Disclaimer: This story is a fictional fantasy involving consenting adults and explores role-play power dynamics. It does not condone violence, abuse, or non-consensual behaviour. Any perceived coercion exists solely within a fictional, consensual fantasy framework.
Being a field biologist meant I often spent weeks in the wilderness. It was lonely work, but I enjoyed it. The isolation. The quiet. It gave me time to think. The only people I ever saw were the occasional hikers or hunters, and the local ranchers driving by.
The ranchers are always curious about what I am doing, since I graze the edges of their property. They’d often stop by, say hello, and ask what I was doing. Mostly, they just wanted reassurance that I wasn’t up to something that would impact them. Once they were satisfied, they’d leave me alone to get back to my work.
Still, being out there wasn’t without its edge.
Years at the gym had made me strong enough to handle myself, but as a gay man, there was always a quiet tension beneath the surface. I never knew what kind of reception I’d get in rural places. There was that constant awareness that one day an interaction might not go well—might turn into something more than I could handle.
That day finally came.
I was taking a break for lunch, sitting on the hill with a clear view of the road below. That’s when I saw it: a black pickup I didn’t recognise rolling along the back road. I knew immediately that I’d been spotted. These roads didn’t see much traffic, and curiosity out here always ran both ways.
I watched as the truck turned off, climbing the dirt path toward where I was working. It slowed as it came closer, engine rumbling low, the dark paint reflecting just enough light to catch my eye. Something about it felt dangerous and deliberate.
I tried quickly to assess the situation, was this another rancher wanting to know what the hell I was doing. I’d done this dance enough times to be ready for it.
He pulled in slowly and parked right behind my car. I walked toward the truck just as the driver rolled down his window.
And then—
I froze.
Behind the wheel sat a large, burly man; he was broad and solid even at rest. Dark brown hair framed a thick, powerful jaw, shadowed by heavy stubble that only sharpened his features. His skin was weathered and leathered, the kind that came from years outdoors, sun and wind carving him into something rough and real.
But it was the contrast that caught me. A thick, bushy moustache, carefully kept. A slow, pearly grin that hinted at self-care beneath the grit. The kind of handsome that came from confidence, from knowing exactly what he had and never apologising for it.
For that moment, all I could think was how fucking hot he was.
As he leaned out the window, I caught the full picture: broad shoulders, powerful arms, a tank top stretched tight over a chest that looked carved rather than built. Big hands resting easy on the wheel. Forearms thick, veins visible even at rest.
The man was a beast.
Beneath the brim of a worn cowboy hat, I caught his piercing brown eyes locked onto mine. They held me there, steady, unblinking. He made me nervous. Fear tightened in my chest even as something hotter pulled me closer. I couldn’t tell which feeling had the upper hand.
His deep, rolling voice snapped me out of my stare. “Hey,” he said easily. “Saw you out here and figured I’d stop by, see what you were up to.”
I tried to regain my composure, though I was sure he’d caught the way I’d stared a little too long. In an attempt not to show my fear, I launched into my explanation—fieldwork, data collection, long-term survey. It was a spiel I’d delivered countless times before, but this time my nerves made it clumsy, rushed.
I tried to force myself to sound casual. To hold his gaze without lingering. But his eyes and that slow, confident smile kept pulling me back in.
When I finally paused, he nodded.
“Sounds like a pretty good gig,” he said. “Out here all day, all alone, no one bothering you.”
He paused, I could tell he was waiting for me to confirm. How would he know if I was here by myself? I did not want to give him the satisfaction of a response, but it was kind of obvious by my gear and set up there was only one person at this camp.
He started talking about growing up around here, exploring the land, hunting, and fishing. He spoke with easy ownership, as the country itself belonged to him. He loved this place. Every word carried familiarity, comfort… control.
It was the usual pattern. Curiosity satisfied. Reassurance exchanged. A little bonding over shared appreciation for the wilderness.
When it seemed done, he extended his hand.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, name's Chad”
I stepped closer than I needed to and took his hand. His grip was firm, confident, swallowing mine easily. That was when I noticed the handgun resting openly on the passenger seat. My stomach tightened. It wasn’t unusual for people out here to own guns, but having one sitting out like that wasn’t common. It was like he wanted to make sure I saw it.
My eyes must have flicked toward it because he followed my gaze and smiled. “Does the gun make you nervous?” he asked, a tone of pleasure rang in his voice.
I replied, “A little, not used to it being so visible.” He smiled, unapologetic, “You never know who you’ll run into out here,” he said lightly.
The smile lingered a little too long. There was something almost sinister about it, subtle, but enough to make my pulse quicken. He watched me. A nervous smile stretched across my face.
He then held my stare as he added, “I like how it gets me respect. People tended to be more accommodating when they knew I was armed.” With that, he smiled and said “I think I am the kind of guy who deserves some respect. Don't you agree?”. I just nodded. He let the silence linger as he stared at me with an almost sinister grin. He was enjoying the nervousness I clearly was projecting.
Then, just as smoothly, he straightened. “Well, I'd better head out. I’m always driving through here, though—might stop by again sometime, say hi. Check in.”
The quick shift caught me off guard.
I hesitated, then managed an awkward smile. Usually, once people’s curiosity was satisfied, they left me alone. I knew I had to say something, and impulsively I responded, “You’re… always welcome.” I wasn’t sure he believed that.
As hot as he was, he made me uneasy. That feeling only intensified when his eyes slowly travelled over me—measured, deliberate.
“Sounds good,” he said.
He slid on mirrored aviators, pulled the brim of his hat down, shifted the truck into gear, and drove off down the hill.
I stood there longer than necessary before returning to my work. I told myself I was relieved he was gone—and I was—but my mind wouldn’t let him go. His smile. His broad shoulders. The way his presence filled the space around him. The thought of him had me hard before I realised it, but tangled up with that desire was fear.
I pushed the thoughts aside as best I could and went back to my job… though I knew damn well he’d already lodged himself deep in my head.
As the day wore on, he drifted to the back of my mind as I focused on finishing my tasks. By evening, I lit a small fire, cooked a simple meal, and cracked open a beer as night settled over the land.
With the work done, my thoughts wandered. I replayed the day, planned for tomorrow—and inevitably, circled back to Chad. Part of me fantasised about him returning. Another part was genuinely afraid that he might. I didn’t know which feeling unsettled me more.
I sat there longer than usual, eyes flicking down the road every so often, checking to see if there were any headlights on the crest of the hill. The more I tried to untangle those thoughts, the more wound up I became. I opened a few apps, hoping for a distraction, or maybe someone nearby enough to burn off this restless energy. No luck. Slim pickings didn’t begin to cover it.
Frustrated, I doused the fire, packed away my things, and crawled into my tent. Sleep came slowly, fitfully and shallow.
The next morning, rested and clearer-headed, I felt almost foolish. No one had come. Everything was normal. Chad clearly wasn’t some crazy local, and I could get back to my work.
As the day went on, routine reasserted itself. Alone. Focused. Plenty to do. I worked harder than usual, eager to restore some sense of normalcy, and by evening I was thoroughly exhausted.
As always, I cooked, opened a beer, and let the quiet close in around me. By the second one, I’d relaxed enough to start thinking about tomorrow’s tasks as the late-summer sun started to dip toward the horizon.
That’s when I saw the truck.
My stomach dropped.
Chad’s black pickup rolled along the road toward me, unhurried and unmistakable. I just stood there, staring. I’d convinced myself he’d forgotten about me. He was heading straight for my campsite.
Once he parked, the window slid down slowly. Aviator glasses hid his eyes beneath the brim of a broad cowboy hat. He looked exactly like he had the last time—unchanged, unbothered. He lifted a bottle of whiskey just enough for me to see it and said, low and certain, “Thought you might like some company.”
His smile hit me harder than I expected, dulling the edge of my fear. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door and stepped out.
Boots first. Shiny black cowboy boots with thick heels, kicking up dust as they hit the ground.
Standing beside his truck, I finally took in his full frame. He was tall—six-two at least. Jeans stretched tight over powerful thighs, his ass round and firm, like leg day was never optional. His shoulders were broader than I remembered, filling the space around him with quiet authority.
That’s when I noticed the holster.
A black leather strap lay over his tank top, hugging his chest, a handgun resting openly against his side. Polished steel—definitely not a hunting piece.
My unease flared. After yesterday, after seeing my nerves, he’d chosen not only to bring it again, but to wear it. It felt deliberate. Excessive. Especially for someone dropping by to share a drink.
He noticed my stare. Let it linger. There was something in his expression that suggested he enjoyed my discomfort.
Reaching into the back of his cab, he pulled out two cups and a long, thick cigar. He looked at me, pointing the cigar in my direction, “Sorry,” he said casually. “Only brought one. Figured you didn’t smoke.” I almost corrected him, then just waved it off. “All good.”
He sat near the fire, poured us both a generous measure of whiskey, and handed me a cup. I took a sip as he clipped and lit the cigar, drawing in slow and deep.
I couldn’t stop watching him. His legs spread comfortably, boots planted firm in the dirt. His chest expanded as he inhaled, pecs pushing against the fabric of his tank, shoulders rolling back as he exhaled smoke into the cooling air.
But no matter how much I tried to focus elsewhere, my eyes kept drifting back to the gun.
I didn’t know what to think.
Here was this man—powerful, armed, dangerous by any measure—yet sitting there relaxed, talking easily, passing the whiskey like this was the most natural thing in the world. The contradiction rattled me.
As we drank, he talked about the outdoors and the men who could handle that kind of life—rugged, unpolished, uncomplaining. About sleeping under the stars, the raw smell of sweat and earth after days without a shower. He spoke about being stripped down to nothing but muscle and instinct, exposed to the elements, surviving them. The way he described it felt almost poetic, like returning to something ancient and necessary. And as I listened, I couldn’t stop imagining him moving through brush and dirt and heat, rough and untamed. It did things to me I didn’t want to admit.
He kept my cup topped off, never asking, just pouring. With each drink, he grew looser, more confident, talking about how rare it was to share moments like this with someone who understood. Someone who got what it meant to be out here.
The more I drank, the harder it became to think straight.
I was mesmerised by him—by the cigar clenched between his lips like a challenge, by the way his chest expanded every time he drew in smoke. I loved the smell. Always had. He exhaled slowly, deliberately, letting it drift in my direction.
Between the whiskey, the smoke and his presence, heat pooled low in my stomach. I shifted, trying to ground myself, reminding myself I didn’t know his intentions.
Then he adjusted himself. My eyes dropped before I could stop them. He was intentional about it. Unapologetic. I caught the unmistakable outline beneath his jeans. He took his time, adjusting again, making room, making sure I noticed. He held his hand over his cock a little too long. Showing me clearly that the gun wasn't the only weapon he was packing.
When I looked up, I saw he was already watching me. I realised too late I’d given myself away.
His expression changed—not angry, but sharp. Assessing. His voice dropped when he spoke again, rougher than before.
“Just as I thought,” he said slowly, eyes never leaving mine, “you are one of those cock sucking faggots, aren't you?”
The question landed heavily. Charged. I didn't know how to respond. What would he do if I said yes, and would he believe me if I said no? Scared, all I could do was nod.
He stood then, stretching to his full height, making sure I saw all of him. Placing one hand over his cock and the other hooked on the holster, near the gun. The way his hand rested near both as if they were equally deliberate choices.
My pulse increased.
He stepped closer, boots crunching softly in the dirt until he stood right in front of me. His thumb hooked casually in his belt, and his fingers hanging down, cupping his cock. The other brushed the leather strap at his chest.
I could feel his gaze through is mirrored glasses.
“Do I scare you?” he asked quietly, smoke curling from his mouth. Before I could respond, “there's no need to be scared, as long as you know how to show respect”
The way he said it made my pulse stutter. Not threatening. Certain.
He tilted his head, studying my reaction, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to tell me he was enjoying this.
“So,” he murmured, “it’s just you and me out here—no witnesses, no rules except the ones we agree on. Tell me how dangerous you want this to feel.”
As he spoke, his fingers brushed the grip of the gun, slow, intentional. Not pulling it free. Just letting the weight of it settle between us.
My mouth went dry. I swallowed, heart hammering, nerves buzzing hot under my skin as I tried to assess the situation. I was scared—but underneath it, I wanted to see where this would go.
“I… however you want,” I said softly. The words trembled, but I didn’t look away.
Then, deliberately, I pushed it further. “If you want me on my knees,” I added, voice low, “if you want me to be a cock sucking faggot … I can do that.”
His smile widened—not cruel, but satisfied.
“Oh,” he said, almost gently, “that part is already decided. What I’m asking is whether you want the fear to be part of it.”
He studied me for a long moment, unreadable. Then he spoke, calm and certain. “I knew you wanted to suck my dick the moment we met.” His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping just slightly. “I know I don’t need to threaten you for that,” he continued evenly. “What caught my attention yesterday was the way your body tightened when you noticed the gun. How alert you became. How you didn’t step back—how fear didn’t push you away, it pulled you closer.”
A slow smile touched his mouth—controlled, deliberate. “I’m used to men being intimidated by me,” he said. “That’s easy.” He leaned in just enough to make it impossible to ignore him. “But you were nervous,” he murmured, “and you still wanted it.” His eyes darkened. “That kind of need?” A pause. Measured. “That gets my attention.”
The air between us tightened. That’s when it clicked—not danger, not threat, but invitation.
This wasn’t about force. It was about choosing to engage in it. I exhaled slowly, letting a small smile touch my mouth.
“If you want me to be scared,” I said, steady now, “you’ll have to work harder for that.” For a split second, something warm crossed his face—approval, gratitude—before he slipped back into character.
“Good,” he said quietly.
It was then I realised this was becoming a mutual fetish, me getting turned on by him, him needing to be an intimidating alpha. Immediately, I felt empowered by this information. This was something I liked to explore.
Ever since I met him, the mixture of fear and attraction was intoxicating. The intensity of my arousal was overwhelming. As scared as I felt, I wanted him more for it.
I just smiled at him, and replied, “it'll take more than a gun to make me suck your dick”.
He responded with a grateful smile, breaking character for a brief moment. Having the permission he needed, he replied in his deep voice, "Good to know."
He drew the gun—not fast, not violent—and held it where I could see it. Then he leaned close enough that only I could hear him. “Not loaded,” he murmured. “You’re safe. Always.”
My breath hitched. Not from relief—from how much that knowledge didn’t dull the thrill. His smile sharpened, confidence settling over him like armour as he straightened.
He paused, letting the tension stretch. With that, he pushed the gun to my lips, forcing them apart. I felt the cold steel on my tongue as he pushed it in. He leaned in close, his gaze fixed on me, and whispered, let's see how good a cock sucker you are. With that he slowly worked the gun in and out of mouth.
Not sure how best to respond, I began to suck on it like it was his cock. Wrapping my tongue round the barrel,
I couldn’t deny how aroused I’d become—how deeply I’d sunk into the role. I willingly sucked on the cold hard steel of the barrel. The way he controlled the moment, the way he made me nervous, only fed the heat coiling in my body. Fear and desire tangled until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
All I knew was this: being dominated by him—by a big, hot, country man who radiated authority—was intoxicating. I wanted to give myself over to it. To let him use that power. To let myself be his for as long as this lasted.
As I held the gun between my lips, I looked up at him. I saw myself in the reflection of his glasses, my need clearly evident on my face. He saw it immediately. The satisfaction in his smile told me everything—he was enjoying how much control he had, how willingly I leaned into it.
He then pulled the gun away, grabbed my hair and pulled it back. He pulled back just enough to remind me who was directing this. One hand firm in my hair, guiding my attention where he wanted it. The other moved with deliberate calm. He took the cigar from his lips and then spat in my face. The first hit me in the eye, the second around my lips. Without thought, I gathered his spit with my fingers and brought it all into my mouth, sucking my fingers clean.
His presence loomed over me, close enough that I could feel his heat, his confidence pressing in from all sides. The power exchange wasn’t subtle anymore—it was spoken in posture, in proximity, in the way he made me wait.
He then grabbed my hair and pushed my head forward, this time he made it so I was face deep into his groin. I could feel the heat of his cock against the denim. He rubbed my face up and down the length. I opened my mouth, let my lips feel the extent of his shaft. I savoured him and the power radiating from him. He watched my reaction closely, reading every breath, every flicker of hesitation or hunger.
Holding the gun pointed at my head, cigar dangling between his lips, he began to degrade me verbally. His voice, low, controlled, cutting just enough to sting, calling me a cunt, fucking pussy, cock hungry whore. Each word landed heavy, and instead of pulling away, I leaned into it. I wanted the edge. He could see that, and it only fueled him. He was overwhelming—solid, powerful, undeniably in control. But something about this told me it wasn’t chaos, it was choreography.
I kept working his cock. The front of his jeans was darkening, wet with my saliva as I tried to devour him through the denim. After a few minutes, he grabbed me by the shoulder, pushed me backwards, forcing me to the ground. I propped myself up by my elbows. Staring up at him. He paused, making sure I understood the position, the meaning of it. Making sure I stayed present.
He undid his zipper and pulled out his dick, and for the first time I saw the cock I’d been worshipping with my tongue, exposed. Even half-hard, he looked like a beast.
He aimed himself at me and began to piss. A thick stream spilled from him, unbroken and sure. He marked this moment deliberately, on his own terms. His piss soaked into my shirt, spreading fast, drenching me. The warmth made the fabric cling and stretch against my skin, heavy and saturated, leaving no doubt about what he was doing, or why.
He then slowly directed his stream to my face. I opened my mouth willingly, allowing him to fill me up. When he smiled, it wasn’t cruel. It was pleased. “You dirty fucking whore, you enjoy being marked by me.” I didn’t look away. “You like me doing this,” he said quietly. “You like giving it up.”
He wasn’t asking. And I didn’t deny it.
As he finished, he stepped closer and grabbed me by the shirt, the gun pressed to my head, the smell of cigar thick around him. I didn’t resist when he ordered me up.
I got to my feet. Between aggressive pushes and the gun to my back, he directed me to his truck. I did what I was told. He guided me to the back, dropped the tailgate, turned me around and pushed my head down so I was bent over the bed, arse up.
His hand grabbed the top of my jeans, pulling me back while he thrust forward. As he ground up against me, I felt the heat of his cock, even between the fabric. Teasing me.
Gun still firmly in his grip, he then slid his hand down my back, pulling my shirt higher. Stopping in the middle of my back, pushing down hard, holding me in place.
With his other hand, he released his grip on my jeans and started to guide it under the gap between my crack and the top of jeans. Sliding down, slow at first, but when he found my hole, he shoved his hand further down beneath my jeans, rough and impatient, stretching the fabric as he searched. His fingers pressed harder, deeper. As his finger pushed in, probing, testing, I jolted forward, gasping.
With fingers deep in my arse he leaned over me til his head was close to ear. I felt the heat of his cigar close behind me. “You ready to be fucked?” he said coolly. I remembered the gun against my back and just nodded, hard already, my body betraying me. The aggression—being handled like this—was better than most fantasies.
He pulled his hand free and reached around, undid my belt and zipper. My cock sprang free, but he barely acknowledged it. His attention stayed where he wanted it, on my arse
I felt him bend down. His hands spread my cheeks, the heat of the cigar brushing my skin, before I felt his tongue push deep inside me, unapologetic. I groaned out loud. It was more intimate than I expected, not that I was complaining.
He took his time. His tongue was skilled, relentless, exploring, tasting. I couldn’t stop myself from moaning as he worked me open, stopping now and then just to savor his cigar, blowing smoke over my hole, breathing against me before going back in. His saliva ran down my hole, my body shaking from it.
Then I felt him shift. He stood again, his hand returning to my ass, my hole already aching and needy. I was lost in it, moaning shamelessly, when he spoke again.
“Okay,” he said. “Let's see how much of a whore you really are.” I felt the gun rub against me. The contrast of the cold steel against flushed skin was shocking. He pressed it slowly against my opening, making it stretch open. Taking it, inch by inch, deeper and deeper. The cold and heat mixing, the weight of it undeniable.
“How’s that feeling, Cunt?” he murmured. Cold. Hard. Steel. I felt the gun move inside me, shallow at first, then deeper, the steel sliding in and out, the sensation overwhelming—cold, invasive, consuming. It wasn’t about my pleasure anymore. It was about surrender. Control. Being made to take it. The gun wasn’t just a weapon anymore. It was a symbol of rank and masculinity, of hierarchy maintained and respect taken, not given. He wielded it like a tool, and I folded to it completely, caving under the weight of it.
He slowly pulled the gun free from me, every inch deliberate, leaving me empty and aching as it slid out. Then he leaned over, pressing himself against my arse before bringing the gun up to my face. “Open,” he said. I did. He shoved the gun into my mouth, forcing me to taste myself on it, my submission, my surrender, his power made tangible. My eyes burned, watering as I held it there, the humiliation sharp and intentional.
With him bent over me, I felt the heat of his cock buried against my hole. He stepped back, and I heard him pull down his pants, no hesitation. He then wrapped his hand around the base of his cock to control it as he started slapping my arse. It was hard, heavy, the sound sharp in the air. Each strike made me feel the weight of him. There was no mistaking it; he was thick, solid, commanding.
Then he lined himself up again. Slowly, he pushed in. The stretch was intense, eased only slightly by what had come before, but it still burned as he pressed deeper. He took his time, letting me open around him, inch by inch, until his groin was flush against my ass, fully seated inside me.
He leaned forward, planting one hand on the back of my head, forcing me down, while the other grabbed my shirt that was bunched at my shoulders. Twisting the fabric in his fist, using it like a harness, he pulled me back as his other hand pushed me down, locking me into place.
The position gave him everything. Control. Leverage. He fucked me hard, pulling me onto him and driving into me at the same time, holding me exactly where he wanted. His cock stayed deep, hot, relentless. While the cigar burned between his lips, smoke curled as he used me without mercy, pounding me hard and fast, fully locked into the moment. I could tell he’d narrowed his focus to one thing: taking what he wanted. He was out for pleasure, and he intended to get it.
Each thrust drove me forward, my body slamming against the tailgate, my cock bouncing helplessly with every impact, precum flowing out of me and onto the ground. He didn’t slow down. He got hotter, rougher, more relentless. I could feel saliva dripping from my mouth, my moans breaking into sharp cries, my body giving away. How much could I take? How much I needed this just as badly as he did.
He fucked me cruelly, pounding, always controlling. Constantly reminding me he was in charge. He kept telling me—over and over—that he was going to give it to me harder, deeper, that I needed his cock, that I wanted it this bad. He yelled at me, telling me to take his cock like the fucking whore I was. His voice kept me right where he wanted me. Reminding me who was using who, that his cock was all I needed, that I was lucky to have him showing me what it felt like to have a real man inside me. Ensuring me, this is what a cock sucking whore like me truly wants. And I couldn’t deny it.
I was starving for it. Lost in full ecstasy. Between my cries, I told him I needed to be fucked like this. I begged him—harder, faster—given me everything. He was in control, but he didn’t realise how much I was feeding on it too. Being taken by this big, beefy man, who was using me without restraint. This wasn’t just lust, it was something deeper. A need. Something I wanted as much as he did.
I didn’t want it to stop. I could have taken it all night.
But I felt the shift. His thrusts turned heavier, more forceful. I felt him twitch inside me, heard his breath change as he drove in one last time—hard, aggressive—slamming me against the truck as he shot his first load deep inside me. Then the next and next. Each time thrusting forward as to push it deeper.
I took it. All of it.
The heat, the fullness, the way he emptied himself into me—I wanted it. I wanted to keep him inside me. I squeezed around him, trying to hold him in, but he snapped back and pulled free. I slumped against the cab, exhausted.
At that moment, he then picked up the gun again, gripping it firmly and pressed it back to my head. “You’re not going to tell anyone,” he said. I understood. I nodded. I told him no, sir—that he’d given me exactly what I deserved. No one needed to know. He smiled at that. Called me a good boy. Then he released me.
I stood and turned to face him. Something in his expression shifted—the aggression softening just enough to notice. Without being asked, I dropped to my knees and took his softened cock into my mouth again, tasting myself on him, drawing out anything left. He hadn’t demanded it. I did it willingly. He didn’t stop me.
That was when he understood—despite everything, despite how brutally he’d taken me, I still wanted more.
We stood there for a moment afterwards, suspended in what had just happened. He’d taken me, used me, made me his—and yet here I was, still hungry. That part was new for him. He wasn’t used to eagerness after the fact. Used to men breaking, not leaning in.
He’d gotten what he came for. Normally, that would’ve been the end of it. But something in the way I looked at him—wanting, needing—held him there.
He tried to reset the balance.
“You better not tell anyone, boy,” he said. “If I hear about this, I’ll come looking for you.” I met his eyes and said quietly, “What if that’s what I want?” Challenging him.
That caught him. Surprise flickered, followed by something sharper.
“So… are we done, sir?” I asked. I told him I’d be around for the week to finish my work. That I didn’t really have anywhere to hide. That if he decided this wasn’t over, I’d be at his mercy.
I wasn’t threatening him. I wasn’t bargaining. I was admitting the truth: he’d ignited something in me, and I wasn’t pretending otherwise.
He smiled then—slow, knowing.
“You sound a little too comfortable, Cunt,” he said. “Means you didn’t learn a damn thing”. His gaze rested on me, my nervous reflection staring back at me in his glasses. “You still need to learn respect—and that doesn’t come cheap around these parts,” he said
He climbed back into his truck, still watching me.
“Don’t forget, you will always be a cock sucking faggot,” he added. “And if I have to come back to teach you respect—respect for me, for men who work this land—I will. Out here, men take what they want. That’s a life lesson you need to understand.”
Then he drove off, leaving me wrecked, full, and already bracing for the next time—knowing I’d invited it, and that he knew it too
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