Ranch workout

By SiliconDog 
3 parts
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• Latest update: 7 December. Next update: 21 December. (Submissions welcome.)

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Part 1

At the end of my freshman year I had a summer job at a farm not far from the university. Two days after I started in June, the owner sent me on an errand to pick up a motorcycle that a neighbor, Miguel, needed to have fixed. I drove my pickup to a small isolated ranch with a house that looked like it was falling apart, and a Winnebago mobile home pulled alongside. Lumber and other supplies were stacked neatly next to the house. I parked next to the house and saw in the heat a column of dust being whipped up by something big. Getting out of the air conditioned pickup, I heard the stamping of hooves and felt their vibration in the air and in my boots as I turned the corner of the barn and saw what was raising the dust.

In front of a broken fence, a bull was running back and forth, trying to throw off the man riding him. The man, wearing only jeans and army boots, had clamped himself onto the bull's bare back with his thighs. I walked very slowly around the barn towards them, for I had never seen any one like this guy before, ever. Through the dust I saw a brown-skinned giant of a man, whose huge chest muscles swelled like dinner plates around lats that swelled like wings out of his jeans that could have been spray-painted onto his thighs. He had close curly hair and a mustache over a trim beard; even from here, I thought his eyes were brown. He had to be damned near seven feet tall from the way he was wrapped around the bull, and as I watched with open mouth, he squeezed his thighs against the bull's rib cage. I watched his neck swell, tendons bulging from his jaw to his traps. The bull's sounds instantly changed from bellowing to a loan moan as it stopped, spun and fell to the ground, breath crushed from its ribs. The man instantly jumped clear and with cobra speed whipped out a length of chain that was wrapped around his jeans like a belt. Before the bull had a chance to recover, he snapped the chain around the bull's legs and tied them together. Over the gasping of the exhausted, beaten steer, I heard him mutter something in Spanish.

“I'll be with you in a sec, man!” He had noticed me for the first time. My head was foggy and I could feel my own heat in the basket of my jeans against the sweltering sun as I had enough brains to nod at him. He bent down to scoop the bound bull up into his arms and over his shoulder like a rug. I watched thick muscles swell and bunch against each other across his shoulders and down his back, sweat and dust glistening in the sun. Balancing the bull on his shoulder with one arm, he opened the door of the corral and carefully bent down to drop the bull inside, untying its legs as it lay trying to get its breath back. Shutting and locking the corral, he turned and walked towards me, calling “I'm Miguel” as he casually wrapped the thick chain back around his jeans. As he reached me, and towered over me I tried to keep my eyes under control, even when the primal smell of his sweat hit my nostrils, and my jeans tightened over my basket. Wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, we shook hands.

Up close and personal, I could feel the power of his muscles radiating out like heat from an open oven door. As I shook his hand, I could look up at his eyes (and at six three, I'm not used to that) and saw that they were brown and friendly. From his trim beard down to the top of his jeans, he was hairless and his jeans hung over broad hips that looked as hard as stone. My eyes were level with a neck above veined traps and shoulders that could be a yard wide, but maybe wider. “You came for my bike?” he asked? His voice had a little humor and I felt like blushing; he could probably tell what effect he was having on me.

We walked over around the barn to the Winnebago, as he thanked me for coming. He apologized for not being ready with the bike when I pulled up, “but that sonofabitch got out. Mean bastard, and I had to teach him some respect.” As we walked, he dusted himself off, bear paws of hands wiping the dirt off his arms with muscles that seemed to grind against each other for room under his smooth brown skin.

“I know how to handle mean bulls, but this I can't fix” Miguel said as he lifted the tarp over an older Harley. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

“Great bike” I said, feeling some confidence coming back that my voice wouldn't squeak like a mouse. “I'll pull the pickup around—” He reached down to grab the Harley's frame with both hands, picking up the motorcycle in his arms. The big bike swayed only slightly in his arms as, leaning back to balance their combined weight, he walked back to my pickup. I felt my fingers numb as I dropped the pickup's gate and he gently, firmly handled the cycle onto the truck, his biceps and shoulders twisting around the hot motorcycle like steel cables under a layer of sweat. When I turned from locking the pickup gate, I saw that his jeans had split their seams in his legs, tears running from above the knee to just below his basket. His thighs swelled out of the jeans, widening the tears in them as he walked. “God damn!” he muttered, following my eyes down to his jeans. He ran thick fingers along the hairless hard muscles that swelled through the split legs. “Come on into my place for a sec, and I'll change.”

In the Winnebago, he said he was going to duck into the shower to wash off. “Help yourself to the something cold, man, while I wash off.”

Looking around the small but tidy cabin, I tried to find signs of how he worked out. But there were no weights lying around, no empty boxes of supplements. It looked like a mobile home with an office, a small Apple computer on a desk.

I opened the fridge, and pulled out a diet coke. Hearing water running, I walked back to the living area, where there were pictures on the wall. His family, mostly. I looked at a picture of what must have been his skinny brother as a kid, standing in a backyard squinting into the camera lens, a grandmother or aunt standing next to him with her hand on his thin shoulder protectively. Another was one of Miguel himself, taken some years ago, wearing a football uniform! If he handled bulls like they were stray dogs, I wondered why he hadn't gone pro or to college?

I hadn't heard the water turn off, so I was surprised when I heard him enter the room, wearing only a towel and a broad smile. He stretched to the ceiling, and his shoulders swelled like overgrown bowling balls into arms that, even relaxed at his side, displayed defined power. The towel hung low around broad hips, and I could see his pubic hair starting just above the towel. Inside his towel, I could tell his thick cock bounced slowly under its weight in front of thighs that rubbed against each other.

Silently and calmly, he reached around with one hand behind my neck, as our lips touched and then clamped against each other. I felt the warm thick fingers of his other hand unbutton my jeans and belt. Unable to wrap my arms around him, my hands ran up and down the iron plates of his pecs. All across his body, everywhere his skin too tight over his muscles to pinch, my hands ran over his frame. His cock swelled up against my abs, knocking his towel to the floor. I felt his asscheeks, broad and hard and warm as oak.

In one stroke though he crouched down, pulling my jeans and underwear down with them. Stumbling, I tried to kick my jeans off and strip off my T-shirt at the same time as in one stroke I felt my cock being taken up to the balls, my big dick vanishing easily down his throat. With the first deep squeeze on my cock I felt my strength drain away down his throat as I felt myself lifted into the air. Ducking to keep from hitting the ceiling, he carried me back to the back of the Winnebago, which was only a simple broad platform mattress. His beard scratched itself against my pubic hair as I felt his thick, confident fingers circling and teasing my asshole. I stretched my jaw wide and wider, but every time I was about to get all of his head into my mouth, he moaned and his cock swelled even wider against my lips. I gave up and ran my lips and tongue up and down the veins of his oaken cock. I heard and felt him begin a low moan which turned into a roar against my cock. Over and over I felt him splash into my mouth which made me lose my control. As he sucked my cum his arms squeezed me even tighter and even when he finished coming and swallowed the last of my load, it was like being wrapped in two sweating steel girders. I awoke later that afternoon to birds calling in the trees next to the Winnebago and the low snoring of Miguel, his massive chest purring slowly. I felt something so bizarre I had to wake him up.

He was so tightly wrapped around me that I took me a minute to be sure. I never wanted to stop this feeling but I had to say something.

“Miguel?” I whispered into his ear. “We're tipping over!”

“Shit, man, this happens sometimes.” With no awkwardness whatsoever, he poured his body out of the bed and towards the door.

Following, I reached down to my jeans when I felt his index and middle finger clamp around my wrist. “Hey, we're all boys here, so what's the problem?” He squeezed playfully with his two fingers for me to follow him but I could feel my hand begin to go numb from his pressure. We stepped down out of the Winnebago, me feeling the sweat of our lovemaking cooling on my chest, his pendulum of a cock swinging slowly between his hairless, huge thighs. The Winnebago had slid back and one of its wheels had rolled into a hole. “Always when I'm frisky” Miguel shyly said as he stepped behind the truck and bent down like a powerlifter to grab the rear bumper. With a sudden sharp intake of breath, he gave a long supreme moan, his feet sinking an inch into the hard dirt as he shoved against the Winnebago. After a second the mobile home rolled forward, Miguel carrying it forward like a wheelbarrow, the rear wheels in the air. With a creaking of metal, he carefully lowered the rear, and the car was back on level ground. Looking down at the bumper, I could see two palm-shaped indentations in the metal where he had squeezed it for a hold.

We sat and watched the sun start to set. I asked him, “Miguel, how did you build your body like that? I play football in college, and I know that you don't get that power naturally!”

“Oh yeah?” his eyebrows arched up. He leaned back, and I thought he acted like a man who didn't talk much about himself to strangers. “We used to live upstate when I was a kid, and I was very scrawny for my age. In school I was ragged on, teased a lot. When I started to get beaten up, my aunt took me aside one day. She said that her parents had taught her old recipes, herbal potions from the time they lived in Mexico, and that she had something to help me get some size and power. It sounded like Aztec voodoo to me, but I mean, I didn't have an older brother to protect me, and me being just about the only Latino in school as well, you take what help you can get, right?

“Well, after a month or so, I had this appetite for food that wouldn't go away. When I ate, I felt driven to run around or lift things, which made me even hungrier. It was like a cycle. Then I had to do even more, lift weights in the school gym. One day, when I was in the eighth grade, I was in the weight room by myself, and the high school football coach came by. He took one look at me, I think that was the day I broke 700 on my bench press, and the next day, I got bumped up into high school, and I got on the team.

Miguel made a face. “Even though I weighed three times as much, I still had a temper, though, from the time I kept getting beaten up.

I was so much stronger than everybody else on the team, they didn't try to teach me discipline or teamwork or anything like that, they just pointed me towards the quarterback and let me run.

One afternoon, another guy on the team in the locker room, I think he was jealous of me, made some joke about the “wetback hulk”. He paused. “What did John F. Kennedy say, don't get mad, get even? Back then I just knew how to get mad. I grabbed the guy by the throat, and lifted him up off the ground against the lockers with one hand, and grabbed his helmet with the other. I tucked his helmet under his jaw and crushed his helmet right under his chin until I was holding him up against the wall with his mashed helmet.

I told him if he heard “wetback” ever again, that the this wetback hulk was gonna do it again, only with his head inside!”

He paused again. “That was it for football. They graduated me in record time. You said you play football, too? he asked me. I told him that I played at the University. He looked at my body carefully. “What position?”

I had started the freshman year on the team just fine, but midway through I had stopped putting on weight. No matter how much I worked out, or ate, or ran, my body had hit a level and was staying there. Which wouldn't have been that bad except 1) it was too light for my position on the team, and 2) I was at the University on a football scholarship, which I could kiss good-bye if I stayed that way. My coach had a way with words. “You gotta put some meat on your bones, son, and fast” was what he said.

He looked at me levelly. “And you don't take any shit to pump yourself up?”

I shook my head. There was a lot of chemicals in the locker room, and just their names scared me.

I explained this to Miguel. He just nodded. Later, back in bed, I tried to roll him on top of me, but he would have none of it.

“When I get physical, really physical, it's like between me and that bull you saw me beat. I don't want to fuck you if I have to hold back, if I'm scared that I'll break some of your ribs or dislocate your shoulder or something. And I would split you in half because I'm too big for a guy like you to take without tearing your butt to shreds.”

“You don't have enough meat on your bones.” He used the same words as my coach on the team. But he rolled over towards me and I could feel him smile in the darkness.

“But maybe I can do something about that.”

Part 2

My first feeling the next morning was a warm hand slowly shaking my shoulder.

“Time to start earning your keep” I heard Miguel say in the pre-dawn darkness.

I tried to roll away from him, but an arm that was a brown steel girder of muscle curled around my body and I was lifted effortlessly out of his bed.

Miguel had proposed it all the night before. In exchange for helping him repair the ranch over the summer, he would work out with me, coaching me for football tryouts this fall. And I would find out how he had gotten as strong as he had. “Room and board” he smiled, adding that of course I could stay with him.

Naked, he walked into the small kitchen of his mobile home, and pulled a small jar out of the freezer. “Come over here”.

I walked over, curiously. Miguel grinned, and opened the jar to show me what was inside: it was a baby food jar with what looked like pasty grey overcooked Chinese food inside. Could he be joking? Could this stuff be what gave him the strength to wrestle steers? It probably smelled worse, and—His hand reached to my head, and I winced as his broad fingers clamped around my skull over my brush cut. With one hand holding my head, he dug into the jar and smeared some of the stuff two of his fingers. My head in a vise of his hand, he brought the stuff to my lips.

“Eat” he snarled. “You have to show me you deserve this” he said. “You're gonna do what I want your body to do now, because I'm your coach, your jefe, the boss. This is a gift, man, from hundreds of years ago! My feet were off the ground by then, and his dark eyes glittered. His cock was a hot steel pole that was rubbing against my six pack, leaking precum between my abs and dripping down into my basket.

I opened my mouth and he gently slid his fingers in. I locked my eyes with his and I sucked the what-the-hell-it-was into my mouth and swallowed. It tasted as good as it looked.

“Good” My feet were back on the ground. “Let's get dressed.”

“Getting dressed” consisted of jeans and work boots, period.

Miguel told me that he was hired to do repair work on the ranch, until the bank which had foreclosed on it could find a new owner. The buildings and land was in disrepair, and he had to clean it up and get the ranch in shape before the new owners could build. He had been doing this kind of work since high school, and he liked it. It kept him in shape, he explained.

I'm sure it did. A guy who could lift a Winnebago with enough power to dent the fender wouldn't find much in a gym to challenge him. And taming steers barehanded kept him in better shape anyway. We both walked around to the back of the barn where a junk heap of old wrecked cars and scrap metal lay in a tangled mess. “We gotta get this junk onto the truck” Miguel said, pointing to the flatbed truck parked alongside. “Wedge this stuff loose, and I'll get it up there.” Miguel walked the truck, and came back a second later, casually carrying what looked like an eight-foot length of railroad track with one hand. Shoving one end into the mess, he began to rip up the pile of metal scrap with the track. In the dawn I watched his shoulders swell around under his neck like two football helmets, and the veins of his biceps and triceps darkened. His basket swelled out against his levis and his back spread wide, pushing his shoulders even further away from his neck.

“What do I use?” I asked. How was I gonna keep up with this guy all summer?

That brought him up short for a second. He left the track stuck in the scrap heap, and rooted around for a moment. He pulled out what used to be a six-foot long, inch-thick crowbar, before it got bent into a U-shape. With both hands, he took one sharp breath and his forearms grew thick veins wrapped around pencil- sized tendons. The bar gave a sharp screech as Miguel straightened the it, the steel of his arms greater than the steel of the bar. I could smell a light sweat out of his armpits as he twisted the bar back straight. More or less straightened out, he casually handed one end to me. “Use this.”

And that was how the summer took off. Every morning, Miguel would wake me the same way: carrying me to the kitchen for the whatever-he-called-it, which he fed me himself. I never saw where he kept it or even how he made it. Then a full day of backbreaking work fixing up the ranch with Miguel, always wearing nothing but the jeans and boots. But even though it never tasted better, after a week I knew something was going on.

Even though I had worked out in the hot Texan sun for a full week, my skin didn't burn. In fact, my skin tanned golden brown all over my body, not only my torso but my legs and ass as well. I stopped shaving after three days when my beard dulled the razor blade; I grew a light beard which stopped growing after the week, even without me trying to trim it. My appetite had doubled; Miguel and I had breakfast and four meals a day, he cooking basic Mexican meals and me eating them as fast as I ever have in my life. When I finished I always wanted to go out back to work outside because of the pump the food gave me. Miguel gave me his old work jeans for me to wear, as well as old steel-toed boots.

It was after a full month, in July that my body took off, and I knew it in two ways. One way was when by accident I tried to put on my old jeans that I wore the first day I met Miguel, and felt the denim tear under my fingers as I couldn't even fit them over my thighs.

The second way I knew that I was growing came at night. After the day of brutal physical work, Miguel and I would shower (together, of course, “To save water, man” he told me, playfully). I would get in the shower first with Miguel getting in behind me. His massive bulk gliding into the stall, he would bend his knees, shove his cock between my legs, and gently lift me with his cock into his arms under the hot water. Our lovemaking started out awkward for two reasons: First, Miguel was twice my weight and he could have crushed me by accident. Not to mention his cock, whose head I couldn't even fit into my mouth. And Miguel himself was coated with his thick dark golden armor of muscle so that when I groped and massaged his pecs it was like rubbing warm unyielding, velvety granite. Only when I took my beard and ran it back and forth over his thick hairless nipples could I get any control over our lovemaking. I would start fast, feeling the pencil nubs of his nipples across my jaw and chin as I slowed, drawing it out as long as I dared, because if made Miguel lose control he could hurt me—badly. I felt really safe only when I felt his orange-sized balls let go, spraying me from my head down across my thighs. Then he would hold me in a bear hub, his come and sweat welding us together for the night. But the same day I found I couldn't even fit into my old jeans anymore was the night that on impulse I in one stroke took his cock into my mouth full for the first time, my hands almost reaching around his cock, squeezing its marble veins. He answered with his fingers massaging my asshole, easing in one and then two and then three fingers to find my prostate. When I dared to reach towards his hole with my own fingers he took my cock into his mouth down to the balls, wolfed both my balls into the oven of his mouth and took me over in one relentless stroke. I surrendered his cock in favor of his balls, feeling them under my lips as they pumped his load over my head and across my shoulders down to the small of my back. In the morning I decided not to wear anything that day except boots—there were no neighbors for miles around, and I wanted Miguel to see how my body had grown. “Man, I could go back to the football team today, Miguel!” I said as we walked towards a stack of two-by-fours. “I'm ready!”

Miguel just nodded and pointed towards a broad ax leaning against an oak stump. “Hand me that, man.” I picked it up, but even I needed both hands to hold it. He took it out of my hands with one of his paws, fixed me for a second with his dark eyes and took a breath. In a brown blur, his hands brought the ax around and down into the stump with an impact I felt in my boots and a loud crack that startled the steers in their pens. When Miguel stood back, I saw the ax buried in the stump over a foot deep, only the handle and a small sliver of steel showing above the wood.

“You give me back that ax, mi hombre, you're ready.”

Epilogue

It was later in August, the afternoon of a promised thunderstorm. The cattle were nervous, smelling the storm in the air, edging back and forth. We were finishing loading all the scrap into the dumpster, me breaking odd lengths of two by four over my knee before fitting them into the nearly full dumpster as Miguel carried over an old car engine in his arms to toss on top. From the skies there was a sharp crack of thunder, and a second later, a crack from the corral. One of the steer broke loose!

When I heard the sharp crack of wood breaking, I turned to see the steer break around me towards Miguel. Miguel had nowhere to go and the steer lunged towards him ready to gore him with his horns! I tore across the yard towards the steer and out of instinct tackled it like it was a linebacker. I knocked him off his feet out of Miguel's way and we both fell into the dust, me jumping up a split-second ahead of the bull. Forgetting Miguel, he swung his thick head towards me in a rage. I heard Miguel call my name distantly but I felt blood roaring in my ears as I jumped forward to grab the bull by his horns. I braced my legs as the bull's roaring doubled in volume, he trying to shake my hands off of his horns, and then, as my arms steadied and then pushed the steer down, his roaring giving way to exhausted gasps. The strength of its legs sapped, the bull collapsed into the dirt, its head and horns still held in my arms. With one heave, I flipped the bull around and down into the dust, where it lay spent.

Miguel and I smiled at each other for a long second. Then, I walked over to the stump and grabbed the ax handle. Bracing myself, I gave one long supreme heave and the oak around the ax began to crack and splinter. With one last rip, I pulled the ax out of its stump and offered Miguel the handle. He took the ax and put it down, then we gave each other a bear hug, my hands reaching for the first time around his torso, my blond short beard scraping over his dark thick beard.

“Get dressed. I'll drive.” Miguel said.

The next morning, I walked into my coach's office to say hello. Even though I was on the junior varsity team, I wanted to pay my respects. I asked him how his summer had gone.

He looked at my body under its t-shirt and jeans, then up at my head where my brush cut was threatening to graze the ceiling.

“Can you start next Saturday? he asked politely.

It was my first play on the varsity team. Two 300-pounders on the other team had tried to block me, and I had wrapped one arm around each of them, lifting them off their feet before dropping them to keep towards the quarterback, whose eyes watched me approach like a deer tracking the headlights of an approaching semitrailer. Remembering what Miguel said about temper, I reined myself in when I tackled him. Since a spooked quarterback is contagious, as I dropped him I reached with one hand and crushed the football in his hands, leaving him on the grass holding a broken balloon.

Trotting back towards the sidelines, tens of thousands of spectators roaring, I looked up and saw only one man.

Miguel, smiling.


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