My parents were done with me. At 29, I had the degree, the ambition, but zero willingness to put either into practice. My father called it arrogance, my mother called it depression. I called it: waiting for the right opportunity, instead of selling myself like a grunt.
The problem was, my opportunities had dried up.
So they sent me to Mike. My uncle on my father’s side. I hadn't seen him in almost twenty years. My parents knew he was a man of labor—he hunted, he built, he lived without unnecessary frills. They hoped he would teach me "discipline," whatever that meant in their eyes.
I found Mike behind his tidy, brown wooden house. He was a massive man in his fifties whose unshaved face and thick neck spoke not of laziness, but of pure nature. He smelled of sawdust and untamed masculinity, like old smoke deeply embedded in cloth and skin.
"Your gear goes in the storeroom," he said, after we exchanged the few necessary words of greeting. "Now you clean that shed. Broom, bucket, everything's inside."
It was a task that felt insulting given my situation, but his clear, commanding voice was paralyzing. I hated it, but I did what he said. I swept the dirt into a corner, arranged tools that had long since found their place, and ignored the feeling that my hands were too fine for this work.
After twenty minutes, the sweat wasn't just on my neck; my patience was gone. I wasn't some teenager to be bossed around by some old man.
I slammed the broom into a corner. The loud crash echoed through the shed.
"What the hell is the point of this? I'm done," I growled, my voice raw with pent-up arrogance. "If I wanted to work, I would have found a job in the city. I'm not here to be your janitor."
Mike's move was too fast. Before I could fix my eyes on his, he was there. His open hand hit my face with the force of a wooden mallet. The slap struck so hard that my head snapped back and my ear rang with a metallic sound. I flew sideways and crashed onto the concrete floor.
"What the Fuck!" I screamed, my hands scrambling for my burning jaw. I tried to get up, but a massive boot came down from above and caught me squarely in the chest. The air left my lungs with a strangled gasp.
His shin pressed firmly against my sternum, holding me motionless on the ground. He leaned over me. The strong smell of sweat was suffocating. With his left hand, he gripped my neck, not hard enough to choke me, but firm enough to fix me in place, and with his right, he hauled off and struck my face twice.
"I don't tolerate disrespect," he growled, his voice barely a whisper, yet it was the loudest sound I had ever heard. "You either do what I say, or you get hit. Do we understand each other?"
A tear of shame and fury tracked uncontrollably down my cheek. I gave a short, shaky nod.
Mike lifted his weight. "Get up."
I stood. The pain in my jaw was nothing compared to the burning rage in my gut. Fuck this. I'd rather sleep under a bridge than under these terms.
I saw my chance. Mike half-turned to pick up the broom. I pushed off and threw myself against his back with the last strength of my wounded pride. He stumbled forward and crashed into the workbench. I ran. Out of the shed, out into the yard, toward the driveway.
I managed only three steps before the hand, like a vice, clamped onto the back of my head. Mike yanked me back hard by the hair. I gasped. He dragged me across the gravel toward the center of the yard.
There, rising from the concrete, was a rusty metal ring attached to a heavy, thick chain—it was meant for a guard dog years ago.
With two quick, brutal movements, Mike forced me to my knees and fastened the chain around my neck. It was too short to stand upright, too thick to break. I was tethered. I couldn't move, the chain anchored in the concrete.
"I would have let you leave," Mike said, his voice now lower, carrying a note of contempt. He stood directly in front of me, legs slightly spread, casting a huge, intimidating shadow. "No one is forcing you to be here. But when you use violence against me, I don't let that slide."
He looked down at me, small and helpless on all fours, staring up at the sheer bulk of his stance. A slow, humourless laugh rumbled in his chest. "Maybe you'll do better as a dog than as a house guest."
"Fuck you," I spat, managing to direct the bloody saliva toward his worn work boots.
Mike’s expression didn't change, but his eyes hardened. "Haven't learned your lesson, huh? Looks like you need a punishment that actually sticks."
Without hesitation, he snatched the waistband of my trousers and ripped them down, along with my boxers. The cold air instantly hit my exposed ass. Before I could process the humiliation, I felt his thick, hard cock being ground against my lower back. He was already solid, huge. He rubbed it a few times, testing the steel in it.
He then spat a thick glob of mucus directly onto my tight asshole, spread the spittle with his rough thumb for lubrication, and shoved.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. Uncle Mike was fucking me with full, brutal force. The initial intrusion was agonizing, a violation that bypassed all thought and went straight to the nerve endings. I cried out, a strangled, pain-filled groan with every deep thrust. He didn't slow down, punishing me with the insistent rhythm of a machine.
Mike discharged his load deep inside me and ripped his cock out. Small bits of fecal matter popped out, leaving a sickening trail of brown and white mess on my thighs. I tipped over sideways with a wheezing cough, collapsing onto the gravel like shot prey, my eyes staring blankly at the darkening sky.
"That," Mike said, pulling up his trousers, his voice already distant, "will stick with you, boy."
He tucked his cock away, didn't spare me another glance, and walked back towards the house. The sun had long since gone down. The full moon, a grotesque, silent witness, rose high over the trees, casting a cold, eerie light onto my naked, bruised ass chained to the ground.
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