The tarmac smelled like wet cigarettes and last night's rain. A pigeon pecked at something unidentifiable near my shoe, its head jerking in that twitchy way pigeons have when they're deciding if you're worth fearing, as I stood by the bus stop waiting for the last bus of the day, and it was only 11am. “Last bus of the day, so late,” I muttered to myself.
It was one of those bus stops you find in the middle of nowhere, and it was from nowhere that I saw a man walking towards the stop, across the fields. I had walked there following a footpath from the hills, myself being an avid rambler, but as I watched the man approach, I suspected he was more a local than I, since he wasn't wearing hiking boots, with a large rucksack on his back, with his t-shirt tucked into the waistband of his shorts. That described me. But he wore Wellington boots and a green Barber jacket with a flat cap tipped in front of his forehead, almost covering his eyes, but, even though most of his face was covered, I could tell he was much older than me.
I guessed his age, late early 50s. Quite short and stocky with a weathered look about him that suggested he was more than just local. With his attire, I thought, he was probably a rugged hill farmer. Probably rough and typically working class. What folks would call, salt of the earth.
"Morning," I greeted him, trying to be friendly.
"Ow do," the man responded, his Yorkshire accent clearly audible in a tone that suggested, don't start a conversation.
We both stood in silence, the bus shelter offering some respite from the wind, although it wasn't a chilly breeze, being a perfect June day. I was taken with the natural wonder of the Yorkshire Dales. The rolling limestone hills, the dry-stone walls and of course, the added scenery that just made the national park worthy of pride and celebration.
I was knocked back to my reality by his unexpected comment. "Classic whites," he said.
I turned halfway, catching a whiff of leather and something faintly metallic. The man wasn't smiling, but his eyes did this quick flicker down to my hiking boots and back up, like he'd caught me in a lie.
The pigeon startled, wings slapping air as it bolted. "Sorry? What did you say?" I asked.
“Your underpants," the stranger clarified, much to my surprise, as the man leaned against the shelter's rusted frame, thumbs hooked in his jacket pockets. "Aye, lad. Classic white underpants, probably Y-Fronts, but I’m not sure. Not many wear 'em proper these days."
His voice had dropped lower, almost conspiratorial, the way he said it, like it was a password I should know. My pulse thrummed in my throat at the bizarre comment. So out of the blue, considering where we were standing.
A bus groaned in the distance, as I shifted my stance, suddenly aware of the waistband of my briefs pressing against my hips. I know I was bare-chested in the warmth, but I found myself standing in front of a man who had just commented on my white briefs, without rejecting his observation.
"Um, thanks," I responded, not quite knowing what to say to his comment. "I wear them all the time. Not Y-Fronts though, they’re Amazon Essentials."
The man chuckled, low and knowing, as if I'd just confirmed something important. His fingers tapped against the side of his thigh in a rhythm that felt deliberate. "Aye, proper cotton, none of that fancy synthetic shite. You can always tell," he declared as his eyes flicked toward the horizon where the bus was slowly lumbering into view, its diesel engine growling louder as it approached.
I swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the way my shorts clung to my thighs, the way the wind snuck under the hem and brushed against bare skin. His gaze lingered a second too long on my waistline before snapping back up. "Used to be," he mused, voice rough like gravel underfoot, "men knew how to dress proper. None of these damn boxers riding up or trunks that look like they belong on a bloody footballer."
I was distracted by his comment as the bus roared past us without slowing, spraying muddy water from the potholes. We both jerked back instinctively, my shoulder collided with the shelter's metal frame, his elbow knocked against mine, and for a second, we were pressed close enough that I caught the scent of sheep's wool and old tobacco clinging to his jacket.
"What the fuck?" I demanded. "It should have stopped."
"Probably didn't, lad, because we didn't request it to stop. I thought you were going to do it," the stranger responded to my angry outburst.
The realisation hit me like a slap, I'd been so distracted by his odd comments about my underwear that I'd forgotten to stick my arm out as the bus was already disappearing around the next bend, its taillights winking mockingly through the sunshine.
"Fuck, fuck.... I fucking need to piss as well. Fuck. What else could go wrong?" I asked myself out loud. “I missed the last bus today, and it's not even eleven.”
"You could always piss in your posh briefs, lad, if you need to," the stranger chipped in while I was having my meltdown at the side of the road.
"What? Why would I piss myself when I can piss on the grass verge?" I demanded from the stranger.
"Because," the man said, stepping closer, his Wellingtons crunching on the gravel, "you're wearing classic whites. And men who wear proper cotton don't piss on grass. They hold it. Like gentlemen used to."
His gaze was unnervingly focused now, the brim of his flat cap casting his eyes into shadow except for the glint of something unreadable. "Besides, I like watching posh blokes, piss themselves. Seems proper to watch when they get such enjoyment from letting go."
"Did you say you like to watch guys piss themselves?" I demanded, not sure if I had heard his comment correctly.
A tractor’s growl grew louder as the stranger just shrugged, his lips quirking in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. "You heard me," he murmured, and this time, his accent thickened, the vowels curling like smoke. "I like to watch guys piss themselves. What’s so wrong with that? All I do is ask if I can watch."
My face burned as the tractor roared past, its driver nodding at us without a second glance, oblivious to the sudden tension thickening the air between us. I swallowed hard, my bladder protesting, the pressure sharpening under his unblinking stare. "That’s...." I started, then stopped, wondering what the hell I could say to that comment.
"What? Disgusting?" the stranger interjected. "Watching a bloke mess his posh briefs."
The stranger chuckled again, that same knowing sound that set my teeth on edge. He adjusted his cap with slow deliberation, revealing more of his face. Up close, I could see the faint scar running through his left eyebrow, the stubble darkening his jaw. "Disgusting’s a strong word for summat natural," he said. "Especially when a bloke's desperate. Makes for interesting sights and smells, don’t it?"
I couldn't argue with that, having occasionally imbibed in such acts over the years. "So, you approach random men at bus stops and ask if they fancy pissing their pants?"
"Yep. Most say fuck off, but occasionally, I get lucky. Tell you what, lad, if you piss for me, I can provide clean ones in exchange. Sounds fair to me, and I don't get many lads around here willing to share my kink. Are you telling me you don't have kinks?”
"Clean ones?" I managed to grit out, stalling. "And what do you do with the ones you keep?"
"Oh, that's simple," he answered. I let them dry and wear them occasionally. That's my kink, and who will know? It's only you and me."
My fingers twitched toward my waistband, half-instinct, half-defiance, as his gaze tracked the movement. "Of course I have kinks," I muttered, "as you call them. But I don’t really share them," the lie tasting sour. My thighs pressed tighter together, the seam of my shorts digging in.
The stranger exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like laughter. "Course you don’t," as he tilted his head, studying me like a farmer sizing up livestock. "But I reckon your kinks ain’t so different from mine. Else you’d have walked off by now."
I was shocked by his bluntness and observation, as his thumb hooked into his own waistband, tugging it just enough to reveal a flash of white cotton beneath the mud-splattered green jacket. "See? Proper Y-Fronts by M&S."
He’d figured me out because, as he correctly pointed out, I hadn’t walked away telling him to fuck off. The conversation was also making me feel aroused, and so I decided to tell the truth. "I have a fetish for classic white briefs and yeah, okay, I do occasionally like wetting myself," I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could bite them back.
“Knew it,” he said as the admission hung between us, raw as the windburn on my cheeks. His eyebrows lifted a fraction, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he nodded slowly, like I’d confirmed some private theory.
"Well, lad, since you're still here, here's my offer. Take those shorts and boots off and just do it here for me to watch. Then, you give me your briefs, and I walk you naked back to my farm, put you over my knee and spank your arse nice and proper like, and then maybe, if you're up for it, I fuck that arse of yours until you can't take it anymore. Genuine offer from a horny, kinky farmer to a kinky lad who....I suspect, is gasping for some gratuitous fucking and punishment."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I blinked, my pulse hammering so loud I could hear it in my ears. The farmyard scent of him, wet wool, earth, and something muskier, wrapped around me as he stepped closer, his fingers grazing my hipbone through my shorts.
"Tell me to fuck off if you want, but I think you're thinking about it," he stated, as his fingers slid under the waistband of my shorts as he looked me squarely in the face.
I didn't move. That was the damning part. My breath came shallow and quick as his rough fingertips traced the elastic of my briefs, the heat of his skin seeping through the cotton. Somewhere in the back of my head, a voice screamed about public decency laws, but it was drowned out by the hammering in my chest and the way my cock twitched against the cotton fabric.
"Here? Now?" I stammered. “And then a jolly good fucking back at your place?”
The farmer chuckled, calloused fingers tightening fractionally on my waistband. His thumb pressed into the dip of my hipbone, and I felt the ridge of his wedding band, cold against my flushed skin. "Aye. Right here. Nothing to worry about. You missed the bus for the day, and that tractor in the distance is my brother working our lower fields. Even if he sees, he won’t bat an eye."
"What about your wife?" I asked.
"That bitch. She left me apparently for a proper man. It's only my brother and me in the farmhouse now, and we like it that way," he answered.
I exhaled shakily. The wind curled around my bare thighs, raising gooseflesh where his fingers didn’t touch. My bladder throbbed, a hot, insistent pressure, but the thought of wetting myself in broad daylight, watched by this stranger with his farmer’s patience and dirty Wellingtons, sent an illicit thrill down my spine.
His boot scuffed gravel as he shifted, blocking me from the road with his body. "Decision’s yours, lad," he murmured, and I caught the faintest tremor in his voice, like he wasn’t as sure as he pretended. That hesitation undid me.
“I guess we can have some fun, and in fairness, I haven’t had a good fuck in quite a while,” as I fumbled with my shorts’ button, my fingers clumsy. The pop of the fastener was obscenely loud. The farmer sucked in a sharp breath as I shoved the fabric of my shorts down my thighs, exposing the white cotton clinging to my erection. His gaze burned with desire as he stared.
"Christ," he rasped, as his hand dropped to his own flies, working the button with practised ease. "You’re fucking hard already."
I bent down, the cotton material stretching over my arse as I undid the laces of my hiking boots, pulling them off my feet. Next, I pulled the socks off, stuffing them into my boots, and then I stepped out of my shorts, putting them on top of the boots along with my t-shirt.
I resumed my stance, standing in front of the stranger wearing only my white briefs with a raging hard-on he had already commented upon, and for the first time, the stranger touched my nipples, twisting them gently as he muttered. "Go on, lad, let me watch you," as he opened his own trousers to allow easy access to his cock.
My erection prevented my immediate release as I stood there, but eventually I felt the first hot spurt hit the inside of my briefs. A choked noise escaped me, half relief, half shame, as the fabric darkened, the wetness spreading down my thighs. The farmer groaned, his cock thick in his hand, the head glistening. "That’s it," he urged, rough-voiced. "Let go proper."
I shuddered, piss soaking through cotton, dripping onto gravel between my feet. His hand worked faster, his breath coming in ragged bursts. When I glanced up, his pupils were blown black, lips parted around silent curses as he masturbated in satisfaction of watching my piss flow through the cotton fabric of my briefs.
The last dribbles of piss dripped down my legs when the distant rumble of an engine broke the moment. The farmer swore, hastily tucking himself away as the rumble crested the hill. "Farm truck," he muttered, wiping his hand on his jacket. "Time to move," as he picked up my rucksack, boots, t-shirt and shorts. "Walk fast, lad. And don’t look back."
I stumbled after him, barefoot on gravel, my soaked briefs feeling most uncomfortable with every step. The truck swept past us just as we ducked behind a drystone wall, its engine fading down the lane. The farmer grinned, wild-eyed, and slapped my arse hard enough to sting. "Proper mess you made," he said approvingly, thumbing the wet cotton clinging to my thighs. "Now, let’s see you earn those clean briefs I promised you."
"How did you know I would be game on?" I asked as we took the path to his farm, cutting through a field dotted with sheep, their startled bleats following us.
"I didn't, lad, I just thought, why not just ask, and so I did. Fully expected you to tell me to fuck off, but when you didn't, I knew then."
"What's your name?" I asked. "If you are going to spank and fuck me, perhaps I should know your name."
Halfway across the field, he stopped abruptly in response to my demand. "James. James Turner. And you are?"
"Steve Davis.... nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, Steve, now, strip ‘em off," he ordered, jerking his chin at my ruined briefs. "Want ‘em while they’re still warm, if you don't mind."
My fingers shook on the waistband, peeling the damp cotton down. The cool air hit my skin, and his gaze followed the fabric as I handed it over. He buried his nose in them, inhaling deeply before stuffing them into his pocket with a grunt. "Good lad," he said, giving my body a once-over as I now stood naked in the middle of a field in the Yorkshire Dales.
"Nice body, lad, very nice and.... you're cut. Not had a cut guy before, and I think we are going to have a fab time today."
"Always a first time," I declared, smiling directly at him. "I assume you're uncut."
"Actually, no. My mum had me done when a child. Apparently, I was too tight or something," he responded. "Prefer it cut. It's cleaner and.... well, I like it cut," he responded. "I figure you're, what? mid 30s?"
I felt James relax in my company, his original nervousness at the bus stop gone, replaced with friendliness unbecoming of a Yorkshireman. "Thirty-seven, James," I answered. "How old are you?"
"Fifty-two, sort of partnered and according to my ex-wife, a queer cunt," he replied.
We both laughed at his comment, resuming our walk across the field. James was fully clothed, while I, naked as the day I was born, walked towards the farmhouse in the distance.
"You mentioned, sort of partnered, does that mean you live with someone?" I enquired as we walked.
"My brother lives with me. It sort of works for us and we get on well and, you might dare say, we've become an item," he answered as we entered the farmyard.
Pausing outside the house, James challenged me. "Last chance to run," he murmured against my ear, teeth grazing the lobe. "Though I reckon you’ll stay," as his palm cracked across my arsecheek, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Pain flared, then heat, and I braced against the stone, biting back a groan as my cock, having a mind of its own, hardened. “Fancy some Dutch Courage,” James asked, holding out a small flask in his hand. “It’ll make a man of you, trust me.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I responded as I took the flask, swigging the whisky. “Nice. Single malt and an unusual taste.”
“I special concoction and blend,” James responded. “Take another larger swig, lad. There’s more where that came from.”
I was taking a large swig when I noticed the brother’s silhouette moving closer to the glass of the kitchen window. The farmer’s grip tightened. "Mind if he joins us?" he asked, his breath hot on my neck.
Somewhere beyond the pounding in my ears, I heard the kitchen door creak open. "Got yourself a live one, Jamie? Hopefully, you’ve made him welcome?"
“Of course I have, and he seems to appreciate the special blend of the whisky,” James confirmed.
The voice was deeper than James’, rougher at the edges. Boots scraped cobblestones as his brother approached. I turned just enough to see him, taller than James, broader in the shoulders, with the same weathered look but darker hair curling at his collar. His gaze raked over me, lingering on the reddening handprint on my arse. "Christ, he’s proper dripping," he muttered, thumbing the wetness still glistening on my thighs.
James chuckled, low and dark. "Aye. Made a right mess of his whites," as he tugged the damp briefs from his pocket, tossing them to his brother. "Smell that, Rob."
Rob pressed the fabric to his face, nostrils flaring, and groaned. "Fuck. Proper soaked ‘em, didn’t he?" as his free hand dropped to his own flies, popping the button without hesitation. "Gonna let me have a go?"
James’ fingers dug into my hip. "Up to Steve the lad," he said, but the hunger in his voice betrayed him.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of hay and animal musk. Rob stepped closer, crowding me against James, his erection pressing through the material of his briefs, against my flank. "What d’you say, Steve?" His fingers traced my spine, callouses catching on the sweat-damp skin. "Two farmers better than one?"
My pulse hammered, my cock twitching back to life despite the sting in my arse. The farmyard blurred at the edges, the only solid things the heat of their bodies and the rough hands mapping my skin.
Rob’s teeth grazed my shoulder. "Answer’s written all over you, lad," he murmured. Then, to James: "Barn or kitchen?"
James spat on his palm and smoothed it over my throbbing arsecheek. "Barn. More room," as he shoved me forward, bare feet stumbling on straw-strewn cobbles. "And Steve? Don’t even think about holding back. We all want to enjoy this, and I think you're a right goer when you get going, and just so you know, we like it rough, and I think, besides you being a bit of a goer, I think you’re possibly quite a slut when warmed up."
I laughed in response to James’s comment. “I have been known to be quite a slut from time to time. You’ll just have to treat me right to find out how slutty I can be.”
The barn door groaned open, shadows swallowing us whole as James and Rob led me into the surprisingly warm barn stacked full of straw bales and hay for the animals.
James wasted no time, shoving me face-first over a hay bale, my bare chest scraping against the rough surface. His calloused hands gripped my hips, positioning me just so, before his palm cracked down on my arse with a sharp smack that echoed off the wooden beams. "Count ‘em out, lad," he growled, landing another swat that sent a jolt of pain radiating up my spine.
Rob chuckled from somewhere behind me, the rustle of his clothing mingling with the creak of his belt buckle. "Twenty oughta do it," he mused, his voice thick with amusement. "Ten from each of us."
I gasped as James' strikes fell in rapid succession, the heat building between my thighs as much as it burned across my backside. My cock, still sensitive from earlier, twitched against the hay bale with each impact. Between strikes seven and eight, Rob’s fingers ghosted over my reddening skin, testing the heat before giving me two sharp smacks of his own, his palm broader, heavier than James'.
By fifteen, my thighs were shaking, sweat trickling down my temples as I choked out the numbers between ragged breaths. The scent of hay and leather filled my nose, mixed with something muskier, Rob’s arousal as he leaned over me, his breath hot on my neck. "Look at him, Jamie," he murmured. "Loves every second of it."
James paused at eighteen, fingers digging into my welted flesh as he leaned close, his voice rough in my ear. "Want the last two hard, or d’you think he’s ready for more?" as his thumb pressed against my hole, blunt and demanding, and I arched into the touch with a whimper.
Rob’s laugh was dark as he unbuckled his belt. "Oh, he’s ready," as his leather slithered free, pooling on the hay beside my trembling thighs. "But let’s finish the count proper first."
The last two strikes landed in tandem, James’ palm and Rob’s belt, the dual sting wrenching a cry from my throat as pleasure and pain blurred into white-hot need.
The spanking was finished, and I rolled onto my back, hay prickling my shoulders, my cock jutting obscenely toward the rafters. Rob loomed over me, his shadow swallowing me whole, older than James by a few years, if the silver threading his stubble was any clue. His hands, broad and weathered, flexed at his sides like he was already imagining the grip as he quickly removed his clothes. James did the same, and before I had time to blink, both men stood there in their matching Y-Fronts, the outline of their cocks visibly leaking precum through the material.
“Whose man enough to fuck me first?” I taunted, voice ragged. “And don’t forget the lube. I need a proper fucking.”
Rob’s laugh was a rumble deep in his chest as he reached for his pocket, fishing out a crumpled sachet. “Always prepared, lad.”
He tossed it to James, who caught it with a grin, tearing the corner with his teeth. The scent of artificial strawberries flooded the air as James slicked his fingers, his other hand pinning my thigh to the bale.
"You don't need that, James," I said. “I take Prep and real men fuck me au natural if you get my meaning."
"Fair enough, lad, here goes," he declared as he slipped his Y-Fronts down, his erection demanding attention as he applied some lube taken from his other pocket.
“Hold his arms from behind him, Rob,” James ordered, and the older man obliged, his grip like iron as I spread my legs wide. The first press of James’ fingers was clinical, working me open with rough efficiency, but the second knuckle crooked just right, and I arched off the hay, a moan ripping free.
Rob watched, his own cock straining against his briefs, lips parted around silent curses. “Christ, Jamie,” he muttered. “Look at him take it,” as James’ cock leaked precum from the tip.
James withdrew his fingers with a wet sound, wiping them on my thigh before gripping his cock, the flushed head glistening. “Ready, lad?”
I bared my teeth in a grin. “Fucking get on with it, old man.”
"Old man, hey?" he responded to my goading comment.
James didn’t hesitate. He sheathed himself in one punishing thrust as he slipped inside me, the stretch burning sweet as my body yielded. Rob’s grip tightened on my arms, his breath coming faster as James set a punishing pace.
“Your turn next,” James grunted to Rob, hips snapping forward. “See how he clings?”
Rob’s thumb brushed my swollen rim, smearing lube and precum. “Aye. Like he’s made for it.”
The barn swam, heat and hay and the scent of sweat thick in my lungs as James fucked me toward oblivion, Rob’s whispered promises of what came next curling like smoke in the air between us.
Rob leaned over me, his thick fingers pinching my nipple cruelly as he watched James’ cock sink into me again and again. “Bet you’ve never taken two in one go before, have you, lad?” His breath smelled of ale and tobacco, his beard rough against my throat as he bit down.
I gasped, arching into the pain. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
James laughed, his thrusts stuttering as he reached between us to grip my cock, his calloused palm dragging over the slick head. “Cheeky bastard,” he growled, his hips snapping forward hard enough to send me sliding across the hay.
Rob caught me, his hands rough on my shoulders, his lips at my ear. “Let’s see how cheeky you are with my cock in your mouth,” as he slipped his Y-Fronts off and climbed on top of me, pointing his swollen cock towards my waiting mouth as James withdrew with a wet sound, his cock glistening in the dim light.
Rob’s fingers tangled in my hair, tugging my head back. “Open,” he commanded, his other hand guiding his cock toward my lips.
I obeyed, tasting salt and musk as he filled my mouth, his groan reverberating through me. Behind me, James poured more lube into his palm, slicking himself again before pressing back inside with a grunt, his hands gripping my hips tight enough to bruise.
Rob’s thrusts were slow, deliberate, his fingers tightening in my hair as he watched my lips stretch around him. “Fuck, Jamie,” he rasped. “Look at him take it.”
James’ chuckle was dark, his rhythm faltering as he leaned over me, his breath hot on my shoulder. “Told you he was a right goer.”
Rob’s hips stuttered, his grip turning punishing as he held me still, his cock pulsing hot down my throat. He hadn't taken that much time to climax under my masterful approach, and I enjoyed his release, drinking it down with eagerness I hadn't expected to enjoy that day. I swallowed him and everything he shot into my mouth as my own orgasm grew under James’ relentless pace, the hay scratching my skin, the air thick with the sound of flesh on flesh.
I didn't have to wait long for my climax as my cock started to pump my seed in an arc, hitting my head and face with the remnants, landing on my chest and stomach. So much semen was evacuated from my body in a demonstration of my sexual desire and age, and I enjoyed every spurt.
I released Rob with a wet pop as his fingers scooped cum, dribbling down my chin. “Good lad,” he murmured, just as James’ rhythm broke, his hips jerking erratically as he climaxed inside me with a groan that sounded like surrender as his cum shot into me in repeated jets of warmth.
For a moment, the only sounds were our ragged breaths and the distant bleating of sheep outside. James withdrew slowly, his cum trickling down my thighs as I remained on my back, spent and shaking. Rob collapsed onto the hay beside me, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he recovered from his own experience.
“Fucking hell,” James muttered, standing naked with trembling hands, looking at my cum covered torso. "Never had that intensity before, lad, never. You sure know how to take a fucking."
I smiled. "Never been fucked by a Yorkshireman before. No subtlety. Just straight down to business, the way I like it," I responded. "Probably been fucking sheep too long on the Dales to slow down."
"Aye, lad," Rob replied. "Don't often get guys like you, and around here, queers are few and far between. But I tell you, lad, best blowjob I've ever had."
James rolled his eyes as he wiped himself with a handful of hay, tossing it aside before grabbing his Y-Fronts from the floor. "Don't flatter him, Rob. He'll get ideas," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth suggested a deepening smile being hidden.
"So, what now?" I demanded. “Do I get my clean briefs... as promised?"
Rob laughed, a rich, rolling sound that echoed off the barn walls, as he tugged his Y-Fronts back on, the fabric straining over his spent cock. "That's up to you, lad. Do you want them yet?" he asked.
James leaned against a hay bale with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He flicked a match alight with practised ease, the flame casting shadows across his weathered face. "Could offer you lunch first," he said, exhaling smoke toward the rafters. His gaze drifted down to my sticky stomach, then lower to where his cum still glistened between my thighs. "Unless you'd rather skip straight to dessert."
Rob snorted, his hands still trembling slightly. He smelled of sex and sweat and hay, his Wellington boots crunching straw as he stepped closer. "Jamie's shepherd's pie would tempt a bishop," he added, nudging my bare foot with his boot toe. "But if it's fucking you're after....," his grin, wolfish in the dim light. "We’ll be able to rise for the occasion."
"Tell you what," I started, "Put me up for tonight, feed me food and anything else you fancy, and then, drive me to town tomorrow, since I've missed the bus today. Somehow, I don't think this little adventure is finished, and I'm feeling hungry."
James chuckled, tossing me my briefs from his Barber, still damp with piss, with a wink. "I would suggest putting these on, but perhaps you prefer keep'in' em off, lad.... teasing two hill farmers who don't get much.... these days."
James watched me catch them, his gaze lingering on the way my cock twitched back to life. "And don't worry about the bus. We'll get you sorted."
"Deal," I said. "One request, can you wash my clothes for tomorrow and perhaps provide something suitable for the rest of my stay. Nothing special and more in line with your.... well, you know, clothes."
James turned to Rob. "Don't know what we have his size," he muttered, scratching his stubble. Rob smiled and laughed, a deep, knowing sound that made my skin prickle. "Steve," he said, eyes gleaming, "Since you're quite the slut, you can wear something of Maggie's. She was your size."
The name landed like a stone in the water, the ripples of thought changing the dynamic immediately as I remembered Maggie, the ex-wife who'd called James a queer cunt. Rob's grin widened as he saw my interest peak. "Don't worry, lad," he said, playing with a key from his pocket. "She left most of her frillies behind when she fucked off with the postman."
James snorted, rolling his eyes, knowing what Rob was thinking as he swigged more whisky from the flask. "Upstairs wardrobe. Pink satin nightie should suit you right proper. What do you think, Steve? Fancy being my bitch for the rest of your stay?" as he took my briefs back.
"Wouldn't mind, if it works for you?" I declared, thinking I might enjoy wearing a pink nightie for these two butch hill farmers.
Rob scoffed, shaking his head. "No, no, no," he interrupted. "First, I want you to wear my harness, lad, for James," as he started digging into a dusty wooden chest at the corner of the barn. His fingers emerged clutching worn leather straps, the buckles clinking like cheap jewellery. "Since you're going to be my brother's bitch for the rest of your stay,"
Rob tossed the harness onto my lap, the weight of it settling against my bare thighs with a promise, "I want you to wear this.... so, stand up."
I obeyed, my legs still shaky from the earlier intensity, as Rob circled me slowly, adjusting straps with hands that knew their business. His fingers lingered over my ribs, tracing the indent of my waist for sizing purposes. "Handmade this one," he murmured.
James watched from the hay bale, idly stroking himself with his cock, having pushed his Y-Fronts down as Rob narrated each step like a craftsman admiring his own work. "The vest first," he said, reaching behind my neck. "Slide your arms through the loops just like you’re putting on a backpack, and you should feel the back O ring resting right between your shoulder blades. On the front, the two straps should be resting comfortably over your collarbones.... like this."
"Next," Rob continued. "The chest connection is key. Pull the horizontal strap across your chest and thread it through the buckle. Use your thumb to find the centre of your chest. The main O-ring should be sitting directly over your sternum. If it feels pulled to one side, shift the shoulder straps until that ring is dead-centre."
I stood there naked as he continued to fit the harness, enjoying Rob's narration as he applied leather to my body.
"My favourite, the waist belt." Rob declared. "Wrap the belt around your waist, just above your hip bones. Buckle it firmly behind and then run your hands all the way around your waistline. Make sure the belt isn't twisted and that the vertical "connector" straps are sitting flat against your sides or stomach. I prefer to secure the buckles behind the back at each stage. It looks nicer that way, and the subject can't remove it either."
Pausing for a moment, Rob declared, "Lastly, the thigh loops that connect the whole thing. Reach down and find the loop for your left leg. Step into it like you’re putting on a pair of briefs. Pull it up until it sits high on your upper thigh, just below the groin. Repeat with the right leg."
I did as instructed, as Rob now opened the cock ring, wrapping it behind my cock and balls, having to push my erection out of the way, to screw it back together. “You should find your body responds to this…very soon.”
Rob continued explaining the process as a commentary for James, who, I'm sure, was salivating by this time. "These loops usually have their own smaller buckles on the outer side of your thighs. Reach down to ensure the buckles are facing outward, away from your body, like this, so they don’t rub against each other when you walk and then connect the single strap to the O ring on the waist and lastly, the single strap from that O ring to the O ring of the vest....., just like that."
Rob stepped back, wiping his hands on his thigh, his gaze raking over me with approval. "Fits like it was made for you," he said, grinning at the way the leather darkened against my sweat-damp skin.
James made a low noise in his throat and stood, running his thumb along the strap crossing my sternum. "Gorgeous, and I can hold on as I ride you, lad."
Rob chuckled, tossing James a leather collar with a leash from the chest. "Test it now," he suggested, nodding toward the ladder to the hayloft. "See if it holds when he’s screaming."
James didn’t hesitate, yanking me forward by the harness with a jerk that stole my breath. I could feel the give and take of the leather, the way it would keep me exactly where they wanted as James secured the collar around my neck with the leash hanging from his hand, exactly how he wanted.
Rob watched, arms crossed, as James dragged me by the leash toward the ladder. “Climb,” he ordered, his voice rough. My hands trembled against the worn wood, the harness pulling taut against my chest as I ascended. Halfway up, James pressed close behind me, his hard cock sliding against my ass, his fingers digging into the straps. “Keep going,” he murmured, biting my shoulder.
The loft smelled of dry hay and sweat, the afternoon light slanting through gaps in the wood. James didn’t wait, shoved me forward onto all fours, the harness straps pulling tight as he mounted me from behind, one hand fisted in the back ring, the other gripping the leash, pulling my neck and body back into him. “Hold still,” he growled, and then he was inside me again, no warning, no gentleness. Just heat and pressure and the sharp, delicious sting of being used exactly as intended as he rode me with a renewed pace for such an old man.
Rob climbed up after, circling us slowly, his boots crunching hay. He knelt in front of me, gripping my chin, forcing my gaze up. “Look at you,” he said, thumb pressing against my bottom lip. “Proper little fucktoy, aren’t you?”
Rob had lost his Y-Fronts again as his other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking lazily as he watched James pound into me, the harness creaking with every thrust. “Open,” he commanded, and I did, letting him push his cock past my lips, my mouth stretching wide to receive his girth and length.
Between them, I was pinned, held by leather and hands and the sheer, relentless force of their hunger. Rob fucked my throat in slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers tangled in my hair, while James’s pace grew rougher, his breath hot against my back. “Gonna come inside you again,” he panted, his grip tightening on the harness. “Gonna fill you up till you’re dripping, you fucking slut.”
Rob chuckled around a groan, his hips stuttering. “Swallow,” he ordered, and I obeyed, throat working as he spilt down it, his fingers tightening almost painfully in my hair. James followed moments later, hips slamming forward one last time as he buried himself deep, his groan rough in my ear.
When they finally pulled away, Rob wiped his cock on my cheek, grinning. “You're a fucking slut. Probably the best fucking slut I've ever had,” he announced.
James collapsed beside me, panting, his fingers still hooked into the harness straps, as if unwilling to let go entirely. He smirked when he noticed my cock twitching against my thigh. “Still hard? Fucking hell, lad. You’re fucking insatiable.”
Rob stretched, rolling his shoulders as James suggested while climbing down the ladder, “Let’s see what Maggie left behind,” as he pulled me by the leash, until I found the top of the ladder.
"Not before I've done something," Rob said.
The first warm splash hit the back of my thighs just as my foot found the top rung of the ladder. I froze, feeling the piss trickle down my legs, the harness straps digging tighter as Rob adjusted his aim with a low chuckle. "Keep moving," he ordered, the stream following me down, hitting my shoulder blades, the small of my back, the swell of my ass, everywhere except where I instinctively tried to twist away. The smell rose sharp and musky in the confined space, mixing with the sweat and hay, the liquid warmth oddly intimate against my skin.
James waited at the bottom, still holding the leash of my collar, watching the spectacle with dark amusement. "That's it," he encouraged Rob, who was now pissing directly onto the harness's centre ring, the leather darkening as urine pooled in the grooves. The liquid dripped onto my chest, trailing down my sternum in rivulets that made me shudder, not from disgust, but from the sheer vulnerability of it. Rob finished with a satisfied grunt, giving himself a shake.
I stepped off the ladder, urine dripping from the harness onto the barn floor, my skin tacky with it. James reached out, catching a droplet on his finger before bringing it to his lips with a smirk. "Tastes like submission," he murmured, then grabbed the front strap of the harness, yanking me forward. "Before we see what Maggie's wardrobe has for you, I think I'll follow Rob's lead...."
The shove came without warning, his palm between my shoulder blades, sending me sprawling face-first onto the packed earth. My elbows scraped against grit as I tried to catch myself, the harness rings clinking against my chest. Before I could rise, James's foot pressed between my shoulder blades, pinning me down, his hand still holding the leash, pulling it roughly back. Then the first hot arc hit the back of my neck, seeping into my hairline. "Stay," he ordered, the stream shifting downward to stripe my spine, pooling in the hollow of my back where the harness straps crossed.
The piss smelled stronger than Rob's, musky and bitter with morning coffee, and James took his time, painting my skin in broad, deliberate strokes. He stepped over me, his Wellingtons straddling my hips, and pissed directly onto the small of my back where the waist strap bit into my flesh. The heat was almost scalding there, the leather swelling with moisture beneath the onslaught. "Gorgeous," he growled, shaking off the last few drops onto my upturned ass before nudging me onto my back with his boot.
Hay stuck to my wet skin as I rolled over, the harness now slick and reeking. James loomed above, his cock glistening at the tip. He aimed deliberately this time; the renewed flow splashing my sternum, bubbling in the O-ring before overflowing down my ribs. The next struck my mouth when I gasped, salty and thick, and I swallowed instinctively, my tongue darting out to catch what trickled past my lips. James groaned in approval, his hand working his shaft as he pissed across my collarbones, my nipples, the hollow of my throat, marking me in yellow streaks that cooled rapidly in the barn's draft.
Rob reappeared at the edge of my vision, holding a pink garment aloft. "Up you get, princess," he taunted, dangling the satin hightie just out of reach. "Time to dress the part, and I couldn’t wait any longer."
"You found it, Rob," James declared, as he stepped back, with a satisfied sigh, as I pushed up onto shaky elbows, piss dripping from my chin onto my thighs. The harness creaked, the soaked leather clinging to every contour, and I realised with a jolt that my cock was still achingly hard, bobbing against my stomach as I knelt in their shared puddle.
Rob tossed the nightie at my face. It smelled of lavender and something faintly sour, Maggie's ghost in the fabric. "Arms up," James commanded, already tugging the satin over my head. The delicate material snagged on the wet harness straps, clinging transparently where the piss had soaked through. Rob whistled low. "Christ. Looks even better than on Maggie."
James gripped the front O-ring, using it to drag me upright. "Now," he purred, his breath hot in my ear, "let's see how long this slut can keep from ruining his new dress," as his palm slid between my legs, cupping me roughly through the satin. "Bet you'll soak it before supper."
The nightie clung obscenely, the pink fabric translucent where their piss had darkened the harness straps beneath. Rob circled us with his phone raised. "Smile, princess," he taunted, the flash catching my flinch as James' fingers dug into my inner thigh. "Maggie never let me film her like this."
I swayed, the combination of their scent and the harness's constriction making my knees weak. Rob pocketed the phone abruptly and seized my wrist. "Enough posing," he muttered, dragging me toward the farmhouse door. "Time you earned your keep."
The walk from the barn to the house didn’t take long. James pulled me by the leash as I wore the pink nightie with the full body harness underneath. My feet became muddy. My cock retained its erection as the two farmers sported erections beneath their disgustingly dirty Y-Fronts.
The kitchen hit me like a wall of heat, stew simmering, bread rising under a cloth. James shoved me against the scarred wooden table, the edge biting into my hips as Rob rearranged the nightie to hang provocatively over my body.
"Better," he grunted, leaving the satin resting on my shoulders. The harness gleamed beneath, darkened by sweat and piss. James traced a strap down my sternum. "Not much leaking at the moment," he mused, his thumb brushing the tip of my cock. "Disappointing and not quite ready."
The first slap of leather came without warning, Rob's belt cracking across my ass. "Set the table," he barked, shoving a stack of plates against my chest. I fumbled, nearly dropping them as James sat waiting for his food.
Another stroke of the belt hit my arse again in acknowledgement of my fumbling, but I managed to recover as I laid the table. “Naughty boys don’t eat,” Rob declared with a supporting stroke of the belt across my buttocks. “You will stand there and watch, and hopefully, that cock of yours will start to leak soon….otherwise, you’ll be in trouble.”
They ate leisurely, watching me stand like a waitress, the harness creaking with every movement. Gravy dripped from Rob's knife as he pointed it at me. "After supper," he announced, "we'll see if this city boy can milk goats in his fancy clothing."
James licked his lips, his boot nudging my bare foot. "Hope you're thirsty, lad, nothing quite like goat's milk."
I cleared the table while they sat, but it was Rob who rose first, grabbing his belt from the table surface with deliberate slowness, folding it double in his fist. "James, would you mind if I warm the lad up?”
James looked at his brother. “Not at all, be my guest. He’s your slut as well.”
Rob turned to me. “Bend over the table," he ordered, tapping the leather against my hip where the nightie had ridden up. "Let's see if this slut remembers his manners."
The first lash caught me mid-thigh, the sting blooming hot and immediate. I gasped, fingers scrabbling against the table's edge as the second strike landed higher, just beneath the curve of my ass. James leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs wide, his cock stiff against his Y-Fronts. "Count," he reminded me, just as Rob brought the belt down again.
"Three," I choked out, my voice cracking as the leather bit into the same spot. Rob paused, circling me like a predator, the belt trailing against my calves. "Open," he commanded, wedging the leather between my thighs. I obeyed, spreading my legs wider, the harness straps pulling tight across my chest. The fourth stroke landed diagonally, crossing the previous welts, and my knees buckled. James caught me by the O-ring, hauling me upright. "Five," I gasped, my ass burning.
Rob tossed the belt aside with a grunt, his fingers digging into my welted flesh. "Good boy," he murmured, pressing his thumb against the hottest stripe. Then his other hand gripped my harness, pushing me onto the table, employing his hand to shove his Y-Fronts down his legs.
His cock penetrated my entrance in one brutal thrust. I cried out, the stretch searing even though Rob had lubricated himself. He didn't pause, allowing me to adjust; he just started fucking me hard and fast, his fingers bruising my hips and love handles.
"Tell you brother, this new concoction is fantastic," Rob announced. I've never been so fucking hard for so long," as he pounded my arse. James laughed and stood abruptly, pushing his Y-Fronts down. “He’s mine when you finish.”
Rob didn’t last long, his groan vibrating through me as he emptied himself inside. He pulled out with a wet sound, leaving me groaning and dripping as he stood back.
James positioned himself behind me, taking the leash in his hand as he slipped his cock into my arse, using his brother’s cum as lubricant. I felt the leash tighten as he rode me like a man possessed. One hand on the harness and the other pulling my neck back. No subtlety or finesse as he pounded my arse with the same vigour as his brother. James climaxed moments later, his release flooding my passage as I convulsed, tears pricking my eyes as he finally let me breathe.
Rob wiped his cock on my nightie, grinning at the mess he'd made of me. James did likewise while he muttered, "Now, let's see if you can milk a goat in that getup."
Outside, Rob and James led the way, having pulled up their Y-Fronts after fucking me on the table. My feet slipped in the mud and shit as I followed them to the barn, the harness straps stiffening as they dried against my skin. With the tug of the leash, I was beginning to worry where this…. was going. Each time they took me, they were becoming rougher, but strangely, I was still enjoying myself being owned by these mature brutes who certainly were enjoying themselves, empowered by their concoction mixed with the whisky. It was then I remembered they had given me some of the whisky, and I could feel a flushed reaction starting to affect my cock and balls.
Once in the barn, the goats blinked at us from their pen, indifferent to my humiliation. James shoved a pail into my hands. "Kneel," he ordered, pointing to the nearest nanny goat.
I hesitated until Rob's belt cracked against my welted thighs. The goat shifted nervously as I crouched behind her, my fingers clumsy on her udder. Warm milk sprayed my chest before I adjusted, the stream hitting the pail with a rhythmic ping. James chuckled, squatting beside me. "You missed a spot," he murmured, dragging his thumb through the spilt milk on my collarbone before licking it clean.
Rob circled us, his boots kicking up straw. "Faster," he commanded, nudging my knee wider with his toe. The goat stamped her hoof as my rhythm faltered, milk splashing my thighs. Rob grabbed the harness's back ring, yanking me upright. "Pathetic," he muttered, shoving his hand between my legs. "Still hard after all that? You really are a fucking animal."
“Of course, he’s hard, Rob, and if I didn’t know better, I suspect he’s starting to feel the effects of the drink earlier, James confessed.
James took over milking with practised ease, his shoulder brushing mine as he worked. "Watch," he instructed, his fingers squeezing in a precise pulse. The goat's udder emptied swiftly, the pail filling with frothy white. Rob's grip tightened on the harness. "Lesson learned?" he growled in my ear.
Before I could answer, he spun me around and forced me onto all fours in the straw. "Since you're so eager," he said, "let's see if you can take it like livestock."
James held the leash as Rob’s belt made me gasp, the leather searing across my already tender skin. James didn't pause his milking, the steady ping of liquid hitting metal underscoring Rob's measured blows. By the fifth lash, tears blurred my vision, my cock throbbing against my stomach with each impact.
Rob paused, his breath hot on my neck. "Count," he reminded me, his palm replacing the belt, rubbing circles into the ache.
"Six," I choked out, bracing for the next, only for James to tip the pail over my back. The cold milk cascaded down my spine, soaking into the harness, mingling with the salt of sweat and the sting of welts. Rob laughed, low and dark.
"Good boy," James murmured, gathering my hair in his fist. "Now let's get you properly milked."
The milk dripped from my chin as Rob dragged me backwards by the harness straps, my knees leaving damp trails in the straw. James wiped his hands on his Y-Fronts and crouched beside me, his fingers hooking into the O-ring at my sternum. "Open," he ordered, pressing a tin cup to my lips. Goat milk, warm and grassy, filled my mouth, some of it spilling down my chest where the harness had stiffened into salty ridges.
Rob's boot nudged my thighs wider. "Drink it all," he said, watching my throat work with each swallow. When I finished, James tipped the cup upside down over my head, letting the dregs patter against my scalp.
"Stand," Rob ordered, yanking the harness straps until the leather groaned. My knees protested as I rose, the dried milk crusting between my shoulder blades. James circled me, his calloused fingers tracing the raised welts on my ass. "Look at that," he murmured appreciatively. "Like a fucking zebra with a fucking hard-on."
"Think he's ready?" Rob asked, his thumb pressing cruelly into a particularly dark stripe. I’m ready to fuck him again, and I can see you’re feeling the same, James.”
James chuckled darkly and reached around to grip my aching cock. "Oh, he's ready and leaking, big time," as he gave me one rough stroke, then released me with a wet smack. "Fetch the rope."
Rob returned with a coiled length of hemp, frayed from years of use. He looped it through the harness's back ring with practised ease, then tossed the end over a barn beam. The rope went taut suddenly, hauling me off my feet, suspended by the rope, unable to prevent what was going to happen.
“Guys, what’s happening?” I demanded. I’ve had enough now, and you're scaring me….to be honest,” I begged.
James stood in front of me, his thumbs hooking into the sides of my mouth. "Up till now, we've been nice and gentle, but now, city boy, these two farmers are going to fuck you, country style, and by the time we finish, you will be begging us to stop."
James leaned in, his teeth scraping my lower lip as I remained suspended off the floor. "Real farmers don't use lube, and with the amount of cum inside you, you don't need any, anyway."
I felt hands on either side of my hips as I just hung from the rope. Rob now stood in front, his cock hard again, as James lined up behind me, preparing to assault my arse again as he pushed inside me.
The first thrust tore a cry from my throat, the friction unbearable. Rob's laughter echoed as he pulled the rope tighter, lifting my hips at just the angle James wanted. The pace was brutal, each snap of James' hips sending shocks of white-hot pain through me. Yet my cock stayed hard, bobbing obscenely with each impact.
Rob's fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back. "Watch," he growled, nodding toward the stall where the goats stood chewing their cud, their blank eyes reflecting our debauchery. "Have we got a surprise for you. We are going to milk you as you’ve never been milked before."
I started to cry when I saw Rob produce the pump. “Please don’t,” I begged him, only to be answered by the pump's plastic housing being clicked against my swollen cockhead as Rob fastened the suction cup with a wet slap. "It's a modified penis pump, and we're going to milk you beyond anything you have experienced before. Relax, lad, and enjoy it. This is the final act of your absolute humiliation."
James was still fucking me from the rear as Rob flicked the switch. The machine whined to life, pulling my flesh into its tube with relentless pressure. My gasp turned into a choked moan as James' thrusts swung me forward onto Rob's cock, the sudden vacuum on my shaft sending sparks up my spine.
I had become a hanging spit roast, suspended between two men, attached to a penis pump. Rob's grin flashed yellow in the barn's dim light as he gripped my skull. "Fucking take it, lad," he ordered, shoving his thick cock past my teeth. The pump's rhythmic sucking matched James' pounding pace behind me, the dual sensations tearing involuntary sounds from my throat around Rob's girth.
James' rhythm stuttered suddenly, a sharp inhale, then his fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck…" The word punched out of him as his thrusts turned erratic, his cock pulsing inside me with unexpected warmth. Rob barked a laugh around his cigarette. "Already? Christ, Jamie."
Withdrawing with a wet sound, James wiped his forehead on his forearm, watching as Rob's own thrusts grew jagged. "Gonna….fuck…."
Rob's warning was cut off as he came down my throat, his hips jerking with each spurt of cum flowing down my throat. As I licked the last remnants of cum from his cock, he pulled out with a satisfied grunt, patting my cheek. "Good boy."
The pump, though, continued its mechanical torment as both men collapsed onto bales of hay, cracking open a couple of beers. James' gaze roamed over my suspended body, the way the pump's tube pulled my flushed cock to twice its normal size, the swollen head darkening under sustained suction. "Look at that," he mused, taking a swig. "Like a prize hog at the county fair."
Rob exhaled smoke through his nose, studying the pump's pressure gauge. "Gonna leave it on another twenty minutes. See if we can't get a proper yield," as his calloused fingers trailed down my trembling inner thigh, pausing to flick my swollen balls, feeling the excess cum leaking from my rear. "Tell you, lad, there’s so much cum dribbling out of you, it’s almost a river."
The pump's motor whined as it intensified its rhythm, drawing another broken moan from me. James leaned forward, tracing a droplet of precum leaking around the tube's seal. "Think he'll pass out before or after he blows?" he asked, licking the salty fluid from his thumb.
Rob shrugged, crushing his cigarette underfoot. "Place your bets, brother."
Time dissolved into the pump's relentless rhythm, pressure building until my vision whitened at the edges, then releasing just enough to make me sob before starting again. There were so many sensations, it had become impossible to discern which had taken priority as the first orgasm hit like a seizure, my cock jerking violently against the tube's confines as Rob adjusted the suction to milk every spurt. "One," James counted, slapping my twitching thigh.
The second came before my breathing evened out, a brutal, grinding peak forced by the pump's unrelenting cycle. Rob laughed as my toes curled, twisting the vacuum dial higher. Fluid dripped from the collection bottle's spout. "Two," he announced, pinching my nipple hard enough to make me arch. "Halfway to breaking his record."
By the fourth release, I couldn't tell where one climax ended, and the next began, just endless pulses of white-hot sensation as the machine stripped me raw.
The fifth orgasm blurred into the sixth, my balls drawing up tight as the pump finally clicked off, leaving my cock swollen and dripping in the stagnant barn air.
Rob unhooked the collection bottle with a satisfied grunt. "Not bad, not bad at all," he declared, sloshing the murky fluid. James released the rope, and I crashed onto the straw-strewn floor. My thighs trembled violently, the harness straps cutting into overstimulated flesh, and my cock, my poor cock, inflamed, enlarged, lay under my body as I tried to recover, feeling dazed, short of breath, trying to regain my composure.
The first shadows of darkness crept through the barn's cracks as I crawled toward the trough, Rob's boot between my shoulder blades. "Good boy," he murmured, watching me lap at the scummy water like livestock. James lit another cigarette off the barn lantern, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Now let's see if you can still walk."
My legs buckled twice before I made it upright, the harness straps pulling tight where they'd dried into my skin. Rob threw open the farmhouse door ahead, leaving it swinging as James shoved me forward. "Move."
Mud sucked at my toes as I staggered across the yard, piss and cum still trickling down my thighs from their earlier marking. The screen door slapped shut behind us, sealing me in with the scent of lanolin and boiled cabbage. Rob tossed a blanket at my feet. "Floor's yours, lad, and you’ve done well," he announced, kicking the kitchen table leg. "Now, stand there and let me take this off."
I was exhausted, totally drained as Rob removed the harness, as James leaned against the stove, scratching his cock through his sweat-stained Y-Fronts. "That was fucking awesome. The whole thing was fucking, truly awesome, I have to tell you," he added with a smirk, nudging my swollen cock with his toe, the contact sending a jolt through my oversensitive flesh, making me flinch.
Rob snorted and grabbed a whisky bottle from the cupboard, pouring two fingers into a smudged glass. He downed it in one gulp, then pointed the empty tumbler at me. “Sorry, lad, sluts don’t drink whisky after being milked.”
James grinned around his cigarette. "You are the best lad we’ve ever had. A real slut who’s taken everything we could inflict upon you. You should be feeling proud of yourself."
How, I don’t know, but I managed a smile. “You’ve finished then?” I asked.
“Sure have for today,” Rob replied. Tomorrow’s another day.”
The blanket reeked of wet dog and hay as I curled into it, my welted and scarred bottom protesting against every move. Rob's bare feet padded past my head toward the stairs, his toenails clicking against wood. "Sleep tight, lad," he tossed over his shoulder, followed by James' mocking chuckle.
The house creaked as they ascended, pipes groaning when the shower turned on upstairs. My cock twitched against my thigh at the memory of the pump's mechanical grip. Outside, an owl hooted, once, twice, before silence settled over the farm.
Somewhere above, a bedspring squeaked. Then laughter. Then nothing as I lay on the floor, covered in the blanket, wondering what they planned for tomorrow.
I was falling asleep when I heard feet coming down the stairs. Sitting up with a mixture of fear, trepidation and… surely not, desire, James came into the kitchen and hauled me onto my knees, his other hand slapping my dripping face hard enough to echo. "Now you're a proper slut," he murmured against my ear. “A filthy little slut that we’ve decided we’re bored with. Now, fuck off. We've enjoyed your company, but like all sluts, you need to fuck off. Here's your stuff and £50."
I was shocked by the change of events as James opened the door, tossing my possessions into the mud outside. "First bus comes at dawn," he added, already turning away. "Don't be here when we wake up."
James lingered just long enough to watch me scoop up my things, my fingers trembling not from cold but from the aftershocks of his brutal dismissal. Dawn was still hours away, but I knew better than to wait. They had truly used me like a slut, and I had played along, missing the undertone of their welcome. As the farmhouse lights blinked out, I walked, barefoot, filthy, and achingly hard, feeling used and abused but still, strangely, feeling alive in more ways than one.
After a short walk, I found a quiet spot under a tree and finally opened my possessions. The stink of mud and piss clung to everything, but worse, there were no briefs. Just my ripped shorts and the stiff, crusted t-shirt I'd arrived in. I held them up, letting the moonlight reveal every stain, every tear, every dried streak of cum. Fuckers had kept my underwear as a trophy. Or maybe just tossed them in the bin. Either way, I was going commando on the bus ride home with rips in my shorts that questioned whether I could maintain an element of personal modesty.
For the first time since the morning, I felt lost and.... well, totally inadequate as my plight overcame me.
I must have fallen asleep under the tree because I was woken abruptly by, "I figure you’re the one who met my sons."
The voice was female, sharp, amused. I blinked up to see a woman in her late sixties, her hands on her hips, her boots muddy, her eyes flicking over my ruined clothes with unmistakable recognition.
"Maggie?" I asked.
"Good God no, I'm Mabel. Maggie was pissed off years ago, unable to share their fetishes and kinks," she replied.
She smirked as I responded, "Oh, you know what happened then," as she nudged my bare foot with her boot.
"Rob texted me," she said, pulling a cigarette from her breast pocket. "Said they'd found a stray and that he was feeling guilty having watched James, kick him out."
The lighter clicked, the flame illuminating her weathered face as she exhaled smoke toward the rising sun. "Told me what had happened and where you might be," as her gaze dropped to my nakedness, then back to my face. "I have to say, you're a sore sight for poor eyes, young man. Was it worth it?"
I sat up, wincing as dried mud cracked on my thighs. "They kept my briefs," I muttered, as if that explained everything.
Mabel barked a laugh. "Course they did. Jamie's got a drawer full of 'em," as she took a long drag, studying me. "You walked here?"
I nodded. She sighed, stubbing the cigarette out on the sole of her boot. "Best get you home before you catch your death, and later I'll drop you in town."
I hesitated. "Why?"
She glanced back, her expression unreadable. "Because unlike those two bastards, I don't leave strays to rot."
The cottage smelled of woodsmoke and lavender, the low ceiling beams blackened with age. Mabel tossed my filthy t-shirt and socks into a copper boiler without ceremony, then jerked her thumb toward a narrow door. "Shower's through there. Don't dawdle, eggs'll be done in ten, and I will try and find some clothes for you."
The scalding water sluiced away layers of filth, turning the drain brown. I scrubbed until my skin burned, the soap's medicinal bite overpowering the lingering stench of piss and sex. Through the steam, I caught glimpses of bruises flowering on my hips, purple fingerprints where Rob had held me down, and my bottom displayed the telltale signs of multiple spankings that Mabel must have seen.
When I emerged, towelling my hair, Mabel didn't comment on my nudity, but she did on my severely marked bottom. "I see James provided you with a few severe spankings," as she just slid a plate across the scrubbed pine table.
“I forget how many times he spanked me, and his brother contributed using his belt,” I confirmed.
“I can see that,” she said as I looked at the plate with two fried eggs swimming in fat, black pudding glistening like coal, a heap of mushrooms still sizzling. "Eat," she ordered, stabbing her fork toward the chair. "Then we'll talk about why you subjected yourself to my boys' warped sense of hospitality."
The first bite of black pudding burst with iron-rich tastes on my tongue, the spices making my eyes water. Mabel watched me devour it, her own plate untouched. "Rob said James invited you," she mused, stirring her tea. "That true?"
I nodded, unable to respond as I chewed the food, figuring she knew her sons' penchant for....
I swallowed hard. The eggs were perfect, the yolks oozing over the crispy edges of the black pudding. Mabel’s gaze never left me, sharp as a butcher’s knife.
Once I was able to speak, I wiped my mouth with a tissue. "James offered me sex at the bus stop," I admitted, watching her reaction closely. "Said he liked the way I looked in my white underpants and that he likes guys in classic white briefs."
Mabel snorted, stirring her tea again. "Aye, that sounds like Jamie. Always had a taste for the white briefs," as she took a sip, her eyes narrowing. "You’re not the first, lad. Won’t be the last either. I assume he offered you a swig of whisky as well."
The admission hung between us, heavy as the farmhouse’s smoke-stained beams. I pushed my plate away slightly. "He did, and they kept my briefs," I said again, as if it mattered.
Mabel sighed, standing up to fetch a large battered tin from the shelf. She pried it open with a creak, revealing a jumble of fabric inside. "Jamie’s trophy tin," she said dryly, pulling out a pair of washed but stained briefs. "Trophies, he calls ‘em. And the whisky, it's laced with Viagra or something. A special concoction they have made by a chemist in Sheffield."
I stared at the tin, my stomach twisting. There were quite a few briefs, all predominantly white, but some were striped or patterned. There was even a pair with little hearts. All stolen from guys who had done what I had done.
Thinking about the special concoction, the reality came back. “Of course, he must have done because I couldn’t….stop getting,” I said to Mabel.
Mabel snapped the lid shut. "You could stop getting erections for the whole day,” she confirmed. “Told him it’s bloody weird, but he just laughs," as she tossed the tin back onto the shelf with a clatter. "Rob’s quite passive, but James likes to wear ‘em afterwards. As for Rob, I’ll bet he finished events with a good milking."
I didn’t know what to say to that as Mabel leaned across the table, her voice dropping. “He did,” I confirmed.
“Not surprising, lad,” she said. “How many times did he force a release, and, sorry to ask, but how’s your cock today? Let me have a look.”
I stood, and she inspected my whole body. “That machine managed to get six orgasms out of me.”
Mable actually chuckled. “Six. Wow, but the good news is, you’ll recover,” she said, running her hand softly over my bottom. “As for your cock, it looks fine by the way. Now, eat up, lad," she murmured, pushing the plate back toward me. "I'll get clean clothes for you and will take you to town."
She disappeared upstairs while I forced down another mouthful of eggs, their richness now cloying. When she returned, she tossed a bundle at me: faded jeans, a thick wool jumper, and, mercifully, a fresh pair of white briefs. "From Rob’s room," she said dismissively. "He won’t miss ‘em."
I dressed quickly, the briefs snug but comforting, the wool scratchy against my skin. Mabel watched me lace up the battered hiking boots she’d unearthed from somewhere between the farm and the tree. "Bus station’s on High Street," she said finally. "Don’t linger."
The Landrover’s cab smelled of hay and dog, the seats cracked with age. Mabel drove in silence, her knuckles white on the wheel whenever we hit a pothole. Through the grimy window, the valley rolled past, stone walls, sheep, the occasional farmhouse with its windows dark.
At the bus stop, she didn’t look at me when I opened the door. "Don’t come back," she said, just loud enough to hear over the engine. It wasn’t unkind, just final. Like shutting a stall door on a sick animal.
The bus ride was a blur of aching muscles and the persistent sting of the spanking James had given me. Every jolt of the suspension made me wince, the denim rubbing against my bruises. Around me, commuters dozed or scrolled their phones, oblivious to the filth still crusted under my fingernails, the lingering bite of piss in my hair despite Mabel’s soap.
When I finally staggered into my house, the stale air smelled like a different life. I peeled off Rob’s clothes, balled them up, and shoved them into the bin. The shower ran scalding again, but no amount of scrubbing erased the memory of James’ hands or Rob’s desires.
Later, wrapped in my own robe, I checked my phone. Three missed calls, work, probably, and a single unknown number. The text beneath it made my throat tighten: *Found your wallet in the yard. Next time, wear darker briefs. – J* Attached was the video they had taken along with a photo of my ID, neatly framed by James’ calloused fingers.
I stared at it until the screen went dark. Somewhere in that farmhouse, in a drawer full of stolen cotton, my briefs were waiting. I also realised with a dull ache that Rob and James had extracted from me the most daring sexual contact of my life. They had fucked me senseless. Punished me excessively, and as I sat in my house, a feeling of liberation overtook me with the realisation that I had enjoyed my journey, discovering that I was a true slut and enjoyed every minute.
Picking up my phone, I replied. *Home safely and… revisit soon?*
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