Author's note: This story is a spin-off of my longer novel The Education of Roman's Fresh Meat — a dark, slow-burn narrative about the slave trade in a world where male slavery is legal, profitable, and systematic. Roman Wolfe, the buyer who appears in these pages, is the protagonist of that story: a cold-eyed rancher who breaks young men into obedience through shame, false tenderness, and economic logic. I extracted "Roman Wolfe's Family Lot" as a standalone piece because the father-son auction scene demanded its own space — a tighter frame, a single afternoon, a different kind of ruin than the novel explores. If the world pulls you in, the full story goes much deeper: the breaking, the training, the slow erosion of identity, and the terrible question of what's left when the last wall falls. You can find The Education of Roman's Fresh Meat on my profile.
Roman Wolfe's Family Lot
The Pen
The market pen stank of hose water and yesterday's blood, the concrete stained dark with fluid nobody bothered to identify anymore, and under the sour-sweet rot the distant hiss of a forge heated branding irons for dawn's first lots. Bodies pressed flank-to-flank in the cold, cocks shriveled against thighs, collars biting necks, and the low animal sound of thirty men breathing in a space built for ten filled the darkness like something alive.
Greg stood with his back against the wall and Danny chained beside him. The resemblance was obvious even in the dimness: same broad brow ridge, same heavy jaw. But the father's face was weathered deep, creased from twenty years of squinting at outdoor blueprints, the nose broken in a bar fight in his twenties and never quite set right, three days of dark stubble roughening a chin that used to mean authority. The son's face was something else entirely: round boyish cheeks still shedding the last baby fat, sandy blond hair falling shaggy across green eyes, freckles scattered across the nose bridge, a face girls had once called cute. Here it was commodity, stamped with a lot number in white chalk across the smooth chest.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Danny broke first. "You fucking signed me away, Dad."
"Danny—"
"When I was fifteen. My name on a bank form like I was a fucking truck."
Greg's voice cracked low and ugly. "I was trying to save the company. Save us."
"Great job."
The chain between their wrists clinked against the wet concrete in the silence that followed. Somewhere deeper in the pen a young slave sobbed, the sound low and animal and ceaseless, the kind of noise that stopped being human after the second hour.
"I didn't think it would come to this," Greg said, quieter now, the words scraping out of a throat that hadn't had water since the hose-down. "The loan was standard. Collateral is just paperwork. Nobody actually—"
"Nobody actually what?" Danny's green eyes were flat and hard. "Somebody did, Dad. The judge read it out loud. Article forty-one, subsection something, I don't even remember, I was naked by then. Your signature. My body."
Greg's jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out along his neck. His hands worked restlessly behind the shackles, calloused and scarred and grimed at the nails, the hands that had built houses.
"I'm sorry, Danny."
No answer came. Danny stared at the opposite wall where an older slave pissed against the concrete with his cock hanging soft and careless, the stream steaming in the cold. The veteran had whip scars laddering his back and balls that hung low and loose, and he stood with the boneless ease of a man who had stopped counting the days long ago.
Danny sidled closer to the veteran later, when Greg's breathing had thickened toward exhausted sleep. "Hey. What happens to virgins?"
The veteran turned his head slow, eyes flat and empty as floor drains. "Virgins go to pleasure houses, kid. Your cherry's the price on your head. Lose it here and you're worth half, but whoever gets you whole will split you from your old man and sell your hole by the hour."
Danny's throat tightened until the collar bit the cartilage. Another slave, younger, maybe twenty-two with lean bruised ribs and a cock that hung limp and uncaring, chimed in from the floor. "At least you still got yours. Mine was gone the first night in the pen. Four of them." He said it the way someone says it rained yesterday, flat and done and finished.
Danny went back to Greg and sat beside him with the chain settling between their wrists.
Later, deep into the long cold hours when every body in the pen had found its knot of misery and curled around it, a warm weight pressed against Danny's back. A slave, big, breath hot on Danny's neck, and a hand traced his hip, his flank, then a cock, thick and half-hard and heavy with heat, nudged between his bare ass cheeks, the shaft sliding along the cleft until the head lodged itself right against his virgin ring. The stranger pushed, and Danny felt it: the first stretch, the ridge of the cockhead pressing inward against the tight clenched muscle, the heat of another man's pre-cum smearing the opening. His hole burned at the pressure, every fiber screaming to clench tighter, but the stranger was strong and the angle was right and for one terrible second Danny felt his ring begin to give.
He wrenched forward. The cock slid free with a wet sucking sound and the stranger grunted, rolled away, found another target in the dark.
Danny's heart slammed against his ribs. His cock stood rigid against his thigh, the circumcised glans flushed hot and leaking a thick bead of pre-cum that ran down the shaft.
Fuck. Fuck. Almost. He was almost in me. And I'm hard. Why am I hard. What the fuck is wrong with me.
He reached toward Greg's hand in the darkness and then stopped. One inch of air between their fingers and he could not close it.
"Don't let them split us up," he whispered.
Greg's answer came instant, hoarse, wide awake the entire time: "I won't."
The promise hung between them like a debt neither could pay.
The Inspection
Roman spotted them from twenty feet away by the matching genetic echo, the same broad jaw and the same heavy brow ridge, and the way the older stallion kept shifting his thick body between the buyers and the younger one, that protective lean that read like a neon sign to anyone who'd ever priced a family lot.
His gray eyes ran the calculation before his boots stopped moving. The old bull was a six-thousand-drahm field mule at best, foreman muscle losing its edge, a low-hanging working sack but an average cock that wouldn't excite the breeding crowd. The colt was different: eight-inch circumcised pole on a hundred-seventy-two-pound frame, the exposed glans catching overhead light with nowhere to hide, and a virgin hole confirmed in the lot paperwork. Blond, boyish, freckled, with the flat terrified eyes of a stud who hadn't been broken yet. Roman put his ceiling at forty-two, maybe forty-five thousand for the colt alone. As a family lot with the old bull providing the shame leverage, the premium could push eighty or higher if the colt cried at the right moment.
"These two. Present."
The overseers moved. They shoved both into formation: legs wide, hands behind heads, cocks forward, backs straight. Greg complied with the joyless mechanical obedience of a man who had been stripped and posed three times since the courtroom, his thick uncut cock hanging heavy between hairy thighs, the foreskin long and hooding the head, his balls dangling low and pendulous in their loose-skinned sack. Danny stiffened the moment his hands went behind his head and his chest opened to the cold air. He tried to close his thighs when Roman's gray eyes dropped to the eight-inch circumcised shaft standing half-hard and leaking between his legs.
"Don't—"
One word, and the overseers were on him. Two of them wrenched his arms high behind his back while a third kicked his legs apart so hard his knees buckled, and the sandy hair was yanked back to expose his throat. Danny's cock swayed between his forced-open thighs, the bare glans flushed dark red with every capillary visible, glistening with a fresh thread of pre-cum that stretched and swung in the light.
The instant Danny was grabbed, Greg broke pose. He dropped to his knees, calloused hands reaching through the shackles toward Roman, and the words came pouring out in a voice cracked with desperation:
"Sir, please, he's just a boy, buy us together, I'll work, any field, any chain, I'm strong, double loads, Sir, just keep him with me, he's my son, Sir—"
A crop cracked across his shoulders with a sound like a gunshot and Greg flinched but did not stop.
"I'll take whatever punishment, Sir, just don't separate us—"
This is my fault. All of it. I signed the paper. The boy is here because of me. If I'd been smarter, if I hadn't co-signed, if I hadn't put him up as collateral like a truck title. This is my punishment and I deserve every second of it, but he doesn't, he didn't sign anything, and if I have to kneel and beg on this concrete until my knees bleed to keep him beside me then that is exactly what I will do because I owe him that.
His cock started rising while he knelt. The thick shaft filled with blood that had nowhere else to go, adrenaline and the submission posture flooding the circuits, and the uncut foreskin peeled back from the swelling head until the glans poked out dark and flushed. Not desire. Something older, more animal, a body responding to the act of surrender without consulting the mind.
Roman glanced down and observed the erection with the clinical interest of a man watching a reflex arc complete itself. The old bull was hard on his knees within thirty seconds of begging. Predictable. Useful.
"Look at that, papa. Your cock knows what your mouth won't say. On your knees with it standing and begging for your colt." He crouched to Greg's level, close enough for the slave to smell his cologne and leather watchband. "That's not a father anymore. That's a stallion who's found his stall."
Greg looked down and saw himself: hard, kneeling, hands reaching, tears building behind eyes that hadn't cried since his daughter was born. The picture completed itself in his head and could never be uncompleted.
Roman held the crouched position, voice dropping lower, warmer, the practiced false tenderness that had broken better men than this on softer surfaces than concrete:
"You're a lucky man, papa. You know that? Most fathers spend their whole lives worrying: will my boy eat, will he find work, will he end up in a gutter? You don't have that problem anymore. Your colt is already enslaved. His future is fixed. Predictable. Someone will feed him, house him, work him, and all he has to do is obey. Same for you. No more debts, no more court dates, no more lying awake running numbers you can't make work. Both your lives are settled now. Simple. Clean."
He laid a hand on Greg's bare shoulder, the touch warm and steady, and felt the exact moment the old bull's body gave up a fraction of its tension.
"Relax, papa. Surrender. It's already done."
The horror was not the words. The horror was that something deep inside Greg's chest unclenched at the sound of them, a knot of twenty years of grinding that loosened just slightly because a stranger's calm voice had given him permission to stop fighting. The relief was involuntary and animal and it disgusted him even as his shoulders sagged and his ragged breathing slowed.
Danny watched his father's body relax under those words and the resentment that had been burning since the courtroom flared white-hot behind his ribs.
He's buying it. The man who signed me away like a fucking truck is kneeling with a hard-on buying the lie that selling me was a mercy. Relaxing. While I'm standing here with two goons holding my arms and my cock leaking for strangers.
Roman straightened. "On your feet, papa. Inspection."
Greg rose on shaking legs and locked into the pose without being told: legs wide, hands behind head, back straight. The obedience was faster than thought.
Roman turned his attention to the old bull's body first. He kneaded the hairy chest with both hands, fingers digging through the dark fur until they found the nipples and pinched hard enough to make the flesh pucker and swell. Greg's chest muscles locked tight and the nipples beaded stiff under the rough grip, the areolas crinkling into hard knots while his stomach cramped visibly. Roman yanked the sack down and weighed the balls in his palm, rolling them slowly, feeling the sweat-slick skin slide over the heavy contents, warm and loose and pendulous with age. He probed the hole with a dry finger and Greg gasped as the ring clenched then yielded, muscles working around the knuckle with a faint wet sound.
"Old meat. Functional. Hole's been opened before, loose enough for field service. Six thousand drahm. Maybe seven with the sack."
Six thousand. The number landed in Greg's gut like a fist. He had built houses with those hands, managed crews of thirty, woken at five every morning for twenty years, carried the weight of a family and a company on those barrel-chested shoulders. And the system that owned him now said all of it was worth a used pickup truck, a number lower than his monthly mortgage used to be.
Maybe I deserve this. Maybe this is the price. Not the six thousand, the humiliation. His finger in my hole. My cock hard on my knees. I signed the paper and this is what the paper buys: me on the ground, worth less than a used car, and Danny standing there watching me prove it.
Roman moved to the colt. The overseers still held Danny's arms high and his legs spread, the lean muscled body stretched taut and fully exposed. Roman wrapped his hand around the circumcised cock and the exposed glans had nowhere to hide, no foreskin hood to retreat behind; it flushed a deep angry shameful red under his fingers and a thick bead of pre-cum oozed from the slit. He stroked slowly, his grip deliberate and unhurried, and the shaft filled despite every ounce of Danny's fury, blood surging through the veins until they stood out along the skin, eight inches of rigid leaking heat trembling in Roman's fist while tears burned behind the boy's eyes and refused to fall.
Roman checked the hole: one finger, lubed from a bottle on his belt, sliding past the virgin ring. The muscle clenched around his knuckle like a terrified fist and Roman twisted once, probing the depth, feeling the smooth untouched walls grip and release in involuntary spasms.
"Never been opened. Virgin walls, tight ring, clean tissue."
He pulled the finger out and brought it to his nose. Sniffed once, clinical and unhurried, the gesture of a man checking produce at a market stall.
"Clean. Unused."
Danny bucked against the overseers so hard the chains rang. "Don't fucking smell me—"
They wrenched him back and Roman observed the rebellion with quiet interest, filing it away. The colt had fire. Fire was useful in the right hands. Fire meant the breaking would be visible, dramatic, and entertaining.
He turned to Greg, still kneeling with his cock still hard, and dropped the numbers like an axe:
"You know what this cherry's worth, papa? More than your whole body. Your colt's untouched hole costs forty-two thousand drahm. You cost six. He's seven times the man you are by the only number that matters in this place."
Both prices landed at the same time and Greg processed what every buyer within earshot already knew: his son was seven times his value and his only remaining function was as emotional packaging around a product worth more than he would ever be again.
Seven times. My boy's virgin ass is worth seven of me. Seven of everything I built. Seven of twenty years. He's the cargo and I'm the bubble wrap.
Danny heard the numbers too.
Forty-two thousand for my hole. Six thousand for his entire fucking body. He signed me away as collateral and he's not even worth what I am. He pledged something worth forty-two thousand for a six-thousand-drahm life.
Danny's eyes snagged on a girl in the neighboring pen, his age or close to it, dark hair spilling across bare shoulders, tits pushed up by the inspection pose with nipples peaked hard in the cold air. His cock twitched and leaked a fresh bead of pre-cum down the shaft.
Normal. Straight-boy thing. Dates, parked cars, her hand in my lap… fuck.
The realization slammed through his gut like a fist: the same twitch had fired when his father's calloused fingers closed around his shaft in the pen, the same leak when Roman's clinical grip had stroked him to full hardness seconds ago.
Same twitch. Same leak. Cock can't tell the difference… a pretty girl or my old man's fist or some buyer's grip… all the same now… fuck, all the same…
"Show me the family resemblance." Roman's voice cut through the fog. "Father, jerk the colt's cock. Both hands. If the shaft goes soft under your grip, the overseers spread the boy on the frame and I probe the cherry myself."
Greg's right hand, the hand that had taught Danny to hold a hammer, to frame a wall, to drive a nail straight, closed around his son's rigid shaft. The tactile contrast told the whole story in a single grip: rough scarred palm on smooth young skin, calloused fingers wrapping the thick veins, the circumcised glans flushing darker under his calloused thumb. The shaft throbbed in his fist, a traitorous pulse beating against the creases of his workman's grip, and pre-cum strung out over his knuckles in warm slick threads that ran into the lifeline of his palm.
Danny's entire body went rigid, every muscle locking from jaw to ankles. His eyes found his father's face and what he saw there, the shame and the determination and the guilt, was the exact expression Greg had worn the day he signed the bank papers, the expression of a man doing something terrible for the family.
His hand on my cock is the same as his signature on that contract. Same hands. Same excuse. "For us." Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you and your calloused fingers and your sorry.
But his cock didn't care about the metaphor. It throbbed harder under his father's working grip, the exposed glans darkening to bruised crimson, the frenulum pulling agonizingly taut, pre-cum oozing in a steady stream that soaked Greg's knuckles.
In the front row a buyer adjusted the bulge in his pants, shifting his weight with a flush creeping up his neck. Danny's eyes met the buyer's for one second and the recognition hit: his body was causing arousal in a stranger, and that arousal had a drahm value, and his cock jerked in his father's fist in response to the knowledge like a trained animal performing its only trick.
Roman nodded to the auctioneer. "Premium lot. Run them hot. The colt's a project: virgin, circumcised, every reaction visible from the back rows. Call me when the bidding stalls and I'll jump."
He walked away already running the epilogue in his head. The old bull was interesting not for his body but for how fast the colt's spite was metabolizing into adaptation. Most fresh slaves took weeks to start processing their degradation into something tolerable. This one was already running calculations while his father's hand pumped his cock, already converting rage into currency. Roman had seen it before: the fastest-breaking slaves were always the ones with the most to resent, because resentment needed an outlet and the system offered exactly one.
The Block
They were led to the stage unshackled, wrists free for display, and positioned side by side under the overhead lights.
Feliks Brandt had been running slave auctions for eleven years and his body showed it: a lean, tanned man in his fifties with a shaved head and a voice that could fill a hall without a mic, though he wore one anyway because the mic caught the slaves' breathing and fed it to the back rows. He dressed like a cattleman — pressed shirt, dark jeans, boots polished to a shine that reflected the stage lights — and he moved like one too, circling the merchandise with the loose-hipped ease of a man who had handled ten thousand cocks and holes and knew exactly which angle made the crowd lean forward. His commission was twelve percent, and he earned every drahm of it by reading two things simultaneously: the animal on the block and the wallets in the seats. A good auctioneer sold meat. Feliks sold shame.
He ran his eye over the lot board and adjusted his collar mic. Lot Forty-Seven. Father and son, debt-sentenced, ages 40 and 19. The morning's residue was still visible on both animals: a crop welt across the old one's shoulders, dried pre-cum on his calloused knuckles, and the young stud's cock still at half-mast with the circumcised head an angry pink.
Father-son debt lot. Standard family play. The old bull's a sympathy prop, strong jaw, low-hanging sack, good for pathos. The colt's the money: virgin, hung, circumcised so every leak shows from the back rows. Open at forty-five for the pair, let it climb in five-thousand jumps. Hold the mutual inspection until the bidding stalls past sixty, that's the recharge trigger. Save the hole display for the second plateau. The cum shot, if it happens, is my closer.
"Lot Forty-Seven! Father and son, debt-sentenced. Combined weight four hundred and two pounds, two cocks, two holes, one bloodline. Opening at forty-five thousand drahm. Inspection confirmed: the stallion is a certified virgin."
Side by side in Present, the two slaves breathed in different rhythms. Greg's barrel chest was hairy and slicked with cold sweat, the thick uncut cock hanging heavy between thick thighs, his foreman's sack dangling low and loose. Danny stood a generation leaner beside him: smooth chest, sharp collarbones, the eight-inch circumcised shaft at half-mast with the naked glans catching the overhead stage lights, and the pre-cum trail that had started as a bead at Roman's inspection was now a slow steady drip, forming a glistening thread from the slit that swung with every breath and caught the light.
Three buyers in the front row leaned forward when the thread swung.
Feliks clocked the pre-cum's progress from his peripheral vision and filed it. That thread was money. He could pace the bidding by it.
"Both slaves, all fours, spread for the audience. The one who clenches gets ten to the sack before the bidding starts."
Greg dropped to hands and knees with the mechanical obedience of a man whose body had learned faster than his mind. He reached back and spread his own cheeks, and the hole between them was dark and used and responsive but unremarkable, a mule's ass with no story left to tell.
Danny dropped beside him and something cracked inside the boy's chest like a plate shifting under pressure. The accumulated rage found a channel. Instead of complying with the minimal, functional compliance his father had managed, Danny performed. He dropped to all fours and arched his back deep and deliberate, the kind of arch that pushed his smooth young ass up and out, and he spread his cheeks wide with both hands until the pink virgin hole clenched under the lights. Then he rocked his hips, slow and deliberate, a whore's motion, a fuck-me invitation aimed at three hundred strangers and one father on all fours beside him.
You signed me away? Fine. Watch me BE what you made me. Watch it, Dad. Watch your collateral perform.
The crowd responded with whistles and murmurs and the sound of paddles shifting in laps. But the real detonation was inside Danny, silent and irreversible. He had expected horror and found instead a wall crumbling. His body was on display, voluntarily, and he was still himself. Still Danny. Still angry, still alive, still capable of spite. Which meant that if showing his virgin hole to three hundred strangers while his father knelt beside him hadn't destroyed him, then nothing in this building could.
I'm still me. Still fucking me. The collar doesn't change that. The block doesn't. Their eyes don't. I can go further. I can go further and still come back.
Greg, on all fours beside his son, watched Danny perform and a new horror crawled up his spine: his boy was not just surviving. He was adapting, metabolizing the shame into something that looked almost like choice, and Greg couldn't tell whether that was strength or the beginning of a destruction worse than any whip could deliver.
"Father, spread your son's hole for the buyers. Let them see the virgin goods you bred."
Greg's calloused hands gripped Danny's smooth glutes and he felt the muscle clench under his palms. He pulled apart, shaking, the rough fingers sinking into smooth young skin, and Danny's pink virgin pucker clenched once under the lights and then, in another act of calculated spite, relaxed deliberately, opening, the ring slackening until the audience could see the depth and color and the untouched pink walls within. The crowd gasped in a collective intake of breath and someone in the third row whistled long and low.
"Son, weigh your father's sack for the gentlemen."
Danny's hand cupped Greg's heavy loose balls and the scrotum squelched wetly under his smooth young fingers, the balls swinging separately inside their thin skin, thick and pendulous and warm with the heat of a body that had stopped caring about dignity. He lifted and displayed and Feliks called the estimate aloud: "Heavy low-hanging working sack, a bull's equipment, eight ounces easy."
Sixty-two. Climbing. The madam's paddle twitched at sixty-five. This is working.
"Now jerk each other. Simultaneously. Face to face. I want the buyers to see both cocks working and both faces breaking at the same time."
The auction hall went silent. Three hundred people held their breath and the only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the faint wet drip of Danny's pre-cum hitting the wooden block.
Father and son turned to face each other. They were close enough that Greg could smell his son's sweat and Danny could see the individual hairs on his father's chest. Greg's right hand closed around Danny's circumcised shaft, and the exposed glans reddened under each stroke, every capillary flush visible from the back rows, the thick vein pattern bulging along the shaft as the foreskin-less cock had nowhere to retreat. Danny's left hand gripped his father's thick uncut shaft, and the foreskin slid back and forth with each pull, covering then revealing the swollen dark head, a curtain the father possessed that the son had never had.
The sound filled the silent hall. Skin on skin, the wet fapping rhythm of the mutual grip, calloused palm on smooth young shaft and smooth young palm on thick veined meat, the sound echoing off the auction hall's concrete walls with an obscenity that no word could have matched. Three hundred people listened to a father's working hand on his son's cock.
Feliks thinking, watching the room: "Sixty-eight. Seventy. The pre-cum on the colt's shaft is catching the light. The old bull's foreskin makes a wet sound every time it pulls back. Two more paddles just shifted. Hold the edge. Time the denial."
"Bring the colt close. Then stop."
Greg's hand sped on Danny's shaft, the calloused fingers tightening, the thumb pressing the swollen vein under the glans, and he felt his son's approaching orgasm under his palm in a way that no father should ever know: the shaft thickening, the balls climbing tight against the smooth abdomen, the frenulum pulling taut enough to vibrate, and a heat surge rolling through the cock that made the pre-cum pour in a sudden gush over his knuckles. He knew the rhythm now, this intimate horrifying knowledge, the exact pre-spasm tightening, the specific thickening that meant now, right now, one more stroke. Information a father's hand was never meant to possess.
He stopped. Danny's cock darkened to a bruised purple that looked almost black under the stage lights, the shaft rigid and pulsing, the denied orgasm locking his entire body in a spasm: thighs shaking with fine helpless tremors, stomach cramped into a knot hard enough to see from the fifth row, back arching into a taut bow that pushed his denied cock forward like an offering, his balls aching with a fullness that bordered on real pain.
Fuck… fuck… so close… his hand, Dad's hand, almost made me… on the block… in front of everyone… why did it feel… fuck…
"Again."
Greg's hand resumed and each stroke was a small atrocity he committed willingly, his calloused palm dragging the shame up and down his son's shaft until the cock jerked wildly, the slit weeping, the exposed glans flushed so dark it looked bruised from a beating. He stopped again and Danny's strangled moan echoed off the concrete, a sound that was not quite pain and not quite pleasure and not quite human, and his cock stood rigid in his father's motionless fist, pulsing with each heartbeat against the calloused fingers that would not move.
Greg's own body betrayed him while his hand held still. Danny's smooth young fingers on his shaft had been working a rhythm of their own, and the sensation of his son's soft grip combined with the horror of the moment and the adrenaline flooding his body triggered something deep and animal that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with a nervous system pushed past its capacity to distinguish between stimulation and catastrophe.
The orgasm ambushed him. It started in his thighs as a tremor that became a quake, climbed through his belly as a cramp that bent him forward, and detonated from his cock in thick ropes that hit Danny's wrist and forearm with an audible wet splatter. His jaw dropped and a grown man's strangled moan tore out of his throat, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body locking then releasing in waves while his balls crushed together and his hips jerked helplessly into his son's still-gripping hand. The orgasm kept going, three, four, five pulses, each one wringing another rope of thick white cum from his convulsing shaft onto his son's smooth skin.
Greg opened his eyes and saw his own semen on Danny's arm. The thick white streaks running down the smooth young forearm, pooling in the crease of the elbow, one rope sliding slow down the wrist toward the fingers that still held his softening cock. The sight branded itself into his brain. His cum, his seed, the same fluid that had made this boy nineteen years ago, now splattered across that boy's body on a slave auction block while three hundred people watched the old bull finish.
His cock wilted instantly, pitiful and spent, the last rope dripping from the softening head, the foreskin sagging closed over the emptied glans. He smelled himself, the concentrated male musk of his own ejaculation, and the shame burned so hot his cheeks went dark red and his stomach clenched in a hollow spasm that nearly doubled him over.
Danny's reaction was pure revulsion. His father's cum sat warm and thick on his skin, the smell of it sharp and concentrated, the exact biological scent of the man who had made him, and his own cock still stood rigid and denied and aching in his father's now-motionless fist, eight inches of furious purple meat towering over his father's wilted, weeping, pitiful shaft. The generational transfer was visible to every buyer in the hall: the father's virility spent and dripping, the son's locked and loaded and denied.
A thick white rope slid off Danny's forearm and fell to the wooden block with a wet splat. Feliks pointed.
"Lick it."
Danny's head snapped up.
"Lick your father's cum off the block, colt. Buyers need to see how the mouth works."
Danny dropped to all fours and lowered his face to the warm white puddle on the wood. His tongue touched the rough plank surface and he tasted his father's seed, salty, thick, warm, and the biological recognition hit him in the gut, the same DNA that had made him now dissolving on his tongue. He lapped it up with two strokes and rose with his chin glistening.
His cum. On my tongue. Same stuff that made me. Now I'm eating it off a floor. Thanks, Dad. Thanks for the fucking collateral.
Feliks let the image hold for three seconds: the old bull spent and wilted, the young stallion denied and raging, the cum drying on the boy's chin. Then his open palm connected with Danny's rigid cock in a sharp professional slap, the kind of flat-handed strike a stockman uses to correct an animal. The shaft jerked sideways, snapped back rigid, pre-cum flinging in a shining arc, and Danny's gasp cut the silence like a blade.
Feliks reading the room: "The old bull broke on command. The colt is denied, angry, and just ate his father's cum off the floor. Every paddle in the house is awake. Push for the jump."
"Seventy thousand! Do I hear seventy-five?"
Roman's paddle went up at seventy-two, a jump bid that made the hall recalculate.
Pleasure-house madam at seventy-six. Roman at eighty. Madam at eighty-four. Roman's paddle rose again at eighty-six, cold and decisive, up before the echo of the last bid had faded from the concrete walls.
The madam hesitated. She ran her own numbers and let her paddle drop.
Hammer fell. Eighty-six thousand drahm.
"Sold! Lot Forty-Seven to the gentleman in the fourth row. Roman Wolfe, premium lot."
Roman's observations, filed away while he signed the paperwork: the colt's sheer speed of adaptation was remarkable. Most fresh meat took weeks to start metabolizing degradation into something functional, but this one had weaponized his spite within hours, converting rage into performance on the block with a fluency that suggested the breaking would be fast and the product exceptional. The old bull was disposable but temporarily useful as a psychological lever; the colt's hatred of his father was a tool Roman could exploit for months before the dynamic exhausted itself. The family premium had been worth every drahm.
The Trailer
They chained the wrists to the waist and loaded both into Roman's livestock trailer. Steel floor, no windows, a single bare bulb that flickered with the engine's idle. The door slammed shut and the darkness swallowed everything except the sound of chains settling against metal.
The truck engine coughed to life and the vibration ran through the floor and up through their knees and into their spines.
"Dad?"
"I'm here."
Silence. The truck turned and Danny's shoulder bumped Greg's in the dark.
"I almost lost it," Danny said. "Last night, in the pen. A guy pressed up behind me. I felt him. Right there. He pushed in, almost past the ring."
"Did you let him?"
"No."
Long silence. Chain links ticking over a pothole.
"Good." Greg's voice was flat, emptied, the voice of a man whose last reserves had drained onto a block floor twenty minutes ago. "Your hole is the only reason we're in the same truck right now."
Danny processed that. His virginity, his body's most intimate boundary, the thing he'd been born with and never thought about until three days ago, had been the key variable in an equation that determined whether he slept chained beside his father or chained in a stranger's pleasure house six hundred miles away.
Greg reached across in the dark and his calloused fingers found Danny's smooth ones. Danny didn't pull away this time, and he didn't squeeze back either, and they rode like that with the chains rattling between them and the highway humming under the wheels.
Something like peace settled over them because peace was what exhaustion felt like when you'd run out of everything else. The chains found their resting positions and Greg's breathing finally slowed and Danny's rigid shoulders dropped an inch from where they'd been locked since dawn. Together. Saved. The worst was over and from here it could only get better.
It wasn't. It couldn't. It never does.
Six Months Later
At Roman's ranch the pair dynamic delivered exactly as calculated, but not in the way Roman had predicted.
Danny discovered his weapon during the first father-and-son show.
Roman had ordered it for a dinner with two other ranchers: Greg fucks Danny on the parlor floor, standard family-lot entertainment. Greg entered his son from behind with his jaw clenched shut and his eyes fixed on the wall, and the thick uncut cock split Danny's virgin ring with a burn that whited out his vision and cramped his gut into a knot so tight he couldn't breathe. The pain was enormous, immediate, a tearing fullness that pushed through his guts and pressed against organs he didn't have names for. But through the tears that streamed down his cheeks Danny looked back over his shoulder and found his father's face, and what he saw there was not grief or apology. It was rage. Pure, helpless fury directed not at Danny and not at Roman but at Greg's own cock for being hard enough to do this, at his own hips for thrusting, at his own balls for tightening with the unmistakable approach of an orgasm he didn't want inside his own son.
He hates this. He hates every second of this. Good.
Danny clenched. Deliberately. He squeezed his anal walls around his father's shaft the way you'd squeeze a fist, the tight ring gripping the thick veined meat, the inner muscles milking the cock in rhythmic pulses that he learned on the spot, teaching his own guts a new vocabulary of spite. He felt Greg's rhythm stutter above him, felt the old man's hips jerk out of sync at the unexpected pressure, and he heard the strangled groan that escaped Greg's locked jaw.
There it is. That sound. I can make him make that sound whenever I want.
The echo of the auction block surged through him like an electric charge: the same discovery, the same wall breaking. On the block he had shown his hole to three hundred strangers and survived intact. Now his father's cock was inside him and he was still Danny, still furious, still himself. And if his father's cock in his hole wasn't enough to destroy him, then he could use it.
He arched his back deeper than the cock required and moaned louder than the pain warranted, and he locked eyes with Greg across the shared sweat and whispered harder, daddy with a smile that cut bone. Not because he liked being fucked. Because every thrust, every gasp, every clenching pulse of his trained hole was a knife in his father's gut. Because every enthusiastic moan said the same thing: you signed me away? Watch me love it. Watch me milk your cock with the hole you sold to a bank. Choke on it, you six-thousand-drahm piece of shit.
The resentment shaped him into a technically perfect whore over the weeks that followed. He learned what his anal walls could do: clench and release in waves that milked a cock from root to head, squeeze the shaft at the base while relaxing the deeper muscles to pull the cum out in long shuddering pulses, tighten the ring on the outstroke to make the re-entry burn and grip and drag a groan from any man who entered him. But the hole was only the beginning. Danny surrendered his entire body to the project because the project was revenge and revenge demanded total commitment. He kissed Greg first, during their third show, pressed his mouth against his father's lips mid-thrust while the dinner guests watched, and when Greg froze in shock Danny pushed his tongue inside and held the kiss until the old man's cock pulsed involuntarily inside him. He learned to work Greg's nipples, pinching the stiff buds through the dark chest hair until the thick shaft jerked and thickened, learned to cup and stroke the heavy hanging scrotum with a rolling pressure that made the old bull's breath catch and his hips stutter, learned to read every twitch and gasp and groan the way a craftsman reads grain in wood. Greg's body became Danny's textbook: every reaction catalogued, every trigger mapped, every vulnerability filed away for use on the next guest, the next show, the next stranger who paid Roman for an hour with the colt who could milk a cock with his trained hole while kissing you with a smile. He practiced on Greg and perfected on strangers, and each improvement produced a more agonized expression on his father's face, and that expression was the only currency Danny valued. Roman noticed. Guests noticed. Danny's entertainment value climbed and he started requesting sessions, volunteering for shows, asking for harder scenarios. The wall that had broken on the auction block kept breaking with each voluntary step forward, each performed enthusiasm more convincing than the last, until the performance and the reality blurred and Danny couldn't tell which parts of the moaning were spite and which parts were him.
Greg meanwhile deteriorated. The shows destroyed him from inside, not the sex itself but Danny's enthusiasm. His son's moans sounded real. His son's cock stayed hard without chemical help. His son smiled on a cock and clenched his trained hole with a milking rhythm that no boy should know, and the smile was worse than any whip because it meant either his boy had broken completely or his boy had found a way to enjoy his own degradation, and Greg couldn't determine which interpretation was more unbearable. He stopped eating properly. His field output dropped three weeks running. His body followed his spirit downward: the foreman muscle softened, the deep-set eyes dulled, the low-hanging balls that had once made buyers whistle now sagged on a man who had stopped caring whether the next breath came or not.
Roman pulled the old bull from the field line at the end of the third month for a yield review. He had Greg stripped and chained to the correction post in the yard, arms overhead, back exposed. Then he called the colt to the porch.
Danny stood barefoot beside Roman's chair, naked except for the steel collar, and Roman's hand rested on the small of his back like a rancher steadying a horse. The overseer laid fifteen medium strikes across Greg's broad weathered back, each one opening a red welt that bled at the peak and drew a grunt from the old bull's locked jaw.
Roman's hand moved up Danny's spine, slow and warm, fingers tracing the sharp collarbones before cupping the back of his neck. He stroked Danny's sandy hair the way you'd pet a dog, and the false tenderness was worse than any chain because it felt like something Danny hadn't had in six months: a touch that wasn't a transaction.
"Watch him, colt. Watch how slow the welts close on the old one." Roman's thumb traced Danny's cheekbone, wiping a bead of sweat. "His back used to take a flogging and heal in three days. Now look. The body's giving up. The meat doesn't repair itself when the spirit's already gone."
The crop fell again and Greg's sack swung between his spread legs with the impact, the heavy balls pendulous and loose, and a grunt escaped his locked jaw.
Roman pulled Danny closer, the boy's bare hip against the arm of the chair, and pressed his palm flat against Danny's smooth chest.
"You feel that? Your heart's pounding. Your cock's hard." His hand slid down Danny's stomach and stopped just above the rigid circumcised shaft. "You're watching your father bleed and your body's ready to perform. That's not spite anymore, colt. That's who you are now. The block showed you, the shows taught you, and your father's back is finishing the lesson. You're not pretending to be a whore to punish him. You are one. The sooner you stop pretending there's a difference, the easier everything gets."
He patted Danny's cheek twice, light, paternal, the exact gesture a father would use.
"Good colt. Go eat."
Danny's cock was hard. Not performed, not spite. Genuinely, physiologically, unmistakably hard, the circumcised glans flushed dark and leaking a steady thread of pre-cum down the shaft while his father's blood ran in slow red lines down the scarred back ten feet away.
Fuck. I'm hard. He's being whipped and I'm hard and the Owner is petting me like a dog and it felt good. What is this. What am I.
But the horror was thin, a film on the surface, and underneath it ran something deeper and more honest: the recognition that on the auction block he had gotten hard from his father's hand, and during the shows he had gotten hard from his father's cock, and now he was hard from his father's pain while the Owner stroked his hair, and the progression was complete. His cock had followed a straight line from stimulus to stimulus and each one was further from anything Danny had been six months ago and closer to whatever he was becoming.
Roman watched the colt walk to the barracks with that erection swaying between his lean thighs and filed his observations. The old bull's back was healing slower than it should, the welts staying open longer, the body not recovering the way a six-thousand-drahm field mule needed to. The colt meanwhile was performing better than ever, his trained hole pulling cum from guest after guest with a milking technique that was becoming the ranch's signature entertainment. And the colt's hard cock during the correction told Roman everything he needed to know: the father-son dynamic had served its purpose. The colt no longer needed the old bull to perform. He needed him to hurt. And that need had a shelf life. The math was simple now.
Decision: Greg transferred to a mine operation in the north. Sale price: 3,800 drahm. Expected productive lifespan: three to four years.
Danny watched the truck leave from the barracks window. His father's buzz-cut head was visible through the trailer slats for eleven seconds before the road curved and the dust erased it.
Danny's cock was hard. He didn't know why.
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