Jed was prepared for the ride of his life. So was I, but that would be taking place after the rodeo.
I carried his riding shit from the beat-up red truck to the edge of the arena without problems, but this afternoon, I dropped some of his riding gear, and an electric cart drove over it. I felt the leather strap slip out of my hand, dropped everything and stumbled to my knees and reaching for it even as the little rubber wheels hit it. I pulled the leather through the mud and smacked right into Jed, who yanked the strap out of my hands as I stood.
“Boy! Over to the truck, now!” His voice was thick with disappointment.
Leaving the bundle where I’d dropped it, I made for the truck, trotting like Chance, his horse. He pulled the black bungee cords from the truck bed and threw them at my chest. I wrapped them around my wrists, knowing I’d fucked up big time. As he pulled them to the tie downs on the bedrail, I leaned forward, held tightly to the back of the truck. Jed always backed into the corner so we’d have privacy. Luckily for me, today was the Gay Games Rodeo in Cleveland, so even if we were caught, we’d probably not be disturbed. I leaned against the tailgate, clenching my teeth.
The strap whistled through the air, burning a line of fire across my ass. One time, two times, five times and I stopped counting as my knees got weak and I sagged against the truck. The strokes came faster and then stopped when we heard someone shouting. “Jed Johnston to the arena! You’re on deck!”
With that, he wiped the mud off of the strap on the bottom of my white T-shirt and stalked off towards the arena, his boots crunching on the gravel. I struggled out of the bungee cords; I didn’t have time to waste. I gathered up the rest of his gear and rushed it to the place where he’d be riding.
Seeing him all shoved into those jeans – he knows I get worked up when he’s dressed like that – made me want to drop to my knees in front of him. As he stood at the railing, I slid in behind him instead, setting the gear down next to us. I stood there, still stinging from the strap and thinking. I don’t want to do something that would get him disqualified, but I still want to please him. My hand moved over the leather of his chaps to rest firmly on the bulge in his jeans. It looked over his shoulder; I made sure that the only eyes spying this would be all those fans; the judges, in their box across the arena, wouldn’t see. My fingers rested on his buttons, popped the one in the middle, and I leaned in, whispering:
“After you ride Chance, Boss, please ride me.”