Dick's Male Retirement Ranch
A Naturist Retreat for Discerning Men
I woke in the morning with a raging thirst, no doubt caused by my overindulgence in good wine the previous evening. I also woke with a raging hard-on, quite obviously caused by having not emptied my balls for several days.
As tempting as it was to rub one out, I figured it might be ill-advised given my day ahead. Instead, I tried to ignore it and focus instead on the steps that had led me to this possible change in my professional life.
Three months earlier I had chucked in my job as an aged care worker in government-subsidised residential care facilities, a role I was well qualified for. The residents were all nice, but at 27, I'd finally had enough of showering senile old men, wiping their asses, and changing their piss-soaked sheets.
I gave notice and with the holiday and long-service leave I'd accrued, I could afford to take some time to find a job that offered more scope and hopefully, more money.
While I was probably not the highest qualified applicant for such a job, I had completed my Certificate III in Aged Care which afforded me the choice of employment as an aged care worker, a personal or respite care worker, or a community care worker.
I knew how to organise and supervise social and cultural activities, handle administrative tasks, and to provide support and assistance with the daily routines of the residents.
I registered with all the relevant job placement agencies, sent my CV off to at least a dozen prospective employers, but aside from the usual 'form letters' advising me that there were no vacancies at the time, it got me nowhere.
I had managed to feed and clothe myself, run my car, and pay bills, but after almost three-months my nest-egg was dwindling.
It was the very last agency phone interview I had that provided at least a glimmer of hope. The man conducting the interview was a very friendly guy named Paul who understood my need for a career shift. The phone chat was general, but it ended with an invitation for me to join him the following evening for dinner at Rockpool, an upmarket, downtown Italian bistro, to discuss things in greater detail.
I turned up at the eatery not knowing what Paul looked like, although he said he'd be wearing a black leather jacket and would be waiting in one of the more private booths at the back of the room.
I spotted him straight away and as I walked toward him, I noticed his quick but significant glance at the bulge in my Levi's which reassured me that going commando for this interview had been a wise decision.
Before I sat, I extended my hand. "Hi Paul, I'm Ryan Russell."
I sat just as a waiter arrived at our booth. "Drinks, gentlemen?"
I was pondering what to have when Paul asked, "Are you a white or red wine man?"
"Either's good with me. Whatever you order will be fine."
Paul asked the waiter to bring us a bottle of Petaluma Chardonnay and because I figured dinner was going to be on me, I tried not to let it be obvious that the $79 price tag would really stretch my budget.
"The steak here is just fantastic," he said as we waited for the food menu to be given to us.
"Steak sounds good!" I nodded. But if the wine menu had knocked me for a loop, the food menu was a real shock. I figured I would have the cheapest entrée on the menu after Paul ordered a 350 gram, 47-day aged rump for $62.
I quickly scanned the menu for the most inexpensive appetizer, a $16 heirloom tomato salad with buffalo mozzarella and basil pesto.
Paul smiled and said quietly, "Dinner's on me" before turning to the waiter. "Make that two rump steaks and we'll each have the salad as a side.
The meal was superb, and nothing was left on either of our plates. As we enjoyed the rest of the wine, talk turned to business. "You have excellent qualifications, Ryan, but aged care jobs for men in this country are invariably the equivalent of male orderlies. It's hard to escape showering and wiping the asses of elderly men."
He let that thought linger for a moment then added, "But there are alternatives."
"Before I mention one facility that may appeal to you, I need to ask you some quite personal questions."
When I nodded, he asked, "Have you ever dabbled in corporal punishment?"
The question threw me, but I figured I should be honest and upfront. "That's definitely an area that I explored in the past with partners and the occasional one-night stand."
"As a top or a bottom?"
"Bare hand, paddle, and leather strap."
He stroked his chin as he processed my responses. "How big's your cock?"
Looking him in the eye, I replied, "Just over 8 inches - 8.3 to be exact, or just over 21cm."
"Cut or uncut?"
"Are you Jewish?"
"When's the last time you were fucked?"
"Well, I reckon it's at least two weeks. You know, lockdowns and all…"
I knew too well that there's no such thing as a free dinner and when Paul invited me back to his hotel suite for a 'nightcap', I had a fairly good idea of what dessert was going to be.
On his sofa, we enjoyed a very nice Port before a little bit of kissing led to clothes being shed, and cocks being stroked and sucked. We moved from the sofa to his king size bed, where he treated me to a good 10 minutes of mind-numbingly good rimming.
When I noticed the unopened condom he'd dropped on the bed, I took a gamble. I reached for my jeans and pulled out my latest HIV and STD clearance certificate and handed it to him. "It's up to you mate, but I'm neg, and on PrEP."
The condom remained unopened, and it wasn't long before I had his substantial cock buried balls-deep in my ass.
I had great confidence in my ability as a top, and equally, I knew how to bottom so that the man fucking me would get off in spectacular style. Judging by the moans and groans Paul was making, and the smattering of dirty talk, he was enjoying himself and that was borne out when he tensed, thrust in deep, and emptied a sizeable load into my ass.
When he'd softened, he rolled onto his back and chuckled, "Been a while for me, too!"
We shared a shower and cleaned each other up, then redressed.
Before I left, Paul invited me to sit with him on the sofa, so he could outline the job he thought might interest me.
His opening question caught me by surprise. "Do you know much about Dick's?"
I had clearly misunderstood what he was trying to find out. "Is this a trick question?"
He smirked. "Have you ever heard of 'Dick's All-Male Retirement Ranch' in Cairns… well Port Douglas to be exact?"
"No, but it sounds like I should find out more."
Over the next two hours, I had a crash course in the workings of this most intriguing 'men only' naturist retreat, which sounded like it ticked a lot of my boxes.
In a nutshell… it's named 'Dick's' after its founder and manager Richard Charles, and it caters exclusively to a select clientele of well-heeled single or widowed Jewish men with a common interest in male-to-male fucking and breeding, and a healthy interest in corporal punishment.
These were men who had the financial means to retire early and took advantage of the one resort of its kind in Australia that catered to their sexual needs.
We had remained naked while Dick's was discussed in detail and by the time the chat had ended, we were both again sporting boners.
This time, it was Paul on all fours, taking a deep dicking from me, and the evening came to an end with both of us having been fucked and bred.
As I got ready to leave, Paul let me know that he was happy to refer me to Richard. "I will need you to email me your CV to pass on, and I assume you're OK with me giving him your email address and mobile number?"
Before he closed the door, he added with a smirk, "I'll also let him know you're a skilled top and bottom. He'll like that!"
I voiced the one concern I had. "Does he ever conduct the interviews in Sydney?"
"Richard rarely leaves the ranch, and all interviews are done there. But if an applicant comes recommended, he provides business class return airfares, with accommodation and all meals provided. You will also be remunerated for the hours you actually work."
My face must have registered surprise at such generosity.
"Richard is a very fair man. He expects the very best from his staff and he's prepared to reward it."
"Is there an 'audition' process?"
"Yes, it's in three parts… but I'll leave it to Richard to fill in the details."
* * *
Back in the here and now, I was sufficiently awake to give thought to how the first part of my audition would pan out later in the day. I hauled myself out of bed and ordered a full breakfast from room service. It was likely I'd need all my strength!
After Paul had been in touch with him, Richard had emailed me several documents - an application form, a brochure outlining what the retreat offered, and what was expected of staff. Standard stuff for job applicants but revealing at the same time.
The email itself took me by surprise. After providing me with a date one week hence, he wrote, "Allow up to three hours on the premises. Your first interview will be Orientation, followed by your Inspection. On the morning of your first appointment, you will douche before presenting at Dick's Ranch. You are to refrain from ejaculating prior to your first interview."
His P.S. was ominous: "Don't be late!"
In the bathroom, I rummaged until I located my rubber douche bulb and a small sachet of lube. It had been a while since I'd had a thorough clean out, so I needed to brace myself. I lubed a finger and slipped it into my ass to loosen myself up. I took a deep breath and followed the finger with the lubed nozzle of the bulb.
I squeezed the bulb and squirted slowly until I was filled with water, before removing the nozzle. I held the liquid for as long as I could, which really wasn't very long at all. I made it to the toilet just in time.
Whether that one voiding was enough I couldn't immediately tell. But I had enough time for further toilet visits if required.
Next came a long shower and I cleaned my body thoroughly before washing my hair. I know that one thing men always admire in other men is a pair of low hangers, and mine certainly dangled nicely after a sauna or a visit to a steam room.
With neither available to me I settled on the next best thing. Once I was well scrubbed, I braced myself and turned the level of the hot water up as far as I could bear it. It wasn't comfortable, but it would ultimately serve a purpose.
Once I'd dried myself, I stood in front of the mirror and was pleased to note that the hot water had done the trick - Itchy & Scratchy were hanging low in their flesh sack. And the warm day ahead would likely keep them hanging away from my body indefinitely.
I hadn't given any thought to what I'd wear for my first interview. Should I present as the cool, well-dressed guy-about-town in designer threads? Jeans and a shirt? Or shorts and tee, which was typical daywear in the far north?