⚠️ READER ADVISORY — 18+ ONLY ⚠️
This bonus chapter contains explicit sexual content (graphic on-page MM sex, light bondage, daddy kink, collaring). It is intended for adult readers only. By continuing, you confirm you are 18 years of age or older.

Trick

A bonus chapter from Good Hand
by Jace Wilder

Six months after the wedding. Halloween night. Mabel and the hands have gone to Della’s for the chili festival. The house is empty.

A scene too hot for Amazon — Caleb POV.

Halloween night six months after the wedding I came in from feeding the herd at sundown and there was a note on the kitchen table in his handwriting.

It said:

Mabel and the hands gone to Della’s for the chili thing in town. Back late. House is empty. I’m upstairs.

And below that, smaller, in pencil he had clearly thought about hard before adding:

Wear the boots and nothing else, husband. I have plans.

I stood at the kitchen table.

I read it twice.

I looked at the kitchen, which was empty. I looked at the porch, which was empty. I looked at the bunkhouse out the window, which was dark. I looked at the clock — six-fifteen — and Mabel had said yesterday she was going to the chili thing at Della’s with Tuck and Duke and not be back till near midnight.

He had been planning this.

He had let me feed the herd. He had timed it.

I read the note one more time.

I started up the stairs.

I left my hat on the rail at the bottom. I left my coat on the hook in the mudroom. I had a long day on me and I had not showered, and I knew, walking up the stairs, that he had timed that too. He had wanted me coming up the way I was. Wranglers and a chambray shirt and the smell of horse and cold wind on me.

The bedroom door was shut.

I turned the knob.

He was on the bed.

He was on his knees on the bed in the middle of it, on top of the wool blanket, naked except for the collar — the leather one, the branded one, the one I had buckled on him on our second anniversary and never taken off since except for the bath — and a pair of the work boots Tuck had given him three years ago that were now broken in to his foot the way leather only breaks in to one foot.

He had his hands behind his back.

He had his head down.

He had a piece of red ribbon tied in a small bow on the back of his neck, just above the collar.

I shut the door behind me.

I locked it.

He did not look up.

I said, “Boy.”

“Hi, Caleb.”

“You been sittin’ like that long?”

“About ten minutes.”

“You hear me come up the drive.”

“Yes.”

“You hear me feed.”

“Yes.”

“You been kneelin’ here since I came in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Caleb.”

“On the wool blanket.”

“Yes.”

“Hands behind you.”

“Yes.”

“In the boots.”

“Yes.”

“With a ribbon on you.”

“Yes.”

I came over to the bed.

I did not get on it. Not yet. I stood at the foot of the bed and I looked at him. The light in the bedroom was one lamp on the dresser, low, soft, October-warm. The window was open a crack to the cold. I could smell him from where I stood. The lavender soap from the bath I now knew he had taken before I came up. He had run a bath while I was feeding cows.

I said, “Look at me, husband.”

He looked up.

His eyes were already half-gone.

He had been kneeling on the blanket waiting for me long enough that he was already in the place we both knew the place was. His mouth was open a little. His curls were damp at the temples from the bath. His cock was hard against his stomach. The ribbon was a brighter red than I had thought.

I said, “What are you tonight, boy.”

“Yours.”

“Yeah.”

“Yes Caleb.”

“What’s that ribbon for, husband.”

“It’s a — it’s a present.”

“For who.”

“You.”

“Mm.”

“I’m — I’m a present, Caleb.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“Wrapped in ribbon.”

“Yes.”

“On our wool blanket.”

“Yes.”

“In our bed.”

“Yes.”

“Wearin’ my brand.”

“Yes.”

I looked at him a long second.

I said, “Hold still.”

He held still.

I crossed to the dresser. I poured myself a finger of bourbon out of the bottle on the dresser — which had also been put there by him; it had not been on the dresser this morning — and I stood at the dresser with the bourbon in my hand and I looked at him in the mirror over his shoulder.

I drank the bourbon slow.

I did it on purpose.

I watched him try to hold still in the mirror. I watched him fail. He was breathing fast already. He was already a little gone. His shoulders kept inching forward like he wanted to come to me and he was making them stay.

I set the glass down.

I came back to the bed.

I sat down on the edge of it.

I said, “Come here, boy.”

He came.

He came on his knees across the blanket. He came over to me. He stopped beside me. He put his face against my thigh through the Wranglers. He breathed in. He made a small sound.

I put my hand in his hair.

I said, “Boy.”

“Yes.”

“You been waitin’ on me.”

“Yes.”

“How long.”

“All — all afternoon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes Caleb.”

“What you been thinkin’ about, husband.”

“You.”

“What about me.”

“Your — your hand.”

“My hand.”

“On me.”

“Where.”

“Anywhere.”

I laughed.

It came out low. I tipped his face up to me with the hand in his hair. His mouth was open. His eyes were big. He was almost gone.

I bent.

I kissed him.

I kissed him slow with him on his knees beside the bed and me sitting on the edge of it. I kissed him slow until he was making a sound into my mouth that was not language. I kissed him slow until his hands — which he had been keeping behind his back without being told — started to come around to grip the front of my Wranglers, and I caught his wrists.

I caught both of his wrists in one of my hands and I held them.

I pulled back.

I said, low, “Hands behind you, husband.”

“Sorry — ”

“That what you do for a present?”

“Sorry, Caleb.”

“Hands.”

He put them back behind him.

“Good boy.”

He whimpered.

He whimpered straight from the back of his throat, the way he had whimpered the first night I had ever called him good boy in the loft, and his cock kicked against his belly, and a clear drop ran down the head of it onto the wool blanket between his knees.

I looked at it.

I said, “Look at that.”

“Caleb — ”

“Look at you, makin’ a mess on my blanket already.”

“I’m — ”

“Hush, boy.”

“Yes Caleb.”

I stood up.

I stood up in front of him. He was kneeling at the edge of the bed with his face level with my belt buckle. He looked up at me.

I undid my belt.

I did it slow.

I pulled the belt out of the loops slow, one loop at a time, and I doubled it in my hand. I did not need it for anything. He knew I did not need it for anything. I had been carrying it around my hips all day and I doubled it now in my hand because I knew what the leather smelled like to him, and what the sound of it pulling out of the loops did to him, and I was not above using it.

I held the doubled belt up to his mouth.

I said, “Smell that.”

He bent his face into the leather.

He breathed in.

He made a sound.

I said, “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Lick it.”

He licked it.

He licked the leather of my belt with his eyes on mine and my belt in my hand and the brand of our ranch around his throat and the ribbon at the back of his neck, and I have lived a long time and I have seen a great many things and I will tell you that was one of them.

I dropped the belt on the bed.

I undid my jeans.

I pushed them down.

I pushed my underwear down.

He looked at me.

He looked at me from his knees with his eyes already gone and his mouth already open, and I said, “Open.”

He opened his mouth.

I held his jaw in one hand. I held the back of his head in the other. I pushed in slow. He moaned around me. I held there. I pulled back. I went slow.

I said, low, “Good boy.”

He moaned.

I said, “My pretty boy. On his knees in his boots in our bedroom waitin’ for his husband. Look at you.”

He moaned harder.

I held my hand at the back of his collar.

I held the leather. I held the brand. I worked his mouth slow. I had taught him how to take me without choking, and he had practiced, and he was good at it now in a way that took him three years and which neither of us were ever going to apologize for.

I took my time.

I took my time because I had the night.

I took my time because Mabel and Tuck and Duke were in town until midnight and the house was ours and the only other sound was the wind moving a piece of porch rail somewhere down the south side. I took my time because he had wrapped himself in a ribbon for me and I was going to honor it.

I worked his mouth.

I talked to him.

“That’s it. Breathe through your nose, husband. There you go. Good. So good for me. So pretty for me. Mine. Look at you. My boy. My husband. My Halloween present.”

He laughed around me, a small startled sound.

I laughed back.

I pulled out of his mouth.

I pulled him up off his knees.

I said, “Up on the bed, husband.”

He went up on the bed.

He went up on his hands and knees in the middle of the wool blanket. He looked back at me. His face was flushed. His mouth was wet. The ribbon at the back of his neck was crooked now. The collar was a little crooked too.

I straightened the collar.

I straightened it slow with both my hands.

I kissed the back of his neck above the ribbon.

I said, “Stay there.”

I stripped.

I got out of my shirt and out of my Wranglers and out of my socks and I was naked the same as he was, except I was not in boots and he was, and that was the joke and it was a good one, and I was going to keep it that way for a while.

I came back to the bed.

I got behind him.

I picked up the bottle of oil he had set out on the bedside table for me. He had been planning every part of this. He had thought about every part. I had a husband who had sat on the wool blanket for ten minutes thinking about the order of things, and the bottle of oil was in arm’s reach because that is the kind of husband he was.

I oiled my fingers.

I worked him.

I worked him slow. He was tight from a day of not having me. He had gotten loose for me on a regular basis over three years and I knew his body now the way I knew the gates of my own ranch, but I still worked him slow, because I liked it slow first.

He pushed back against my fingers.

He whined.

He whined the way he whined when he was past ready and I was holding him.

I said, “Easy, husband.”

“Caleb please — ”

“Quiet.”

“Please — ”

“Hush.”

“Caleb — ”

“Boy.”

“Yes.”

“Whose are you.”

“Yours.”

“Whose.”

“Yours, Caleb.”

“What are you tonight.”

“Yours — your present — ”

“Mm. My present.”

“Yes — ”

“Wrapped in a ribbon.”

“Yes — ”

“In a brand.”

“Yes — ”

“In boots.”

“Yes — ”

“On your hands and knees beggin’ for me.”

“Yes Caleb please please please — ”

“Good boy.”

I oiled myself.

I lined up.

I pushed in slow.

I went all the way in slow and he made a sound into the wool blanket like he had been waiting all day for it, which he had, and I held myself there for a second with my hand on his lower back and the brand of my collar at the back of his neck under my other hand.

I rolled my hips.

He moaned.

I rolled them again.

He moaned again.

I started to fuck him.

I did not go slow. He had set up a present. A present is not slow. I fucked him like a man who had come home to a present after a long day, which I was, and I was going to enjoy my present.

I fucked him hard.

I had a hand in his hair. I had the other hand wrapped around the front of the collar at his throat from behind. I held the leather. I felt the brand under my palm. I rolled into him hard and he met me on every stroke and the wool blanket rucked up under us.

I talked to him.

I had been talking him through every fuck since June three years ago and tonight was no exception.

“Look at you, boy.”

“Yes — ”

“Wrapped up for me.”

“Yes — ”

“In my brand.”

“Yes — ”

“In my house.”

“Yes — ”

“In our bed.”

“Yes Caleb please — ”

“Whose are you, boy.”

“Yours — ”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Mine.”

“Mine — ”

“What.”

“I’m — I’m yours, Daddy.”

“Good boy.”

I pulled the collar.

I pulled it just enough that his back arched, just enough that his throat tipped back into my hand, and I bent and I bit the base of his neck above the leather, soft, and he sobbed.

I said, into the back of his ear, “You gonna come for me, boy.”

“Yes — ”

“Without my hand on you.”

“Yes — ”

“Like this.”

“Yes — ”

“From me bein’ inside you.”

“Yes Caleb please please — ”

“In my ranch.”

“Yes — ”

“On my blanket.”

“Yes — ”

“In my collar.”

“Yes — ”

“Come on, boy.”

I rolled my hips into him hard.

He came.

He came on the wool blanket under us untouched, the way he had come on the wool blanket under us untouched the very first time three years ago, and it ripped through him the same way, and he sobbed into the wool, and I felt his body give around me, and I fucked him through it.

I came right after him.

I came inside him with my hand on the collar at the front of his throat and my mouth at the back of his neck, and I said mine mine mine mine into his hair, and he was shaking under me, and I held him there and I held him.

I held him a long time.

I pulled out slow.

I rolled us both onto our sides. I pulled him against my chest. I pulled the wool blanket up. He was crying a little, the good kind. He was laughing a little, also the good kind. He turned his face into my throat and he stayed there.

I kissed the top of his head.

I said, “Husband.”

“Caleb.”

“Best Halloween present I ever got.”

He laughed.

He laughed wetly into my throat and he said, “Good.”

“You been plannin’ it.”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

“You said in October you wished I’d surprise you sometime.”

“Boy.”

“What.”

“You listen too good.”

“I know.”

“Mm.”

We lay there.

After a while I reached up. I undid the ribbon at the back of his neck, slow. I held it in my hand. It was a piece of grosgrain ribbon, half an inch wide, tied in a small bow. He had spent a while on the bow. I could see he had retied it twice because there was a bend in it from a previous knot.

I held the ribbon.

I tied it loose around his wrist instead.

He looked at it. He looked at me. He laughed.

He said, “What’s that for.”

“Means you’re still mine.”

“Caleb.”

“What.”

“I’m always still yours.”

“I know, husband.”

“You don’t need a ribbon for that.”

“I know I don’t need a ribbon for it. I want the ribbon.”

He kissed me.

He kissed me long with the ribbon on his wrist and the collar on his throat and the boots still on his feet, because we had not gotten the boots off, and I had not asked him to get the boots off, and I had a feeling I was going to keep him in those boots for a while longer.

I rolled him over.

I pulled him on top of me.

I said, “Stay.”

He stayed.

He stayed on top of me with his face on my chest and his hand spread flat over my heart the way he had always done, the checking-it’s-real motion, except he had been doing it three years now and he did not need to check anymore. He did it because he liked the shape of it.

I held him.

I said, “Boy.”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna take those boots off eventually.”

“Eventually.”

“Just askin’.”

“You said you liked the boots.”

“I do like the boots.”

“Then I’ll keep ‘em on.”

“All right.”

We lay there.

The wind moved the porch rail. The cottonwoods up at the corral rustled. Somewhere down at the bunkhouse the screen door banged once in the wind.

He said, very small, “Caleb.”

“Yeah.”

“Trick or treat.”

I laughed.

I laughed until my chest shook under him and he laughed against my chest and we both laughed for a minute, and I held him tighter, and I said, into his hair:

“Treat, husband. Definitely treat.”

He fell asleep on my chest in his boots and his collar and his ribbon.

I held him.

The sun had been down a long time.

The wind kept moving the porch rail.

I held him and I did not sleep for a while because I wanted to look at him.

When Mabel and the hands came home around midnight I heard the truck on the gravel.

Mabel knocked once, soft, on our door at twelve-fifteen. She did it the way she did. She did not say anything. She knocked once and she went on down the hall to her room. She always knocked when she came in late because she was checking we were alive, and she always did not say anything because she was Mabel.

I called out, soft, “We’re good, Mabel.”

She called back, soft, “I know, sweetheart.”

She went on down the hall.

I held him.

He stayed asleep.

I stayed awake a long time.

I had not, three years ago, thought I would have this. I had not, three years ago, thought I would have any of this. I had been a fifty-four-year-old man on a porch in Montana with a coffee in my hand and Mabel in my kitchen and a good dog at my feet and I had thought that was the rest of my life, which would have been a fine life, but it would not have been this.

This was better.

This was a husband on my chest in a ribbon and a collar and a pair of boots with the wool blanket pulled up to our shoulders and Mabel in the kitchen down the hall and the cottonwoods moving and the moon over the east ridge and a ranch I owned that I shared now with a man who had walked up the drive with a duffel bag and never left.

I closed my eyes.

I slept eventually.

I slept eight hours.

I have been sleeping eight hours for three years now.

I do not think it is going to stop.

❤️ Thank You for Reading

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Sweetwater Ranch will return. Tuck has a Holroyd cousin to settle down with, and Duke has a sister-in-law making eyes at him. Stay tuned. — Jace

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