Arrival at the Farm
The sun hammered down on the fields, turning the air thick with dust and the sharp tang of turned earth. Rake crested the rise first, shoulders rolling back as the farm sprawled out—low structures hunkered against the wind, panels glinting dull under grime, rows of mutated crops swaying uneven. Bodies eased, the road's grind sloughing off like dead skin; thighs quit burning, sweat drying sticky on torsos. Bastion dropped his pack with a thud, the weight pulling a grunt from his gut, lockcage shifting heavy against his balls. Toe staggered last—chainband chafes jaw raw. Cage leaks pre slick thigh stutter-step chafes balls grind, rag clings wet twitch. Dust bites eyes.
No rush. They squatted by the gate, frames loose now, scanning the empty yard. Grip wasn't back from the fields yet—figures moved distant, bent over rows, but no heavy tread approaching. Rake spat into the dirt, wiping his mouth. "Sit tight. He'll show." Bastion nodded, eyes on the horizon where dust devils spun lazy; Toe knelt awkward, knees grinding pebbles, body humming from the march, cage a constant throb.
Words for the New Hole
Rake leaned into Toe, voice low gravel over the wind-whipped stalks. "This your spot now, pup. Grip's solid—keeps shit running smooth. You'll haul, fix, pull your weight. Life here's steady, no Dustlands bullshit chasing your ass." Bastion grunted agreement from the side, massive frame blocking the glare. "Yeah, farm's calm. Grip knows bodies, makes 'em useful. Eat regular, Rush when earned. Better than most trails."
Toe soaked it in, shoulders dropping, the words settling like dust after rain—home, useful, calm. Cage pulsed faint, but tension bled out, body leaning into the promise without a fight.
Equals at the Gate
Grip lumbered up from the fields, his large squat frame cutting through the haze like packed earth come alive—broad shoulders rolling under a torn vest gaping over powerful chest and dense gut, heavy arms scarred from years of work swinging loose, rough dark-olive skin slick with sweat carving tracks through field grime, old metal ring piercing left nipple glinting through the rip, thick loincloth bulging low with the heavy uncaged weight of his cock, earthy musk hitting sharp before his gravel voice. Rake met him stride-for-stride, palms slapping rough, no dip, no pause. "Goods intact. Pup too." Grip's eyes flicked over Toe, then Bastion—assessing meat, not men—before nodding back. "Fields need hands. Walk."
They peeled off toward the main shack, voices blending low—trade terms, weights, dust tallies. Bastion and Toe hung back, sidelined by the gate, isolation creeping in like evening chill. Bastion shifted, cage grinding; Toe stared at their backs, chainband suddenly tighter.
Rake turned sharp on Bastion. "Gear down. All of it." Bastion complied wordless, straps rasping off shoulders, packs thudding heavy into Rake's hands. "Your cut rides with me." Bastion's jaw tightened fraction, but eyes stayed level—no pushback, just the quiet sink of dependency locking in.
Stripped and Scanned
"Strip, pup," Rake drawled, lazy lean against the post. Toe peeled the crotchrag slow, fabric dragging over cage-slick skin. Full nakedness hit under dual stares—Rake's idle, Bastion's averted but heavy.
Hand lingered heavy. 2-3 seconds stretching. Grip's weight leaning faint, sweat warming palm against Toe's skin—no squeeze, just pressure pulsing through like shared heartbeat disrupting Toe's breath. Group froze, breaths shallowing quiet. Bastion's thighs tensed rigid, old slave scars itching phantom under skin. Rake shifted foot-to-foot, gut knotting tight over empty profit.
He circled Toe deliberate, boot prodding balls heavy. Hand slapping cheeks firm to test resilience—blows jarring breath short, sweat slicking grip loose on jaw. Dust kicking up to sting eyes raw like fresh mark warning. Rough fingers probing under jaw where chainband chafed raw. "Wasteland stink on ya. Farm'll fix."
Grip's palm pulled back, eyes narrowing faint as he weighed the pup's frame—lean muscle under dust-caked skin, cage already leaking faint slick down thigh, boot scraping deliberate — yes/no?. Sandtrace hummed clean: slave, no liens, fresh enough for fields. He let silence stretch thick, boot scraping dust deliberate, gaze flicking to Bastion's rigid thighs bulging vein-deep, old chain scars crawling phantom itch across his back like fresh weld. Rake froze mid-shift, gut twisting knot-hard under ribs, breath hitching shallow—profit dangling raw if Grip balked now, kid hauled across half-wasteland for this payout.
Grip's lips twitched inward, savoring the pull: Bastion's meaty bulk tensing slave-taut, prime farm hauler if broken right; Rake's wiry frame gone statue-still, trader eyes hungry—both'd slot neat into stalls, cages humming sync. Power throbbed low in his gut, thick as the heft under his rag.
He stepped up close, palm slapping sandtrace mid-thigh—hard, deliberate. Glow flared under skin, confirming transfer. Status shifting unfree under Veil Law sync, chainband pulsing once, locking the new trace to Grip's own signature.
Toe jolted faint, breath catching eager under the lock, hole twitching instinctive like it already knew the next cage.
Grip nodded once, final. "Fields need hands. Yours now."
Palm slammed Toe's shoulder bruising-deep—Veil ping sealing it, chainband flaring hot link to Grip's trace. Toe’s knees dipped fraction, body settling into the new weight without fight.
Grip pursed lips, hawking thick spit straight into Toe's open mouth—the pup swallowing eager, eyes lighting with that scrawny delight, body leaning in for more like it sealed belonging. Chainband pinged fresh sync to Grip's control, lockcage humming tighter lock. Grip ruffled Toe's matted mohawk rough, then clapped shoulder bruising faint. "Kneel proper now—fields at dawn, holes at dusk. Repeat." Toe dropped ass-back, voice yipping puppy-quick: "Fields dawn, holes dusk, sir—thank ya." Grip nodded once, piss stream warm marking chest slick, Toe lapping drops off skin with grin splitting wide, thighs clenching slick. Cage throbbed harder.
Finality buzzed metal-deep. "C'mon, kid. Slave barracks this way."
Toe shuffled after bare, skin prickling marked and scanned, eyes down, farm swallowing him whole.
Firelight Promises
Evening fire snapped low. Farmhands distant shadows. Bastion hunched close—thighs raw-chafed from march, ballsack nuzzled sore against cage, pre slick clotting dust into crust. Embers licked scar stark. "Next run, bro?" Voice thick, melancholy drag.
Rake poked stick. Sparks spat up. Chest eased heavy—sweat cooled sticky, shoulders slumped road-weary. "Ruins haul—heavy goods. You know plays. Cover flank. Crush it—you me."
Bastion sighed deep. Chest heaved reluctant, gut sinking loose. "Yeah... goin' with you." Rake's arm slung heavy round shoulders. Frames sagged together. "Always do."
Slaves at the Flames
Farm slaves edged in from the dark—lean frames, cages dangling low—eyes locked hungry on Rake's lap. "Yo, guys... sit? Grip's poundin' the new young pup tonight—tight hole squealin' from the shack, moans carryin' on the wind. Us? Earn our fuck here by the fire." Rake clocked the intent instant, hiked his crotchrag casual, hosing out his cock—thick, half-hard, shaking off the drip. "This meat's mine, dogs." They swallowed visible, stares glued, cages weeping pre. "Fight for it. Bastion refs—no breaks, or Grip skins ya."
Bastion's bulk blocked the narrow gap between rusted field panels, dust swirling low as the farm slaves circled, sweat already slicking their bare torsos in the firelight flicker. Lockcages ground against crotch rags with every shift, pre leaking in sticky trails down thighs—Dirt's thick frame heaving first, lunging low to grapple Slag's wiry hips. Slag twisted, lean legs kicking up grit, but Dirt's corny bulk pinned him chest-to-dirt, cage rubbing raw against the other's, a dull throb pulling grunts from both.
Bastion's voice rumbled flat, arm out like a bar: "No pulls. Grip holds tight, you jealous little cunts." Rake watched from the shade, eyes flat on the pile, his own crotchrag tenting slow. Rust lumbered in next, dense and sagging, slamming into Scrap's muscled back—Scrap bucked, ropy scars flexing, but Rust's weight drove him knee-first into the sand, cages clashing with a meaty smack, pre smearing between sweat-slick bellies. Shame burned hot in their faces, holes twitching under the rags, but they ground on, hips bucking for leverage, breaths ragged and wet.
Grime darted opportunistically, fresh-faced and naive, nineteen-year-old legs flashing as he hooked Pike's long thigh—Pike flipped smooth, flexible frame coiling, long legs wrapping Grime's waist in a scissor that squeezed a wheeze from the kid's gut. Cages dragged together, pre slicking the grind, Grime's hole clenching visible shame under his rag. Bastion stepped in heavy, boot nudging their hips apart: "Break. Next pair." No anger, just control—Grip'd skin 'em for real damage.
Dirt rose heaving, Slag scrambling free with a gasp, but Pike flowed unbroken, long legs snapping out to trip Rust mid-lunge—Rust toppled heavy, belly slapping sand, cage leaking thick as Pike mounted his back, thighs clamping like wire, grinding down till Rust tapped frantic, body quaking under the pin. Scrap charged then, muscles bulging, but Pike rolled fluid, legs whipping Scrap's ankles—Scrap sprawled, cage throbbing against Pike's calf, pre dripping hot as Pike locked his neck in a loose collar hold, chainband digging just enough.
Bastion loomed, palm heavy on Scrap's shoulder: "Yield." Scrap wheezed out, body slack, hole pulsing shame. Dust choked the air, all cages leaking now, rags dark and clinging, slaves panting in a circle of sweat and grit—Dirt nodding respect, Slag wiping pre from his thigh, Grime flushed red-faced. Pike uncoiled last, long-legged frame gleaming, chest heaving but unbroken, eyes flicking to Rake with raw hunger. Pike's gaze shifted to Bastion next, lingering curious on the massive frame.
"Yo! He is caged! Show 'em!" Rake barked. Bastion flushed low, fingers tugging crotchrag down slow—cage swung free heavy, balls low and full, pre beading thick. "Yo, bro, earn this!" Rake tossed a Rush packet; Bastion caught it, powder hitting tongue sharp—heat bloomed instant through veins, thighs loosening warm, cage throbbing eager as dependence sank sweeter. "Yo, losers! Lick him!"
Slaves crawled on dust-knees, tongues out shame-hot: Dirt first lapping Bastion's leaking cage heavy, Slag slurping balls sweat-salt, Grime tongue-flick pre-trail thighs. Pike hung back, eyes hungry on Bastion's bulk, Rake spat thick into his palm—slap wet across Pike's cheek casual, "You too, winner," spit-sting normal hierarchy lock. Bastion's hole twitched cage-pull, jealousy grind deeper as Pike leaned tongue-out, Rake's gaze flat approval.
"Doggy," Rake grunted, cock jutting proud. The winner dropped ass-high, hole winking sweaty under firelight—others watched ravenous, pre pooling. Rake mounted smooth, thick head breaching tight—Pike gasped sharp, hole clenching years-dry around the young stretch, inner walls fluttering starved on every inch, body shuddering as neglected nerves fired wild, pre leaking frantic from cage while Rake ground deep, hips slapping sweat-slick.
Parallel, slaves swarmed Bastion—tongues lapping nipples rough, sucking rings till sore; one dropped low, licking heavy balls salty, then hoisted thighs wide, rimming hole wet and deep before shoving two fingers in, pumping steady. "Sorry, bro, this all slaves have." Bastion's Rush-tremors lit veins on fire, body jolting as fingers crooked prostate, moans from Rake's pounding slave spiking arousal—cage clenched drycum ripping through, waves crashing empty but fierce, thighs quaking slick.
Tales by the Dying Fire
The fucked slave curled damp against Rake's side, head nuzzling thigh hopeful for cock, eyes flicking to Bastion's scar. "Saw that mark... beast shit? Spill, Rake." Rake chuckled low, arm loose round shoulders, spinning myths proud: blaster barking sandstorms, Bastion tanking claws back-to-back, ready to eat dirt for the pull. Fire popped, slave hung rapt, Bastion's gaze steady in the glow—loyalty ache, unspoken. Nipples stung raw post-licking, jealousy twisting gut that Rake took the slave not him, but Rush soothed veins calm, body easing closer to leader's heat, mouth watering ready to swallow cock if wanted.
Bastion gaze glow-steady. Nipple stings wind-raw, jealousy aches gut-pull.
Toe bucked barn—moans whelp-ragged wind-fade.
Pike slumped edge, ass leaks Rake-warm thigh, grin raw, cage drips stretch-thick.
Rake sprawls post-spill, cock slicks soft heavy limb.
Fire—dims.
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