Uncle Gunther

As a young woman, my mother met my dad on a visit to the UK. My mother was German, and to be more specific, Bavarian. To cut a long story short, they hit it off, and mom remained in the UK after marrying my father.

After my sister was born, I followed two years later. As kids, we could not have been more different. Alice, my sister, was bright, obedient, and a model student. I hated school and was a total shit magnet. My poor parents got continually burdened by my misconduct.

My misdemeanours only ever escalated, and by the time I was sixteen, I got involved with the wrong crowd. Criminality soon followed, and I was a hairsbreadth away from going to a juvenile detention centre. Because of my pathetic school results, my parents decided to send me off to Germany to work on my uncle’s farm. Their decision was twofold. Firstly, getting me out of the toxic environment I was in might do me some good. Secondly, cohabiting with my uncle might introduce me to a future profession in farming. Ten years before my mom’s dad passed away and her mother had moved in with her sister. That is when Gunther took over the farm.

To put it bluntly, I was, fucked. Unhappy as I was, I had no say in the matter. On the verge of incarceration, the social workers concerned in my case wholeheartedly agreed with my parents and thought it a great idea. I got left doubtless, that if I escaped back to England, I would be locked up.

With all my folk’s problems, I did not have the heart to tell them that I was gay and having a sexual relationship with the alpha guy in our gang. The thought of being stuck with my uncle on a farm was not an exciting prospect in my life. The only relief to me was that my uncle was a bachelor, whom I had never met, and that I would not have to deal with a wife and kids. Fortunately, I did speak rudimentary German because of my mother and could at least interact in my new environment.  

My uncle kindly met me at Munich airport. Upon seeing Gunther, my uncle, my heart san, because he was a massive hairy kraut, and I instantly knew that I would not be giving him any shit. Gunther first shook my hand before embracing me in a bear hug. His beard was epic and was blond with a reddish tinge. His jeans took great strain to contain his bulbous backside, and his plaid shirt was at full stretch around his gut.

Once he removed his baseball cap before we drove home, he was bald on top of his head. As we travelled, I could not stop looking at his thick arms and rough farmer’s hands. One swipe from him would put me in a casualty ward.

Gunther had mesmerizing green eyes that constantly flickered as we spoke. Gunther was understanding about my lack of German and patiently repeated himself, assuring me that in no time, I would be fluent.

When we got to the farm, he showed me to my room. It was small but comfortable.

Once we got to the kitchen, we had sandwiches and coffee that he had earlier prepared. I could tell that he was keen to show me around the farm, and shortly after lunch, we began our tour. Gunther was a dairy farmer, and as expected, there was a strong smell of manure.

‘Oh, fuck, I had better get used to this,’ I thought to myself.

Amazingly, as we communicated, my comprehension and articulation began to improve. In addition to this, Gunther’s demeanour toward me also began to take on a seductive air. It was almost as if he was wooing me.

‘Fuck, is he gay… But he is my fuckin’ uncle,’ I quickly admonished myself. 

Gunther soon began placing one of his enormous hands on my shoulders and gently squeezing them.

Ashamedly, I found myself getting horny.

‘Don’t jump to conclusions… Maybe, he is just playful,’ I again reprimanded myself.

“Let’s go back to the house and have a few beers,” Gunther suggested, “It’s your first day, and you should first settle in. Tomorrow is another day, Nico.” 

As I sat on the sofa, Gunther asked, “I hope you like pork. I have prepared a pork stew and just need to start warming it,” he concluded as he turned on the plate on the stove.

After handing me a beer, Gunther sat next to me and smiled.

“I’m glad you are here. Maybe I can turn you into a farmer.” Then lifting his beer in a cheers gesture, he concluded, “You’re welcome, and I hope your stay is enjoyable.” 

After a reciprocal gesture and a sip of beer, Gunther gave me another bear hug. Up until dinner, Gunther’s hand seldom left my shoulder or leg. It was also clear that he was noticing my hyperventilation.

“I think you like me touching you?” he eventually inquired.

“Yes,” I simpered in a scarcely audible whimper.

“You look tired. I suppose it’s been an exciting day for you?” Gunther then asked.

“Yes,” I once more replied.

“Well, later, I will show you what used to be your grandparent’s former bed. Then you can decide,” he informed me.

‘Decide on what?’ I thought to myself, remaining quiet.

During our dinner, I felt like I was in a dreamlike state as I evaluated all the day’s events and pondered my future. Although the farming aspect of my time ahead did not fill me with joy, I was excited and intrigued by Gunther.

My curiosity finally overcame me before I asked, “Why have you never married?”

With a smile, he replied, “I’ve been waiting for the right bitch.” The inflection in his voice when he said the word, bitch, was peculiarly suggestive.

“Oh,” I replied as his stare became intense.

In an attempt to lighten the tension I was feeling, I innocently asked, “Well, what kind of bitch are you looking for?”

Without skipping a beat, he answered, “An obedient one who will take care of all my needs.”

The intensity of our conversation now reached a fever pitch as his eyes subjugated me.

In that instant, I was doubtless that Gunther intended to fuck me.

After we had eaten and cleaned the dishes, Gunther took hold of my arm and steered me toward his bedroom.

“Wow, that’s an incredible bed. It looks very comfortable,” I sheepishly uttered. 

“Well, why don’t you find out,” he suggested.

As I was about to jump on fully clothed, he sternly uttered, “Uh-uh, not with your clothes on.”

I awkwardly commenced undressing. With only my underpants on, I again attempted to get on the bed.

“Do you sleep with your underpants on?” Gunther scowled.

“No… I normally sleep naked,” I answered.

With a frown Gunther then incredulously countered, “So, then take them off.”

When I finally got on the bed, I lay on my back with my hands self-consciously covering my genitals.

As Gunther looked at me, with a flush of annoyance on his face, he commanded, “Take your fuckin’ hands away.” 

I did as I got told and lay looking at him submissively. As Gunther began undressing, he never broke eye contact with me. His facial features also started to harden, and his demeanour became stern.

Naked, he was even hairier than I had realized.  His breathtaking fat uncut knob suited his stocky frame perfectly.

“Nico, you have given your parents a lot of shit, and that’s why you are here. Tonight, you need to learn a lesson.” With that, Gunther opened a cupboard behind him and took out a short leather strap. As he slapped his palm with this strap, I jumped up and tried to run for the door.

Large as Gunther was, he effortlessly intercepted me, and before I knew what was happening, I was face down on the bed with my wrists confined by his huge left hand. I yelled as the first smack hit my backside. As it stung, the second strike followed. A third strike then got followed by a fourth, fifth, sixth and etcetera, as my arse began to feel like it was on fire. In all fairness to Gunther, given his strength, the smacks were not nearly as severe as they could have been.

What amazed me most, however, was how exciting I was finding the experience. After my initial shock wore off, I felt my cock becoming rock-hard as I wriggled and whimpered like crazy.

Once the strap got tossed aside, Gunther got between my legs. As I lay spread-eagled, his authoritative hands commenced kneading my butt cheeks vigorously, alternating his grinding with occasional slaps. Soon, his hands pulled my cheeks apart as his thumbs started robustly probing my pucker. After Gunther commenced spitting on my rosebud, his thumbs staggered their infiltration as he snorted with horniness.

With all the action on my backside, I began to groan like a bitch in heat, in harmony with Gunther’s grunts.

As his thumbs shortly halted their action, his right hand slid under me before harshly gripping my cock and balls. As I shuddered and bleated, his left hand gave my backside an almighty slap.

As I yelled, he guffawed before saying, “Looks like I have finally found my bitch!”

Gunther’s hands now returned to their former station. Soon, his index and middle finger started spearing my hole. After a few minutes, his third finger entered the fray. As I yelped and tried to move upward and away, he placed his left hand firmly on my back, keeping my body still.

“This fuckin’ hole is very tight… We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” he barked.

Although focussed on my aching hole, his statement concerned me. ‘What ‘work’ is he talking about?’ I pondered.

As I uncomfortably got used to the triad of digits, Gunther asked, “Have you heard about fisting?”

‘Oh, fuck, no,’ I thought before pleading, “No, Gunther… I won’t be able to cope with that!”

“Mmm… We’ll see,” Gunther replied before adding, “Relax, we can work on that another day.”

Before I could digest our conversation, the triad gave way to a thick, single invader after Gunther moved on top of me.

From his actions thus far and his swift entry into my backside, it had become clear that Gunther liked things rough. The humping and thumping that followed, masterfully unlined these predilections.

As Gunther bounced on me, he asked, “Have you had a tetanus vaccine?”

“Yes, a year ago,” I answered, perplexed.   

“Good,” he answered before he started gnawing on my neck and ears as one of his hands pulled on my hair.

Next, he commenced spitting on and slapping my face. Following that, his other hand began to clamp on my throat with varying degrees of constriction. It was as if I had an out on control sex maniac on top of me. Most surprising of all was that I loved it.

My enjoyment soon overflowed as Gunther announced that he was also about to cum. In unison, I also shot my load all over his sheets.

As we lay side by side in the afterglow, he looked at me and said, “I know that when we met at the airport, I told you to refer to me as Gunther. But I have changed my mind.”

“Oh, so I should call you Uncle Gunther,” I replied.

“No… From now on, you call me Papa, and I will call you Schatzi,” he answered. I knew that Schatzi was the most popular term of endearment among Germans, and means, ‘little treasure.’ It, however, was a term used by men referring to their daughters or wives.

The following day left me under no illusion that I was there to work my arse off, which I did. In addition, however, I also learned that I was there to get my arse fucked off. Gunther had an unbelievable libido, and three sessions with him was a slow day.

Another reality that soon became apparent was that Gunther did not worry too much about personal hygiene. He had showered on the day he collected me from the airport, but that was not a daily ritual in his life, and for the most part, he smelled like a farm animal. In the milieu of farm life, nevertheless, this worried me less and less, and agrarian odours soon became irrelevant to me.

The biggest concern that lay ahead was the fisting issue, which Gunther made clear was non-negotiable.   

I sweated blood trying to accommodate him but kept bailing. In tribute to Gunther, he did not force me beyond my limits for the first several weeks. I was not foolhardy enough to believe that this would last forever. 

One Saturday night, however, he kept feeding me more and more alcohol. That night my pleas we not respected, and as much as I moaned and groaned, I ended up with one of his enormous hands in my backside. Thanks to alcohol, I cannot say that it was hectically painful, but the fallout the following day left me in my doubt that I had got fisted.

My coercion certainly paid dividends, and months later, I could not wait to get my Saturday fist fucking, because once a week kept the ritual special. 

I loved living with Papa and became a real farm boy. Above all, my parents were ecstatic that I discovered a vocation in life.