in retreat on charges that he’d drugged and fucked young men that there was nothing to seen? Well, upon reflection . . .

“Why would this be a windfall for me? If I stay out of his way, why would it involve me at all?” I asked.

“Well, we could make sure you didn’t stay out of his way. You don’t think he’s a sexy dude?”

“Yes, he is.”

“So, we dangle you in front of him. He acts. A good time is had by you both, and then he pays.”

“Where do you fit into this?” I felt dirty by the whole idea, but I wouldn’t argue that point with Spurs. Nobody wins by arguing with Spurs.

“I help set it up. I’m the witness who can confirm it happens. I’ll hit him up for a payoff. You can act like you don’t know about that at all, only that he’s taken advantage of you without permission and messed up your life. You get a little emotional over it, and I play the middle man. What he sees is me doing him a favor in convincing you Ankara escort bayan to take money rather than charging him. So, I benefit as well.”

“I don’t . . . I just don’t know.”

“It will be a piece of cake. You can think about it for a day or two. It will take me some time to set it up. We should be able to keep this away from the Carters so that it all goes down smoothly and we don’t get bounced from here. It’s really going to be easy. But we’ll work that out later. For now, you know what I want.”

Yes, I knew what he wanted. The first fuck might be matter-of-factly clinical, but the second one that led into was usually the result of a lust buildup. He could get heated up even while he was plotting a crime. There was no question what he wanted now, and I groaned and went limp, my arms dangling off the side of the hay bale, while Spurs took what he wanted.

Later, one of the other young ranch hands, Ken Taylor, came upon me staring off into space in the bunkhouse and sat down beside me.

“He’s been after you, hasn’t he?” Ken asked softly.

“No, I was here when he arrived and got him settled in his cabin, but he didn’t make any moves.”

I looked up at him when he didn’t answer and saw that he had a confused expression on. “Who do you mean?” I asked. I’d assumed he was talking about the TV star who was referring to himself as Grabowski, but I could see now that he probably wasn’t. I hadn’t had anyone but the actor in mind since Spurs revealed his plan—our plan, he said—to fleece the man, to take advantage of his vulnerability.

“Spurs. I see that he’s done what he can do to get you alone. He’s a predator. He’s done that to me too.”

“Oh, him,” I answered. Yes, he had, as Ken put it, “been after me.” But I’d known that went with getting this job. And he was good at it—better the second time. He had a really good body, and he was satisfying on the repeat. Of course, everything was done by his control. “I can manage him, thanks.”

“OK, but just so you know, he’s doing this to others as well. If it gets to be too much for you and you need backup in going to Old Man Carter, let me know.”

“Thanks, Ken,” I said, genuinely glad of his support but still with most of my thoughts going to the actor Trent Trident, registered here as Peter Grabowski.

* * * *

“You know I’m not really Peter Grabowski . . . well, I am. That’s my legal name. But it’s not my movie name.”

Spurs had called me up to the bar in the ranch’s club room, where he was serving as bartender that evening. I rarely helped out in the bar, but Spurs had told me they were shorthanded and that he needed me. As far as I could see, they weren’t shorthanded. There seemed to be more ranch hands in the bar than guest and only the guests had privileges in the club room. The hired help was there to serve whatever needs the guests decided they had. That often was staving off loneliness here on the ranch.

“Yes, I recognized you, Mr. Trident,” I said. I hadn’t. I’d had to be told who he was, but I figured it would flatter him if he thought I had recognized him, and it seemed to do that.

“Call me Trent,” he said, putting a hand on the forearm I had pressing on the top of the bar. “The reason I told you is so you’d know I wasn’t shitting you when I said you could be a model or an actor—if you’ve got talent. And I could help you with that. To be honest, it’s more learning the moves than talent anyway.” He moved his barstool a little closer to me. Spurs was on the other side of the bar, watching us like a hawk. I knew he wanted me to respond to Trident if he was making a pass. I knew now that they weren’t shorthanded in the club room tonight—that Spurs wanted me here to set Trident up.

The actor had been drinking before I got here and was quite comfortable with life.

“Here, it doesn’t look busy tonight. Have a drink with me,” he said.

“I really can’t, I’m sorry, Mr. . . . Trent. I’m on duty and I’m not really old enough to be drinking in a bar either. The ranch could lose its liquor license.”

“Really? Not old enough? How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” I answered. He looked please.

And that’s when Spurs intervened. “You can have one with Mr. Grabowski,” Spurs said. “Let’s keep the guests happy. I’ll pour a weak one.”

“Well, OK,” I answered, reluctantly. This was going just the way Spurs wanted it to go. I caught the wink Spurs gave Trident, like he was telling the man the drink wouldn’t be that weak—that he’d get me drunk if that’s what Trident wanted. For all I know Spurs would slip me a Mickey if that was what Trident wanted—one of the things he was being charged with was drugging his victims.

So, I got a drink and a dissertation on breaking into Hollywood. When I said I wasn’t at all interested in acting but was, in fact, studying lighting and staging design at Boulder, Trident deftly switched to being able to help me with that. “But I think you’re missing the boat by not at least considering modeling and Escort Ankara acting. You’ve got the body and face for it. I bet you drive the girls wild.”

“I think Mike’s interests go in another direction,” Spurs murmured, presumably sotto voce for only Trident to hear, and gave the man a wink. He turned away to help another bar patron, but he’d clearly gotten the message across to the actor, who looked quite interested. He placed his hand on my forearm again and left it there. I made no effort to move away from it.

I supposedly was distracted when Trident tipped a bit of powder into my drink, but both I and Spurs had seen that. Spurs drew the actor’s attention elsewhere long enough to exchange my drink. He leaned into me and muttered, “Pretend like it’s taking effect and leave. He’ll come after you and I won’t be far behind.”

A bit later, I passed a hand over my face and said it had been a taxing day and I thought I should get to bed early—that I didn’t feel too hot. Both Trident and Spurs clucked their sympathy and agreed with me.

The bunkhouse was beyond the guest cabins from the main house, where the club room was. Trident caught up with me before we got to the guest rooms.

“You OK, Mike? You’re just shuffling along. Maybe you shouldn’t have had that second drink.”

I had had only one drink and hadn’t finished that. But I suppose if I were wobbly from being drugged, I wouldn’t be fully aware of how many I’d had. Chances were good that he wanted to know whether I still was enough in control to remember I’d only had the one.

“Yeah, maybe I should have stuck with one. I feel a little dizzy,” I answered.

“Here, let me help you to the bunkhouse. Put your arm around my neck.”

I did so, but he didn’t guide me to the bunkhouse. He stopped short of that, taking me into his cabin. He let me fall into a sofa and said, “Sit here. I’ll get you something that will help.”

What he gave me to drink may have helped him; it certainly didn’t help me. I had been quick enough to think that he’d drug me a second time, and I didn’t drink it all when I realized it was spiked, but I’d had enough to slow me down.

He came down on the sofa and touched me, just on the thigh at first, but when I didn’t flinch or move away, he touched me on the cheek and then on one of my nipples, through my shirt, and then, when I didn’t recoil, he put a hand on my basket and left it there.

He whispered to me how nice I was and how he wanted to be good to me. I let him touch me intimately some more and didn’t pull away when he kissed me on the neck and then on the lips. I didn’t pull away from any of it. Even without Spurs’s scheme, I would have been expected to let a guest have this if he—or she—managed to get me alone like this.

“Are you going to let me have it, Mike?” he whispered. He was rubbing my crotch with two fingers.

“Have what?” I asked, slurring my words, knowing that I was supposed to be more than a little out of it here. I didn’t like the idea that this fell into the shakedown plan Spurs had, but I kept thinking what Mr. Carter would want me to do if there was no Spurs plan. Carter would want me to let the man lay me—and to let him lay me as he enjoyed to. This obviously was a fetish of his.

“You going to let me lay on top of you, Mike? Cover you? You going to let me lay you? You going to resist what I think you want to do with me?”

“No. I mean yes. Shit, I mean I think you are sexy, Mr. Trident.”

“You OK with me doing this, Mike?”

He unzipped me, fished around through the slit in my briefs and gave my cock air. I was half hard already. He stroked me fully hard with his hand while he opened my lips with his tongue. I hadn’t answered his question, but he had assumed that my cock spoke for me.

When he pulled me up from the sofa, I expected him to take me into the bedroom—and I would have let him—but he didn’t. Instead, he guided me out the back of his cabin and into a patch of cottonwoods by the stream that ran through the ranch’s living compound, allowing it to have vegetation. He lay me down beside the stream, undressed me, kissing what he uncovered. He undressed as well. He was well-built and was hung as a bull—and in full erection. He spent considerable time running his hands over me—everywhere. And then he was good to me.

“I’m going to put it in you, Mike. I’m going to fuck you. You going to let me? I’m very good at it. You going to be OK with that? Say yes, Mike, and remember that you did.”

“Yes,” I answered, making my voice sound groggy, so there would be some leeway to say I was too drugged to say no, if it came to that.

He turned me on my back, our clothes bunched up and under my hips, and knelt between my thighs. He kissed me on the lips—deeply—and pressed my head to the sandy soil with one hand palmed on my brow, while the other one was working my cock and balls and penetrating me with his fingers, opening me up. I groaned as he moved his dick in place, grasped my hips in his hands, and entered me, but I raised my pelvis to him to give him full access. He took that for assent, which it was, and went in deep, withdrew, and then went in deep again. I moaned as he settled into place and set up a rhythm.

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