O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

Nude Ranch (mm mc)

by Purplebootsgywr

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Buford woke up to a snug canopy of shade and a warm breeze. It only took him a moment to realize that the canopy of shade was his own cowboy hat, pulled over his eyes and resting upon his face. He slid the hat off and blinked against the bright sunlight. Buford found himself lying in the thick grass of one of the ranch's meadows. This one seemed to be the one just off of the riding trails. Buford sat up slightly and looked around. All of the cowboys were lying in the meadow. Some were leaned over toward one another, talking or laughing. Some were simply reclining, enjoying the momentary respite, hands behind their heads, feet crossed at the ankles, or toes rocking slowly back and forth. A handful of others were still sound asleep, their hats still down over their faces.

As Buford came fully awake, he realized that his right hand was not free. It was holding on to another hand. Buford knew he did not need to glance to his right to see whose hand it was. But he did anyway. There in the grass beside him was Amos, whose brilliant smile and bright eyes greeted him.

"Hey, sleepyhead."

"Hey, pardner."

"That was pretty intense, wasn't it?" Buford's mind flashed back. and he was once again trussed up in that stall, the brand upon his ass, overwhelmed by the most powerful orgasm he'd ever experienced. His body flinched slightly with the memory.

"Y-yeah...intense is a good word for it." Then, he rolled over onto his side to look at Amos directly. "What do you remember."

Amos blinked, finding that to be an odd question, but then he just smiled again. "I remember us all going to the stables, Bronson and Clem bringing out the branding irons, us all freaking out a bit, finding out the brands were just symbolic—like flashlights—then us turning our asses to them to get the secret fellowship brand of the ranch, coming like a national park geyser, then waking up here in the grass with you."

Buford thought for a minute. "Same here."

Amos rolled over onto his tummy. His eyes were filled with excitement. "God, wasn't it incredible? It's like now we're all part of some secret, special cowboy brotherhood. Buckaroos under the skin. In the flesh." Amos leaned over and began to nibble Buford's shoulder. "It's awesome."

Buford felt the rush of excitement as Amos made his way across his shoulder to Buford's neck. Buford tried to turn around to catch a glimpse of his backside, but couldn't turn with Amos all over him. He ran the palm of his hand across his rear, finding nothing beneath his hand but smooth college boy skin.

"It's like...it's like I can still feel it there," Buford said. "The brand, the mark it left."

Amos grinned. "Yeah, I know! Me, too! Even though there's nothing there. Not physically, anyway."

Buford smiled back at him. That pervasive frisky feeling was starting to come back. "Yeah? You sure?"

"I took the liberty of checking out your ass when you rolled over. Still looks good."

Buford was going to say something when the music caught his attention. More music? There were out in the middle of a meadow... Buford glanced around and spotted an old tree stump not far away, its side hollowed out to accommodate a speaker. Perish forbid the illusion be spoiled. He smirked, shook his head. There was such a thing as too much atmosphere.

"So what else do you feel?" Amos asked. "Besides invisible brands that aren't really there."

"I feel fantastic," Buford had to admit.

Buford stood, finding himself filled with an inexplicable energy, an excitement and enthusiasm he could neither define nor trace. He extended a hand to Amos to lift him to his feet as well. "Let's go somewhere more private," Buford suggested. "I wanna burn off this energy."

"Like anyone would care if we just went at it right here," Amos observed.

The idea struck Buford as less than crass, but before he could make a remark to that effect, one of the other naked cowboys caught his eye. Unlike all the others, he was wearing boots. Big rubber knee boots. The cowboy hat upon his head was of the cheaper, straw variety, and looked a bit beat-up. The bandana around his neck was a bright cornflower blue. The look on his face was one of slight confusion. He lay there in the thick grass, propped up on his elbows, just gazing around at the other boys. He seemed to be only dimly aware of where he was.

Buford studied the blond boy's face, and something felt wrong about him. Buford said to Amos, "Hey. That kid over there. That cowboy, isn't he—?"

"Jesse, yeah," Amos answered. "Man, him and his dumb rubber boots. Never without 'em. He's cute though, boots or no." Amos came up behind Buford, put his arms around him and begin to kiss his neck.

Buford still was distracted by the blond boy in the boots. Why did it seem that he didn't belong there? "Does it seem to you as if he doesn't belong here?"

"Hardly. You were just ogling him before the big branding session. We both were. What, you having memory lapses?"

"Yeah...," Buford mused. That sounded right. "We were watching him working by the stable."

"No one's allowed out by the stable," Amos said, as if on auto-replay. "Just the stable boy, or the ranch hands."

Buford raised an eyebrow. "Do we have a stable boy?"

"Nope." Amos kept kissing his friend's back, oblivious to that fact that he had just uttered nonsense. No one was allowed at the stables except someone who didn't exist. What the—?

This delay was making Buford's head hurt, and trying to decipher what it was about Jesse that seemed off was making it worse. Buford turned back to his pal. "Hey, let's get out of the meadow and get in some private time before our next activity. Sound good?"

Before Amos could agree, a familiar bell split the air. "Dinner time!" Amos smiled. "Blow out the candles, and let's eat!"

Everyone in the meadow mobilized, each naked cowboy leaping to his feet (those still snoozing were roused by the dinner bell) and racing out of the grassy field. A couple boys even helped up Jesse, who appeared to be still trying to process what that ringing sound was supposed to indicate. Amos was light on his feet and practically skipping out of the meadow, waving Buford on to join him. "C'mon, pard! Aren't you hungry??"

Buford looked up at the sky as the others raced past him. It was still light out, to be certain, but it did appear to be quite late in the afternoon. Even a city boy like Buford could tell that. But they had all gone to the stables shortly after lunch. How long had they been napping here? How long had they all been out?

Amos hollered again, now from many feet away, slowing his pace only slightly. "Come ON, man! Let's go, cowboy!"

Now that he thought of it, he was starving. Buford broke into a run after his friend.

 

Dinner was just as good as every other meal, this time with bar-b-q sandwiches and spare ribs, and all the sides a good cowboy could want. Everyone ate their fill and then joined Bronson out front as he hollered for everyone to line up, forming two rows. There was a small corral behind us, with old wooden posts with horsehoes nailed in place upon them. Dead-looking shrubs were nearby, making it all look like the quintessential cowboy dude ranch secen. Bronson had the young cowboys stand proudly before the fenced-in corral, below the sign declaring the Rod & Double-Circle Ranch. The tallest boys stood in back, Buford and ten others either squatted or went down on one knee in the front row. Amos squatted beside him, one arm affectionately around his pal's shoulders. Clem appeared to set down an old saddled at one end of the front row, a lasso draped over it, an old wooden barrel on the other end.

"Where's that digital, now?" Bronson asked. Sleazy Virgil appeared from the mess hall, holding a small silver camera. "This is your specialty, ain't it, Virg?" Bronson grinned.

"Ohhh, yeah," the other said. He held up the camera to get a group picture of the naked college cowboys, in all their glory.

Just a day ago, Buford would have been horrified to pose in such a way. Now, he was so amused by it all he was almost giddy. As in "giddy-up".

There was a brief flash from the camera, and Virgil showed the preview photo to Bronson, who nodded appreciatively. He looked to the group, smiling broadly, and said, "Not for the average brochure, a'course, but you'll all have a fine keepsake, if nuthin' else."

Most of the group laughed, Buford included. Then Bronson hollered for everyone to "git on up in there," and he waved for all present to line up for an old bus that had just rounded the corner and parked. He had everyone climb aboard, and the group was alive with anticipation to see what activity awaited them at the end of their bumpy ride.

"No campfire songs tonight?" asked Marshall, whose voice held a tinge of disappointment.

"Not tonight," Bronson said, hanging on to the poles at the head of the bus. Clem was driving, but there were only so many bumps and jerks he was able to avoid while driving across a dirt trail intended for horseback riding. "We got something better," Bronson assured them.

And so it was. The bus stopped at a barn that none of the college cowboys had seen before. It was on the far side of the ranch and had been specially prepared for this evening's amusements. As the barefoot boys hopped gleefully off the bus and scampered inside, the sun was beginning to set beyond the range, painting the sky with lavish streaks of pink and rose.

Inside, the barn was cleaned and polished, its hardwood floor smooth and flat. Tables peppered the far walls of the barn sporting bowls of punch and small plates of snacks. An old phonograph player sat on a sturdy wooden bench beside a contemporary portable CD player. Earl was finishing stringing up white decorative lights along the rafters, giving the entire room a magical feel.

"It's a barn dance!" Amos glowed. He instinctively took Buford by the hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

"It is indeed a barn dance," Bronson said. "Before we get started, we've got something for all you cowboys to make this hootenanny a bit more fun for everyone. Earl?"

"Now if you cowboys could all jest line up on over here, we'll get you suited up."

The group needed no further prompting. All 23 nude cowpokes made their way speedily to the far corner of the room where Earl awaited with a few large cardboard boxes and one small trunk. Although Jesse needed a bit of prompting to go in the right direction.

Earl provided for each naked cowboy first a big-buckled Western belt from the trunk, and then a pair of snug-fitting cowboy boots from one of the boxes. In short order, every one of the cowboys wore a belt (which looked pretty strange without pants to be held up) and had boots on his feet. Jesse received no cowboy boots, as Bronson commented, "Looks like you're the only one who don't need no footwear, huh, Jess?" Jesse offered a meager grin, but seemed rather disappointed that he wasn't provided with a pair of cowboy boots like everyone else.

Earl went to the back of the barn to oversee the music while Bronson took his place at the head of the room. "Now, let's get ever'one all lined up, six fellers across, four rows deep," Bronson instructed.

Amos's eyes lit up. "Line dancing! We're gonna get to line dance!"

"Thet you are," Bronson confirmed.

"B-but I don't know how to line dance," Buford admitted, embarrassed. A few other cowboys agreed, nodding their heads and adding their "me neither's to Buford's voiced concern.

"Don't any of you worry about that," Bronson assured them. "Cause I'm a-gonna teach you."

As Earl prepared the music, and Bronson taught the boys how to hook their thumbs into their belts, how to step to the music. In short order, Bronson talked the young cowboys through kicks, side steps, chugs, and crosses. Buford was tripping over himself (he told himself it was due to wearing boots after having gone barefoot so long), but took heart when he saw that Amos, right beside him, was faring no better.

"What say we try our first dance, pards?" Bronson suggested. He'd only done two quick run-throughs, and his suggestion was met with loud protests from the barn floor. "Naw, none'a that now, hear? You're not goin' to perform on the tee-vee, or anything. You're here for some good, wholesome fun. Hit the music, maestro!" Earl put the needle on the record, and the scratchy tune filled the room.

As soon as the music began, all protests and concerns were forgotten. Buford, and everyone else, hooked his thumbs into his belt and began to move in time to the music. And move expertly well.

Buford found himself muttering his newly-learned steps under his breath. " ...right heel touches out...right foot steps back together...touch left toe behind right foot...bring left foot back together...touch right toe behind left foot." He was amazed at how easily he was mastering this strange new choreography. He recalled taking one of the other student council members to the Homecoming dance, how he had crushed her toes with his complete inability to keep the rhythm even during a slow dance. If she could see him now...

"Dude!" Amos cried. "We're really doing this! We're dancin' like cowboys! Yee-HAW!"

"That's 'cause we ARE cowboys, pard!" Buford called back. "...bring right foot back together...cross left foot behind right putting weight on left foot...turn 1/4 turn to right putting weight down on right foot...chug with left foot...chug with left foot again...HA!"

The entire group was doing great, even Jesse, who seemed to find some comfort in the repetitive movements of line dancing. The cowboys were given quick lessons before the first set of songs, then set loose to add their own flourishes and stylings as they stepped to and fro. The naked cowboys were doing the Copperhead Road, the Cowboy Boogie, the Cowboy Stomp, and the Barn Dance Stomp before they knew it. And they were each one of them filled with an exuberance that came remarkably close to the rush they all felt while engaged in their sexual playtime.

The greasy Virgil appeared in the doorway before long, stroking himself to the sight of the many hot young college twinks in nothing but hats, boots, and belts, their dicks swinging freely as they moved, balls bouncing as they stomped the floorboards. The members of the Rod & Double-Circle were enjoying themselves so much that no one really took notice of the sleazy man hovering at the door. A few cowboys took their hands off their belts and yanked their dicks as they danced, never once losing time with the music. A couple cowboys, among them Lantry and Shane, sidled up beside one another and grabbed each other's dicks and yanked and tugged as they stepped and stomped. A good time was being had by all.

After the young cowboys had mastered the Electric Cowboy, the Honky Tonk Kick, and the Hors'n Around, the music was paused so the happy nude dancers could grab a snack and catch their breath. Most of whom felt ready to go several more sets, but Bronson insisted they take a moment to cool down.

Buford and Amos met at one of the many snack tables with a few of the other cowboys. Gilroy was stuffing sugar cookies into Hank's mouth, Marshall was pilfering pork rinds. As the boys knocked back fruit punch, Jesse clomped up to them in his big rubber boots. "Hey, fellas, some fun, huh?" Jesse seemed happy enough to be there, but his eyes didn't look quite right. Was he just tired from all the dancing? Buford eyed the young man's incredibly ripped body and thought that fatigue due to line dancing seemed unlikely.

"I'll say!" Amos beamed. He was truly having a great time. "Like my boots?" he said, sticking out his foot to admire the clodhoppers he'd been given.

"They're swell," Jesse smiled back. "Hey, mebbe tomorrah we kin git in some baseball. Maybe even a double-header, huh?"

Buford and Amos exchanged looks. There was neither the equipment nor any suitable locale on the ranch where they could play so much as a decent game of catch, muss less partake in America's favorite pastime.

"Umm...sure, Jesse," Buford said. "We just might." Jesse seemed satisfied with that and shuffled off to mingle with others, his big boots squeaking a bit against the hardwood floor.

Amos looked at Buford and made a strange face, indicating lunacy. "I think maybe cute Jesse might be a little touched by the moon."

Buford frowned, staring after the hunky boy in the rubber boots. If Buford had any thoughts on the matter, he kept his own counsel.

The music started up again and this time the young cowboys learned about couples dancing. They jumped right in with Kansas City 4-Corners, with the nude boys in pairs around the room. Jesse was kept in the middle of the last couple, as they were now an odd-numbered group. (Or had they always been that way, or at least since Buford's arrival? No one was quite sure, no one really cared.) Bronson taught the cowboys about cape position, where the man's right hand holds the "woman's" right hand just outside her right shoulder, and man's left hand holds the "woman's" left hand in front of his left shoulder. Buford took the traditional female position, with Amos promising to switch off for the next song. And away they went.

There was something about the couples dancing that affected the cowboys far more intensely than the standard singles line dancing. Holding onto one another in the couples fashion aroused many of the college boys, and most of them were rock hard in short order. To their credit, despite their fierce erections, they picked up the dance movements and kept time and pace perfectly.

They danced together to the Little Dogie Waltz, the Sidesaddle, and the Memphis Cross. Buford and Amos were not the tops in their class—that honor went to Hoss and Pervis—but they were loving every minute of the barn dance. They were hard, right along with the rest of the group, but there was something else that kept passing between them. An energy, a spark, an undeniable chemistry that was beyond the friendship, even the frisky one, that they had formed.

The dancing arrangement went back and forth between energetic singles lines and the more subdued couples dancing. The barn dance went on for about two hours. The last dance of the evening was a couples dance, to which the cowboys danced the Tennessee Waltz. They began in what was called the sweetheart position, and Buford and Amos had no argument with that. As they stepped forward, then forward again, then took their quarter turns, the duo could not deny what was rising within them. Amos pivoted on the ball of his foot, stepped forward, tap, tap, shuffled forward right...

"—AND left—" the two boys had spoken the step instruction aloud in unison. Their eyes met, and a distinct charge crossed the air between them. This was not mere attraction, this was not a reaction to the continued encouragement to come out of their sexual shells. This was something that transcended physical urges, that surpassed the exploration of one's comfort boundaries. This was something evanescent, indefinable, yet very, very real.

Amos licked his lips nervously as he locked eyes with Buford. In turn, Buford swallowed hard, staring back at Amos. They had stopped moving. Their fingers touched one another gently as they held their dancing postures and position. Amos smiled nervously.

"H-hi." Buford had never heard his friend stutter before.

"Hi yourself."

Amos gulped. "You—you're a really good dancer."

"You, too."

The music was interrupted by clapping, and at first the two boys thought that everyone in the room was applauding for them, perhaps in ridicule over their clumsy exchange. Then they realized that the dance had stopped, the music was done playing, and the entire group was simply applauding in courtesy for the fine affair they'd just enjoyed. Awkwardly, Buford and Amos joined in, though they still stole knowing glances at one another.

At the door, each cowboy shucked off his belt and surrendered his boots (all but Jesse, of course) and padded his way back out to the bus. A few cowboys even remarked that it felt good to be out of the boots, that even with the fun they'd had on the dance floor, it felt better to be barefoot.

For reasons they could not understand, Amos and Buford sat in seats across the aisle from one another. Buford was trying to sort out what that strange and powerful charge was that he felt between him and his new best pal while they danced together. He gazed out the window as they bumped and jostled along back toward their bunkhouse, seeing little more than shadows and silhouettes in the darkness.

There was one point of light that caught his eye as the bus began its journey. It was a porch light above a small wooden shack not far beyond the barn where they'd had their dance. A man lingered on the porch, backlit by the light behind him, obscuring his identity. He was stocky, with a roundish head underneath his cowboy hat. Buford did not recognize his shape. The man turned and entered the shack, its screen door closing behind him, and Buford was certain he saw something for which he was not prepared. The man was wearing clothes. Shirt, pants, boots. Unheard of here at this nude ranch. The porch light went out and all that was left to see was a darkened shadow in the shape of a shack. Then Buford saw a single light come on inside the shack, and the man appeared in its fluorescent glow behind a desk, taking his seat before what looked like a computer. But then the bus's journey took a turn down the trail and the scenery blocked Buford's view. What was that shack? Who was that man? And why did Buford feel as if he'd seen him before?

 

In the bunkhouse, the cowboys fell into their beds as they did previously, and were sound asleep the moment their heads hit the pillows. All but two. Buford rolled over on his cot, his head spinning with notions and his heart thumping in his chest. He whispered to the next bed over.

"Amos. You asleep?"

"No."

"Me neither."

"Figured that."

"We need to talk."

There was a pause, then Amos came back, "About what happened on the dance floor?"

"Well, yeah."

"Figured that, too."

Buford sat up. "Let's get out of here. Go somewhere where we won't be overheard."

Amos sat up. "Everyone's dead to the world in here. Who's gonna hear us?"

"Then let's go somewhere where we won't wake anyone up when I just plain lose it and start attacking you, then," Buford hissed back.

"Good idea."

Amos was on his feet with his hat on his head in an instant. The room was dark, but the duo knew they could navigate it together. Amos stopped Buford as he started down the center aisle of the bunkhouse. He pointed to Buford's cowboy hat, left behind on his bed post.

"Who gives a shit if I have my hat??" Buford whispered.

"Because you look too fucking cute in it," came the reply. Buford retrieved his hat and they began their careful trek out into the night.

As they tip-toed out of the bunkhouse, Buford noticed one of the other cowboys sacked out in bed. It was Jesse, fast asleep with his rubber boots still on, his tattered straw cowboy hat hung on the bedpost behind him. Something about the sight struck Buford as odd. Wasn't this bed supposed to be empty? On the foot of the bed was the name tag of its occupant. Only there had been another name there previously, Buford was certain of it. He hunched down and tried to read in the dim light what was written there. Sure enough, there had been a different name there, "Cletus". And it had been scratched out and in its place was written "Jesse".

Amos was at Buford's side at that moment. "What's the holdup?" he whispered frantically.

"Does this look odd to you?" Buford asked, pointing at the bed assignment.

Amos took Buford by the shoulder and pulled him toward the door. "Come on! Before we wake somebody up!"

The duo didn't make it all that far from their barracks. They didn't really need to. Buford and Amos lay in the thick grass near a willow tree, under the light of the moon and the stars. They opted to still keep their voices low, as they had no idea where the ranch heads bunked down for the night.

"Something happened out there on the dance floor tonight," Buford began. "Something passed between us. I now you felt it too."

"We both know that," Amos said. "Do we have to go through a 5,000-word essay trying to describe it?"

"Well what do you think we should do? How are we supposed to deal with thi—" Buford's philosophizing was cut off as Amos leaned forward and kissed him very tenderly on the lips.

"That'd be a good start," he offered.

Buford smiled, there in the darkness. "I agree." And he leaned up and kissed his friend back. There were no tongues, no groping, no grinding as they kissed. This was all soft and gentle, a moment of shared affection that went beyond the vulgarities of crude sex.

"That was nice," Buford said. "You realize that was the first time we kissed?"

Amos paused, realizing Buford was right. They had gone straight to sex, oral and anal, shortly after their first meeting. There had been nothing tender, no light embraces or loving words. This was the first time they had shared something more genuine than hungry intercourse. "Yeah, I guess this is our first kiss. How'd I do?"

"You're good," Buford grinned.

And the two kissed again. Still, there were no tongues, no overeager clutching and pawing. Two sets of young lips finding one another in the dark of night out in the country air. Quietly, their hands began to explore each other's bodies. Again, this was unlike anything they had experienced thus far on the ranch. Neither partner reached for the other's privates, or tried to finger his hole. Instead, gentle fingertips slid over the top of shoulders, caressed bare chests and backs. Fingers sought out and found one another and intertwined, with palms pressed together.

"Amos, I think I'm fallin' for you," Buford said at last.

"Don't talk," Amos said. "Just fall with me."

Amos kissed Buford on the forehead, Buford returned a kiss at the nape of Amos's neck. They embraced each other and held their soft, smooth bodies together and rolled upon the grass, legs entangling, laughter rising in their throats. Their loving interlude lasted the better part of an hour, perhaps longer, as it was difficult to gauge time so late at night. Buford and Amos ended up spooned together beneath the willow tree, enjoying the feel of their bodies pressed one upon the other. They lay their in silence for a while, hands clasped, heads tipped amorously together.

Finally, Buford spoke. "Listen," he said softly.

"What?" Amos said back. Neither young man moved.

"Just listen," Buford requested, a bit louder this time.

Amos paused, straining to hear, then realized that the silence was what he was meant to acknowledge.

"It' so quiet."

"Yeahhh...," Buford agreed. "No music, no soundtrack, no nothing. Just us."

The duo looked up at the speaker which sat mute in its mooring in the tree overhead. Amos snickered a bit. "No Hank Williams, no Dolly Parton..." He rolled over on top of his pal.

Buford reached up and stroked Amos's arms. "No Slim Whitman, no Gene Autrey..."

Amos smiled back broadly. "No voices telling you what to do..."

Buford's eyes came into sharp focus. "What?"

Amos looked back askance, uncertain what was suddenly the matter. "What's wrong, buddy?"

Buford sat up partway, placing his arms around his friend's torso. "No, what did you just say?"

Amos blinked. "I agreed that they must turn the music off at night. We were enjoying the peace and quiet."

Buford sat all the way up. "No, you said that there were no voices telling you what to do."

Amos looked a bit alarmed. "Did I say that?"

The two sat side by side, arms around each other, naked bodies held tightly together, looking up at the stars. But they had stopped kissing. The moment had passed. They took solace in knowing that what they had just experienced was real, and there would be many other moments like it to follow. In a little while, they got up and made their way back to the bunkhouse.

 

Buford and Amos padded lightly up to the doorway of the bunkhouse. They wanted to make certain that their return roused no one. They needn't have worried. There was no way anyone in the bunkhouse was going to be roused by anything.

"Holy shit...," Buford whispered.

"What the hell—?" Amos said.

Everyone in the room was lying flat on his back in bed, sound asleep. Hands neatly at his sides, legs together. Each bed's headboard had opened up on lowered down from them was a twin set of mechanical arms, covered in what looked like PVC or hard polymer plastic, ending in large circular plates that rested atop the bed's pillow, one plate on either side of each cowboy's sleeping head.

The interior sides of the extended arms were lit up with a pale blue illumination, and smaller lights along the length of the arms flashed rhythmically, in a pattern not unlike a heartbeat. Each of the naked cowboys in bed twitched and shivered as the light surrounding their heads pulsed and snapped, sending God only knew what kind of signals directly into their brains. The only unoccupied beds were those on the far end, designated for Amos and Buford, and the one at the opposite end of the bunkhouse, near the door, beside Jesse. Everyone else was under the thrall of the strange mechanical arms, which seemed better suited for a spaceship than a cowboy's barracks.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Amos whispered to Buford, his voice frantic.

"I have no idea," Buford answered. "But our fellow cowpokes are being fed some kind of information, or something, from those arm-things. What the hell are they doing?"

"Well, there's one way to find out," Amos said, leaning over toward the empty bunk closest to them, next to Jesse.

"Don't do that!" Buford said, snatching his friend back barely in time. Amos had only leaned his head in partially between the extended arms, just to listen in, but his eyelids were already fluttering, his breathing coming in odd, deep, rhythms.

"Are you out of your mind??" Buford snapped. "That's like sticking your hand into a garbage disposal to see if it's working!" Amos was still dazed, unfocused. Buford shook him. "Amos! Are you okay??"

Amos started to come around. "Yeah, yeah, I think so." He blinked, noticed he was getting hard. "Whatever that thing's saying, it feels really good."

"What was it saying? It's speaking words?" Buford asked. Amos shrugged. He couldn't remember.

Buford looked around the room and saw that all the other cowboys were noe sporting erections. Some were sleeping atop their blankets, their stiff members the most obvious, but even those under the covers had tented their blankets with their stiffening members. Buford signalled for Amos to squat down with him beside the empty bed before them. Taking care not to get too close, they leaned in and tried their best to discern what was being transmitted by the arms. They could make out only snatches, interspersed by the crackling and popping of the pulsing lights and strange signals.

[...slaveboy...zzttt-pop...always naked....cckkrrkkl...hat...bandana...kkrk...only]

Buford and Amos looked at one another, frightened, and strained to hear more.

[...no longer...person...zittz-zak...property...proud...to be owned...zllrtzz...]

Buford felt his heart pounding in his chest, could hear Amos's breathing grow ragged and panicked.

[...happy...so happy...obedient...zrrpkltt...sex drive...increased...snnrrkk...tenfold]

Amos looked at Buford, grasping him by the shoulder. "What the hell is going ON, man?!"

Buford waved his hand at Amos, shushing him. "I don't know. Wait...what was that? It said something about 'evening exercise regimen'. Did you hear that?"

Every cowboy in the room sat straight up. Buford and Amos stumbled back towards the door in panic. "It's like a zombie movie!" Amos yelped. "They're all gonna come get us and eat our brains!" Buford slapped a hand over his friend's mouth to silence him. The cowboys all stayed where they were for a moment. They seeme dnot to notice that two of their brethren were not in their beds. In fact, the naked hypnotized cowboys were staring straight ahead, apparently at nothing.

Then, in unison, they all got out of their beds at the same time. Each boy retrieved his cowboy hat and, robotically, moved toward each other.

And they started having sex.

Hungry, aggressive, oblivious-to-the-rest-of-the-world sex.

"What the Sam Hill—?" Amos said.

"You got me," Buford replied.

Pairing off, sometimes in threesomes, a few others in foursomes, the naked cowboys went at it. They fell to their knees and sucked dick. They bent over and took it up the ass. They grabbed their neighbor's butt and plowed him deep. They flopped upon the floor and 69-ed. They knelt behind their pals and licked their holes. All twenty-one hypnotized cowboys rimmed, rammed, fucked, sucked, grinded, and grunted. And they seeme dto have no clue whatever that Buford and Amos were not only among their number, but sat dumbfounded at the far end of the bunkhouse staring in awe.

"I don't get it," Amos said. "I just do not understand what we are witnessing here."

"I think I might, but I have no clue as to why," Buford announced.

Amos eyed him with anticipation. "Well, don't keep it to yourself, cowboy!"

"They're all," then he corrected himself, "WE'RE all being hypnotically trained to be cock-hungry, nudist cowboys. To be hungry for sex with each other, or, or maybe—" he looked to Amos. "With anybody."

"What the hell for?!!"

Buford shook his head. "I have no idea."

"Time to ride off into the sunset," Amos said, turning towards the door. There was a thump and Marshall, Rowdy, and another boy (it was hard to tell who in a dark room lit only by mind-control machines, Cooper? Vernon?) fell against the door, going at it fiercely, blocking the only way out.

"So much for sneaking out the way we came," Amos said, wearily.

"At least for the next few moments," Buford assured him. "How long can they keep going at it like this? I mean, look at 'em!"

Two and a half hours later, the score of nude cowboys stopped in their tracks and returned to their bunks. Amos and Buford had made their way over to the opposite end of the room, beside their own beds, which had the least amount of action and sexual turmoil going on.

"God almighty," Amos whined. "The freakin' Lord of the Rings trilogy didn't take this long."

"And they never stopped for a break," Buford said, amazed.

The entranced cowboys returned their hats on their bedposts and laid back down in their bunks, their heads nestled in the glowing plate-ends of the pulsating mechanical arms.

Amos and Buford rose to their feet when all seemed safe. They stood before their respective empty bunks, still overwhelmed by what they'd seen. Amos looked at Buford. "Now what?"

Buford had no idea what to say. This was one test the scholar had never dreamed he'd face, and for which he found himself woefully unprepared. He tried to listen to his heart, to go with some instinct that could potentially save them. He should have been listening to the sound that was still emitting from the mechanical arms upon both their beds.

[...enjoy sex...zzrrttz...servicing others....gay...cowboy...krrkkll...trigger...]

By the time he did, it was too late.

[...each time...ttzzppl...hear..."Yippee-ky-yay"...]

And that was that. Both Buford and Amos tumbled backwards into their respective bunks, effectively dead to the world. Had they been standing anywhere else and heard the trigger, they may have just fallen upon the floor and been out for a few hours. But it was their bad choice to stand at the foot of their own beds. Their heads hit the pillows with a thump and the pulsations of the preprogrammed robotic arms went to work on their conscious and subconscious minds immediately. Neither had even the time to consider resisting before they were deeply under.

All tension left Buford's body in an instant. He was dimly aware of having been greatly concerned about something only a second ago, but now it no longer seemed to matter. Now a soothing, compelling voice echoed into his ears along with the most comforting series of pulses and tones he could ever have imagined. Buford felt incredibly safe. He felt at peace. And he listened to the wonderful, kind, and caring voice.

Sleep now, little cowboy twink.
Sleep deeply, feel refreshed.
Feel how relaxed you are, how wonderfully calm.

Recognize how wonderful it feels to service others and be serviced by them.

Dimly, Buford tried to nod in agreement, but his head was too heavy to move.

Feel your entire body rest, free of tension. Spent yet invigorated.
Feel your bare feet, how every muscle there is soothed, and comfortable.

Buford felt as if he had just stepped in something soft, like sand, which covered his toes and feet in its warm granules. It felt good.

Yes, relax, enjoy, little cowboy twink. As that wonderful feeling rises up,
Up your legs, to your crotch, easing away all worries, all tension.
All unnecessary thought...

Buford saw himself lying out on the Western sands, on the lone prarie. Out in the wide open spaces, not fenced in. The warm, soothing sands around him rose up and coated his skin, covering his body in such a relaxing layer of peace and contentment.

Now the peaceful, soothing sensation rises further, up over your little cowboy penis...it has been so hard for so long, it can relax at last.

This part wasn't easy. The idea of being a naked cowboy made Buford so hard, so aroused. But slowly, easily, his erection began to fade, his member go limp. He knew he was just recharging, as the desert sands sifted over the top of him.

The tips of your fingers grow limp and languid, and the feeling creeps up your arms...the muscles of your taut cowboy arms are sapped of their strength.

Buford felt the cooling sands blow over his arms, which now felt limp, heavy, and ineffectual. He felt so at peace. In his imagination, a tumblweed rolled by, pushed by the Western wind.

Your bare chest and torso are so weighty and relaxed. Your proud cowboy heart beats within your bosom, so regular, so steady, so accepting and obediant.

And the sands covered Buford's chest, rose up to his chin, enveloping him in his new identity, in both the idea and inescapable reality of the man he was meant to be. The good little twink cowboy.

You feel the soft tie around your neck, its presence helping to remind you of your identity, your name, your purpose. But most of all, you are aware of your hat.

That Buford's hat had rolled off as he hit the bed mattered not at all. Nor did the fact that the other cowboys had hung their own hats up on their respective bed posts. Buford imagined the cowboy hat upon his head, and all that it represented. Absent or not, he could still feel it.

Your hat is part of who you are. You are a good twink cowboy. If you wear nothing else, you wear your hat. Feel it rest upon your brow, upon your mind, keeping you as you need to be. Easily aroused, easily motivated, easily controlled. You are a good twink cowboy.

Buford mouthed his response, as did every other mesmerized boy in the barracks. "...'m a goood...twinnk cowwboyyy..."

Fall deeper and deeper into your gay twink cowboy sleep. You will sleep until morning, your latest programming in place, your previous programming reinforced. When you awaken, you will feel as if you have had a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. And you will not remember any of the events after you had gone to bed.

Buford felt himself fall asleep. Lying there on the plains, a pillow or desert shrub as his pillow, a mound of heavy sand as his blanket, his hat weighing down upon his head, Buford had no choice but to slip into irresistible sleep. He would not remember the final automated induction the mechanical arms had used upon him. But the events that took place in the bunkhouse amongst all the other boys, he would never forget.

---

The following morning when the breakfast bell rang, Amos and Buford were up more quickly than anyone else in the bunkhouse. As the other cowboys were busy exchanging their usual morning pleasantries ("Man, my ass is sore," "Can't figure out why my mouth is always so dry first thing," "Knees're stiff," "Anyone else's dick ache?"), Buford and Amos exchanged knowing looks of concern. They had not intended to find themselves still stuck here come sunrise, but here they were indeed, as the other college cowpokes got up feeling rested—if sore—and ready for a new day of fun on the nude ranch.

In short order, the twenty-one cowboys were back in the hats and ties and striding out to the mess for morning chow. Buford and Amos lingered behind.

"Those machines came out of the headboards," Buford said.

Amos was already fingering the wood at the head of his bed, searching in vain for a sliding panel, a trick door, a hinge, anything. "It looks just like a big wooden slab, Byoof. I can't find anything."

"Me neither—whuuf!" Buford began, caught off guard when his pal tackled him. Amos had leapt right across his bed and landed atop Buford, bending him right his bunk, pressing them together dick-to-ass. "Amos! Jeez! Is this the best time—?" And then Buford saw that they were not alone.

Bronson was strolling down the center aisle of the bunkhouse, moving toward the two young cowboys. "Well! Thet's where you two got to. I counted two heads short in the mess."

"Man!" Amos beamed. "Can't resist this boy's farm-fresh country ass! Ain't he the cutest?"

Bronson shook his head. "He is at that, Amos. But you two gots to get some grub in you before you start in the day's activities." He plucked Buford's hat form the bedpost and plopped it on the lad's head. "Now pull outta yer pal and the two of you skedaddle off to the mess and eat up."

Buford tried to feign a look of regret. "Well, if we gotta."

The two cowboys scampered off, Bronson using his own cowboy hat to smack them on the ass and hurry them on their way. As the ran to breakfast, Buford gave Amos a look thanking him for his fast thinking.

 

At breakfast, Buford and Amos shoveled in their food, but more out of nervousness than hunger. "Nobody else is acting as if anything's wrong," Amos whispered.

"No one knows anything is," Buford replied. "What do you remember after our zombified pals finished their late-night exercises? After we saw them go back to bed—before they locked themselves back into those, you know, those—whatever they were?"

Amos paused. "Nothing. I don't remember anything. But, scariness aside, I do feel rested up."

"Me too," Buford agreed. "Which I'm pretty sure means that somehow or other we fell back into those bunks. And who knows what happened to us after that. Who knows what we did."

"I don't get it!" Amos said. "What's the point? Why hypnotize a bunch of college boys—incredibly hot, lithe young college boys though we may be—to be crazed little sex machines? Why do it??"

Buford shook his head, stuffing more cheese omelette into his mouth. "Maybe it's like they say it is. Therapy or the like. To help us be more...I dunno, outgoing and social."

"Dessert time!"

The cry came from Rowdy, the former frat boy, who had pushed aside the breakfast plate he'd just licked clean and grabbed Houston, who was seated nearby. Fork still in his hand from his last bites of pancakes, Houston found himself hoisted up off his chair and slammed down upon the breakfast table. Before the other cowboy could say anything, Rowdy had Houston's legs hiked up over his shoulders and was pounding his tight ass. The group around the room cheered, some applauding and whistling.

Buford looked back at Amos. "No, you're right. Something's up."

"In more ways than one," Amos agreed, watching Colton slug back his orange juice and then drop to his knees to begin servicing Forrest.

 

The first activity of the day was a quick-draw contest. Bronson and Clem brought the nude ranch-goers out to a corral and showed them the two trick guns each cowboy would get to use.

"These here are prop revolvers," Bronson said, holding up one of the guns. Clem held aloft the other.

"They work just like your shooting range weapons did," the truck and bus driver added. "'Cept they don't shoot bullets. Take a gander." Clem fired his weapon and a brilliant red flag popped out, along with a small spark and a puff of cap-gun smoke. Everyone laughed and hooted at the sight.

"This way," Clem explained unnecessarily, "when you fellers shoot it out, nobody gets his head blown off." More laughter.

"We'll just see whose the fastest on the draw, and we can start with...oh, let's say Marshall and Autrey," Bronson said, picking the boys at random. "Now, each gun is attuned to the other, so once one of 'em fires, the other can't until they're both reset. That's how we know for sure who's the quickest draw."

The two nude cowboys took their places some twenty feet apart, facing one another for their showdown. Clem and Bronson strapped gun belts to the boys and set their holsters against their right legs. "So, what does the winner get?" Marshall asked.

"You'll see soon enough," Marshall said. "You all just do what comes naturally."

Bronson and Clem skipped out of the line of fire and everyone around the corral grew quiet. The only sound was the constant stream of country music which had been playing over the ranch speakers since breakfast call. The two belted cowboys stared at each other with looks of good humor and horseplay, but then something came over their eyes. Both reached for his gun, but in a surprise to everyone, Autry's gun fired first. The flag popped up above its chamber, and it gave off the tiny spark and smoke.

Marshall took a step back, stunned as if he'd really been shot, then he dropped his gun. In an instant, Marshall ran toward the other boy. The onlookers feared at first that he was going to hit Autrey, but instead as soon as he was within five feet of him, Marshall threw himself to the sandy ground, and landed on his knees before his opponent. Marshall grabbed Autrey by the ass and started sucking his dick with a ravenous mouth.

Equally stunned by the turn of events, Autrey slowly put his hands in the air at first in surrender, but then clenched his fists in triumph and then all the other cowboys cheered and whistled.

"THAT'S what the winner gets," Bronson announced. "Who's' next?"

Everyone was raising hands and waving arms, anxious to try their hand at outdrawing, or outsucking the other guy. More wholesome dude ranch fun.

"Is it just me, or is everyone a little more...aggressive today?" Amos said to Buford, speaking quietly from the corner of his mouth. "It's like the heat's been turned up on everyone a few notches."

"You're right," Buford agreed. "The country music is more upbeat, faster paced, too. Even I feel it. Man, I am so...so fucking horny right now, I can barely stand still."

Amos let out a low breath. "I thought it was just me."

"We need to get to the bottom of this," Buford whispered back.

"Don't mention bottoms."

"And it's not just those beds, either. There's more to it than that."

"BUFORD!" Both boys looked up, alarmed, afraid they'd been caught conspiring. But Bronson was just pointing to the redheaded genius as his next participant. Another couple of boys were already engaged in eager cowboy fellatio in the corral. Buford and Amos had been so distracted with their discussion, they'd missed it. Buford blinked.

"Uh, me?"

"Yeah, get yourself on over here and take a gun. And hows'about you get joined by—hey, make it Amos! You two looked darn cute dancing the other night, and you were pretty much into each other this mornin', far as I could tell!" There were a few snide catcalls and "oooh"s at that from the other boys. "Both of you get here and face off."

"I'll try to resist this, whatever it is," Buford whispered.

"No promises here," Amos said.

Buford and Amos stood facing each other on the sand, getting their belts and holsters strapped on. Buford looked across at his raven-haired pal and felt himself growing incredibly hard. The sight of that triggered an erection in his opponent. Buford licked his lips, Amos readjusted his stance. Buford kept telling himself to fight this. Resist, resist, resist. I am not a puppet, I am not a plaything, I do not exist for the amusement of others he told himself.

Then a change came over him. He had to have Amos's lips upon his penis. This was not a want, it was a need. And he needed it NOW.

Buford drew his gun faster than anyone had yet, and Amos staggered at the sight of the little flag, spark, and smoke from his friend's gun. Amos had no knowledge of his dropping his own gun, racing toward Buford, or falling to his knees before him. His lips sucked hungrily at Buford's cock and Buford reached behind Amos's head and grasped him by the hair to keep his head pumping up and down on his rod.

Buford threw his head back and sighed. Ohh, yeessss. This felt so good, this felt so right. He was a gay twink cowboy. This is what gay twink cowboys do. His name was Buford and he was part of the Rod & Double-Circle Ranch. Yee-haw. Before he knew it, he was shooting what felt like buckets of cum down his new best friend's throat, which were swallowed up gratefully.

 

When Buford and Amos came to their senses, they were sitting on the ground with their backs up against the fencing surrounding the shootout corral. The event was still going on. By now the group was down to its last couple of shooters, and everyone else was engaged in blowjobs all around the corral. Buford spotted Jesse among the others, partly because he was part of the only threesome, helping Gilroy service Buck, and partly because his rubber boots made him stand out.

"What the hell just happened to us?" Amos asked. He too had little recollection of their salacious encounter after losing the quick-draw contest to Buford.

"We did what we were programmed to do," Buford answered. He looked around at everyone else. "So why are we the only ones who seem to notice something's wrong—or at least give a shit?"

"Speak for yourself," Amos said. "It's all I can do to keep from jumping your bones again."

"Aannnd that's a wrap," Bronson observed, looking over the corral. At this point all the nude cowboys were engaged in vigorous sex that made most of their previous encounters seem tame by comparison.

Buford noted that Bronson and Clem were conferring as they looked over the group with approval. As they duo's eyes fell upon Buford and Amos, they seemed either disappointed or possibly perturbed that the two were not also going at it. Buford grabbed Amos's shoulder. "Go ahead, dude. Jump me."

"What, you mean it?" Amos asked, clearly excited.

"Yes, yes, I mean it," Buford stressed. Amos needed no more nudging and was instantly straddling his friend and riding his cock. Buford had no trouble getting hard and in turn, Amos had no difficulty sliding Buford's member into his hole. "Oohhhhh GOD!" Buford cried, his head falling back to clunk against the fence rail.

Bronson and Clem stopped, watching Amos bounce happily upon his friend's stiff dick, and the two men nodded, then walked further away. Buford gazed around Amos's side, trying to keep the two ranch leaders in sight. It was not easy to remain focused, as all Buford wanted to do was surrender himself to the rush of feeling his friend speared upon him. Between Amos's cries of joy and his own moans of pleasure, Buford was able to pick out snatches of the ranch workers' conversation.

"Looks good to me."

"Gotta inform Mr. Vaughn." There was that name again...

"Yeah, success...even newcomer...ford...he's into it..."

"Still shy one...damn well...hurry on that..."

"They're responding beautifully..."

Buford was straining to keep from reaching climax and firing his load into Amos. He knew if he orgasmed, all thoughts of solving this mystery would be forgotten in an overflow of biochemical high.

"We've got to figure out what they're up to," Buford forced himself to say.

Amos was thrusting himself up and down atop Buford with vigor, his hands grasping Buford's shoulders for support. "Ohh, yeah! I love this detective stuff! We gotta make like the Hardy Boys more often! Man!"

Buford felt himself losing it to the overwhelming draw of sexual energy. Then he saw a new arrival on the scene. Virgil, the ranch sleaze. The greasy worker was already stroking himself as he watched the many twink cowboys enjoying their sexual adventures. But even with his hand upon himself, he was asking the other two workers something. Bronson and Clem listened to whatever it was Virgil was saying, or perhaps requesting. They did not seem amused by what he was asking. Virgil's pleas became more expansive as he spoke, waving his free arm to help make his point while his other kept yanking on his cock. Buford's curiosity was beginning to pull him out of his sexual haze.

Finally, the two ranch leaders made expressions of exasperation and concession, if not agreement. Buford caught a few words. "...really give a shit what you do..." Virgil seemed pleased. As the greasy, longhaired man moved toward of the center of the corral, he turned back to Bronson and Clem and made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger. He mimed turning a knob, as on a radio, counterclockwise. It was a pretty basic message. Turn it up. Bronson waved an arm that sent another clear message. Yeah, whatever...

Virgil dashed around the corral and begin saying something to select cowboys in the midst of play. Buford couldn't make out what it was he was saying, but he saw the effect it had on each of the cowboys. All of them, without exception, sprang up from what they were doing to join Virgil. Even if they were in the thick of their encounters and nearing climax, the stopped what they were doing and followed the greasy man's directions. How was he doing this? Buford watched as Virgil approached another pair of horny cowboys and strained to watch his mouth as he spoke. Buford read his lips. It seemed like nonsense at first, then Buford remembered the classic cowboy cry. He whispered to himself.

"Yippee-ky-yay."

Amos flopped forward, sound asleep, onto Buford's face. He was zonked, out like a light, as if he'd been struck with a bout of narcolepsy. Buford shook him. "Amos!" Then he smacked him on the face, just hard enough to rouse him, he hoped. Nothing. "Wake up already!"

And just like that, Amos was wide awake and pumping up and down again, as if he'd never broke stride. Buford stared at him, incredulous. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" Amos asked, gasping from his efforts.

"You just stopped," Buford told him. "As if you'd been shut off!"

"Your nuts, man," Amos said. "I never stopped pumping. Man, why would I?"

Buford knew then what had happened. Virgil was using a post-hypnotic trigger word, and by speaking it aloud, Buford had inadvertently used it too. On Amos. Buford was now mentally elsewhere. Though he remained hard as a rock, some part of him enjoying Amos's attentions, most of his focus was on Virgil and his collected entourage.

Virgil moved back to the open center of the corral, now with no less than six nude cowboys in two. Virgil went down on his knees and as soon as he touched the ground, the six cowboys were all over him, licking, sucking, playing. The sight of his fellow ranchers pouring forth such energy on the despicable man was sickening for Buford. Not as if they had much choice, he realized. And Buford was the only onlooker whose expression showed any measure of objection.

Then Virgil did something interesting. He reached up with both hands and brought them...to his ears. This was a hell of a time to worry about ear wax buildup, Buford thought. Then Virgil took his hands away from his ears, taking something with him. Ear plugs. What did he need ear plugs for? They weren't on the shooting range today. Then the next big clue.

The music being played cranked up in volume. Buford felt a new wave of pleasure wash over him, and Amos moaned louder. "Ohhhhh YEAH!"

Virgil's body trembled, and his eyelids fluttered as he let himself give in to the sexual barrage he was feeling from the half dozen boys all over him.

Buford's eyes shot up at one of the ranch speakers on the post above the corral entrance.

"The music...," Buford realized. "They're using the country music that plays all day."

Buford grasped Amos by the shoulders. "Come on, time to go."

Amos's eyes grew wide. "What, now?? Dude, I'm so close!"

"We have our first lead. We've got to follow it."

"The Hardy Boys suck!" Amos sneered. "I don't wanna be a boy detective. I wanna be a gay cow—owww—owboy—oohhhh, boy—!" Buford forcibly lifted Amos off of him, and Amos deliberately slid back down once more before allowing himself to be removed. That final stroke was all he needed, and he shot a fountain of cum all over Buford's bare chest.

Not losing a moment, Buford scooped up the splash cum onto his fingers and waved it in front of Amos's nose. "Want some boyjuice? You want some yummy jism, Amos? Come on, who wants a big nummy mouthful of goo? Who's a good gay cowboy? Commme on!"

Like a puppy going after a spoonful of peanut butter, Amos scampered along after Buford, licking his lips eagerly for the offering of his own semen. Buford looked around and realized to his relief that their departure would most likely not raise suspicions, as several other couples had begun peeling off and leaving the corral to continue their sexual escapades elsewhere. Buford hoped that no one else was bound for the specific locale that he had in mind.

In moments, the two had made it to a favorite rendezvous spot underneath the willow tree, Amos still sucking on Buford's fingers, trying to slurp up every drop. "Here we are," Buford said, as he stood at the base of the tree.

"Whu-why..why're we here?" Amos asked, licking the last off of Buford's fingers.

"Looking into these speakers," Buford said, climbing up the tree to get a closer look. "Try to see if you can spot any cables or wires coming from—hey! What's going on down there?"

"I'm licking your ass, man. Boy, you have a great ass."

Buford could tell that Amos was rapidly shifting his mind to one track. And if there was no way to distract him, Buford would soon join him. "Not that I don't appreciate what's going on down there...oohhhh, man do I ever...but I need your help!"

"Shure (lap lap), what do (lick, slurp) you need (lick lick)?"

"I'm trying to trace the speakers back to the source of the music. Wherever it is its being broadcast from." Being up close to the speakers as the music pumped out didn't help Buford's cause any. The music had a greater effect on him with his ears up next to the speakers. Buford felt himself not only begin to give in to Amos's attentions, but crave some shared attentions of his own. He could feel there was more to it than the feel of Amos's skilled tongue. Buford felt new waves of arousal and even lust wash over him. He'd wanted to search the willow tree's speaker first as its thick awning of leaves provided cover for his search. But he was not able to stay hidden long with the new sensations growing in both his head and his loins.

"Coming down," he warned Amos, and let himself drop to the soft grass. The two rolled together there, and Amos didn't lose a beat as he shifted from Buford's behind to licking his chest.

"How...how long had you been at the ranch before I arrived?" Buford asked him.

"Mmm...maybe a week, week and a half," Buford considered, going back quickly to his affectionate licking."

"That...that explains why I'm still able to resist this somewhat," Buford panted. "Having been exposed to everything only a couple days now." He looked at Amos, who moving rapidly down towards Buford's cock. "And why you're so much more...more...amorous."

Amos was already upon Buford's stiff rod and was, remarkably, still able to continue their conversation. "Mm-hmm. What'cha find?"

"Wires...from speaker," Buford gasped, "run down trunk of tree...into ground...then...OOOoohhh, yeah, RIGHT there...sorta sinks under the grass, into the dirt...aaaAAHhhhhh—!"

"So, mmmmm, what's the next stop?"

Buford clutched Amos's bare shoulders, threw his head back, curled and uncurled his toes. "The...the speaker in the stump...in the field...AHH!"

Buford tried to rise, but Amos gently but firmly pushed him back upon the grass. "What's the rush?"

"Good point," Buford agreed, and gave in to the pleasure.

 

It took far longer than Buford anticipated to visit the three other spots where he knew there were speakers visible, due to his and Amos's sexual pauses. But he found something out. "Each one of these speakers has wires that wind up submerged underground, and they're all going in the same direction."

Amos was dry humping his pal from behind, barely listening. "Yeah? That's interesting. What do we do now?"

"We move in that direction until we find where the music is coming from."

Amos threw his arms around Buford, hugging him tight. "No, I mean what do WE do now? Rim, ram, suck, fuck..."

Buford twisted around in Amos's grasp and grabbed his face, squeezing his cheeks. "We walk. Go."

They marched a good distance across the ranch, passing a variety of boys all having their way with one another, all appearing extremely happy with their morning pursuits. Before long they had made it quite a distance, winding up so far from their usual romping areas that the barn they'd used for their dance was in sight in the distance.

"We're not finding anything," Amos whined. "How about one more screw. Please, pardner. Just a quickie."

Buford was getting a headache. Literally, his brow was pounding as if it was ready to split. He was exhausted from both the fruitless search and fending off his friend's advances. "GodDAMN, Amos! We've done it at every spot, practically every inch of this search! How the hell can you still be horny??"

Amos was getting frustrated too, but for different reasons. "How can you not?" He stepped in front of Buford, blocking his path. "Dude, you are so hot. Your red hair, your freckles," he started running his hands over Buford's arms and chest again.

"Man, don't do it..."

"Your trim body, your smooth skin, your beautiful eyes, your sweet smile..."

"Amos, we need to get to the bottom of this." But Buford's skin was tingling at the contact. His dick was getting hard yet again.

"Your bottom is what I need to get to." Amos drew close to him. "I wasn't kidding the other night. I'm falling in love with you, buddy."

Buford was finding it difficult to breathe. "Me...me, too."

"And you are so fucking smart. God, just to see you figuring things out, trying to learn more, it only makes me hotter."

Buford stopped. "It does?"

"I'm imagining you in a library," Amos admitted. "You're buck naked, sitting at some dusty old table, surrounded by stack of books and notes, you're wearing horn-rimmed glasses, there's like...like a light bulb appearing over your head as you get some brilliant idea, some flash of insight. And man, I wanna jump you, spread you down across that table, sending books everywhere, and take you, right there."

Buford broke. He grabbed Amos by the wrists and threw him backwards, kissing him passionately, wanting him so bad he could barely stand it. His headache began to fade. Until the duo fell back against the boulder.

Amos's back impacted with a large gray stone directly behind them, Buford's weight fully on top of him. Buford couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the large rock before. But then, it was surrounded by tall grass and weeds. Buford's eyes popped. "Omigod! Amos, are you okay?"

"Amos looked up at him, still starry-eyed, still fine. "Yeah, I'm good. What did we hit, a pile of moss?"

Buford reached out and clutched at the boulder. It was far too soft to be normal rock. "Yeah, it does feel soft, like moss." Then he paused. "Or no, more like styrofoam! Move!"

Buford pushed his boyfriend aside and grabbed at the false stone, upending it. Amos was taken more aback by Buford's relentless investigating than by his actual discovery. "My boy the brain! God, you are so hot right now!" Amos started stroking himself, watching Buford as he revealed what was beneath the prop boulder.

"It's an iPod setup," he said. "And a pretty sophisticated one, at that." Buford fingered the many wires exiting the back of the speaker system into which the small music player was docked. He could easily spot close to a dozen outgoing cables, and that was just from one of multiple ports. There was another underneath, running into a protected plastic tube going directly into the ground, pointing back the way they came. The music listing on the iPod was for thousands of country/western songs and tunes, from classic to contemporary, set on a continuous loop. Despite the system's sophistication in camouflage and multiple speaker destinations, there was nothing unusual about the music player itself. The machine next to it was another story.

Next to the iPod contraption was a squat, white, rectangular box that vaguely resembled an alarm clock/radio. Beneath its clear plastic lid was a series of tape reels (five, or was it six? in plain sight) running in tandem. A minute yellow needle off to the right side ticked up and down, sending out small sparks against the ongoing tape reels. A red switch of some kind was minding the output and adjusting levels regularly. Buford had no idea what it was, nor what it was doing. Whatever it was, it was attached to the music playback, as a formidable gray cable jack connecting the two machines indicated.

"What the hell is that?" Amos asked. He squatted down next to Buford, and although he did not stop touching himself, his strokes did decrease in speed.

"I have no idea," Buford admitted.

Buford spotted a small pad attached to the side of the device, with dates and signatures that told of a daily check on the machine to verify its function. Smashing the damn thing to smithereens was not much of an option, if there could be another check on its operation at any time. Perhaps further study...

Buford reached for the gray connecter cable and gingerly unplugged it. Instantly, his headache was back, like a railroad spike through his skull, and Amos fell to his knees. A dull roar of white noise, like a thousand dull grapefruit knives, began slicing into the boys' brains. Words were not so much heard beating down upon them as felt in their marrow.

[- -WANT TO HAVE SEX AND LOTS OF SEX-!-INSATIABLY HUNGRY FOR BOYFLESH-!-HOT FOR NAKED TWINKS-!-FIND YOURSELF IN A STATE OF NEAR-CONSTANT AROUSAL-!-HORNY ALL THE TIME-!-YOU ARE A GAY NAKED COWBOY-!-NEVER WEAR CLOTHES AGAIN-!-YOUR COWBOY NAME IS YOUR ONLY NAME-!-YOU ARE OBEDIANT-!-YOU OFFER NO RESISTANCE- !-YOU REMEMBER YOUR TRIGGER-!-YOU RESPOND INSTANTLY TO YOUR TRIGGER-!-THIS IS YOUR LIFE-!-YOUR ONLY LIFE-!-YOU ARE PROPERTY-!-]

Buford forced the cable back into its outlet as quickly as he could, and clutched his head, his fingers pressing against his throbbing temples. He looked to see if Amos was okay, and saw his boyfriend upon his knees, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his head thrown back, his eyes rolled upward into his head, his erect cock spurting fountains of cum.

"Oh, Jesus! Amos!!" Buford was at his friend's side in an instant, holding him. Slowly, Amos began to come out of whatever deep trance state he'd been in, appearing no worse for the experience, save looking a bit spent. "Buddy, hon, you okay?"

Amos blinked. "...th-think so...what happened?"

"Just a guess," Buford answered, "but I think we just found out what it's like to be hit full-on by unfiltered, unmasked subliminals."

"Sublims?"

"Yeah, the country music that plays all day is saturated with it. It's how they enforce the bed-device's programs, I'll bet. Let's just hope that brief disconnect doesn't raise any alarms." They heard someone coming. "Oh, shit!" Buford gasped. Quickly, he covered the devices back up with the false rock and he grabbed Amos's hand. "Come on!"

The duo started running through the grass in hopes of evading whomever was approaching, but as they were in an open area with little cover or obstacles to block an onlooker's view, it seemed unlikely they'd get clear in time.

As Buford's heart raced, Amos grabbed him from behind and threw him to the ground. Before the scholar could tell what was happening, he found his legs slung over Amos's shoulders and felt his boyfriend enter him and begin pounding his ass.

"No! Amos, not now!"

Amos just started moaning loudly—even more loudly than usual—and Buford was horrified of them being seen. "Oohh, yeah, Byoof! That's it, man! Right there! Ride 'em, cowboy!!"

From across the way, Bronson and Earl approached at a casual pace, chatting together. "Gonna like wearing pants again, man. I'm tellin' ya."

"Yeah, you ain't kiddin'—whoops. Wide berth. Horny twinks at eleven o'clock."

Amos really let loose. "Come on! COME on! Take this buckaroo's rod! YeeHAW!"

The two ranch hands stepped up their pace and began to walk further away from the path they'd been taking, allowing extra distance from the two humping college boys. "Hardly need to give them room."

"Yeah, we could walk by them and pour a bucket of water on their heads at this point, wouldn't make 'em stop."

The two laughed at that, and kept going. As they got out of earshot. Amos stopped thrusting and let out a deep breath of relief. He looked own at Buford and whispered, "I think we're clear." He dismounted his boyfriend and hunkered down in the grass beside him.

"What the hell was that??" Buford asked.

"I knew we'd never get out of sight in time, and two nude cowboys takin' a stroll all the way out here might raise suspicions. But two nude cowboys fuckin' their mind-numbed brains out..."

Buford smiled. "And you think I'm the brilliant one."

"I may be more deeply programmed than you, but when I lose a chunk of time after you reach down for that weird machine, even I can force myself to collect my wits."

"Good man." The two lay in the grass on their bellies, side by side, spying on the departing duo. "They're not stopping to check the machines," Buford observed.

"With us going at it like that, they probably think they're working just fine," Amos opined.

"They're not going to the dance barn, either," Buford noted. "Where are they going?" The two ranch workers made their way to another building, farther away than the dance barn. It was one Buford had noticed before, following the big dance. The mysterious clothed man had gone inside. Set back into the woods, it was nearly impossible to spot. Buford realized that the only reason he'd seen it before was due to its illuminated porch light.

"That's their main office," Buford guessed. "It has to be."

"So we wait until they've left and then we sneak and have a look around?" Amos supposed.

Buford turned and looked at his new boyfriend. He stroked his hair, looking into those beautiful eyes, which only moments earlier had been rolled back into his skull, leaving him a mindless drone with no self control or identity. It made Buford furious.

"No. Screw their stupid office. Now, while the two main muscle thugs are way back here, we get back to the main ranch and we confront driver Clem, or welcome-desk-guy Gunther, or sleazy Virgil about what they've been doing. We gang up on them with the other cowboys, demand to know what's going on, and we get our clothes—and our lives back."

Amos nodded. "I'm in."

 

"If I'm right, by now, everyone should be heading over to the mess hall for lunch," Buford said. The two cowboys had made quick time and were almost back to the main ranch.

"And is that good or what?" Amos asked.

"It may be good. I want everyone together in a group when I blow the lid on this thing."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Amos said. "What's going on up here?"

There was ineed a group gathering up ahead. They were not headed to the mess hall. Instead the naked cowboys of the Rod & Double-Circle were converging on a scene of commotion surrounding a newcomer. A young man of about 22 had joined them, and he was not happy. However he had gotten there, he was struggling to escape, but was being held by Virgil and Gunther, from the welcome desk. The young man was shouting and raging against the men who had him by each arm, but his outcry of alarm was not what made him stand out the most. He was fully clothed.

The young man was relatively good-looking, though neither cute nor handsome. His hair was a muddy brown, and styled in a manner that indicated great expense. He was clad in khaki shorts that fell below his knees, and boasted large velcroed pockets. He wore a lime green polo shirt with an embroidered crest pattern upon the left breast. Gold Rolex. His shoes were penny loafers, very shiny, very new, over crisp white ankle socks. He could not have looked more out of place on the ranch. On any ranch, really, but especially here.

"Get OFF me, you fucking perverts! I'm getting the hell out of here, and I'm telling the police about you! See if I don't! Now let GO of me!!"

The nude cowboys gathered 'round, Buford and Amos still approaching from outside the crowd. This was something they were not used to seeing on the ranch. Stress, aggravation, resistance, fear. Concerned questions came ina deluge.

"What's going on?"

"Who's the new guy?"

"Gunther, where's Bronson?"

"Howcum he hasn't gotten his cowboy hat yet?"

"Fella, you okay?"

"Why're you holding him?"

"Pardner, you ought'a let him go."

Buford took Amos by the arm, halting their approach. "This could be our revolution," Buford said under his breath.

"I am going to sue your fucking asses off!" the restrained boy railed. Virgil struggled against the boy's flailing, but being the smallest of the ranch hands, was proving less than successful against the furious, frightened college lad.

"Where the hell's Earl?!" Virgil demanded, in search of the man's much-needed muscle.

"I think he's out to the stables, gettin' ready for tomorrah," Gunther said, trying to get a new grip on the boy. "He had to tend to it, now that Jesse's...you know...Fer Pete's sake, slow down, kid! No one's gonna hurt ya!"

"Clem?" Virgil asked

"Riding back with the truck—he's a half hour off yet! Dammitt, HOLD him!"

The nude cowboys did not like what they were seeing. They began to voice their opinions. "Gunther, you gotta let the poor guy go."

"For cryin' out loud, get off'a him."

"Jeez, can't you see he's scared?"

"Easy, fella, we're all friends here."

The two ranch hands exchanged worried looks, having no idea what to do next. The boy was a late arrival, one for whom they had not properly prepared. Now they were left with an outraged, self-important brat determined to not only get away, but tell the world of what he'd seen here. Luckily for the ranchers, the next move was not up to them.

"What in hell is going on here?!"

Into the scene strode another clothed individual. It was a man of round face and ruddy complexion. He was dressed in Western wear, from hat to boots, and walked across the sandy ground as if he owned the place. The man looked with disgust at Virgil and Gunther. "Why hasn't this one been properly processed? Why's he still dressed?"

"Sir, we didn't expect—" Virgil began, but the struggling boy cut him off.

"You the one in charge here?" the lad demanded.

"That's I am," the man confirmed, much to the confusion of the naked boys around him.

"Who's this guy?"

"Never seen him before."

"Thought Bronson ran things."

"Who ARE you, mister?"

The boy kicked up his feet, still trying to throw the ranch hands off him. It did little good. "Then you better let me get the hell out of this fetish hole and get your sick asses ready for a visit from the law. We're talking assault, possible kidnapping, and God knows what kind of pornography and endangerment charges—!" The boy's threats were cut short when the man grabbed him by the face and stared him down. The ruddy-faced man looked almost relaxed. He was chewing gum, and chewed like a cow as he looked the boy over.

"No, I don't think so," he said at last. Then, to the two ranch hands, "Hold him down."

The two ranchers both went down on one knee, bending the struggling college boy backward over their raised knees. He began to scream louder. He had no idea what was happening, but he knew enough to be frightened about it.

Buford watched what was going on, his heart racing as it climbed up into his throat. The clothed man looked around at the gathering of boys with a mixture of dispassion and disdain. An image flashed in Buford's mind. This man in silhouette, entering the cabin structure that night after the dance. Then another image. The man, upside down, perhaps in a large barn, surrounded in fog, speaking with a voice that came in a dull echo. "What about this one? The new kid?"

Buford hung onto Amos. "That's Vaughn!" he whispered.

"What?" Amos asked. "Who the hell is Vaughn?"

"He's the guy behind all this! I'm sure he is!"

The commotion surrounding the restrained new boy was escalating. "Who are you, sir?" "You can't hold someone here if he doesn't want to be here." "Man, can't you see he's scared?" "Let him go!" "Dude, there's way more of us than there are of you."

Vaughn raised his hands in a clearly false gesture of peace. "My young cowboys, calm yourselves. And let me just say this: Yippee-ky-yay."

Amos was still baffled by Buford's sudden rising panic. "What do you mean you've seen him before? I've been here longer than you and I'VE never seen him."

"No, I'm sure of it, he's—hold it!" Buford nudged Amos and the duo looked out upon the group. Something had changed.

The entire gathering of nude cowboys had fallen silent and now stood stock still, backs straight, arms at their sides, feet together, nearly at military attention. Their eyes were glazed, their expressions completely blank. A few couples, who had been holding hands, continued to do so, but their faces indicated they had no idea they were doing so.

"My God, he used the trigger word," Buford whispered. "We didn't hear from back here because we were arguing."

Amos swallowed hard. "You have my attention," he whispered back.

Buford snatched his boyfriend's hand and stood stiffly. "Act like everyone else." Amos needed no further prodding. The two young men pretended to be under Vaughn's control.

Vaugh spoke calmly and pointedly to the nude cowboys gathered around him. Some of them nodded, accepting whatever he told them. Within another few moments, the entire first dozen of the disrobed crowd began to smile brightly and, moving naturally, closed in on the new kid.

Vaughn signalled to Virgil and Gunther. "Let him go."

No sooner had the adult ranch hands released the newcomer than the naked cowboy lads gripped him from all sides. "What are you doing?" he cried. "I'm serious, you can't do this! Let me go! Please!" Naked boys held him by the arms, the torso, the legs, even held tight to the sides of his head. Vaughn watched with dead eyes, as one might observe a lawn sprinkler to make sure it was working properly.

"Get them clothes off him," Vaughn told the cowboys.

Instantly, multiple hands were pulling and tugging at the boy's wardrobe. His shoes were pulled off and tossed aside, soon joined by his socks. Three or four hands undid his leather belt and yanked it free of the pant loops, then more hands pulled his pants down while others yanked his shirt upwards.

"God, no!" the boy shrieked. "Who ARE you people?"

The nude cowboys ran into some problem pulling the shirt up over the boy's head while others held his arms and head, not wanting to let go of him for even a moment.

"Just shred it," Vaughn said, still chewing. "It's not like he's gonna need it."

"Hey, yeah!" "Good thinking, mister!" "Here, let me!" The shirt was discarded rags in moments. He was stripped to his boxer briefs in no time.

All bluster was gone from the new boy as his bare feet clawed and scraped against the ground. "Please, just let me go, I won't tell anyone, I swear. Let me go home. You can do what you want here, I don't care."

"Oh we will," Vaughn said. He spit out his gum onto the ground, a sticky gray wad still slick with his saliva. "And you won't care." Then he looked at the smiling cowboys happily holding their prisoner. "Lose the shorts."

As the lad's underwear was torn from him, he wept out loud. Tears streamed from his face and he was no longer pleading, he'd been reduced to keening. The mind-numbed cowboy drones tried to reassure him.

"It'll be okay, feller." "You'll be one of us." "Gonna be part of the ranch." "You're gonna love it."

Buford was trying not to pee himself. He held tighter to Amos's hand, watching all the other cowboys looking on, smiling, exchanging happy comments of anticipation about their new brother. "Try to smile," Buford urged his boyfriend.

Amos squeezed his hand back. "I'll try. But it won't be easy."

The boy was shaking as if twisted back and forth in his captors' hands, trying to squirm free. He was whimpering, elbows poking, knees jerking.

"Hold him good and tight, cowboys," Vaughn said.

"Yessir," they smiled back. "We got 'im."

Vaughn leaned in close to the terrified boy's face. "What's your name, son?"

He merely whimpered, turning his head away, or attempted to, with the others' holding his head as they did.

Vaughn took him by the face and turned him back towards him. "Open you eyes, son." Then, more forcefully, "Look at me." The boy did. "Now, tell me your name."

"I-it's Steven," he wept. "I'm Steven Vanderuess—" But Vaughn but him off.

"Last name don't matter." Vaughn spit on the ground and reached into his pocket for something. Buford and Amos tensed, not having any idea what it could be. It was a small pen light, like the kind used during a doctor's exam. He shone it in the boy's eyes. "Look at the light, Steven. Just relax and look at the light. No one's going to hurt you."

"I-I want to go h-home..."

"The light will take you home, Steven. Just look at the light, now. It makes your eyes see little blurry dots, doesn't it? They're fun to watch as they dance and swerve. But look at the light, Steven."

"This is awesome," one of the boys said.

"Thet's one cool light," said another.

"Quiet! All of you," Vaughn snapped, and it was as if their vocal chords had been disconnected. Everyone still appeared happy, but they all fell silent.

"Listen to my voice, Steven," Vaughn continued. The boy shook his head. He didn't want to. "Yes, Steven, listen. Listen closely, listen very well." Vaughn's voice, while still cruel and cold, had taken on a slightly more soothing tone. Steven was beginning to pay attention to it.

"Listen to me and listen to the music." Steven's eyes darted about, and it was clear that he was registering the country music playing for the first time. "Yes, that's right, Steven. There's music playing. Fun music. Good old, down-home, friendly music. Listen to it, and you'll find that it makes you feel more relaxed, more welcome." Steven's resistance began to wane. His struggles grew less insistent. The music, which had been playing more upbeat, hillbilly tunes, had shifted to more subdued country ballads. Buford noted that Virgil had vanished, and concluded that he had ducked into the front desk area to adjust the play list.

"Sounds good, doesn't it, Steven?" Steven nodded, slowly. "Listen to that. Nice, easy rhythm, fine twang to it, pretty voices."

"...pretty voices...," Steven agreed, his voice sounding far away. His eyes were now locked on Vaughn's pen light.

Buford held tight to Amos's hand. He whispered fearfully to his lover. "Jesus."

"You keep listening to the music, Steven and you keep watching the light. Breathe regularly, breathe deeply, Steven. Nice and steady, in and out, Steven. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That's the way, Steven. Just keep breathing, keep listening, keep watching, and everything'll be alright." Vaughn kept repeating the boy's name over and over to build a bond, a connection with him, to more easily draw him into trance. It was a classic brainwashing technique.

"These nice fellows around you are going to set your feet down upon the sand, Steven. Feel them setting you down now. You can tell how gentle they are, how much they care about you, Steven. How much they want to make sure you're safe. You feel that, don't you, Steven?" Steven nodded. Yes, he could feel that.

Steven's bare feet sank slightly into the soft ground and, against all his ability to resist, he flexed his toes in the loose granules and felt it begin to relax him.

"It feels good to rest your feet in the soft ground, Steven. You can feel that it's so nice and soft. That's the ground of the open prairie, of the cowboy, Steven. And you're standing on that ground, feeling it relax you more and more."

Steven was hardly standing on his own. It was accurate to say that he was being leaned backward and his feet just happened to be resting upon the ground. But the implication, the induction, was working on the young man's perceptions.

"Feel the warm, soothing, soft, soft sandy ground ease all the tension from your feet, then take away all the stress and stiffness from your ankles, your lowers legs, Steven. It feels good to allow yourself to relax, doesn't it?"

Some part of Steven's eyes still bore an expression of fear. His cheeks were still stained with his tears, but he nodded his head ever so slightly, in agreement. He wanted to be able to relax, he wanted to feel safe.

"Now feel that warm, comforting summer wind on your skin, Steven. Feel it blow so gently against your legs now." Vaughn waved a few of the boys away and they stepped to the side, still holding tight to the new boy, but allowing the breeze full accress to brush against him. "Oh, that feels so good, Steven. So nice, so warming so pleasant. It's good to let your bare skin feel the summer wind, to be free of the confines of your clothes, Steven. To relax and be safe, out here in the country."

Steven's legs twitched a bit, as they would while he fell asleep. His eyelids fluttered, some of the fear draining away, replaced by an increasingly blank expression.

"That wind carries the nice old-fashioned music towards you, Steven. And that warm, wonderful breeze rushes sweetly up your torso, across your arms, Steven. Helps you breathe deeply, regularly, taking in that fine, clean country air. It glides tenderly over your shoulders, Steven, taking away the tension and rigidity. Your whole body rests limply and calmly here in the air of this safe, soothing, summertime ranch, Steven. Thaaat's the way."

Steven's body had gown limp, his eyelids closed. The boys who held him lessened their grips and now supported him carefully rather than grasped him tightly. Steven's breathing became deeper, more regular. His toes flopped inward toward one another, his fingers dangled limply. Vaughn lifted his right hand and began to snap angrily at Gunther, who nodded and ran off toward the welcome area.

"Just listen to the music, Steven, enjoy the relaxing feeling of the warm ranch breeze, the dry air taking away all your tension, the fine freedom from your constrictive clothing removing your worries. It feels so good to be here, Steven. To be in the country, to be serenaded by country music's greats. To be naked."

Steven's body seemed almost to liquefy, and he now resembled a rag doll in the hands of the many nude cowboys. Vaughn licked his lips, temporarily distracted in his detailed induction, gazing almost hungrily at the helpless, naked young man. But he continued, knowing what was at stake.

"You can feel the relaxing feeling of that country breeze move up past your shoulders, Steven. It's brushing gently and lovingly against your neck now. Feel it, Steven, as it washes over your face, taking away all your stress, all your fear, all your hesitation. It leaves only trust, Steven. Trust, and understanding, and acceptance, and happiness, Steven. You want to be happy, don't you?" Steven tried to nod, but his head was too heavy. Gunther cam running back out of the building and Vaughn waved his hand at him angrily.

"The soothing, fresh country breeze takes away more than your worry now. It takes away all sense of anywhere else you need to be, of anything else you once thought of doing. Most of all, it takes away your name. Your name is gone now, and you still feel relaxed, you still feel that it's all okay."

Steven's head twitched slightly, as if he were beginning to dream, and having a dream that was not entirely pleasant. Vaughn hurriedly took from Gunther what the ranch had brought outside. A cowboy hat and a bolo tie.

"That's all we had left," he whispered to the ruddy-faced man.

"They'll do fine," Vaughn hissed back, pushing the helper aside.

"But the breeze now brings you your very own hat," and he set the rust-colored felt hat upon Steven's sleeping brow. "Your own cowboy hat, an dit feels so good upon your head. It feels right. You can sense right away that it belongs there. It is part of you, and part of who you are. It makes you feel so at ease and so very, very safe."

Some of the tension left Steven's face, but he still appeared to be trying to fight this experience from somewhere deep inside him. Vaughn drew up close to the boy's face. "And best of all, this new hat has brought you a name. Your very own name. Your cowboy name. And that makes you feel so much better. It makes you feel that you belong." Steven began to slump forward a bit, the last bits of stress leaving his arms and legs.

Vaughn looked about him, trying to arrive at a cowboy name that had no yet been used by the 23 present, nor the ranch hands. It was vitally important that each boy have his own name, his own new identity. Vaughn was blanking on the names set aside for the original twenty-fourth applicant. He spotted something protruding from the front pocket of Virgil's soiled plaid sleeveless shirt, reached over and yanked it out. Virgil flinched a bit. Vaughn saw that it was a pack of cigarettes. He tossed the small box back at Virgil, bouncing off the greasy little man.

"Listen closely, now. Your name is Winston. You are a naked cowboy and your name is Winston. Do you understand, Winston?"

The hypnotized boy slurredback his answer so quietly it was barely audible. "...mmy naahmme...'s Winston..."

"That's good. You're doing very, very good, Winston. And what are you, Winston?"

"...mmm naked...cowboyyy..."

"That is so very good that you know that, Winston. It makes you feel so good, so relaxed, and so safe to know your name, to know who you are, doesn't it, Winston?"

The boy who had formerly been Steven smiled. He tried to nod, again with little success. "...uh-uhhh..."

Vaughn felt his own confidence return in full as he reached forward and tied the bolo string tie around the helpless lad's throat. "Yes it does, Winston. And you are so relaxed right now. You are relaxed and naked and on a cowboy ranch, and that's just where you need to be, enjoying yourself out here with the other naked cowboys."

And Vaughn took a step back, adding his final touch. "And that's not all you are, Winston. Being a naked young cowboy, you get to enjoy something else, too." All Vaughn did was nod, and the boys gathered around Winston who had been holding him up began to touch him. First two of the boys started at his feet, his legs, and massaged and caressed his skin, feeling them up and down, gently and lovingly.

"You can feel the touch of your fellow cowboys, Winston, and it feels soooo good. It feels good, and it feels natural, and it feels right, Winston."

The lad was in no position to argue. He moaned softly to himself as the othe rboys around him joined in. "And you can feel them touch and care for your legs, for your rear, for your crotch. You like that, Winston, you like it very much."

The boys went to work stroking his legs, kneading his ass, rubbing his dick with their soft palms. Their victim began to become erect very quickly.

"That's right, Winston. You can feel them tend to your chest and arms. Your shoulders and neck. This is also part of who you are, Winston. A naked cowboy who loves other naked cowboys very much."

The boys were all over him. Rubbing his chest, fingering his arms, licking his fingers. In short order, the taller boys who had been supporting his back and head were nuzzling his neck, biting his ear lobes, kissing his cheeks.

"This is who you are now, Winston," Vaughn declared. "Welcome to the Rod & Double-Circle Ranch, son. You are a gay naked twink cowboy."

The boy who was Steven was gone now, and the lad being laid down in the soft sand and sucked, licked, and kissed was now Winston. He had surrendered without realizing it, and was being christened without his awareness. Winston had just joined the ranch.

"And that's 24," Buford whispered to Amos. Amos only nodded, too shaken to speak.

Vaughn pulled Gunther to the side. "You wanna tell me how the hell this happened? How the fuck did he get in here? Clothed?!"

Gunther was obviously frightened of the older man, but tried to explain. "He was the one you called for, Mr. Vaughn. From off the waiting list. But he drove on his own—he has his own car. We didn't know until after he didn't show up for the bus we sent." Vaughn took half a step back, recognizing that this was not something his men could have controlled, but still withheld any words of understanding.

"Next thing we know, he shows up, this kid, fresh as a daisy, clean as whistle. No ride in the back of the truck, no need to get hisself cleaned up, and he wants to take a look at the premises before he decides if'n he's gonna stay. Next thing we know, he's out here, sees everybody all nekkid, he freaks. We tried to hold him, but—"

"Enough, enough," Vaughn said gruffly. "I know what you tried to do. Now give me a moment with the rest of the cowboys."

Vaughn began to make his way around the cluster of nude cowboys, speaking to them, saying things Buford and Amos could not make out. Buford let go of his boyfriend's hand and Amos placed his arm around Buford's waist. "I gather from this that we are not going to confront anyone about anything," Buford said, feeling defeated.

"Boy, how about that, huh?"

Buford and Amos turned to see Gilroy standing before them, agitated and excited. "Um, yeah… How about that," Buford answered, confused.

"Well, didn't you see? With that new cowboy going all spaz?" he asked them.

"Yeah, we saw it," Amos said, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

"He was having heat stroke!" Gilroy blurted out. Amos's heart sank. "Yeah, that one guy told us! I think he's the ranch doctor. Kid showed up late, wearing way too much clothes, way too heavy, and the heat gets to him bad! He's gonna be okay now, I think."

"Thank goodness for that," Buford sighed.

"His name's Winston!" Gilroy beamed, then ran off to chat up someone else.

Bronson and Earl ran up to the scene and blanched at the sight of Mr. Vaughn. "Sir, what? What's been going on here?"

"Take this one and put him to bed, if you understand me." Vaughn turned to the group, raising his voice to be heard. "Now, Winston here needs to rest up until he feels better. So you all steer clear of the bunkhouse until we give the you the word its okay, you hear?" The announcement was met with nods and words of assent. Vaughn turned back to his men.

"You plug that little bastard in and get his brain rewired. He stays in there all day and all night if need be. We clear?"

Bronson swallowed. "Crystal, sir."

The men squatted down to lift up the prostarte form of Winston, waving away the other boys who were still nursing off his member and licking his ears. Earl looked up at Vaughn. "Sir, had we known, we would have been here right away. I just want you to know that—"

"Just take care of this mess," he said brusquely.

"This is too much stress for me," Earl remarked as they carried the new cowboy toward the barracks.

"Don't fret," Bronson told him. "Delivery's tomorrow."

Buford noticed something that had been left behind as the mess was being cleared up. Winston's clothes were still strewn upon the ground. While everyone else was otherwise distracted, Buford snatched the trousers up. From the pockets, he rescued a handful of change, a wallet, an iPod with headphones, a chapstick, some hard candy, a stick of sugar-free gum. Then, he reached gold. A cell phone. A call for help. Buford flipped it open, expecting it to tell him there was no signal.

Four bars.

Thank GOD! he thought to himself. His finger had only pressed one button when Vaughn's appeared directly in front of him.

"What you got there?"

"Uhh...Winston's stuff, I guess. I mean, it is Winston's stuff. Thought I'd pick it up for him. Hold onto it until he's feelin' better." Then, Buford tried to look a bit clueless. "He's gonna be okay, right, Doc?"

Vaughn almost smiled. At this point, these little cowboys would believe anything. Even seeing him as a medical man. He almost managed a grin. "Sure. He's gonna be just fine. Just let him rest for now."

"Yessir," Buford agreed, and turned to leave. Vaughn placed a hand upon his shoulder.

"And don't you worry about ol' Winston's personal effects. I'll look after those." He extended his hand to Buford, who had no choice but to place the phone there.

"Good idea," Buford said, his heart surging with impotent rage. "It's not like I have any pockets, right?" Vaughn just tapped the brim of his hat in farewell and walked off with the cell. As he left, Vaughn said something to Gunther which Buford could not quite make out. Vaughn jerked his thumb toward Winston's abandoned clothes. Buford thought he said, "Burn those," but couldn't be sure.

Buford was still fuming as his boyfriend walked up beside him.

"Are we giving up?" Amos asked.

"In hell," Buford frowned. "You still up for checking out that office, or whatever it is?"

Amos nodded. "After light's out. I'm in."

Over the speaker, a beautiful woman from Tennessee sang a touching ballad assuring her listeners that somebody loved them.

---

The two naked cowboys padded softly up to the ranch's main office. The door wasn't even locked. Why would it be? With all the ranch's residents either undergoing intense hypnotic conditioning in the bunkhouse or already in on its goings-on, those in charge felt they had little to fear by way of discovery.

Gingerly, Buford opened the door and slipped inside, Amos right behind him, closing the door after them.

"One good thing about being naked," Amos commented, "it's real easy to walk quietly when you're barefoot all the time." Buford held a finger up to his lips, urging silence, and Amos nodded. Buford reached for a small desk lamp atop one of the two desks present, but Amos stopped him, grabbing hold of his arm. Amos then pointed to the windows, indicating that any source of light would be seen from outside the office. Amos quickly twisted the hanging rods on the window blinds, closing them tight. He then whispered to Buford. "Okay." They were both fairly certain that the ranch workers' barracks was on another part of the ranch, and that it was extremely unlikely that any light would be seen from the office, but they preferred not to take any chances.

Buford clicked on the small light, which barely offered enough illumination to see what was in the immediate vicinity of the desktop. There was a computer console there, the newness of which stood out in stark contrast to the otherwise rustic interior of the wooden lodge office. Buford turned it on, and it hummed softly to life, chiming pleasantly as it bathed the naked freckled redhead in a blue glow. It requested a password.

"This is going to take a minute," Buford whispered to Amos. "See what else you can turn up, if you can."

Amos nodded and set to work. The other desk was smaller, and had little to offer in way of clues or discoveries. Amos pulled open the desk drawers to find a wad of file folders. The manila variety, filled with information sheets one might find in a school, or a police station. There was a file for each naked cowboy, a copy of a photo from a student I.D,. or other wallet-sized picture, paper clipped to the upper left corner. The name of each applicant's new cowboy name was stenciled in large letters over the top of his original, real name. Amos found his own photo after flipping through just a few pages. There was name atop the page that Amos did not recognize. Dallas Matthews. Who? He found it odd that the name seemed so strange to him. What was it doing on his personal file info? Overwritten atop the neatly typed name was a moniker in Western playbill lettering, reading AMOS. That was more like it. That was his name. Amos shrugged. The typewritten name must have been a clerical error or something.

Amos flipped through the pages, finding nothing really amiss. Listings of each student cowboy's name, where he came from, contact information, any allergies or medications that needed to be noted. At the bottom of each page was information pertaining to each cowboy's height, weight, measurements, any sports he may have played, potentially appealing attributes in regard to hair color, eye color...penis length? What the hell?

Amos flipped ahead to find the likeness of Buford. There he was. In the photo, his smile appeared uneasy and forced, as if being in front of a camera was uncomfortable for him. His hair was more brownish, with only a slight indication of red highlights. Amos could make out no freckles in this image. There were handwritten notations at the bottom of the page.

" Highly intelligent. Honor student. Most likely very susceptible to conditioning. Be sure to redden hair considerably, bring out freckles. Tattoo them on if necessary."

Amos felt his eyebrows raise. What was all this? This was far more than any vacation ranch's guide to its guests. But considering what happened with Steven/Winston that afternoon, were they guests...or prisoners?

"What have you got there?" Buford asked as he quietly clicked away at the keyboard, working the code.

"It's us," Amos answered back, softly. There's a page for each one of us cowboys."

"Anything interesting?"

"Not really," Amos said, though something in the back of his mind was trying to yell out to him that there was. "The guys here are really into you having freckles, that's for sure."

"What?!" Buford said back, befuddled.

Amos flipped some more pages. "Um...Hank has a peanut allergy. Gilroy can't have dairy. That's about it, far as I can see—huh." Amos looked at the last two pages in the file, flipped them back, looked again. "There aren't any twins here, are there?"

"What do you mean, any twins?" Buford asked, still working at the code.

"It says here there were supposed to be two more boys, twin brothers. They're cute, too. Man, are they cute. Jimmy and Johnny. Well, that's who they are, but they were gonna be Cletus and Clovis. Says they had to cancel. Too bad. Wouldn't mind screwin' around with them."

Moments like this reminded Buford that Amos's conditioning was deeper than his. "Keep looking," he said.

"Oh, right." Amos put the folder back where he found it and stood before a small set of lockers, stacked four high, in the corner behind the second desk. Each locker was marked with a piece of tape with a ranch hand's name on it. The first two were empty, save for things like rulers, level, a box of nails, a screwdriver. The one marked as belonging to Virgil was stuffed to the gills. It held, among other things, a bottle of hand lotion (the economy size), several used ear plug covered with what may have ben ear wax or may have been spicy mustard, a Billy Gilman CD, half a carton of cigarettes (Winstons), a rather moist and well-thumbed issue of J-14 magazine, an extra package of ear plugs, some loose jaw breaker candies, and underneath it all—a compact laptop computer.

"Found something," Amos said, taking out the computer and, after setting it upon the desk, powering it up. The wallpaper alone spoke volumes about Virgil the horny ranch hand. It was a photo, taken with a digital camera most likely, of a quartet of the naked cowboys engaged in a joyful four-way in the grass before the fenced-in riding area.

Amos's first reaction was to smile. This was the kind of behavior he had taken part in, had found such enjoyment in. Had fallen in love with Buford over. The screen saver photo, while clearly taken covertly and without the participant's permission, struck Amos as adorable, as romantic and playful. But then something caught Amos's eye. In the background of the photo was another cowboy, just as naked, wearing only a black Stetson and a bolo rodeo tie. He was smiling as he watched the foursome in action, and he was stroking himself with pleasure. It was Amos himself. And in his eyes was the blankest and most mindless expression he could ever have imagined. The expression of a hypnotized drone, of a stooge, of an imbecile.

Amos felt his heart harden to see himself that way, and the soft voice in the back of his head telling him that all this was wrong was given more heed.

Amos opened a storage file on Virgil's laptop and found image after image, some of them stills, some of them video clips, of the boys themselves playing their frisky naked cowboy games around the ranch. Virgil had clearly made himself a collection for his own one-handed viewing and reviewing.

Whether it was his disgust at Virgil's pornographic collection or his recollection of the ranch hands' comments about delivery coming soon, Amos found himself thinking more critically, more intensely. More like Buford. Like his boyfriend. Amos closed up the porno files (resisting the urge to simply delete them) and began scouring the program listing. "I wonder if this thing has internet access?" he said to himself. It did.

"What are you searching for over there?" Buford whispered eagerly, seeing that Amos had already gone online and accessed a popular search engine.

"Just scoping out a hunch," Amos muttered. Though far more the cowboy than Buford at this point, something about being at the tiny console made the raven-haired lad, even naked and in the Western hat, feel very much at home.

"You into computers?"

Amos paused only a second before going back to what he was doing. "I think so." The reply was indicative of how far he'd sunk into his conditioning as a naked gay cowboy. But that he could recognize a glimmer of who he was supposed to be also showed his resolve. "Right now, I'm just curious about something."

"More so than what's going on here?" Buford asked, a bit angry at Amos's easy distraction.

"No, about what is going on here...and what may have gone on before."

Buford continued working at the pass code. It wasn't too many digits, thus not much of a challenge, but his fear and anxiety were affecting his speed and efficiency. "Before what? What do you mean?"

"Oh, man. I was afraid of that." Amos's voice was considerably lower than before.

"What'd you find?"

"I did a search on large groups of college guys specifically taken out of their college setting and coming to...coming to an untimely end."

Buford's fingers froze above the keyboard. "And—?"

"Check it out." Amos turned the small laptop toward his friend. The search engine had turned up a number of results for articles and news clippings about disasters and disappearances of large numbers of boys in their late teens to mid-twenties. Amos began to read aloud. "Los Angles Times. A plane crash takes the lives of twenty-four promising young baseball players. Private charter, no other passengers. No survivors." He clicked on another. " Miami Herald. Swimmers brought together for a special inter-collegiate meet are lost before reaching the Virgin Islands when the ship they're on sinks due to unknown circumstances. Private yacht, no survivors." He scrolled again, clicked another. "Bus carrying troupe of talented twenty-something actors planning a Boy Scout tribute lost in a mudslide...small charter bus...no other passengers riding with them."

"No other cowboy ranches, though," Buford mused.

Amos stopped, called up another link. "This one has a video clip. It's from just three years ago."

"Keep the volume down low," Buford warned him unnecessarily. "But play it."

The dignified voice of a female African-American news anchor came through the tiny laptop speaker. "The parents of over thirty fine young men were devastated today when their sons, who comprised a remarkable football team of former second- and third-string players, now given the chance to play as lead athletes, were all lost in a terrible freak accident as they rode to their first official training camp. Lost too were the fine sponsors who'd had enough faith in these underdogs to give them this chance to—"

Buford was unable to move, much less type. "Turn it off," he said. Amos did, and the small room was once again silent. Buford tried to type again, to crack the code. "How many more are there like that?"

"Plenty. They seem to happen once or twice every...let's see here, about every two, sometimes three years."

Buford looked back at Amos. "All from the company in charge of the Rod & Double-Circle? The name Vaughn come up?"

"It doesn't say. Not that I imagine he'd deliberately use the same company or personal name over and over with this kind of reputation."

Buford turned back to his own monitor, mumbling, "Yeah. 'Come to our wondrous vacation getaway, where you can role play, and quite possibly die an untimely death.' "

"They happened all over the place," Amos added. "Different parts of the country, sometimes clear across the country from each other. Different companies and foundation names."

"Maybe it is just coincidence then," Buford said, a tremor of hope in his voice that convinced neither of them. He typed faster.

"I don't know how long of a search it'd take to track down who owns these companies, since presumably their all dummies—fronts—anyway. But it'll take more than just Google to find out, I'd bet." Amos cracked his knuckles. "I'd better get started, then."

"Don't bother," Buford said. "I'm in." He felt this breathing grow shallow. "And you'd better come have a look at this."

Along with an impressive series of desktop folders, there was a vertical line of thumbnail images along the left-hand side of the screen. Buford had clicked on the first one and the entire strip of images enlarged. Buford scrolled down the slide show, swallowing hard as he saw what the photos were.

They could almost be standard team pictures, as seen in a coach's office. Rows of handsome young men lined up, sometimes two rows, sometimes three, all smiling for the camera and looking for all the world as if they were thrilled to be there. All of them fully exposed, but for little touches of costume. The first was a naked baseball team, wearing matching caps and cleats, and nothing else. Some players held bats or wore mitts. One was down on his haunches in chest padding and wearing a catcher's mask atop his head, but with no uniform underneath, even barefoot. There was a small label underneath the image, marking the naked ball players as BATCH #1. It was dated 1992. Photo taken in Oregon.

"There're your tragically lost baseball players," Buford divined. No coincidence, then.

The next image was of an equally jovial group of football players, with shoulder pads, team helmets under one arm, black marks under their eyes. The one down in front sat teasingly on top of a football, its point upward right into his behind. BATCH #2. 1994. Vermont.

The following was a group of naked boy scouts, or actors pretending to be the same. The twink-like group in the front row had yellow neckerchiefs and blue caps of the Cub Scout variety—all looking far too old to be cubs, the boys in back had the tan hats and red kerchiefs of the more experienced Boy Scouts. A couple had on old-style rangers hats. A few had on hiking boots. From Utah.

Next was a naked swim team, which called for a little creativity, as swimmers minus their Speedos are just naked college boys. Each of the nude swimmers had goggles either on their faces, up atop their heads, or hanging loose around their necks. Some had on flippers, a few others had snorkels. All were fresh from the pool, hair matted down wet, their bare skin flecked with droplets of chlorinated water. Miami.

There were naked naval cadets from L.A. (pristine crew cuts, white sailor hats, black dangling sailor ties, dog tags and nothing else), disrobed choirboys with only vestment collars, tasseled rope belts, and sheet music, from Maine. Stripped construction workers (??) in hardhats, work boots and tool belts from North Dakota. The list went on. And on.

Down at the bottom of the page was the group from the Rod & Double-Circle Ranch. It was the photo taken the night of the dance. Naked twink cowboys, 2007, Texas. Buford saw his and Amos's smiling faces looking back at the camera, thrilled to be alive, giddy to be gay naturist cowboys. Oh, to live in the country. Buford read the label under their own group photo. BATCH #8. There were what—two dozen boys in the cowboy group? Was that the average number of boys these...these collections totaled? Buford's genius mind instantly calculated the number to be at least 192 unsuspecting college students so far who'd been lured in, gathered up, brainwashed, their libidos thrown into overdrive, some of them with their very sexuality changed...for what? To do away with them? What the hell was the purpose of all this??

Amos had helped himself to another folder icon on the desktop, accessing it with a click. It was marked "Accessories".

"It's a costume supplier," Amos said under his breath, letting out a slow whistle. "And damn, man, they have everything."

Buford's own hand moved the mouse tentatively over another folder icon, marked "CLIENTS". Gulping, he opened it and everything became clear. In truth, he had known from the moment Amos had found those articles online, but had tried not to admit it to himself. The kind and welcoming hosts of the cowboy nude ranch were traffickers in the white slave trade. Gay twink sex slaves tailored to specific fetishist buyers. In short...

Buford turned to Amos, his mouth slack. "They're selling us."

The truth had hit them both. They were being groomed to be the slaves of some sick owner somewhere. Hence the sexual hedonism, the lessons on all the cowboy affectations, the heavy hypnotic and subliminal programming to respond to triggers designed to place them in a submissive, responsive state. Happy hypnotized slave boys, no questions or resistance. No one looking for them after they're sold. The two boyfriends looked at each other and their silent glance conveyed their mutual horror at being sold off as human commodities. Buford found that his lack of dress left him suddenly feeling terribly chilled.

In attempt to keep from freaking out,Amos's fingers clacked away on the mouse as he called up other reference pages. "Just look at this," he whispered to Buford. "You can get all kinds of costumes here. Name your sex slave fetish, we got it all."

Buford's eyes widened at the list that scrolled down for ages. Sports team descriptions, fraternity wear, Hawaiian surf boy getups, prisoner garb, you name it, the list had it. "Shit, they even have 24/7 emergency rush delivery," Buford observed.

"In bulk quantities yet," Amos added. "Delivery specs, when and where—hey, can you bring it round back?" he ad-libbed. "Servant's entrance? Thanks." he clicked the mouse some more, causing sample images to pop up by the bunch. "What's your pleasure, cowboy? Choirboys?" Click-click, there they were. "Parochial schoolboys?" Click-click. "Sweet Jesus, Mormon missionaries, yet." Clickety-click. "And they have an ongoing account with them. That's gotta be convenient."

"Wait, close all that shit down," Buford said, stopping Amos's tour. "Go over here, this folder." He tapped the screen. "Buyers."

Quickly, Amos closed all the open tabs and clicked on the folder for buyers. He inhaled sharply. And here they'd thought the costumer's list was impressive.

"This sure explains how the abducted kids were never tracked down," Amos realized. "They're 'bodies' weren't, anyway. They couldn't be. None of the buyers are domestic."

"All foreign," Buford agreed. And he began to scroll down the list of overseas millionaires...billionaires...with all the money they needed to satsify whatever perverse pleasure they wanted, regardless of legalities. "Japanese," Buford read.

"Korean," Amos continued.

"Middle Eastern."

"Russian."

"Nigerian."

"Holy muther-lovin' Christ on a crutch," Amos said, pointing at the screen. There, under the heading of Accounts Paid, was just one of the fees shelled out to collect a small troop of All-American boys, brainwashed to be role-playing, submissive sex slaves. It was enormous. "You could by a small country for that," Amos remarked. It was hardly hyperbole.

"Explains why they only run this racket once every couple, two-to-three years," Buford deduced.

"They can afford to."

"Why even keep all of this?" Buford wondered. "Talk about incriminating evidence. All that's missing is a big folder with the title How We Did It in six-inch high letters."

Amos shrugged. "Why do Hollywood madams keep their client books? If they get caught, their customers go down, too. Ensures silence all around, I guess." He shook his head, looking over the index as they scrolled down the page (pages?). "And it's not as if they didn't have enough to keep them plenty busy already."

The list of impressive foreign buyers with a growing appetite for young American boyflesh all had corresponding lists of individual fetishes, costumes required, sexual triggers and services desired. All very complete and descriptive, down to the last detail. Even client dislikes were notated. In return for their fortunes, the clients would be provdied with a large group of college twinks tailored to a specific fetish theme and programmed hypnotically to respond to various triggers and commands. Brainwashed into white slavery. Willing slavery.

Buford thought about how the strapping ranch-going boys held down the late- arriving Winston and forced him to submit to a hypnosis induction. And how all the other naked cowboys stood by and did nothing, smiling happily, finding nothing amiss with the procedure. Then Buford gingerly felt his fingers lift to the loose-fitting bandana around his neck, and he realized how good it felt to wear it. He recalled how he acted in his Dean's office when the gift of the cowboy hat was placed on his head, how unnatural it seemed, how ridiculous it made him feel. And now, the hat atop his head felt so...so right. As if it belonged there. As if it were a part of him. And most telling of all, that he no longer cared that he walked around naked all day. So different from how he behaved back in college as...as...

Buford paused to try to remember what his name had been before, and as he realized he couldn't recall, he felt his heart race, pounding in his chest as if trying to burst from its confines.

His fingers began a rush of busywork, striking at keys and accessing files that he hoped would offer some salvation, some flaw in these carefully structured plans that would spell either rescue or escape. His eyes fell upon a file marked SAMPLE. Buford double-clicked on it. It revealed an image of Jesse. The first shot was a medium-length photo of the handsome blond boy stripped to the waist. His blond bangs hung low over his eyebrows, his smile flashed bright. He appeared in a way that neither boy had ever seen him. Alert, alive, aware. He looked at least three years younger.

Buford clicked on various entries in this sample file and was shown photos of Jesse stripped naked. Front view, side view, back. Body measurements, dick size. There were other image samples of Jesse as well, dressed as a baseball player, jersey unbuttoned to show off his rock-hard abs, bat slung casually across his shoulders. Then he appeared as a boy scout, a swimmer, and so on. Buford clicked on a video file and it showed poor Jesse undergoing a hypnotic induction. In it his name was changed, which he accepted without question.

On the tiny playback screen, a deep and domineering voice said, "Tell us your name, boy."

The sleepy reply came back, " Frederick. Freddie."

"And what do you do, Freddie? What are you?"

"Boy scout."

"No. Your name is Whizzer and you're a swimmer."

Without pause, Jesse agreed. "My name is Whizzer and I'm a swimmer."

The video skipped ahead and the aggressive voice gave the command, "All swimmers to their lanes." It was clearly a trigger phrase. The disrobed Jesse (now Whizzer) fell to his knees and began sucking someone's cock with great vigor.

"Shit," Buford said, closing the video player. "Jesse is a living sample pack. If he's been through all these identity changes, it's no wonder he's so confused." Buford scrolled down the page and found a strip of more recent photos of Jesse. He was shown as an exposed construction worker, a fireman, a country boy. In each image, Jesse was shown clad in his now-trademark rubber knee boots. What on earth were those for?

"Amos, this is serious," Buford told his friend.

"It gets worse," the young cowboy said. "Look." He had been clicking through the account index as Buford had paused in his reflection abut Jesse, and had located the listing for the Rod & Double-Circle Ranch. "Here's where we're going."

Buford gulped. "China."

A very wealthy Chinese businessman named Wutang had developed a yearning for young cowboys and the American Old West. And the men behind the remote Rod & Double-Circle Ranch had provided it.

Amos was scrolling down the stack of images again, finding that after the smiling cowboys of the nude ranch, all the frames were empty, showing nothing but black rectangles labeled as BATCH #9, BATCH #10, and so on.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that we comprise the last batch, huh?" Amos asked.

Coming back to himself a bit, Buford clicked on an unnamed folder in the Clients section. Another list appeared, complete with desired fetishes, prices, and destinations. Buford sat back and shook his head.

"It's a waiting list."

The two college cowboys just stared at the list. Finally, Amos broke the silence. "This isn't going to end anytime soon, is it?"

Buford shook his head. "Too many satisfied customers."

Amos was suddenly very animated. "We have to get out of here!"

Buford had been the nervous one in all this, but now it was Amos who had the look of a caged animal. "What?" Buford said, unsure of what else to say.

"We've got to go!" Amos said, in a whispered shout. "I may think I'm a cowboy now, I may not even remember what my name was before, some guy may be able to snap his fingers and make me drop to my knees and blow him, but I am not—I AM NOT—being shipped off to become some Chinaman's bend-over buckaroo!" In an instant he was at the door. He looked back, wild-eyed, astonished that Buford was not already beside him. "You comin'??"

Buford got up slowly, collecting himself as he rose. "And go where?"

"Duh! Anywhere but here!"

"Think about it, Amos. We're miles from anywhere. Hell, it's a half-hour truck ride to this ranch just from a deserted road, which is equally separated from anywhere. They'd be on us before we made it a quarter of the way."

"They'll pack us up and ship us off to Slavesville, Singapore if we just sit here!"

"Besides," Buford said, trying to keep his voice calming, "we're naked. Where can we go? We'd at least need shoes to make a run for it. And pants would be nice."

"We are so screwed," Amos said. He looked as if he were about to cry. His hands went to his head, he began to run his fingers through his thick black hair, upsetting his Stetson. "And we're just one group in a long line. We're gonna wind up as statistics. They'll say there was a traffic accident, or a barn collapsing, or a freak dust storm, or God knows what, and no one will even come looking for us." He began breathing in sharp gasps. He was close to hyperventilating.

"We don't know that yet," Buford said, lamely.

"We don't know the hows, but we know it's gonna happen!" Amos looked up at the rafters, his eyes welling up. "Oh, God. I'm gonna become a sick rich pervert's plaything." Then Amos looked at Buford with new purpose in his glare. "Where do they keep the guns? The ones they used out on the shooting range? If we could get to those—!"

"Don't talk crazy," Buford snapped. "We're not killing anyone."

"There's not a court in the land that'd convict us!" Amos insisted. "Not after we show 'em all THIS!!"

Buford took him by the shoulders. "Pull yourself together, cowboy. Even if we could take off, would you really want to leave all the others behind, with what's waiting for them?"

"It's waiting for us, too." Amos sniffled, looking towards the door now. "Maybe if I just go back to the bunkhouse, plug myself into the bed, give in to the headset, at least I won't care when it happens. I won't know." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I'll be happy...or at least think I am."

"You don't mean that," Buford snapped.

"What does it matter?" Amos asked. "No one will know any better, and they'll keep doing this, keep selling guys like us as naked sex slaves. You said it yourself. Too much money. Too many satisfied customers."

Buford was about to counter what Amos had said, make an attempt to pull him back to his senses, when something struck him. "Wait a minute, what did you say?"

"No one will know any bet—"

"No, the other part. The last part."

Amos sniffed again, a bit confused. "Too many satisfied customers."

Buford turned to the computer again and called up the delivery date for their Chinese buyer who intended to won them. Everything for that day was indeed carefully, rigidly scheduled. Buford felt his mouth spread into a wide, wicked grin. There was a gleam in his eye that glowed with the intelligence and ingenuity that had earned him all those scholarships and awards. Amos stared at him, wondering what he was thinking.

"What?" Amos asked.

When Buford spoke again, it was with quiet control and purpose. "Put Virgil's laptop away exactly where it was. Then help me find that supplier's information again." Buford was back at the computer, fingers flying across the keyboard with grace and speed. The client information was already before him.

"What for?" Amos asked.

"You'll find out."

Buford's heart raced again and his smile widened. His mind buzzed with the intoxicating rush only a true scholar can experience when flushed with a brilliant idea and the knowledge that he has the means to make it happen.

 

The following morning as the nude cowboys rose from their bunks refreshed but sore, Amos and Buford had to drag themselves out, feeling groggy, riding on adrenaline and anticipation.

"I was tempted to stick my head into that damn thing last night just so it could make me think I had a good eight hours, even with the side effects of reinforcing my slave status," Amos grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"The illusion of eight hours is the real side effect," Buford reminded him. "You did the right thing."

"If we're gonna be the heroes, we should at least get white hats," Amos added. His humor hid how scared he was about the plan on which he and his boyfriend were about to embark.

Breakfast was relatively calm for the duo, and they were tired enough from their overnight labors that they barely noticed when Marshall hopped down from his seat in between his eggs and hash browns to blow Lantry, who was rimming Shane.

Amos looked at Buford. "The breakfast of champions," he remarked.

Everyone seemed to be caught in conflict between eating their food and eating each other. At one point, as Bronson strolled the mess hall, looking over the boy as they enjoyed their filling breakfast as well as their moments of filling one another, he stopped when he saw that Buford and Amos sat across from one another, paying more attention to their food than each other. Bronson began to approach them, when Amos grabbed a large sausage in his mouth and leaned over the table. Buford rose to meet him, and he chomped onto the other end of the breakfast meat. The two scarfed away at the sausage until their lips met, whereupon they grabbed each other's heads and began to kiss almost violently. They pulled apart for a moment, and Amos gasped, "Care for some more breakfast meat?"

Buford nodded and two dropped down and met under the table. Bronson snorted an amused laugh and walked away. Under the table, Amos said, "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."

"We won't need to," Buford said, "if everything goes according to plan."

"Yeah, if."

As breakfast wound down to a nude cowboy orgy, Buford and Amos made their way to the door. They were almost out when Gunther called to them.

"Hey! Where're you two think you're going?"

Amos spun around, grabbing Buford's dick and stroking it. "Uh, we just wanted to pop out to the grass for a quick cornhole."

Buford offered a meek grin. "It's better when the ground's soft."

Gunther considered the concrete floor of the mess hall and smiled back. "Just don't go far," he warned them. "Big fun planned for today. Wouldn't want you to miss it."

The two shared stupid smiles of excitement. "Yeehaw. We won't! Thanks!" And they were gone.

"I'll say there's big fun planned," Amos said, as the duo ran full out toward the stable.

"Just keep moving and pray we're on time," Buford said.

 

It was less time than they'd expected, more time than they'd hoped, that Buford and Amos came running toward the main ranch to find all the other boys converging together toward Bronson and Earl. The duo put on an extra burst of speed to make sure they did not stand out as being separate from the others.

"What's the fun planned for today?" Buford beamed.

"Thought maybe we heard the bell," Amos added.

"You did," Earl said. "You guys off enjoying the grassier areas of the ranch, eh?" he chided. Buford and Amos gave a sheepish grin, then looked down at their feet, hoping it looked as if they'd just gotten laid. "Don't worry none," Earl told them, "you're right on time." The duo glanced at one another, hoping that was true.

As the cluster of excited cowboys awaited the day's treat, Vaughn stepped out into their midst. The nude college boys responded with eager excitement.

"It's the doc!"

"Must be somethin' special today!"

"Look, Doc, Winston's doin' great!"

Vaughn approached the group and sure enough, there at the head of them was Winston, all smiles and enthusiasm. He grinned up at his captor. "Howdy, Doc! Feelin' real swell today, sir. Thanks to you, I guess."

Vaughn forced a smile. "It was nothing, son. We're glad to have you." A number of cowboys slapped Winston on the back, gave him buddy-hugs. Vaughn rasied a hand to calm them down. "Now, round up, cowboys," Vaughn announced. "We have got a very, very special day planned for you today. So everybody listen close to what I have to say." Buford and Amos glanced at one another again, bracing themselves, fingers crossed. Vaughn spoke loudly. "Yippee-ky-yay."

The entire group went quiet, their faces blank, their minds receptive, as they'd been programmed. "Everyone," Vaughn ordered, "form a double line and get ready to march." As the cowboys did so, Vaughn turned to Earl and Bronson. "March these doomed little fuckers out to the stable and get them set up. Then get your asses back here pronto and get dressed. He's already on his way." The ranch hands needed no further prodding.

"About face!" Bronson called. The nude cowboys turned on their heels in an about-face, like a group of trained cadets. "Move 'em out!" And the nude cowboys, eyes glazed, minds blank, marched off toward the stables.

Vaughn looked at Gunther and Clem, who were also on hand, and gave similar orders. "You, too. Get dressed. I'm not having Wutang see you sorry lot with your cocks swinging in the wind. And try to get that greasy shit Virgil cleaned up. Go on, move!"

 

At the stable, the nude cowboys marched in and on command, turned to face the main door. Bronson had them line up in a group of four across, six rows deep, not unlike their barn dance night. "You all stay right here, nice and still, and wait for us to come back. Don't move, don't do nuthin'."

"Shouldn't one of us stay here with 'em?" Earl asked.

"What the hell's gonna happen? They gonna strike up a game of strip poker?"

Earl wasn't comfortable with leaving their source of income unsupervised, and said as much. Bronson cut in, "You wanna know what uncomfortable is, you let this Wutang feller catch you standing around with no pants on. You heard Mr. Vaughn, let's hoof it."

As the two workers pushed the large stable doors closed, Earl paused, looking past the lineup of mesmerized slave boys. "Did you leave a stack of cardboard boxes in the back there? 'Cause I sure didn't leave any—"

"Will you move your ASS already??!"

And the two were gone.

As the other cowboys remained frozen, waiting their fate, Buford and Amos turned to each other. "Now?" Amos asked. Buford nodded.

"Now."

 

Vaughn stood near the shootout corral, his men not far behind him. Bronson, Earl, Clem, and Gunther all adjusted their belts, brushed off their boots, straightened their hats. They looked fairly impressive, like well-to-do Texas businessmen taking the weekend off to visit an old ranch. Virgil was cleaned up as much as possible, in that his outfit looked nice, but the man inside it still looked like he'd be more at home in a sewer, or an abandoned trailer park.

"See to it that he stays in the background," Vaughn said. Bronson shoved Virgil behind him.

A speck appeared in the distance, up in the clear blue sky. The men looked upward, wondering what it was. They had been expecting a series of limosines, or a similar motorcade, to come down the back roads they used themselves to come and go, not to stare up at the sky as if scanning the heavens for ghost riders. the speck grew larger as it drew closer. Before long it was apparent that it was a large black helicopter, clearly a private chopper, as it was devoid of any airline or commercial markings. The helicopter set down in one of the many open areas of the ranch, blowing up dust and dirt as its massive bulk settled gracefully to the ground.

Bronson stepped up close behind Vaughn. "A helicopter? I thought they'd be drivin' here. I could'a sworn I saw a van already headed up this way."

Vaughn sniped back at his man. "This guy damn near owns everything in fucking China, including all the tea, what the hell would he need to drive a van for?? Now step the hell back!" Bronson did so.

Out of the helicopter stepped an impressive entourage. Six Chinese men, all dressed impeccably in black suits, exited first, leading the way for a short, pudgy, spectacled Asian man with straight black hair and a dour expression. The group strode toward Vaughn and his nervous men, the short fat man in the center, three of his men on either side of him. They came to a stop before Vaughn. Vaughn smiled in a way that he assumed was welcoming.

"Mr. Wutang. Please accept my greetings as I welcome you to our humble—"

Without another word, one of Wutang's men produced a silver attaché case, which he had been carrying, and thrust it in front of Vaughn. Another of the Asian's henchmen, on his opposite side, reached over and quickly unlocked the case opening it up to reveal its contents. The case lid opened smoothly to reveal a tremendous number of bearer bonds. The amounts inscribed upon each paper bond was enough to set up any one of the rancher indefinitely. And the stack of them was considerable indeed. Bronson and Earl made soft moaning sounds. Virgil's lower lip quivered in anticipation.

Vaughn reached over to pick up one of the bonds, to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him, but the henchmen snapped the case shut forcefully, barely missing his fingers. The case was pulled away without another word. Wutang looked up at Vaughn with hateful eyes.

"I did not come all this way for idle pleasantries and false hospitality. I will see my merchandise. Now."

Vaughn swept his arm in the direction of the stables. "This way, sir."

As they walked the short distance to the stables, the Asian businessman bombarded Vaughn with questions to make sure that his instructions had all been met, his order prepared to his specifications.

"All is in readiness?" Wutang inquired.

"The beds from their bunkhouse work perfectly as shipping crates when the lids are attached," Vaughn explained, clearly pleased with himself and his ingenuity. "The slave rides inside, his programmed being reinforced all the way by the computers. Customs will be fooled by our measures with—" But Wutang cut him off, not interested in those kinds of specifics.

"They are all dressed as cowboys?" he asked.

Vaughn nodded. "What little dress they have, yes. Cowboy hats, kerchief or rodeo ties."

"There is 24 boys?" Wutang pressed. "No less?"

"Exactly two dozen, sir. As promised."

"They are well-fed, yes?"

"Nobody's gone hungry, that's for sure. No fatties, as you said, but—"

"No skinny boys!" Wutang snapped. "Slender, trim, fit, but no bones showing! You understood this?"

"Yes, we followed those instructions," Vaughn assured him.

"They can do Western tricks, yes?" Wutang asked. "Is not enough that they merely look like cowboys. They must be able to perform as I demand."

"They can ride horses, do rope tricks, even quick-draw and sharp shoot," Vaughn boasted. "Why, I'll bet even they'd be surprised at what all they can do."

"And the trigger phrase, my trigger phrase, is in place?"

Vaughn nodded. "Imbedded, I'd say."

Wutang stopped walking and his entire entourage stopped with him, almost as if his pause in stride had been rehearsed, or at least anticipated. "And the dancing? They can do this American dance line? Like modern cowboys?"

Vaughn smiled, again in an attempt to appear sincere. "We got it covered. They know all the line dances, and even more. And they're good at it. They look cute doin' 'em, too."

The Asian man growled low, in a way that may have indicated approval, or may have shown disdain for Vaughn noticing the attractiveness of Wutang's property. It was hard to tell. As they approached the stable, Wutang's eagerness got the better of him and he began to speak rapidly.

"Too long I have waited for this."

"We can only work so quickly when processing an order of this kind," Vaughn began, but the Asian millionaire interrupted him.

"Not that. That is fine. But these American cowboys, they are what I need. Young, firm, fresh, vital! Fit for adventure, fit for play, with such spirit and energy. Long I have dreamed of this."

"Well, I'm happy to supply the means to fulfill those dreams," Vaughn crawled.

Wutang paid him no attention. "Agh! I am so sick of these boring accountants, these desk clerks, these office boys whom I must work among day in and day out! They are drained of all life, stripped of any soul! They would perish after five minutes on Western frontier! They would die of fright at sight of tumbleweed!" His henchmen laughed quietly in approval of their master's hyperbole. "I need my boys rugged, independent, yet utterly obedient to me!"

Ignoring the contradiction, Vaughn said, "Well, I trust you'll be satisfied with your purchase in that regard." He gave the signal and Bronson and Earl, who each grabbed a handle and pulled wide the door to the stable, revealing the hypnotized college slave boys that awaited them inside. And there they were. Two dozen strapping examples of good old-fashioned all-American boy flesh, lined up and ready for shipping.

All of them dressed as accountants.

Each lad, from Marshall to Lantry, from Shane to Gilroy, all stood in crisp white buttoned-down shirts and pleated black slacks that hovered a good two inches above the ankles. Polished black dress shoes and slicked-back hair, severely parted down the middle. Plastic protectors in their shirt pockets lined with an array of pens and mechanical pencils. Some had slide rules. Around their collars were hideous neck ties that could not have cost more than $1.95 apiece. On their faces, thick, black-framed, horn-rimmed glasses. Each boy held in his hand a calculator, just a bit too large to fit in anyone's pocket, each with a spool of register tape at its head, which clicked and whirred, spilling forth a lengthy receipt upon the concrete floor below as the boys punched buttons.

"Transfer to column A," Lantry said in a nasally voice.

"Back tax consideration," came Rowdy, also suffering from close pin syndrome.

"Doesn't work as a deduction without form Q-90." They were all joining in.

"Need that in triplicate."

Click-click-whirrrr.

"File with departments on the fourth and twelfth floor."

"Place that report in with records from the previous tax year."

"Enclose but do not staple."

"Signatures on all seven carbons."

Whirr-whirrr-click.

Wutang turned on Vaughn in a fit of rage. "WHAT is the MEANING of this??!!"

Vaughn stood dumbfounded. His mouth trembled, his jaw trying to form words, but having little luck. "I-I-I-I-I I don't understand!" he stammered. "This just can't be—it couldn't happen!" Bronson, Earl, Clem, and the others were equally incredulous. Vaughn tried to call out to the boys themselves. " Colton! Emmett! Come on, now! Buck! Pervis! Snap out of it! Yippee-yay! Yip-yip-ky..." he whirled back to face his infuriated client. "This is not what I prepared for you! You have to believe me!"

"WHERE are my COWBOYS??" Wutang raged. There was a flurry of movement and all six of his men had guns drawn and aimed at the heads of Vaughn and the ranch hands. Virgil wet himself.

"Right here!" Buford called out, answering the angry Asian's question. Instantly, six of the former-cowboy accountants sprang into action, wielding lassos, which no one had noticed had been lying on the floor, hidden by the many boys standing there playing their parts.

Tucker, Shane, Marshall, Lantry, Rowdy, and Houston handled their ropes with hypnotically programmed skill, lassoing and snatching the ranch hands off their feet. Wutang's men surrounded him in a heartbeat, guns at the ready, and Vaughn's men were dragged to the floor and hogtied before the Chinese henchmen realized that their master was not the target.

The nerd cowboys stuffed their bandanas (plucked from their trouser pockets) into the ranch hands' mouths, securing them there tightly with their gaudy geek neckties.

"What the FUCK is going on here?!" Vaughn demanded.

"This is what I wish to know!" Wutang roared.

From behind Vaughn, Amos grabbed him with another lasso, binding his arms and, after yanking him off balance, pulled him roughly to the floor. Vaughn struggled, but he was no match for the much younger, fitter Amos, who had him bound hand and foot in no time. "He's all yours, boss," Amos said.

"Thanks, I'll take it from here," Buford said, and stepped before the captured slave trader. Vaughn looked up at him, his face near purple with fury.

"How the hell is this happening? What IS this?!" He looked at Buford with complete contempt and spat, "You were supposed to be one of the easy ones."

Buford raised his eyebrows. "I was kind of hoping for a cry of, 'You! I should have known!' or something equally flattering."

"You little shit! Yippee-ky-yay! Yippee-ky-yay! Yippee-FUCKIN'-ky-yay!!" As Vaughn screamed the trigger phrase, the other boys who'd bound his workers walked calmly back to their places in the lineup, their gaze steady, ignoring the round-faced man completely. Buford just smiled, and pointed to his ears.

"Nice try, Mr. Vaughn, but no dice."

Vaughn shouted to the other boys, who had returned to their calculators, now held silently in their hands. "Yippee-ky-yay! All of you! Yippee-ky-yay! Get me out of this!"

"What transpires here?!" Wutang demanded. He was as outraged that he was no longer the center of attention as he was by his human possessions being compromised.

Buford produced his neckerchief from his pocket with a flourish and held it, unfolded, in the palm of one hand. He then reached into his ears and plucked out the earplugs he had been wearing. He dropped them into the bandana and then tossed it blithely to Amos, behind Vaughn.

"You miserable little fuck!" Vaughn said, his words laced with venom. "YIPPEE-KY-yauggh!" His trigger command was cut off from behind. Amos tugged Buford's bandana around Vaughn's mouth, gagging him tight.

"These ties are useful in all sorts of ways," Amos smirked. Vaughn struggled against his bonds but it was clear he was not going anywhere.

Buford turned to the Chinese buyer Wutang, whose eyes were still smoldering with rage. He had come all this way, paid all this money, and now nothing. Buford knew he had to choose his words carefully. The college genius bowed slightly at the waist (trying to show respect without appearing to mimic Japanese customs, which would only make things worse, he figured). "Good sir, I regret to inform you that the young gentleman you seek are no longer on the market for your...unique purposes. As consolation, with respect and the most sincere and heartfelt apologies, I offer you the man who cheated you and wasted so much of your valuable time."

Vaughn tried to scream from behind his gag, earning him a swift kick in the ass from Amos.

The Asian millionaire frowned at the young redheaded man. "And perhaps we shall simply take you anyway, along with this man, and my money." Buford and Amos could see that one of the black-suited men still held secure the silver attaché filled with bearer bonds. As Wutang spoke, all the other henchmen aimed their guns at Buford and Amos, perceiving them as the real threat. Buford fearfully eyed their weapons, which did not look like nostalgic Western revolvers.

Buford tried to sound calm, and prayed that he could keep his voice from trembling, his bladder from letting loose and wetting his pants. "Indeed, sir," he answered, hoping he didn't sound like he was blowing smoke out his ass, "you could do that easily. There is no denying that."

"No, there is not!" the Chinaman snarled back.

"But if I may be so bold as to bring a few things to your attention, sir." The man in control of the armed henchmen turned his head slightly to one side. He was interested. Buford did not wait for the man to give him leave to speak before he continued. "This man," and he indicated Vaughn, "had indeed made preparations for all of us young gentlemen to disappear, so that no questions would be asked. But those plans have not yet been put into effect—would not be until the sale was final—and as it is unknown what they were to be, they cannot be instituted now. Our disappearance now will create a great uproar and incite a search by many of our authorities."

The Asian man seemed to believe this, and a tiny light of caution appeared in his eyes. Buford saw it as a signal to press on.

"To say nothing of these men, Vaughn's confederates," and all eyes fell upon the hogtied ranch hands. Buford went on, clarifying, "There was never a disappearance planned for them, and no doubt their unexplained absence would create even more complications for you."

The Asian's expression had gone from interest to frustration. He did not like being stymied, as a man who was normally always in control of every situation. He spat back at Buford, "And what will you do, eh? Tie us all up? Perhaps easier if I just kill everyone and go. Huh?!" The weapons drawn on Buford and the rest underwent a series of frightening clicks. Clem and Virgil whimpered. Vaughn had gone sheet white. Buford stood his ground, trying to keep his legs from shaking. It wasn't easy.

"I couldn't stop you. But you need to know that all information about these men and their careers in the slave trade have been e-mailed to federal authorities. Interpol included. It would be easy enough for the law to track you down. Mr. Vaughn kept very thorough records."

The Chinese buyer was beginning to boil. "Then it does NOT matter what I do! I am damned and disgraced either way! MEN!!" The henchmen's arms tightened, their fingers tensed around the triggers. Virgil jumped, squinting his eyes closed in preparation for the gunfire. He was already crying.

"Alas, if I may be so bold as to correct you there," Buford added very rapidly. "While the authorities have all the information they need about this ranch to locate us, the name of the overseas buyer was unfortunately left out...due to a clerical error."

Amos wiggled his hand at the men around them. "Butter fingers." Buford shot him a cautioning look and went on.

"But should we vanish somehow, or meet with an unfortunate end," Buford explained, "the preprogrammed subsequent e-mail will go out with all the details concerning you, all the way down to your business address and contact number. If you depart now and we're all still fine, that information will, I'm very much certain, be somehow misplaced. Untraceably misplaced."

The Asian man gestured, and the henchmen lowered their weapons. "And what of them," he jerked his head to the hogtied ranchers. "Can you guarantee their silence?"

"As far as I know, sir, none of them were ever entrusted with the identity of this latest buyer, and never even had the chance to lay eyes on him." Buford turned to the cowboy prisoners. "Ain't that right, boys?" Bronson, Clem, Earl, Gunther, and Virgil shook their head vigorously and tried to utter reassuring words through their gags.

The Asian man was unconvinced. Buford stepped close to him and whispered. "These men already have so many lives to account for that I suspect you killing them here and now would only be doing them a favor."

Buford stepped back and saw the Asian man nodding, accepting this. Then Wutang turned back to Buford, his eyes squinting with suspicion. "And what of you, young...cowboy. What guarantee have I that you will not simply tell your authorities all about me?"

"Oh, I probably will," Buford said flatly. The Asian man's face grew taut with rage, and Amos looked suddenly panicked. But Buford continued. "Although I doubt I'll be a very reliable witness. I mean," and he paused for effect, "you Nigerians all look alike to me."

The Chinaman could not help but smile. He took a step back from Buford and nodded slightly. He then turned on his heel and with a guttural command in his native tongue, ordered his men to withdraw. They holstered their guns, secured their briefcase, and collected Vaughn, who at this point was kicking and squealing as they bundled him back down the trial, then into their helicopter, and lifted off.

As the black copter became a dot on the distant sky, Buford fell backwards into the dirt. He couldn't believe that it had actually worked. Amos was beside him, patting him on the back.

"Dude, you did it! You really pulled it off! You really ARE a fuckin' cowboy!!"

Buford lay back in the dirt, emotionally spent, thoroughly exhausted from stress, dressed as an accountant, wondering if he was going to throw up. "By what definition?" he asked.

Amos scoffed. "You're a traditional American hero who's grown a pair and didn't shy away from a challenge!" He pointed his index fingers at his pal. "Cowboy! Cow! BOY!!"

"I guess I am at that," Buford smiled. Amos leaned down and kissed him passionately. Now Buford felt fairly certain he wasn't going to throw up. Fairly certain.

Amos helped Buford to sit up. "Well, these guys have a lot to answer for," Amos observed, looking at the captured ranch hands. "But do you think we let that Vaughn guy off too easy? Gettin hauled off by fellow crooks?"

"I did a paper on Chinese Communism and their criminal underworld in my Freshman year," Buford reflected. "If I'm right, to quote that movie villain, their gonna torture him for so long, it's gonna feel like a career."

Amos helped his friend to his feet. The raven-haired boy was already unbuttoning his shirt and had kicked off his shoes. "So are you really going to lose the info on that Chinese slaver?" Amos was disgusted at the thought that their prospective owner would get away after having nearly destroyed their lives.

"Yeah, I will," Buford admitted. "For a while," he grinned. "Just long enough so that it'll appear to Mr. Asian Asshole that the cops figured it out on their own. And of course to give our dear host Mr. Vaughn enough time to really get to know them. And enjoy their hospitality."

Amos liked that. "Oh, of course."

The duo turned back to face the lineup of mesmerized twinks standing at attention in their bookish accountant costumes. Amos draped a loving arm around Buford. "Y'know, I gotta admit, I do prefer them as naked cowboys."

"I hate to say it," Buford smirked, "but me, too."

 

Epilogue

It was nearly three weeks later that Buford and Amos met again. They'd chosen another cowboy ranch, a great distance from the location of the Rod & Double-Circle. Buford strode across the brown grass to a fence where Amos waited for him. Buford was fully dressed this time, though he did wear Western gear. A nice white shirt with an electric blue yoke, dark denim boot cut jeans, cowboy boots. He forewent the hat. Amos leaned against the fence, one foot up on the bottom rail, his own steel gray boots glinting in the evening light. His jeans were faded blue, his shirt similar to Buford's, though with more fanciful stitching and a yoke of cardinal red. He had on his trademark black Stetson.

"Nice place," Buford said, approaching his boyfriend. The two hugged tightly, and with great affection.

"My uncle's," Amos said.

"Yeah?"

"He's the one who was so gung-ho about me going to spend time on a real cowboy dude ranch, to spend time with my peers, get to know my ranching heritage, all that."

"So how does he feel about that decision now?"

Amos laughed. "He's pretty much ready to bequeath the whole place to me as an apology." Amos looked his friend over. "You look good."

Buford smiled. "You, too. It's funny, but this just feels more comfortable now. Say, is that your old hat?"

Amos tipped the brim. "To the victor goes the spoils. I done took it." He laughed again.

"Say, Amos—" Buford stopped himself. "Sorry, sorry. I mean Dallas. Dallas, I—" and he paused again.

"Hey, it's okay, Bufor—" and Amos dropped his head, shaking it back and forth, grinning. He reached out and tenderly touched his friend's shoulder, rubbing his hand there. "It's...Brian, right? You're Brian?" He got a nod back in response. "Man, it's gonna take some getting used to our new names."

"Our old names, "Brian corrected him. "Our real names. But I know what you mean."

"How are the others faring?" Dallas asked, knowing that Brian had kept abreast of everything since their rescue by federal agents.

"Most of 'em are okay. A bunch of them are in therapy. Turns out lots of the guys weren't even gay. At least not going in. Say, did you know that Winston—Steven's—family offered me a big fucking reward for saving his hash? Turns out his family's loaded."

"How much was it?" Dallas asked, interested.

Brian shrugged. "I told them to put the money toward helping the other guys. Making sure they're all well."

Dallas nodded, looking out at the ever-reddening sky as the sun began to dip lower above the horizon. "That's cool. So what do you get out of it, then?"

Brian smiled. "I get the rest of the year off with A's in all my classes. And the idea of possibly changing my major to criminology."

"So you'll get to be a real cowboy when you graduate!" Dallas beamed. "That is awesome! I am so proud of you!"

"And what about you?" Brian asked.

"Believe it or not, I'm a computer scientist," Dallas grinned. "That's why my uncle was pushing me so hard to get outside. I actually used to be painfully shy around other people. Can you believe that?"

Brian thought of the outgoing naked cowboy who'd greeted him on that first day, with his big smile and easy manner, and Brian shook his head. "No, I really can't." And the two laughed together. Brian's expression became somber as their laughter faded. "Jesse's a mess, but I suppose that's to be expected."

Dallas looked sad. "How long did they have him for? As a human sample?"

"Almost six years," Brian sighed. "They say he's gonna be okay, eventually, but it's going to take a long time. As it turns out, doing math is part of his recovery."

"Math?"

"Yeah, he's a whiz at numbers. Wants to be an accountant. Always has."

Dallas smiled, trying not to laugh. "Talk about irony! But he's way too cute to be an accountant!" And they both smiled, agreeing with that sentiment. Then Dallas asked, "Speaking of recovery..."

Brian knew what he meant. "The feds really went to work on this. They've tracked down almost all of the kidnapped guys from the beginning of this whole slaving operation. Brought 'em home, got them into therapy, working with their families, most of whom had already put to rest their grief at losing them."

"You said almost all—?"

Brian sighed, looking at the sunset. "Not all of them are still alive."

Dallas's eyes became haunted. "Holy shit."

"It's not as if the feds sat around or anything," he added quickly. "They threw major manpower at this. And we both know they would've gotten to us quicker if that ranch office had a phone. E-mail alerts to the police aren't the same as dialing 9-1-1."

Dallas rested a hand on Brian's arm. "Hey, I know, I know. They did good, it's cool." Dallas began to remove his hand from his friend's arm and then decided it felt too good there. So he rested it around Brian's shoulder. "And the black hats?"

Brian let out a sigh of contentment. "The villains of this particular western are fucked but good. All the ranch hands were proven as knowing full well what they were a part of, most of them having prior relationships with Vaughn. They will not see the light of day again, I suspect."

"Nearly two hundred counts of kidnapping and trafficking in human slaves is a lot to answer for," Dallas agreed. "Say, what about greasy—"

"Virgil?" Brian snickered. "In addition to his crimes, he also got slapped with an extra few dozen years for—"

Dallas interrupted him. "Please tell me it was child pornography charges."

Brian nodded. "They found tons of it on his laptop hard drive."

Dallas cheered. "Wah-HOO! I knew that copy of J-14 was a dead giveaway." He knuckle-tapped Brian, then settled down as he considered the mastermind behind it all. "And Vaughn?"

"Vaughn was finally found tied up, tortured half to death in an empty warehouse outside of Shanghai."

"Shanghai? Really? Like in the movies?"

"Nothing quite so glamorous. No hall of mirrors here. They brought him in and he is facing not only multiple counts of kidnapping, fraud, white slavery, and a host of other offenses from our fine United States, but several other countries want his liver on a pole to boot. Wutang really would have done him a favor by just blowing his head off."

"Did they get Wutang?"

"They got him. Him and all the others, they tell me."

"Thanks to you, Cowboy Brian."

Brian smiled. "I had help." He leaned in to kiss Dallas, who suddenly jerked away.

"Almost forgot. I got you something." Dallas reached down into the tall grass along the fence and produced what could only be a hat box. He offered it to Brian. "Go on, open it."

Brian eyed the box suspiciously. "Hmm...I wonder whatever it could be."

"Just open it, smartass."

Brian did. Ad inside he found a beautiful, pristine white cowboy hat.

"It's a Stetson 3X Kenton wool," Dallas glowed.

Brian wrinkled his nose. "Is that good?"

"It doesn't suck," Dallas said, gingerly lifting the hat from its box and placing it upon his hero's head. It truly suited him. "Told you you needed a white hat." Dallas kissed Brian, then whispered to him, "My hero."

Brian draped his arms around Dallas's waist. "Y'know something, Dal?" he asked.

"What's that, Bri?"

"You said that I was the cowboy, I was the hero, and that I foiled the bad guys."

Dallas furrowed his brow. "Well, you did!"

"And I said I had help."

"Welll...I did what I could," the raven-haired boy said bashfully.

"It wasn't just you," Brian jumped in.

Dallas looked surprised. "Give me some credit."

Brian smiled, holding him tighter. "No, not just that. I mean, these guys, they did it to themselves, pretty much. They set it up for us to stop them."

"I don't follow," Dallas admitted.

"They branded us, there in that stable, in an attempt to make us more docile, more compliant, more helpless," Brian explained.

Dallas nodded. "Yeah, right. Got that."

"But think about what they told us as they put us under then. ' You will know without question where you should be and to whom you belong.' Remember that part?"

Dallas nodded. "I do now that you reminded me. But—?"

Brian rested his hands upon Dallas's shoulders. "Well, by that time I knew without question I should be with you. And it's to you I belong. They never expected—"

"Two of their mind-controlled slaves to fall in love," Dallas said, completing the thought. They kissed again, deeply, fully. Then Dallas paused, his eyes wide. "Hey, then that means I really am the hero of this picture! I mean, if you fell in love with me and all. Howcum you get the white hat?"

The two young cowboys, Brian and Dallas, kissed and caressed as the sun slipped beyond the horizon, leaving the evening sky spattered with the colors of rose petals and wildflowers. After a moment of shared tenderness, Dallas asked Brain, "Say, do you think it's possible for a genius cowboy and computer scientist to one day open up a dude ranch getaway for shy and introverted gay college students?"

Brian considered this. Then, "Let's concentrate on our own socializing skills first, shall we, buckaroo?"

Dallas nodded, laughing. "Okay. Fair enough."

"After all," Brain added, "there is one good thing we picked up from that ranch."

Brain then unbuttoned off his shirt, kissing Dallas as he went. Dallas lost his shirt next, and began to kick off his boots. Soon Brian was free of his boots, then his jeans. And even as Dallas discarded his pants, the two young lovers leapt over the old fence into the softer grass beyond. Clad only in their cowboy hats, the two made love in the silent dark of evening. No music playing, no speakers, no hidden subliminal commands. Not that any of those could be heard over the sound of their own hearts.

Yippee-ky-yay.

END

COWBOY NAMES of the ROD & DOUBLE-CIRCLE

• Amos [Dallas, hero's boyfriend]
• Autrey
• Buford [Brian, hero]
• Buck
• Colton
• Cooper
• Dawson
• Emmett
• Forrest
• Garrett
• Gilroy
• Hank
• Houston
• Hoss
• Lantry
• Marshall [tallest]
• Pervis
• Rowdy [fratboy]
• Shane
• Tucker
• Vernon
• Winston [Steven, last arrival, forced]
• Wyatt [smallest]
• Jesse [sample boy, replacement]

Villains

• Clem - truck driver
• Earl - guy in locker room who pushes Buford out
• Jesse - stable boy in rubber boots [forced against his will]
• Virgil - voyeuristic pervert cowboy
• Bronson - teacher guy
• Gunther - fetch and carry guy, guy at welcome desk when they first arrive
• Vaughn - the guy in charge

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