I showered longer than I needed to.
The hot water beat against my skin, but I could still smell him on me — the sharp, heavy scent of his piss mixed with sweat, cigars, and cheap whiskey. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking while I scrubbed. Every time I closed my eyes I saw him standing over me in the stable, jeans open, thick cock out, looking down like I was nothing more than something to use and discard.
I dried off, pulled on a clean pair of old shorts, and sat on the edge of my bed in the dark. The house was quiet except for the low murmur of Mom’s television in her room, but I knew she was already sleeping, she always fall asleep deeply watching tv. Outside, the farm made its usual night noises — distant animals, the occasional creak of wood settling.
Exactly half an hour later, my bedroom door opened without a knock.
Jacob filled the doorway.
He still had the cowboy hat on, tilted low over his eyes. The same black shirt, half-unbuttoned, showing the dark trimmed hair across his broad chest. Dirty jeans hanging on his hips. Scuffed boots that left faint marks on the floorboards as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him with his boot. The smell of cigars, sweat, and man came in with him, thicker in the small room.
His phone was in his hand. He set it on my dresser and hit play. A Morgan Wallen country track started low — that deep, drawling voice filling the quiet. He didn’t turn it up loud. Just enough so the music sat under everything that was about to happen.
Jacob looked at me sitting on the bed and let out a short, mean laugh.
“Look at you. Showered, clean shorts, already waiting like a proper little whore. Guess that answer in the stable wasn’t just talk. You really wanna be your big bro toy.”
I didn’t say anything. My throat felt tight. My cock was already starting to harden against the thin fabric of the shorts and the shame of it made my face burn.
He walked over slowly, taking off his black shirt, exposing his large chest and strong arms. His boots heavy on the wood. When he stopped in front of me I had to tilt my head all the way back to see him under the brim of the hat. Without a word he grabbed the front of my t-shirt and yanked me forward off the bed until I hit his hard warm body.
“Lick, faggy boy.”
He lifted one thick arm and rested his hand behind his neck, fully exposing the dark, damp hollow of his armpit. The smell hit me like a punch — strong, salty, pure heat and work. I hesitated for half a second.
His other hand locked in my hair and shoved my face into it.
“I said lick, little brother. Don’t make me repeat myself.” His voice was harsh.
I opened my mouth and dragged my tongue through the coarse hair and sweat. The taste was sharp and heavy, pure Jacob. He kept my face pressed hard into his pit while I licked, forcing me to take long, slow strokes through the damp hair. When he finally pulled me back a fraction it was only to switch arms and push me into the other one. I was shaking like a leaf.
“Get it clean,” he muttered. “Every bit of it. You’ve been staring at this body since you were a kid. Now you get to taste it.”
I licked until both of his armpits were wet from my mouth. Then he pushed my head down across his chest, making me drag my tongue over the spiky hair and warm skin, tasting salt and the leftover heat of the day.
He made me lick over his nipples, down the center of his stomach, following the dark trail of hair that disappeared under his jeans. The whole time the Morgan Wallen music played low in the background, that slow country drawl mixing with the wet sound of my tongue on his skin.
When he finally pulled me off by the hair, my face was shining and my breathing was shaky.
Jacob shoved me backward onto the bed hard enough that I bounced.
“Lie down. On your back. Head over the edge. Now.”
I did as I was told. The position left my throat completely exposed and my head hanging off the mattress, upside down toward the floor. Jacob stepped in close, boots planted on either side of my head. I heard the soft clink of his belt buckle, then the zipper. He didn’t bother pushing the jeans down. He just reached in and pulled his thick cock out through the open fly. It was already hard — heavy, veined, the head dark and shiny with precum. He was turned on by me. My big cowboy brother. I just can’t believe it.
He slapped it against my lips a few times, smearing the salty precum across my mouth.
“Open up, fag. This big log is about to hit your throat.”
I opened. Jacob pushed in without any patience at all. The thick head forced past my lips and straight toward my throat. The upside-down angle made it worse. Gravity worked against me. He kept driving forward until I felt him lodge deep and my throat convulsed hard around him.
I gagged loudly.
Jacob only groaned and pushed deeper.
“Fuck yeah. Take it. Choke on it.”
He started facefucking me in earnest — short, brutal strokes that used the edge of the bed for leverage. Every thrust drove his cock into my throat with wet, ugly sounds. Spit ran up my face and into my hair. I choked and gagged hard, the noises filthy and desperate in the small room. My hands gripped the sheets so tight my knuckles hurt. Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes and ran into my hairline.
He didn’t slow down once. I just turned up the volume of country music so our mother won’t listen to the debauchery.
“Look at this,” he muttered, voice rough and mean above me. “Little college faggot with his big brother’s cock buried in his throat. Almost makes me proud. All that book learning and this is still what you’re best at.”
He fucked my mouth harder. The head of his cock kept punching into my throat until my stomach clenched and I was genuinely close to throwing up. Thick spit poured out of the corners of my stretched lips and dripped onto the floor in long strings. I made broken, panicked sounds around him, but Jacob only tightened his grip on my head and kept using me like a toy.
“Don’t you fucking puke on my boots,” he growled. “You take what I give you and you stay open.”
He buried himself all the way one last time and held there while I choked and thrashed weakly, throat spasming around him. Only when my vision started to tunnel and real panic set in did he pull out. I gasped desperately, strings of thick spit still connecting my ruined lips to his cock.
Jacob stroked himself fast right above my face, breathing hard, hat still tilted low.
“Open wide. Tongue out. Don’t you close that mouth boy.”
I barely had time to obey before the first thick rope of cum hit my cheek. The second landed across my open mouth and tongue. He kept stroking, grunting low and filthy, painting my face with heavy, hot spurts until cum was dripping from my chin onto the floor and running into my hair. There was a lot of it — thick, bitter from all the Cuban cigars and whiskey, and endless. Some of it got in my eyes. Some of it slid down into my nose.
When he finally finished, he looked down at the mess he had made of my face and let out a real, open, contemptuous laugh.
“Look at your face, looks like I’m a good painter. Welcome to my farm, little brother.” he said, still catching his breath, that mean smile wide under the hat. “You’re my hooker now.”
He tucked his cock back through the fly, pick up his black shirt, zipped up, and adjusted the big gold belt buckle without another word. Then he grabbed his phone, killed the music, and walked out of the room, boots heavy on the floorboards, cowboy hat still in place, leaving me on the bed with my head hanging off the edge, face covered in his cum, throat raw and burning, and the clear understanding that this summer at home was going to ruin me completely.
And that some sick part of me was already anxious for the next time he opened my door or asked me for help. I’ll be his little country faggot.
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