still hadn’t sorted all that out yet.
Macon’s announcement that Breck Christianson, three-time CRA All-Around World Champion, was on deck to demonstrate steer wrestling—aka bulldoggin’ in the world of rodeo—pulled me out of the fantasy of Breck riding the range beside me for many years to come.
I squinted at the chute below me. On the left side I could see the top of Breck’s hat and the ears of his horse. I didn’t know who’d agreed to be his hazer—the guy riding on the right side during the run that kept Breck’s horse in a straight line—but I knew he preferred to have Sutton doing it.
The gate opened, the steer got a head start, and then Breck chased after him.
My gut clenched when Breck leaned over the right side of his horse, with just his right foot in the stirrup and his left hand on the saddle horn. His left leg practically stuck straight up as he slid it across the back of the saddle.
Most people thought bulldoggers launched themselves forward, but they actually leaned back. So once they grabbed ahold of the steers’ head, they could pull backward when both their feet hit the dirt. That balance to power ratio allowed them to twist their bodies and use their weight and strength to slam the steer on its side.
I’d listened to my brother discuss dismount strategies, complain about flexibility training and conditioning. I understood there was more to what steer wrestlers did than what rodeo spectators saw in the few seconds they spent in the arena.
When it all came together like clockwork? It was a sight to behold. Danger and precision that looked effortless.
That’s how my man’s first run went.
Breck had that steer down in 3.9 seconds.
Applause and whistles echoed throughout the arena. I had such a burst of pride for him to hear the entire school’s acknowledgment of his skill—an affirmation he hadn’t heard for far too long.
I saw him glance at the judge to see if there were flags for breaking the barrier or an illegal takedown. When he saw nothing but the impressive time on the scoreboard, his cocky grin made my dick hard.
And I paid particular attention to how he walked across the dirt. Not only because his rear view was damn fine with that tight cowboy ass and his broad shoulders, but I wanted to see if he favored his right leg. He’d mentioned having a sore knee last night. When I saw him hitch his shoulders and twist to the side, I figured he’d probably prefer a backrub to a blowjob tonight.
My voice of reason snorted disbelief.
After the bulldogging event was tie-down roping, and I noticed Breck served as hazer for the tie-down roper. Team roping followed, then barrel racing, and finally bull riding.
There was a fifteen-minute intermission before the next round started. I didn’t move, although I exchanged a few friendly waves with other instructor’s significant others as we killed time in the stands.
Breck’s second run resulted in just a tenth of a second faster than his first time. If this was a real competition, his combined score was good enough to land him in the payout slots.
After the demo ended, a quick thank-you to teachers served as the closing of the event. The arena emptied quickly but I didn’t rush out. Breck would track me down when he finished with his official duties. The school had horse handlers, so he didn’t have to deal with that, but he never trusted anyone to take care of his tack—a habit I respected.
Twenty minutes later I heard the clang clang of his boot heels on the metal steps as he climbed the risers. The happy grin, the light shining in his eyes when he looked at me…just did me in.
Yep. You are so dick-whipped over this bulldogger.
I stood when he reached me. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching before he hooked his hand around the back of my neck and brought my mouth to his for a kiss.
“Hey.”
Another thing that made me so crazy about him? He kissed me hello. Every single time. Usually
Macon’s announcement that Breck Christianson, three-time CRA All-Around World Champion, was on deck to demonstrate steer wrestling—aka bulldoggin’ in the world of rodeo—pulled me out of the fantasy of Breck riding the range beside me for many years to come.
I squinted at the chute below me. On the left side I could see the top of Breck’s hat and the ears of his horse. I didn’t know who’d agreed to be his hazer—the guy riding on the right side during the run that kept Breck’s horse in a straight line—but I knew he preferred to have Sutton doing it.
The gate opened, the steer got a head start, and then Breck chased after him.
My gut clenched when Breck leaned over the right side of his horse, with just his right foot in the stirrup and his left hand on the saddle horn. His left leg practically stuck straight up as he slid it across the back of the saddle.
Most people thought bulldoggers launched themselves forward, but they actually leaned back. So once they grabbed ahold of the steers’ head, they could pull backward when both their feet hit the dirt. That balance to power ratio allowed them to twist their bodies and use their weight and strength to slam the steer on its side.
I’d listened to my brother discuss dismount strategies, complain about flexibility training and conditioning. I understood there was more to what steer wrestlers did than what rodeo spectators saw in the few seconds they spent in the arena.
When it all came together like clockwork? It was a sight to behold. Danger and precision that looked effortless.
That’s how my man’s first run went.
Breck had that steer down in 3.9 seconds.
Applause and whistles echoed throughout the arena. I had such a burst of pride for him to hear the entire school’s acknowledgment of his skill—an affirmation he hadn’t heard for far too long.
I saw him glance at the judge to see if there were flags for breaking the barrier or an illegal takedown. When he saw nothing but the impressive time on the scoreboard, his cocky grin made my dick hard.
And I paid particular attention to how he walked across the dirt. Not only because his rear view was damn fine with that tight cowboy ass and his broad shoulders, but I wanted to see if he favored his right leg. He’d mentioned having a sore knee last night. When I saw him hitch his shoulders and twist to the side, I figured he’d probably prefer a backrub to a blowjob tonight.
My voice of reason snorted disbelief.
After the bulldogging event was tie-down roping, and I noticed Breck served as hazer for the tie-down roper. Team roping followed, then barrel racing, and finally bull riding.
There was a fifteen-minute intermission before the next round started. I didn’t move, although I exchanged a few friendly waves with other instructor’s significant others as we killed time in the stands.
Breck’s second run resulted in just a tenth of a second faster than his first time. If this was a real competition, his combined score was good enough to land him in the payout slots.
After the demo ended, a quick thank-you to teachers served as the closing of the event. The arena emptied quickly but I didn’t rush out. Breck would track me down when he finished with his official duties. The school had horse handlers, so he didn’t have to deal with that, but he never trusted anyone to take care of his tack—a habit I respected.
Twenty minutes later I heard the clang clang of his boot heels on the metal steps as he climbed the risers. The happy grin, the light shining in his eyes when he looked at me…just did me in.
Yep. You are so dick-whipped over this bulldogger.
I stood when he reached me. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching before he hooked his hand around the back of my neck and brought my mouth to his for a kiss.
“Hey.”
Another thing that made me so crazy about him? He kissed me hello. Every single time. Usually
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