The Mad Doctor
Yesterday was a long, hard day. The journey to the farm was somewhat uneventful, except for Corporal Stevens, who demonstrated his lack of self-discipline and lack of loyalty to me and is now paying the price.
Captain Russo slept on the floor in his Cammie uniform next to my bed in one of the four bedrooms in the main house. The shock collar around his neck is the only thing I need to keep him in line. After I get him broken in and trained, he will serve me in any way I choose.
And this morning after breakfast I’m going to tie him to the Saint Andrews Cross and work him over to get me in the mood to fuck his big hard ass. I don’t mind having a little of his blood on my dickhead, not at all; on the contrary, I fucking love it!
Lieutenant Dickson, SSgt Phillips, and Corporal Stevens spent the night with shock collars around their necks and cages locked on their cocks and balls. All three men have experienced the horrific pain the collars deliver with the push of a button, so they remain docile and under control, knowing that any infraction of my rules means an instant reply from the collar. By the way, the brand name of the collar is Yelp, which I find amusing, to say the least.
The trio slept soundly and unmolested until six am this morning, at which time I arrived and inspected the bunk house and my three bulls to make sure the cock cages were still locked in place.
The bunk house contains twenty military-style bunk beds and a shower room with ten spray heads. It’s located at the end of the long main room. Grey metal lockers stand side by side outside of the room. A long, low wooden bench occupies the space in front of the lockers.
There is a small one-story shingled building containing a kitchen and bathroom situated behind the bunk house. The cook will never be permitted to enter the bunk house. The food will be delivered to a shuttered receiving window. He will never be permitted to interact with the livestock; in fact, he will never see them. He will live off campus.
But since the cook is not scheduled to arrive until noon today, I have to throw together a quick breakfast for the five of us. Which I do with the help of Stevens, who is sporting a black eye and a split lip courtesy of my muscle slave, Russo.
Stevens and I cook bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee for the five of us. No one speaks, and the Marine Corps squat-and-gobble style learned in boot camp serves us well, so we finish quickly. I direct Phillips and Dickson to clear the table and the dirty dishes.
Russo and I leave the bunk house and walk back to the main house. When we arrive in the living room, the CCTV is showing a police car marked County Sheriff and a lone Sheriff standing in front of the gate. Speaking into the phone.
“Howdy…this is Sheriff Caulfield, remember me, Sergeant Collins?”
Of course, I remember Preacher Caulfield.
He’s aged only slightly; greyer at the temples, otherwise he looks the same, Hot. He became my pain slave and milk bull three years ago. I released him to go back to his wife, but she divorced him when she found out that he loved male cum and male ass more than her pussy.
The CCTV shows a man in his early forties, somewhere in the neighborhood of six feet five inches, two hundred and thirty-five pounds or so. His tan uniform with narrow dark blue stripes down the outside of each trouser leg, light brown cowboy boots with rounded toes and underslung three-inch heels, cream colored Stetson cowboy hat shading a very handsome face.
He has high cheekbones, a square jawline, and round lips with a thin dark mustache over his top lip. He has that ruggedly handsome face you’d expect to see on a frontier Marshal. Around his waist is a wide weave black leather cop duty belt and holster that is strapped to his leg and, of course, a nickel-plated Smith and Weston pistol locked into his holster.
Preacher, my friend. What can I do for you? And by the way, it’s good to see you again.
“Sergeant Collins, I’m coming to the end of the line as far as the county sheriff’s office is concerned. They put a hold on my new, bigger salary, and the scuttlebutt is that I won’t be getting that increase in pay any time soon, so here I am, hat in hand, asking for a job in case you haven’t chosen your security officers yet.”
As a matter of fact, Preacher, I haven’t. Come in and let’s discuss the possibilities.
I hit the remote and the iron gate opens slowly. I watch him walk to his patrol car, enter, then drive through the gate and up to the house.
I’m standing on the front porch with Russo next to me, watching Caulfield pull up and park. He gets out and struts toward us, his big dick hanging commando style under his trousers, swinging back and forth. He climbs the three steps to where we’re standing, a huge smile on his handsome face, already a five o’clock shadow showing. He offers his hand to me, but instead I grip both of his broad shoulders and pull him in for a bear hug.
He smells like you’d expect a rural lawman to smell. Pit sweat and leather. He is chewing a piece of spearmint gum; his breath is welcoming and pleasant.
Russo has a puzzled expression on his face, a smile that slowly changes into a grimace. I notice his reaction to my bear hug and bump his chin lightly with my fist, causing him to force a smile.
Sheriff Caulfield, this is Captain Jon Russo, United States Marine, and my new slave. Is he one hot fucker or what?
“Fuck yeah, he’s damned hot, how’s he hung?”
Slave, get your dick and balls out for the sheriff to examine!
“Yes sir.”
Never mind, slave, I brush his hand away; I’ll do the honors. I unbutton his trousers, reach in and haul his inflating dick and balls out for the sheriff to examine. His cock is hot in my hand, and I can feel it turn to steel as I manipulate it to bring a pearl of pre-cum out of his piss slit.
“Very nice, Sergeant, mind if I take a taste?”
I don’t mind at all; in fact, I want you to taste it!
He wraps his calloused palm around Russo’s rock-hard shaft, and milks another blob of transparent pre-cum up and out of the head. He bends down and licks the cock head in his grip.
“Damn boss, this is what I call premium shit!”
I thought you might like getting back into the swing of the farm, and what better way than tasting a seasoned Marine’s dick.
“This is what I’ve been missing.”
Glad to hear you say that. Because the open position is overseer of my cum herd. At present, I have three Marine bulls collared in the bunk house. They have all been shocked once, and I don’t believe they’ll give you any trouble.
You’ll be in charge of making certain that when they aren’t being milked, the cock cages will remain locked into place. And you’ll be in charge of milking them three times a day. Eight am, two pm, and eight pm. I’ll allow you to fuck any man you choose as long as his cock cage stays in place and no harm comes to him; they’re all my property.
Are you on board, Sheriff, or do you want to take a pass?
“Fuck yeah, I’m on board. When do I start, and what is my salary going to be?”
Your salary will be five thousand a week, and that averages out to $240,000 a year. How does that sound to you, Preacher?
“Sounds like a plan to me, Sergeant. I’m all in, sir, thanks!”
Ok then, this is what you’re going to do. Head back to the sheriff’s station, turn in your badge and weapon, tell them to get fucked, and come directly back to the farm. We have a full day ahead of us.
I’m expecting the cook and Dr. Dragan to arrive this afternoon.
“Yes, sir, I can do that, and thanks again for the opportunity to serve you.”
You’re welcome, Preacher, and you’ll be serving me in a variety of ways, and I think you know what I mean.
“Yes, sir, I know very well what you mean, and I’m honored.”
Russo’s eyes are downcast. His lips are clenched together tightly. I can hear heavy intakes of air as he scuffs his boots’ soles around on the wooden porch floor, causing a creaking sound, saying nothing. Then.
“Sir, is this man going to take my place? Does he have jurisdiction over me? Do I answer to him now, sir?”
You answer only to me, boy; you’re my muscle slave and will soon be my hunting partner. Do you understand that, slave boy?
“Yes, sir, I understand, you’re the boss of me, and that’s all that matters.”
Get down on your knees and kiss the sheriff’s boots, then mine, slave!
Russo goes down on his knees, cups the sheriff’s tan cowboy boots behind the heel, leans down and kisses both, then turns his attention to my combat boots, first looking up at me like a lost puppy, then face down, kissing and licking my leather.
“Thank you, boss, for allowing me to worship you. I love you, sir.”
I know you do, slave boy. And all you have to do is follow my orders and become the hunter I’m going to train you to be.
“Yes, boss, I’m whatever you want me to be from now on, sir!”
Preacher Caulfield leaves the porch and drives away from the house. I take the remote from its holster and buzz the gate open.
Two hours later, Miguel, the cook, arrives thirty minutes before Dr. Dragan. I show him the cookhouse and explain his duties. He will do all of the food shopping from a prepared list and use a farm credit card to make the purchases. He will cook three meals a day and clean up after each meal.
He will use his own transportation to come and go from the farm. He will never discuss the farm with anyone, and if he does, he will be dismissed immediately. I have him sign the non-disclosure agreement, then show him to the outbuilding that is the kitchen.
Dr. Dragan arrives at the gate precisely at the appointed time. He speaks with little or no accent. I remember attending his trial in Belgrade. And it was quite a show.
He was kicked out of the medical profession in his home country because he conducted illegal experiments on prisoners, lost his license to practice, and became destitute.
He jumped at the opportunity to travel to the States to live at my farm and continue to do his thing. Which is to chemically induce the body to produce larger amounts of male sperm. That serum, in combination with Viagra or a similar drug, keeps the cock hard and chugging out vast amounts of cum.
The doctor is short in stature, a little over five feet five, has a bald head, and clear blue eyes, not handsome, but not ugly, more curious-looking. But he reminds me of one of those garden trolls, without a beard or pointed hat.
“So, how many subjects do we have so far, and will there be more to arrive? I need to give each man a complete physical to determine the correct dose for each before going forward.”
Dr. Dragan, I have three very healthy U.S. Marines and will be adding more as we go along. I think you are going to like my selection, and I’m eager to begin the process.
“Good, then escort me to my quarters, let me shower and get refreshed, then we can get started with the physical examinations.”
Follow me; your quarters are at the top of the stairs. And the room next to it is your examination room, with an examination table with restraints, and everything you will need to get underway. If there is anything else you might need, just ask, and I’ll provide it.
Russo is standing next to me, listening intently. He looks uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, taking it all in.
Russo, go round up Stevens and bring him to me. Tell him nothing!
He departs, leaving the two of us alone. I’m watching the doctor survey the setup, nodding his head in approval.
Doctor, how was your trip?
“It was delightful. I haven’t flown First Class in quite a long time. The service and food were excellent, so thanks so much, Sergeant Collins. I know that we’re going to work perfectly together, having the same goal in mind. I’m happy, thank you so much.”
No worries, doctor. If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to speak up.
“I will keep that uppermost in my mind, thank you.”
Minutes later, Russo brings Stevens up the steps and into the exam room. The expression on his face speaks of his fear. Russo has a tight grip on the back of his neck, urging him forward into the room.
“Now, wait a minute, what’s this all about? Why is there an operating table? I’M GETTING THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! LET ME GO, GOD DAMMIT, LET ME GO!!”
I quickly remove the remote from its holster and hit the red button. Stevens goes down to his knees, both hands clawing at the collar, and passes out cold.
Russo, strip him completely and lay him on the table.
“Yes, sir boss.”
We watch Russo kneel and start with Stevens’ boots, unlacing them, pulling both off. He briefly buries his face in the top of one of the boots, drops it. Next, the socks, removes them, then his trousers and jockstrap, and lastly the green undershirt and blouse, leaving him naked.
“Lay him on the table face up and secure his hands at his sides; spread his legs and secure his feet to the side of the table.” The doctor instructs Russo, who complies, securing Stevens to the table.
Stevens lies quietly, beginning to stir and pull at his bonds. His heavy ball sack hangs between his legs, resting on the table. His eyes are now wide open and wild-looking. His breath comes in shallow pulls of air into his lungs.
“What the fuck is this all about?” He yells.
“Just try to relax; we’re not going to injure you, just do a brief examination.”
The doctor says softly, running his hands over Stevens’ taut stomach down to his groin to lift and inspect the soft cock in his hand, then handles the heavy nut sack, palming it as though he was weighing it.
“Yes, nice, very nice indeed.”
“What the fuck is going down here, Sergeant? What is he going to do to me? Let me up, let me outta here!”
Stevens, nothing bad is going to happen to you; on the contrary, I think you’ll be pleased with the result.
“Sergeant, please let me up, I don’t want to do this, please sir, let me up, please!”
Be still, Corporal, and we’ll be finished quickly. Just quiet down, or I’ll have to gag you.
“Oh my God, oh my God!”
The doctor takes a length of rubber tubing, the type used to wrap around a patient’s arm to encourage a vein to pop up. He ties it off, then pats the vein a couple of times, testing it.
Satisfied, he reaches into his black bag and removes an ominous-looking hypodermic needle filled with a clear liquid. Holds it up and presses the plunger to remove any air that might be there.
I watch him, fascinated as he inserts the tip into the vein and slowly injects the fluid into Steven’s bloodstream.
His eyes are fixated on the doctor standing beside him. Nothing seems to be happening until….
“OH, MY FUCKING GOD – SHIT – MOTHERFUCKER – OH MY FUCKING GOD!”
His dick is standing tall, throbbing and swelling. His mushroom dickhead bloating. Then huge globs of pre-cum forced up his urethra shoot out and land on his chest and face.
Dragan wraps his hand around the fleshy torpedo, and with the help of some lube that he slathers his palm with, strokes Stevens’ cock only a few times, up and down, then…
“OH SHIT – OH SHIT – OH SHIT!”
Stevens’ balls draw up suddenly and violently to his body as his heels pound onto the table. His dick erupts like Mount Vesuvius, spurting cum over his head, landing on my shirt as I stand behind the top of the table with what looks like half a cup of his semen covering me.
“My God, boss, I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Russo mumbles.
Neither have I, slave boy; neither have I.
Dr. Dragan smiles and says: “He will be just fine after a few hours of rest. You were correct, Sergeant; he is the perfect specimen. Your slave will have to carry him back to the bunkhouse because he will be too weak to walk, but should recover nicely in a few hours.”
You heard the man, slave. Heft him over your shoulder and carry him back to his bunk.
“Yes, sir, boss.”
And put him in the shower and clean him up.
“I’m on it, boss.”
The doctor and I watch Russo unfasten the straps holding Stevens to the table, muscle him over his shoulder, and walk down the stairs. The Corporal’s arms dangle over Russo’s back, swaying loosely as he descends the steps.
End of Chapter 8
Rex Larsen
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
