Pups Slurping Shame from Bowls
Cold dawn light seeped through the narrow roof slits of the barracks—no bulbs, just gray gloom that stripped their bare bodies even more defenseless, every muscle, every twitch visible like meat on a hook.
Iron Keeper burst in with a roar that rattled the cage iron.
“Up, you trash!”
Cody and Jax jolted upright together, still half-lost in the fog of sleep and disbelief. Hearts hammered in their throats. Muscles ached from the hard plank after their first night in the estate. Now they belonged to someone—really belonged.
Automatically, like their bodies had already memorized yesterday’s market and drills, both snapped to Present: hands locked behind heads, chests bared, guts sucked in, cocks and balls thrust forward into the stranger’s stare.
Iron Keeper halted mid-stride. Raked his chem-washed eyes over their tensed meat—slow, deliberate, like appraising stock before the hammer fell.
“Not bad reflexes for fresh meat.”
He snorted, voice low and soaked in weary cruelty.
“Master didn’t pick you for nothing.”
He paced the length of the cages, short whip swaying lightly in his grip, leather whispering against his thigh.
“Rules, pups. Listen hard, because I only say once. No touching your cocks. That’s Master’s property, not yours. Hand on dick—whip cracks your balls bloody. Eyes lock on the floor only. No talking between you. Mouths open on command: for ‘yes, Sir,’ for chow, or for cock. Obey and you live. Fuck up—whips and punishment. Got it?”
The slaves gaped in stunned silence.
Cody stared at the floorboards, humiliation stabbing deep into his ribs like a bayonet. Jax breathed in ragged bursts, skinny chest heaving.
Iron Keeper didn’t wait.
Whistle.
The whip kissed Jax’s outer thigh—light, but dead-on. Skin blazed red in an instant stripe. Muscle cramped in vicious spasm. Jax whimpered, knees buckling, heavy twenty-four-centimeter cock swinging wild between trembling thighs, balls mashed together. The burn spread in hot waves up his leg, into his chest.
“I asked a question, slaves! Answer!”
Jax quivered, lips twitching around the shame.
“Yes… Sir…” he rasped, voice cracking like thin ice.
Iron Keeper shifted his gaze to Cody. The soldier didn’t stay mute.
“Yes, Sir!” Eyes glued to the floor, breath hitched, shoulders locked tight.
“Good. Burn that feel into your brain. Next time—answer instant. Disrespect counts as fuck-up. Fuck-up means pain.”
Rusty bowls squatted by each cage door. Iron Keeper sloshed thick, warm slop into them—sour stink of waste-grain and yesterday’s scraps hit like a fist.
“Eat. No hands. Snout in bowl like the livestock you are. Five minutes. Get used to your spot in this world. Clock starts now!”
Light whistle—the whip slashed air dead over Cody’s back. Tip grazed an inch from skin, but the hiss and breeze slammed nerves like real leather. Cody jerked full-body, gut cramped sharp, heavy sack twitched. He dove for the bowl faster than thought—lips smacked sticky sludge right off the metal.
Fuck… like field rations no-hands on the parade ground… follow sergeant’s order… I’ll hold… discipline saves me…
Slop tasted bland, warm, gluey—half-chewed mash and something faintly rancid. First swallow balled in his throat, but he forced it down. Then another. Moves turned mechanical: dip—gulp—dip. Shame scorched cheeks and neck, but hunger and fear drove him. He quit thinking. Just ate.
Jax sank slower. Nose damn near plunged into the slop. He sucked the heavy reek, chest stabbed—not just hunger, but the raw hit of how low he squatted now. Lips touched surface. He gulped—slop slurped thick and vile across his tongue. Swallowed. Then faster again. Each swallow punched deeper inside, like every gulp shrank him smaller, dumber, lower. He shoveled greedy, almost savage, like he craved ending the shame quick. Chin and cheeks smeared thick streaks. He kept gulping, feeling something inside crack quiet, unseen, forever.
Snout-eating like a fucking animal… they degrade me, whip harder, I’ll break faster… no more pain… no more fear…
Iron Keeper prowled between the cages, tapping the whip on bars like a metronome.
“Faster, pups. Faster. Your only chow today. You bring no use to Master yet—no point wasting on useless trash.”
By the five-minute mark both shoveled sure: moves rhythmic, gulps deeper, snouts buried without hesitation. But eyes stayed wild, terrified—like critters just grasping the cage was locked eternal.
Cody peeled away from his bowl last. Slop smeared his face in sticky streaks. He didn’t wipe—knew he couldn’t. Just knelt heavy-breathing, feeling shit inside shift slow but sure.
Settling into floor-feeding ritual like army drill… nail it perfect… discipline shields me…
Iron Keeper cracked the whip in the air—sharp, final.
“Time’s up. Snouts up! Master hates slowpokes.”
Post-feeding pups knelt before empty bowls, heaving breaths wet with spit and shame. Iron Keeper paced past, whip thumping cage bars behind them—each smack echoed in their chests like a day-just-started warning. He let them catch breath a second.
“Up, trash!” he barked. “Sanitation scrub. Clean slave means healthy slave, and you reek like filthy pups off the trough.”
Whip snapped air—short whistle jerked Cody and Jax upright.
“On feet! Out. Hustle, or whip reminds you.”
Cody rose first, muscles screaming from yesterday’s poses. He stepped from the cage, twitchy eyes snatching surroundings, but floor-stare ruled. Jax trailed, skinny frame shook, heavy cock swaying thigh-per-step. They followed Iron Keeper—through the door, out into the open yard, under the shower awning.
Morning chill air slapped naked skin like a wet rag. Nipples hardened instant. Sacks shriveled tight against the cold.
Hose-Raped Holes
Under the thick dark planks of the awning dangled heavy industrial hoses on rusted metal reels. A wooden shelf held plastic dispensers of biting clear liquid—cheap soap that reeked of chemical burn. The concrete floor gleamed slick and cold from endless previous rinses.
Iron Keeper snatched the nearest hose, cranked the valve wide—ice blast surged out, hammered Cody’s legs first. Skin scorched white-hot from the cold, gut muscles cramped in violent spasm. The slave flinched hard, sack balled tight against his body.
“Now wash each other. No touching your own cocks—those are Master’s goods. You’re beasts. Clean each other’s shafts!”
Cody and Jax froze, shivering under the chill draft. Then fingers gripped cold rubber hoses, valves twisted in shaky sync.
Water smashed with ice-force. Cody hissed through clenched teeth—jet lashed chest, gut, thighs, sack squealed under the assault, balls crushed tight to the root. Jax arched bow-like—stream hit his face, streamed down neck, horse-cock swung heavy, shrank instantly, legs quaked in fine, helpless tremble.
Iron Keeper grinned, waving the streams like a conductor’s baton, stabbing one then the other.
“Armpits, Army Boy! Deeper!” Water rammed Cody’s pit, forcing his elbow higher, pits gleaming wet-shine.
“And you, long-dick stud—quit cradling those balls! Want me washing them?” Needle-jet pierced Jax’s crotch, sack slurped inward, heavy balls cramped in spasm, legs spread wider on instinct.
Overseer growled low, pleased.
“Soap heavy. Master craves clean meat.”
Water whipped across skin. Breath steamed in thick clouds. Bodies gleamed slick, shaking.
Cody hunched under the jets, skin goosebumped raw. Eyes locked—Jax’s legs quaked, Cody’s cheeks blazed crimson to the roots. Stranger’s naked meat, cock and balls exposed—heat stabbed deep into the gut.
“Move it, Army Boy!” Whip cracked near Cody’s ear, air whistled. “Jerk his horse-cock! Work that head, or your balls taste leather!”
Cody swallowed hard. Palm gripped Jax’s shaft—heavy, throbbed under the freezing water. Fingers soaped the length, peeled foreskin back, purple head popped free. Fist pumped up-down, thumb mashed frenulum—shaft swelled hot despite the cold. Jax bucked, knees wobbled, low-hangers squealed at the touch, nips swelled into hard peaks, body betrayed with a full quake.
Cody’s gut cramped in spasm.
Fuck… his horse-cock thickens in my fist… rub that head… balls warm up under my hand… why does my gut spasm like this?
Jax’s sack answered the squeeze, drawing tighter.
Cock warms under his fingers… breaks me faster? Why do my legs fail?
Iron Keeper bellowed:
“Doggy, dick-heavy pup! Army Boy—ram that hose deep in this bull’s hole!”
Slave dropped to all fours, body bowed in arc, legs quaked, sack swung low. Cody spread Jax’s lean cheeks—pink pucker clenched in spasm, virgin-tight ring pulsed. Hose nosed the ring, pressed, water spurted inward. Cody twisted harder—blast rushed in, gut-walls slurped greedy, Jax’s belly bloated visibly. Cody gripped thighs with one hand, locked the hose firm with the other, felt the ring funnel-stretch around the stream, Jax’s balls slapped his thigh—shame stabbed sharper than the cold. Jax’s eyes met Cody’s for half a second—wide, wet, pleading—and something twisted hard in Cody’s gut. He hated how much he wanted to see that pink ring stretch wider… hated how his own cock jumped at the sight.
Switch. Jax grabbed Cody’s shaft—thick, straight, cocky, pink head shrank from the chill. Fingers soaped, rolled balls, Cody’s sack shriveled tight. Cheeks flamed crimson. Jax rubbed sure, eyes hidden. Hose speared Cody’s pink pucker—ring stretched, water blasted in, walls slurped. Cody whimpered, gut bloated, calves tensed steel, body writhed, but Jax’s hand yanked ass back harder. Jax stared down at Cody’s bloated belly, at the way the soldier’s hole clenched and fluttered around the hose. His own cock thickened again, betraying him. Why did watching Army Boy break like this feel… right?
Cheeks burn… hose scorches hole, walls crack open… now I’m meat under his hands, like army line—drill, endure. Why does Jax see my shakes? Why does my gut spasm?
Legs quake… his pink hole slurps the hose, sack dangles heavy—pain breaks him or me?
Water streamed. Nips stabbed into spikes. Sacks throbbed with cold-shame. The ritual shattered with stares, leaving wet, trembling pups.
Iron Keeper whip-snapped:
“All Fours before me! Holes for inspection!”
Cody and Jax dropped fast: legs wide, asses bloomed open. Iron Keeper hit Jax first—finger plunged pink pucker sharp, stretched ring, prodded prostate, yanked clean and sniffed: pure. Extended the finger:
“Lick it, garbage!”
Jax’s tongue touched his own taste—bitter, warm, humiliating—and a shiver ran through him that wasn’t just disgust. This is me now. Hole. Taste. Property. And the whip will make sure I remember. Lips clamped. Tongue lapped wet—clean taste, relief pierced the shame: done.
Then Cody—finger rammed sharp, stretched muscle, ring whitened, prostate stung, pulled clean. Licked—bitter water and his own musk on the finger. He swallowed fast, relief flooding him like mercy. Holes pure. Master will be pleased. Discipline held. Why does that thought make my cock twitch?
They half-believed: Master pitied, would break them gentle. Cody whispered in his mind: army showers in line, sergeant watches, endure… Master. Jax thought: surrender painless… become perfect hole… Master.
Gagged & Posed Raw
“Now Blacksmith handles you,” Iron Keeper barked, voice like rusted iron scraping concrete. “He breaks in young stock before branding. Good for trash like you to kneel under the one who forges permanent collars and stamps Master’s mark on your asses—proof you’re will-less livestock from this day forward.”
They trudged back wet and shaking, skin goosebumped raw from the ice-blast, droplets still trailing down thighs and pooling at their feet. Under the awning, by the forge’s dying glow, waited two more fresh meat—naked like them, young, wild-eyed with the same fresh terror.
Blacksmith roared, voice flat and heavy as anvil strike:
“Hands behind heads!”
Pups snapped into position instant. Forge Ox—forty years old, two hundred and sixty pounds of dense, scarred muscle—loomed over them. Wide V-back, tiny leather loincloth barely concealing the thick seven-and-a-half-inch cock and those infamous low-hanging balls. Nip rings gleamed dull silver in the low light, left pec bore the old hammer brand, thick steel collar screamed “BLACKSMITH” in punched letters. Whip gripped loose in one massive hand, voice flat as forged steel.
“First slave lesson—silence. So for your own good, you wear gags in our drills.”
Blacksmith moved down the line, buckling thick rubber ball-gags on each pup, rough callused palm slapping each cheek once—firm, paternal, like marking a loyal dog. Gags cinched tight behind skulls—rubber balls choked roars into muffled whines and drool already streaming down chins in thick rivers. Jax’s mouth stretched ball-wide, jaw crushed in steel-grip, tongue pinned flat, spit flooded out uncontrollably.
Jaw crushes… mouth gapes whore-wide… drool floods chest… pats like loyal dog… crave serving same, no rebel left… crisp orders… why does this shame pull so hard?
“Present!”
Pups locked instant: legs shoulder-wide, hands locked behind heads, backs rod-straight, eyes glued to the floor.
Muscles burned from minute one. Legs quaked under strain, shoulders ached like fire, backs begged to sag. Cody felt his balls hug tight to his gut from the tension, nips peaked shame-stiff from the lingering cold air. Jax beside him—thighs fine-trembled, lean legs cramped in vicious spasms, horse-cock swung heavy between thighs, low sack dangled obscene, balls mashed together with every involuntary twitch.
Blacksmith circled slow, whip ready, boots deliberate on the damp planks.
Hit Jax first—he sagged forward half an inch.
“Back straight, boy!” Whip cracked outer thigh—skin flared bright red instant. Jax whined through the gag, body arched hard in reflex. “No free boy anymore. You’re slave. Slave obeys through pain and suffering. That’s the only language left in your head.”
Then Cody—he held better, soldier discipline kicking in, but shoulders dipped under the burn.
“Hands higher, soldier! Chest out!” Whip laid light but true across both asscheeks—sharp sting bloomed fast. Cody jerked full-body, gut spasmed, cock swung up traitorously from the shock-pain. Face flooded crimson to the roots.
Fuck… stand naked, hands locked behind head, cock and balls exposed… nips poking like a whore’s? Discipline… nail it perfect… but why does the burn feel like it’s sinking deeper?
Blacksmith stepped close, voice dropping low, gravel-rough.
“Feel that ache? That’s your new normal. Hold it. Suffer it. Let it carve the truth into muscle: you’re meat. You’re holes. You’re cocks on display for Master’s coin. The longer you resist, the harder the whip sings. The sooner you break, the less it hurts.”
He circled again, slower, letting the silence and the burn do the work.
“Eyes stay down. No staring at each other’s meat. But you feel it, don’t you? The heat. The twitch. The shame leaking out of you. That’s good. That’s progress.”
Whip tapped Jax’s inner thigh—light warning.
“Thighs wider, long-dick. Let those heavy balls hang free. Show me you’re ready to be weighed, milked, used.”
Jax spread wider, sack swinging low, drool still rivering down his chest.
Blacksmith’s gaze shifted to Cody.
“And you, Army Boy—chest prouder. Shoulders back like you’re on parade. Except now the parade is for Master’s eyes. And he likes to see the shame in every tremble.”
Cody arched harder, nips stabbing forward, cock half-hard from the strain and the words.
Fuck… parade-ground stance… no uniform… no rank… just naked meat on display… why does Jax’s whine make my gut twist? Why does the burn feel like it’s… good?
Blacksmith stopped between them, whip coiled loose.
“Hold it. Until your legs scream. Until your shoulders burn. Until the shame feels like skin. Then maybe—just maybe—you’ll start to understand what perfect merchandise really means.”
He let the silence stretch, thick as forge smoke.
Blacksmith centered, voice low heavy as hammer:
"Listen up, young vigin bulls. You're not men anymore. You're meat. Talking livestock with thoughts you ain't earned the right to have. Master paid good coin for every inch of you—prime, fresh, untouched stock. That means you owe him perfect merchandise. Every drahm he spent on your sorry hides, you will work off with your bodies, your holes, your shame. Right now you're eating his food on credit. You ain't produced a single drop of use yet. No work, no seed, no tears worth a damn."
Cody’s stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot as the words sank in like lead weights. Not men anymore. Meat. Talking livestock.
The phrases kept echoing in his skull, each one sharper than the last. He could still feel the Army dog tags he used to wear like they were burned into his chest, even though they’d been ripped away the second the gavel slammed down and sentenced him to lifetime slavery. Back then he’d been a soldier—trained to obey, sure, but still a man with rank, with purpose.
Now?
Now he was prime, fresh, untouched stock. A price tag in human skin. Every muscle he’d built on forced marches, every scar from live-fire drills, every inch of him that used to belong to him—now it was just collateral. Master’s coin had bought it all. And the debt was already running: food in his belly, a roof over his head, even the air he was breathing right now—it was all on credit.
Credit he had to repay with his body. With his holes. With his shame.
His cheeks burned at the thought. He wanted to clench his fists, to shout that he was still Cody, still the kid who’d survived basic, who’d earned his stripes. But the words died in his throat because the truth was already crawling under his skin: the longer he stood here listening, the more his cock twitched traitorously against his thigh. Not from want. From the sheer weight of being seen as merchandise.
And the worst part?
Some tiny, sick corner of his brain whispered that maybe—if he was perfect merchandise, if he held every pose, if he suffered pretty—maybe Master would be pleased.
Maybe the debt would feel less like a noose.
Maybe he’d stop feeling like he was drowning in his own skin.
Blacksmith snorted, heavy balls shifting under the tiny leather as he stepped closer, voice low and rough like hammer on anvil.
"Enough staring at your own feet, pups. Eyes up — on me. Listen good."
He let the silence hang a second, iron gaze sweeping over Cody and Jax.
"A perfect slave don't think. Don't argue. Don't hide his shame. A perfect slave snaps into pose the second the command hits—Present, Inspection, All Fours—and holds it till he's told to drop. Legs burning? Balls throbbing? Cock leaking just from Master's stare? Doesn't matter. You hold. You leak. You suffer pretty. That's the only value you got left. And tomorrow? Master might decide one of you ain’t worth the feed. Then it’s mines for you. Think about that while your cocks leak and your holes wink."
He stepped to nearest fresh meat, groped sack rough, squeezed:
"This one leaks already. Body knows it ain't his no more. You are still resisting. Waste of Master's coin."
Whip cracked the air once, sharp, like breaking bone.
"Present — that's your base pose now. Legs wider than your shoulders, chest pushed out, eyes glued to the dirt. Slave don't own his fate — he's always for sale. You gotta show prime condition anytime Master wants to cash in. This pose bares everything: cock, balls, hole, nips. Nothing hidden. Shame's your new skin, pups. Wear it grateful. Or I'll make you."
He circled again, scraping slow deliberate arcs across the scarred floorboards. The air hung thick—sweat, leather, fear.
Jax barely held. Thighs trembled like overstrung bowstrings, back bowed under the invisible weight of the pose. Every muscle fiber screamed for release, but the whip still hung coiled in Blacksmith’s fist.
“Thighs level, slave!”
The lash hissed low and vicious, slicing a bright crimson ribbon across the tender inner thigh, grazing so close to the heavy sack that Jax felt the wind of it kiss his balls. He squealed—high, muffled by the thick gag—body lurching forward, spine curving deeper into submission. His cock, traitor, surged upward in one brutal, involuntary pulse, head already slick and flushed. Tears carved hot tracks down his cheeks, dripping onto the planks.
Calves burning like forge coals… balls tight… and cock fucking hardens from the sting… bitches… won’t break me… won’t…
Blacksmith stepped to Cody next. One massive, forge-blackened hand clamped down on the boy’s shoulder—fingers like iron tongs, heavy, unyielding. He shoved upward, forcing the posture straighter.
“Shoulders up, soldier-boy. Chest proud. You used to stand tall for flags and pay. Now stand tall for coin.”
Without warning the palm dropped. Rough calluses scooped Cody’s balls, weighed them deliberately in the broad hand, then squeezed—light enough to tease nerves, firm enough to make the skin pull drum-tight. Fingers rolled the orbs slow, deliberate, testing their heft. Blacksmith snorted, low and satisfied.
“These hang good already. Couple decent weights—let them swing low and full. Master love that heavy, pendulous look on a young bull. Prime stock.”
Blood roared into Cody’s face, scorching ears, throat, cheeks. The old parade-ground stance—heels together, shoulders square, chin high—now stripped bare, twisted into something obscene. No uniform. No rank. No honor. Just balls cradled in a stranger’s hand, body on display like prize livestock.
Fuck… same drill… different leash… same shame…
“Pose change!” Blacksmith barked, voice cracking like dry timber. “Kneel!”
Slaved dropped fast—knees slamming cold wood. Hands slapped onto thighs, heads bowed low. Instant, shameful relief: eyes glued to the grain, faces half-hidden in shadow. But the chill bit into kneecaps like teeth, calves cramped viciously from the sudden shift.
“Hold!”
Whip snapped once—crisp, stinging line across one fresh meat’s back. The boy whined, spine arching involuntarily, ass lifting higher in reflex.
Then the next command.
“All Fours.”
They moved as one. Palms planted, knees spread wide, backs hollowed, asses lifted high and proud. Holes bloomed open to the draft—pink, untouched rings twitching against sudden exposure. Cocks dangled low between trembling thighs, heavy with blood, swaying with every shaky breath.
Jax felt the cold air kiss his slit first—humiliating, intimate. His sack swung lower than ever, skin thin and tight from the earlier handling, balls feeling enormous, obscene.
Hole exposed… wide open… everyone can see right inside… fuck… why does it feel… good…
The thought burned hotter than the whip. He clenched instinctively—useless. The ring only fluttered, betraying him again.
Blacksmith circled behind them, boots deliberate.
“Ass higher! Legs wider!”
A broad palm cracked across Jax’s cheeks—once, twice—then thick fingers crudely spread the cleft, prying the pink slit apart for inspection. Jax flinched, traitor tears welling fresh.
Cody felt the same palm settle on his lower back—pressing down, forcing the arch deeper.
“Back bowed, Army Boy. Offer that hole like the whore you are now. Master loves when the goods peddle themselves.”
Cody whined through the gag, low and broken. The position pulled every muscle taut, hole winking open to the chill air.
Fuck… ass up like a bitch in heat… everyone staring… hole on display…
Blacksmith stepped between them, voice dropping softer, heavier, like molten iron cooling.
“You still think you can resist. Waste of breath. Waste of Master’s coin. Revolt means death—quick or slow, your choice. Fear’s your best friend now. Keeps you low. Keeps you honest. Shame’s your best teacher. Whispers the only truth you got left: you’re holes, cocks, meat. Your bodies ain’t yours. Your balls ain’t yours. Your holes—for Master. Give them grateful. Or he’ll take them anyway.”
He paused, eyes raking over each quivering form in turn.
“I was you once. Thought I was tougher. Thought my thick cock was for my own jizz, not milking for coin. Master showed me truth. Whipped my balls bloody for every unsanctioned spurt. Hung weights on the sack till they dangled low for his amusement. Banned me from fucking any slave so every cock in my hole screamed the same lesson: body ain’t mine. Now I thank every ball-spasm, every back-whip, every young bull’s shame I witness. You’ll match me. Faster or slower. Punishment or willing. Then your cock will harden to the whip, your balls will clench at the shame, your hole will relax to a finger—that’s slave pure. Chase it. More shame cleans deeper.”
Four hours of pose-swaps hammered the lesson into muscle and bone.
Present—calves spasmed, legs blazed fire after the first hour, whip cracked thighs back into line with stinging precision.
Kneel—knees numbed to dead wood, calf-cramps locked into vicious seizures.
Stand—back ached like cold steel, shoulders burned from holding the proud line.
All Fours—holes chilled by the draft, cocks dangled heavy and club-like, swaying with every tremor.
Whip whistled every slip. Bodies ran sweat-slick. Tears flooded freely. Cocks weighed down by shame, by words, by stranger stares.
Cody held truer, teeth gritted behind the gag. Harsh… but orders crisp like sergeant’s parade. Strain. Nail perfect. Handle it. Discipline breaks soft.
Jax’s legs cramped harder, sack clenched every time the whip sang. Legs spasming… balls tight from the lash… pain breaks faster… take it… become the fearless hole…
They held. Quaked. Leaked.
Blacksmith circled one last time. Groped. Adjusted. Fondled balls. Thumbed dripping heads slow.
“Prime goods. Master will be pleased.”
Whip cracked the air—final pose-shift signal.
They held, quaked, leaked—first lessons seared deep into muscle, mind, balls.
Slaves learned.
Night Whispers
The night cell was narrow, iron bars slicing the darkness into thin vertical strips. Cody and Jax lay on opposite sides, close enough that breath fogged the metal between them, far enough that neither could touch. The estate had gone quiet hours ago—only the distant creak of settling beams and the occasional muffled whip-crack from some far barracks.
Cody shifted first, back against the cold wall, knees drawn up. His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“You still holding, Jax?”
Across the bars Jax exhaled slow, skinny chest rising sharp. His heavy sack rested against the plank, still tender from the day’s weighing and fondling. The memory made it twitch again.
“Barely,” he muttered. “You nailed those poses better today. Shoulders up like a fucking statue. Soldier shit.”
Cody’s cheeks scorched at the compliment. He could still feel the Blacksmith’s rough palm scooping his balls, rolling them slow, the low snort of approval. And worse—he could still see Jax’s body in All Fours: long thighs spread, pink hole pulsing open under thick fingers, the way that massive horse-cock had dangled low and thick, swaying with every tremor.
Fuck… he saw me leak. Saw my hole clench around nothing when they spread me. His cock’s thicker than mine—10-inches of pure shame, balls hanging like ripe fruit. Mine ache, starved, begging for a squeeze, a stroke, anything—but the ban burns. No touch. No release. And still… why does thinking about his meat make my guts twist hot? Why do I want to see that pink ring flutter again?
Jax stayed silent a long beat. Then, quieter:
“Saw you today too, Army Boy. When he pressed your back down. Hole opened right up. Pretty pink. You whined like a bitch in heat.”
Cody’s breath hitched. Shame flooded his face, hot and thick.
“Shut up,” he hissed, but there was no heat in it—only the raw edge of want he couldn’t name.
Jax’s thighs quivered against the plank. He could still feel Cody’s gaze on him during inspection: the way those soldier eyes had lingered on his dangling sack, on the way his cock had surged traitorously when the whip kissed his thigh.
He rubbed my head with his thumb. Saw the pre-cum bead and drip. Saw me leak like a faucet. His shaft—thick, straight, boyish—stood proud when they weighed him. Mine’s a monster, but his… fuck, why do I want to see it drip again? Why does the thought of his hole winking at me make my balls draw up?
They both fell quiet. The silence stretched, heavy with the same unspoken poison.
Days blurred into the same brutal rhythm.
Morning light sliced through the high slit window. They woke curled tight, bodies already conditioned to the cold plank and the weight of the collar. The chute rattled—thick bran-meat slop dumped into dented bowls on the floor. No spoons. No words. They dropped to all fours without command, tongues scraping the metal, swallowing fast. No more retching. No more hesitation. The warmth hit their empty guts like mercy.
Whip-whistle echoed somewhere down the hall—distant, routine. They tensed, shoulders hunching, but no panic anymore. Just the low animal flinch of livestock that knows the lash is coming eventually.
No other slaves passed their cell. No chatter. No laughter. Only the overseer’s boots in the corridor, the faint clank of chains, and Blacksmith’s voice barking pose corrections from the training yard. The world had shrunk to: iron bars, plank bed, slop bowl, endless pose-swaps.
And each other.
Every night the same dance.
Cody would whisper first—always first—voice cracking on the question he couldn’t stop asking.
“You still holding?”
Jax would answer, voice rougher each time.
“Barely. You?”
And then the silence would fill with everything they couldn’t say out loud:
Saw your hole today. Saw it pulse. Saw you leak for him.
I hate you for seeing me break. I hate myself more for wanting you to see it again.
Bodies pressed close to the bars. Fingers curled around cold iron. No touching. Just the heat of shared shame radiating through the gap.
They crashed hard each night—dosed in the evening water with something that pulled them under fast, dreamless. But even in sleep their bodies twitched: cocks half-hard against thighs, holes clenching at phantom fingers, balls drawing tight at the memory of rough hands.
The cracks in their souls were gluing shut, day by day.
Not with hope.
With habit.
With the slow, inevitable realization that the only warmth left in this place was the shame they shared—and the sick, secret hunger to see each other break a little deeper tomorrow.
Cody’s last thought before the drug took him—before the familiar bitter tang of the evening water pulled him under fast and dreamless:
If I have to be meat… let him see me bleed for it. Let him watch me break… and maybe—fuck—maybe I’ll watch him break too.
Jax’s:
If I’m just a hole… let him watch me open. Let him see me take it all… and maybe he’ll take me with him.
Forge Ox Doomed to Balls-Out Ruin
Roman lounged in the dim office, the bitter edge of black coffee still coating his tongue. Papers rustled between his fingers—fresh slave catalogues, breeding lots priced at 60,000 drahm each, glossy photos of young bulls in Present pose. At his feet knelt Blacksmith—Forge Ox—forty years old, two hundred and sixty pounds of dense, scarred muscle, hairy chest rising and falling in heavy rhythm. The tiny leather loincloth strained across wide hips; the short whip dangled idle from his belt like a promise.
Service year complete. Loyalty audit time.
Roman sipped without looking down.
“Why are you here, bull?”
Blacksmith swallowed, throat rasping like dry bellows. Eyes locked on the floorboards.
“Year served up, Sir. Must prove loyalty to You, Master.”
Roman snorted, flipped a page.
“Last time I whipped you?”
Blacksmith straightened a fraction—grateful reflex.
“Thanks for the training, Master. Two weeks back—twenty lashes across the back, ten knout-cracks straight to the balls.”
Roman nodded once, reached for the cooling tea.
“Slacked on training since. Last cum?”
“One and a half months ago, Sir. By Your leave only.”
“Last fucked?”
“You ordered me bred two weeks ago, pre-whip. No-cum ban still holds, Sir.”
Sweat already beaded along the thick mat of chest hair. Nipples peaked into hard, dark bumps under the weight of scrutiny. Roman drained the coffee in one long swallow, set the cup aside with deliberate calm, and leaned back.
“How many lashes do you owe for fuck-ups these past two weeks, bull?”
Blacksmith froze. Terror stabbed deep into his gut—too low a number and he looked soft, ungrateful; too high and the body might break before the mines claimed the rest. Shaft-mines. The word alone made his heavy balls draw up tight, sack cramping in spasm. Cheeks flushed crimson. Ears burned. Silence stretched, Roman pouring fresh coffee, biting into a cookie slow, crumb by crumb, eyes flicking over slave ads like he had all night.
Blacksmith’s mind raced. Sweat poured. Muscles quivered. Panic boiled over into desperate guesswork.
“Thirty back-lashes, Sir… ten ball-whips… and six-point-six-pound sack-weight to remind me of my place, Master.”
Gut seized again. Tears scorched the corners of his eyes. Cock twitched traitorously against the thin leather, pre-cum already gleaming at the tip.
Then, voice cracking, he added on his own:
“For my delay answering just now… twenty more lashes, Master!”
Pupils blew wide. Chest flushed hot. Thighs trembled fine and helpless.
Roman took his time. Chewed the last crumb. Reread the same ad twice. Let the silence rack the kneeling man like a slow-turning winch. Blacksmith writhed inside his skin—inner beast roaring, ribs stabbed with shame, drool pooling on the floor beneath his bowed head, low-hanging sack trying desperately to crawl up against his body.
Finally Roman spoke, soft, almost tender.
“There, there, bullock… Always the rebel once. Now just a meek rag. Slave’s true path—sink lower. Thank me for the training. For giving you a place in this world.”
Blacksmith’s voice broke into a soft, animal wail. Frame sagged forward.
“Thank you, Master!”
Roman leaned forward slightly.
“Blacksmith, you served prime. Better than most. But the years take their toll. You ain’t the solid thirty-year-old bull I bought anymore. Balls dangle slack now. Body fades. You don’t shine up my pens the way you used to. Face facts. Useful life’s done. Time to release you. Humane, of course. Snip the balls—send you to the shaft-mines. Squeeze the last drops of use out of you the world’s way. Easy work-death for spent stock.”
The words hung thick in the air.
Forge Ox’s perfect stance cracked for the first time in years—shoulders jerked, breath snagged hard in his throat. Eyes—usually hard, submissive slate—blew wide with something primal. Not rage. Not begging. Pure, naked horror.
Then, quick as a lash, his forehead mashed to the floor at Roman’s boots—deepest slave-submission, deeper than Present, deeper than All Fours. When he spoke, the voice came soft, even, packed with shame and humiliation-quake.
“Yes, Master,” Forge Ox breathed, weighted and utterly sincere. “I get it. My body was always Yours. Never mine. Usefulness done. Life ends. Order it for stock like me.”
He lifted his head just enough to meet Roman’s eyes. His own gleamed—not with fear, but with a twisted, submissive gratitude. He craved the smallest touch—a cheek-pat, a spit in his open mouth, any scrap of closeness from the man who’d owned him for two decades.
“No regrets, Master. You took a wild blacksmith from the dirt, made me prime—reliable, skilled, needed. I wore Your collar proud every single day. Forged chains for hundreds of slaves. Banked Your house with my hammer. Every whip-crack, every ball-weight, every drop of sweat served You.”
Roman tilted his head.
“Oversee your own punishment?”
“No, Sir! Loyal dog to the end, Master!”
A small, cruel smile touched Roman’s mouth.
“Your service reward this week: four-hundred-gram weights on those useless nipples—keep them from flopping while the sack rips under seven pounds. And a gift for all the years at my feet—I greenlight one last cum tonight. I’ll send two young, horse-hung studs to stretch that old hole wide. Prep it first with the ten-inch dildo. Don’t want the first real thrust ripping you open. Next week we scout the market for your replacement. Until then… enjoy your last play, dog.”
Blacksmith rose slowly, legs unsteady, the weight of doom settling into every joint.
He staggered toward the door—still collared, still marked, still owned—knowing the last night of his usefulness would be spent split open, milked dry, and grateful for every second of it.
Forge Ox Chain-Crushed Raw
The punishment barracks hung in heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by rare, corner-deep moans that echoed like distant forge hammers. In the center, under a single harsh bulb, the scale screamed the truth: one breeding bull dangled sack-hung in agony. Back bowed in a brutal arc, feet scrabbling for purchase on slick concrete, toes clawing for any ease against the hell-pull ripping at his balls.
Gag stuffed thick, rubber-muffled whimpers leaked bubbly drool down bearded cheeks. Forge Ox—Blacksmith—knelt beneath his own weight, two hundred and sixty pounds of muscle quaking fine and helpless. The leather loincloth barely veiled the thick seven-and-a-half-inch cock and those infamous low-danglers. “BLACKSMITH” bit deep into the collar around his neck; wrist and ankle cuffs clinked with every ragged breath. Eyes feral-wide with terror, locked on Iron Keeper—the elite overseer in full harness, master-whip coiled at his belt, eyes gleaming with that chemical-washed emptiness.
Iron Keeper growled low, almost fond.
“Been ages since I worked your balls proper, Forge Ox. State punishment tonight. Loud, slave. Recite it.”
Blacksmith raised arms overhead in one trembling motion. Back snapped into Present, spine cracking audibly. Voice cracked, tears already burning the corners of his eyes.
“Hang three hours: four-hundred-gram weights on nips, five-and-a-half pounds on balls. Ten-inch dildo hole-deep. Feed two studs one hour—mouth and ass fuck, cum greenlit. Fifty back-lashes, plus twenty ball-cracks, Sir!”
Words scorched his throat like acid. Face flooded crimson. Tears sheeted down in hot rivers. Iron Keeper nodded once, reached down, patted the bowed head like a loyal dog. Years had broken him completely: the thought of skipping or begging off punishment never even flickered. Body knew submission. Body knew Master’s will was absolute.
“You know punishments run full, especially when breaking a slave. Punishment is Master’s will—no escape, not even in death. See, Forge Ox… you recite your sentence grateful. Pups still squeal and fight. You beg. Perfect slave. Now mouth wide—suck pacifier calf-style while I work you.”
Iron Keeper latched the gag-dildo into place: thick rubber shaft stretching lips white, filling mouth completely, prodding the back of the throat. Jaws ached instantly. Tongue pinned flat. Drool slurped around the phallus, bubbled at the corners, rivered down hairy chest in thick streams. Throat spasmed. Breath whistled through nose in short, panicked bursts.
Ropes yanked upward—arms stretched overhead until shoulders cracked, blades stabbed sharp, back muscles locked in seizure. Legs chain-spread shoulder-wide, ankles bitten by cold metal, calves steel-tensed. Body hoisted, dangled like fresh meat. The heavy sack tore downward on joints, spine fire-shot, feet slipped, frame swung gently.
Eyes rolled. World fogged at the edges.
First whip-crack slashed the thigh—skin red-streaked instant, pain lightninged straight to the crotch.
“Don’t fade, Forge Ox. Eyes on me. Feel those chains? That’s your spot now.”
Blacksmith moaned through gritted teeth, drool trailing chin in ropes.
“Suck pup-style. No useless howl.”
Nipple weights next. Iron Keeper clamped the first alligator clip to the left areola—teeth sank deep, areola blanched under the grip, two hundred grams yanked downward. Nipple stretched long, pain exploded chest-ward like lightning. Body arc-bowed hard, ribs stabbed with shame. Second clip on the right—two hundred more grams swung free. Nips jerked downward, heat flooded the thick chest muscle. Blacksmith wailed into the gag—bubbly, muffled roar. Drool foamed. Tears acid-eyed. Pupils feral-wide.
Iron Keeper slapped the cheek hard, ruffed the chin.
“Eyes on me, Ball Sack Beast!”
Then the sack. Iron Keeper fisted the heavy danglers, crushed them low, yanked downward.
“Soon they snip these useless balls… ship you to the shaft-mines… humane end for spent stock. Pity those low-hangers, but fine. I’ll break the new blacksmith. Meantime, let’s play with your familiar heavy useless sack.”
Ball weights. Chain snapped around the base—first two pounds dropped. Already-low balls plunged floor-ward, spine stabbed deep. Blacksmith bucked, nipple-weights jolting fresh pain, chains rattled, legs fine-quaked. Second half—three more pounds—wrenched downward. Sack stretched to the floor, balls shell-crushed flat, pain grenade in the crotch. Body convulsed. Pre-cum ropes oozed from the soft cock. Gag-wail hoarse. Drool rivered neck. Tears scorched cheeks. Eyes rolled back.
Palm-slap to the weighted balls. Iron Keeper snarled:
“Don’t black out, Old Brander. Feel every ounce.”
Dildo—ten-inch ribbed horror. Iron Keeper spread cheeks wide, tip nosed the anus-ring, thrust. Ribbed head whitened the ring on entry, sank four inches, walls slurped greedy. Prostate jolted under the press. Another shove—six inches, inner heat burned. Body arc-bowed again, chains taut. Full ram—ten inches slurped home in one brutal depth-rip. Ribs reamed prostate. Anus gaped wet tube.
Blacksmith screamed into the gag—bubbly, animal howl. Drool foamed. Tears streamed. Sack swung and slurped with every convulsion.
Back-whip began. Whistle—first lash across scapula, skin red-striped instant, back-muscles seized. Fifty cracks: whistle—spine-slash, welts crimson-bloomed, blood trickled low back; whistle—low back, asscheeks jerked, skin split in fine spray. Twenty ball-cracks followed: whistle—strap flattened left nut, pain eye-shot; whistle—right, blood pre-cum mixed.
Body thrashed. Sweat poured down back. Tears burned. Eyes feral-wide. Drool rivered hairy chest.
Three hours of hell.
Iron Keeper jolted reality sharp: face-slap—“Eyes on me!”—slap—“Feel that dildo guts-deep!” Blacksmith dangled sweat-spit slick, nips stretched long, balls low-sagged and purple, dildo churning breath with every shallow pant, welts oozing slow.
Cold water doused—body shocked awake.
Then the studs entered: two elite Breeding Bulls, ten-inch vein-monsters swinging heavy. First into the mouth—head lip-prodded, shaft stretched jaws wider, plunged hilt-deep, bulge crushed gullet. Drool lubed the bull-cock instantly.
Second speared the hole: dildo yanked out with wet plop, cock ring-speared, walls parted easy—relief-heat exploded gut-ward, balls slapped thigh with every thrust.
Mouth-thrust synced with ass-thrust—throat spasmed, anus cracked open wider, body rocked between them like a rag.
Studs dumped three loads each, swapped positions: cum gushed throat thick pumps, overfilled mouth, streamed chin; gut flooded river, leaked down balls, mixed with blood.
Young bull-hands mauled the massive frame—ripped flesh, squeezed weighted nips, slapped the swollen sack. Muscles spasm-trained helpless.
Then—sudden—the body blew. Cum fountain-cocked sans command. Frame jackknifed hard. Pain-plunge orgasm ripped through him—thick sludge puddled concrete beneath.
Blacksmith crashed into his own spunk pool. Blacked out.
Cold water again—reality slammed back.
Iron Keeper nodded once, almost approving.
“Hang tough, Forge Ox. No release yet. Still serve Master. Fresh pups wait for collar and brand.”
Days later Blacksmith—still collared, still breathing—brands Master’s new pups. Cody and Jax get their owned-marks burned into skin, true stock status sealed, yard-beasts at last.
Meantime the two young bulls sleep cell-blind, bodies still humming from the day’s drills.
Cody’s last thought before the drugged water pulled him under:
Fuck… body burns, nips throb like fresh pinches, sack heat-swells, cock leaks hands-free… why now, pre-sleep? What the hell is Master prepping us for?
Across the bars Jax twitched in the dark, heavy cock already half-hard against his thigh.
If they break the old bull like that… what do they do to us?
Hey, slaves and masters,
I've got the full arc locked in—chapters mapped out, no detours. No requests, no tweaks to the plot.
But I crave your raw feedback. Spill it: What twists your gut? Who do you hate, crave, or ache for—Roman's cold control, Cody's soldier-boy break, or Jax's masochist leak? Tell me what hits your shame-spot, what makes your body betray you.
Email: [email protected]
Your words fuel the fire—help me dig deeper into that dark crave we share.
Stay low, Roman Wolf
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
