Branding Pups Raw
Cody woke to the metallic clang of the grate—his body ached like it did after a forced march, the rough plank digging into his shoulder blades, cold sweat sticking to his skin. No words, no bowl of slop—only the Stud House Keeper in leather shorts, whip coiled at his belt, eyes completely blank. Across from him, Jax stirred; the long skinny stem shifted under taut skin, the horse cock hung heavy and limp between his legs, the sack drawn tight from the draft. A creeping fear slid in, like the shiver before a storm.
“Up, trash! Wash time!”
Cody opened his mouth to ask about food, then remembered: a slave stays silent. Good boy. I’m learning, he thought.
Under the shower overhang two other slaves waited—rough, heavily muscled, whips on their belts. This time the boys weren’t allowed to wash each other. Rough foreign hands soaped their bodies hard, without mercy: scrubbing armpits, shafts, balls, ass cheeks—everything slid across skin with wet, sucking sounds of foam; ice-cold water lashed down in stinging jets, rinsing away the filth. Cody relaxed under the ritual: strange hands took complete control, nothing to decide, no need to feel shame in front of Jax—just stand and let them clean you like livestock should be cleaned. Jax felt the same relief—the scrotum loosened, thighs stopped trembling: the procedure was the same for everyone, a comrade beside him sharing exactly the same thing, no extra eyes, no choices, only cold water and foam erasing yesterday’s disgrace.
“All fours!”
Bodies dropped to their knees obediently, holes presented high. A strange pang of surprise stabbed through Cody: here we are, side by side on all fours, shoulder to shoulder, and it feels like brotherhood—shared fate binding us like in a trench, holes on full display, but together, no shame, only the unity of slaves before the ritual. But it was an illusion, the one every young bull clings to—the slave world always shatters that closeness with someone else’s will.
The hoses rammed in brutally—no warning, no lube. Cold water slammed into Cody: hard, bloating pressure filling his belly, burning the walls just like the first time on the market, except now there was no panic—his body had learned, muscles relaxed and let the jet flood inside. Still… Jax was gentler. I already liked his finger. How much better it felt when he cleaned me… he’s a good kid, my kid, I’ve got to hold on to him.
“Deeper! That hole better shine for the Master!”
Dirty water poured down their legs in muddy streams. Cody’s cheeks blazed crimson right up to his hairline, heat rolling across his face in waves. Fuck… I’m already taking the hose like an experienced whore.
The flushing ended—bodies glistened, holes throbbed empty and open. The Stud House Keeper inspected them critically from every angle.
“Hands behind your backs—tie them!”
They shoved sweet, thick liquid into each boy’s mouth: suck it down, pups, this’ll loosen you up.
“Gags!”
At the Posts
The boys shrank from fear and the unknown. Hands bound, gags stuffed in their mouths—they were led to the forge. Anxiety swelled: hunger twisted their guts, uncertainty burned—the forge smoked, the stench of scorched meat hung thick in the air. They and the two other slaves who had trained alongside them were tied to posts face-to-face so they could see each other’s terror. An empty platform stood in the center with a couch and small table—hearts pounded: such luxury could only belong to a free man; they were about to see their Master. Ropes bit into wrists, legs were spread wide by chains, asses thrust backward. The wait stretched on—the sun climbed higher, the last drops of the morning enema dripped from their holes, scrotums swelled hot in the stifling air, cocks dangled heavy and useless.
Cody stared into Jax’s eyes through the gag—puppy-like, wild, furious. What’s coming? He sees my stance, my hole on full display, hungry, leaking… I want to calm him, squeeze his shoulder, whisper “hold on, brother,” but the ropes hold me, the gag chokes me.
Jax: pupils blown wide from the heat blooming in his chest. Cody opposite me—strong, holding position, sees my skinniness, ribs sticking out, horse cock hanging pathetic. Why are my thighs trembling like this in front of him, hunger twisting, body running with sweat—will he think “weakling, not a stallion”? I hate myself for this frail body next to the soldier.
The other two slaves—young bulls, sturdy but rough, simple working-class boys—one hairy with coarse chest and pubic stubble, the other smooth with old fight scars—were tied nearby. Jax and Cody understood instantly: those two were second-rate goods, cheap field trash, while their own bodies were more attractive, faces prettier, cocks bigger—we’re elite, they won’t write us off to the fields.
The Master appeared. Gray eyes pierced straight through them. He walked calmly, almost ignoring the slaves.
They brought the boys to him one by one, forced to their knees before him. First—a worthless penny pup, skinny, back crisscrossed with old scars. Roman lazily fingered his nipples:
“Nothing interesting. Ordinary penny pup. Rings in the tits and out to the fields—let him bulk up hauling loads. Show him to me again in a year; we’ll decide his fate then.”
The slave whimpered softly, body curling inward, eyes dulling with the realization of his own worthlessness—pennies, fields, oblivion.
They quickly fitted him with a new collar—the rivet snapped shut with a hammer’s crack. The brand flared crimson—hiss! Flesh sizzled audibly like fat on a hot skillet, a sharp crackle as skin blistered and split, the acrid stench of charred meat mingled with hot iron and acrid sweat exploding into nostrils, steam rising in wisps from the seared cheek. The slave screamed through the gag, body jerking violently, ropes creaking under the strain, raw burn throbbing with every heartbeat like a poker embedded deep. They dragged him back to the post, pierced his nipples with needles—blood sprayed, howls broke through the gag, body writhed in chains. The second cheap boy suffered the same: collar, brand, nipple piercings—moans blended into a chorus, blood dripped into the dust. All of them were second-grade stock headed for the fields.
Then they dragged Jax forward, forced him to his knees. Awkward with bound hands.
“Remove the gag.”
“Well then, Pain Colt—let’s decide your fate.”
The crop cracked across his balls—sharp, wet squelch as the sack flattened, eggs mashed together. Jax howled, but his cock began to rise.
“Good. Still the same as always.” Roman stroked his cheek. “Open your soul to me, bull, the same way you open your hole. Remember the market? I taught you to spread your hole—now do the same with your soul. You can handle it. If not, the whip is always in my hand.”
Goosebumps raced down Jax’s spine. He feared pain, but his body was already responding.
The Master circled behind, wrapped a hand around his throat, almost pressed cheek to cheek: “It’s simple, pup. Your hole is your soul—open both.” Jax drowned in the stronger man, voice falling from above like heaven, warm breath on his cheek—he wanted to press closer and stay like that forever.
Master’s fingers pried apart the skinny cheeks—two plunged in roughly, stretching the tight ring with wet sounds. Jax howled, walls spasmed, heat exploded inside. This time his cock didn’t soften—the drugs were already working.
“Tell me your deepest fear, hole. What do you want from your life as a slave?”
Jax was suffocating; fingers twisted his prostate, pain sweet, cock jerked upward. It was impossible to lie to this man—he held body and soul in his hands right now.
“I want… to be broken quickly… so I don’t have to suffer… Sir!”
Hope breaks the bull, Roman thought.
Cheeks blazed scarlet, tears burned his eyes. The Master released him abruptly. Stepped around and sat in front of him.
“That’s bullshit for young bulls. Slaves are born to suffer for their owners. You will suffer always—broken or not. From your character I can see: your breaking will be slow and agonizing. Don’t expect an easy fate, boy. You won’t escape the pain or the humiliation. But your Master will guide you down that road—you won’t be alone or abandoned.”
Jax’s cock stood like a pole—pre-cum gleamed on the head. Roman smirked:
“Oh, I see your tail wagging from that. Clever little goat. I’ll make you a breeding bull—your cock will fit perfectly in my heifers’ cunts. You’ll fill them, pump them full, watch them swell with your seed. I hope you give me plenty of healthy stock to sell. Your life is cum in holes, the whip for mistakes, and my will.”
Jax sobbed with relief: at least he wouldn’t stay a virgin; the rest hadn’t yet sunk in.
“You’ll be branded and your nipples pierced. Shall I put the gag back, or will you be an obedient slave and hold your screams?”
“I will… for you… Master!” Jax choked on saliva.
Cody’s thought stabbed: What endurance Jax has—looking up at the Master like a puppy, body shaking but holding… such a good kid. I want to learn to endure like him.
Strong hands lifted Jax from behind—but didn’t drag him straight to the anvil where he already craved to be, to prove his loyalty and strength before Master and Cody—his cock stood rock-hard.
The Master swiftly rolled a condom down Jax’s shaft with practiced skill: “You’ll need this, leaky little one.”
Finally they hauled him to the anvil—THIS IS IT—Jax trembled, I’m finally going to become…
He didn’t finish the thought. Hammer struck, the new leather collar snapped shut around his neck with a rivet’s crack. The blow rang near his head, deafening.
The blacksmith seized the brand from the fire—red-hot metal glowed crimson.
It pressed to the left buttock—hiss! The stench of burning flesh slammed into his nose, pain exploded white-hot. Jax howled but kept his teeth clenched: for the Master, so he wouldn’t be ashamed in front of Cody. Body jerked violently, but they held him firm; ass muscles spasmed in agony.
Roman encouraged: “Endure, Pain Colt!”
Jax saw flashes, the world darkened, tears poured. Fuck… it hurts… for him…
The brand was torn away, cold water splashed the skin—Jax howled again, ass pulsing fire, semen erupted from him in a fountain, hands-free, from the pain alone.
“Back to the post!”
They quickly tied Jax to the post. Cock still rigid, a condom now heavy and bulging with fresh boy-cum dangled from it—this seared Jax with shame: everyone sees how much I shot from pain, like a filthy whore. Did Cody smirk? I hate myself for this puddle of rubber on my shaft—my body betrayed me in front of everyone.
Roman carefully peeled the condom off: “Open your mouth. Time to grow up, slave—drink your own cum like mother’s milk.”
Cum poured from the rubber into the happy boy’s mouth. Pain and the Master’s closeness painted the world in new colors. He rejoiced at being so close to his goal—to be a true slave.
Roman nodded to the blacksmith:
“Cord!”
The blacksmith grabbed a thick leather cord—eyes gleaming with lust, fingers trembling as they touched the boy’s balls. Roman slapped the bull across the face:
“I’ll do it myself, you horny ox.”
He wound the cord brutally tight around the base of Jax’s scrotum—balls swelled dark crimson, pain lanced through, Jax moaned, cock seemed to stand even harder.
“No cumming for you, bull. Hold it for your Master. The cord will help. And remember—you do not scream.”
Jax nodded, breathing hard, panicking yet floating in the euphoria of pain, sweat, scorched skin.
Nipple piercings: needle through the left areola—crunch, blood sprayed bright red, rivulets ran; then the right. Jax moaned loudly, desperately, on the edge of breaking, but kept his mouth shut. Cody was stunned by his friend’s endurance: skinny body jerking, nipples torn open, blood streaming down his chest, yet eyes burned, ass clenched, scrotum purple and corded—he held like a real stallion and didn’t squeal.
Roman set a bowl in front of the slowly calming cock:
“Cum on command, Leaky Ram—” and slipped the cord off. Jax immediately started leaking but fought with everything he had to obey that voice—his Master’s—and hold back the semen. The Master looked straight into the eyes of the slave finding his devotion.
“One… two… three!”
And drove the needle into the nipple—lightning pain. Jax came instantly: thick ropes blasted into the bowl, scrotum clenched with a wet crunch, body convulsed. “Good boy, good boy,” the Master patted his cheek. The orgasm dragged on like a bitch in heat. But a slap brought Jax back to reality. The boy instantly focused on Roman—an inborn useful trait.
“Now lick.” He held the bowl up. The breeding bull eagerly extended his tongue and lapped, desperate not to waste a drop. The salty taste of his own cum drove him wild. He finished, breathing hard, staring up at his Lord with utter devotion. His throat still burned with the lingering salt.
“Blacksmith, you horny bull—lick the boy’s cock clean. Let it dry in the sun.”
The blacksmith fell on it—lips wrapped the head, tongue ran the shaft, saliva dripped down the balls. Jax trembled: Old boar licking me like a calf—everyone sees. Is Cody smirking? I hate his hairy mouth on my cock—I’m not a fag!…
Suddenly Roman pressed the blacksmith’s head down, forcing Jax’s entire length into the bull’s throat: “You love young bull cocks—milk him with your gullet.” He locked eyes with Jax, waited through several long breaths, then: “Cum!”
Grabbed the needle again. Jax arched in shock, driving himself even deeper, and unloaded.
The blacksmith breathed heavily—perhaps this was the last young cock of his life. He didn’t know, couldn’t control his Master’s will, so he surrendered to the final pleasures of his slave existence.
“Rest now.”
Cody
The echo of Jax's raw screams and the lingering char of burnt flesh still hung in the air as they hauled Cody before the Master next, the fresh brand on Jax's cheek a throbbing reminder of the fire that awaited.
Cody stands locked opposite, devours every Master word—kind gray eyes beam tender, Cody soaks it sponge-greed: He cares, sees me special… endure for him…
"Army Boy, you're My special pup. Loyal soldier. I won't touch those tender nipples—don't want you hurting. The brand and collar protect you cute beasts from yourselves. Endure it for Me. I like you—beautiful straight shaft, pink hole. Won't touch without your consent. You're safe, trust your Master." Roman said,
Cody moans gag-muffled, nods frantic—chest floods warm, gratitude tears scorch. Pities me… special… endure, soldier…
"Your task: pack soul full devotion. No disappoint, pup."
Cody nods fury-wild—eyes glow, body slacks ropes loose.
Second ticks—new collar grips neck vice-tight. Brand skips, though.
Cody stares upward: blacksmith's hairy chest looms, loincloth tents hard-on brutal, lube plops floor, lowhanging balls sway heavy huge. Asshole feasts our agony… Roman flanks rear, palms under cloth, weighs sack palm-cup, squeezes cruel: scrotum squelches mush, eggs grind pulp.
"Always craved your big balls, Blacksmith."
"Thank you, Sir… these balls yours, Sir," the Blacksmith groaned.
Jax boils inside: Submissive fuck! Reckoning hits you, bitch!
Blacksmith snatches brand—crimson hell-glow. Cody bores up: hairy chest, tented cloth, lube drip, lowhangers dangle. Asshole feasts…
Brand mashes cheek—hiss! White-flame agony erupts, burnt stench chokes, Cody bays gag-ripped, body thrashes wild, ass cheeks clamp stone. "Endure, Tender Bull!" the overseer said, gripping him with iron strength.
World blacks out, tears flood rivers. Brand yanks free—water scalds fresh, ass throbs hellfire pulse.
Cody blinks aware at post, Roman speaks:
"Open you total, pup. Strip rare hairs—body bonds mine closer."
Slaves freeze statue-still around them, pathetic plain-trash worthlessness etched deep—nobody ever pampered their meat this tender, every scarred hauler knows gut-true they earned field-break for dirt and lash, holes overlooked while elite stock gleams smooth stroked.
Nipples stay virgin. Cody beams through cheek-sear: Special… safe…
"Perk up, Soldier Pup! Long day grinds you!"
They drag Cody shower—wrists ceiling-hoist, ankles floor-spread wide. Slave smears goo—skinny 30-year-old slave, nipple rings glint—armpits, pubes, ass crack slathered. "Eats hairs dead. Burns balls-off, boy."
Goo sinks skin-deep—fire blooms instant, itch gnaws inside-out. Day crawls hell: sun hammers, itch swells monster, burn snakes balls heavy, hole twitchy, nips harden ache. Cody bucks ropes, sweat sheets, tears blaze. Break me… kill me… for him…
Slave probes: "Still devours." World spins faint—blackout. Face-slap water shocks awake, gag rams home.
Sun dips blood-red—ice hose blasts goo clean, skin ignites fresh blaze. Ropes drop, musky oil slicks full: "Master awaits tomorrow."
Cody crashes crate, body screams symphony, brand hammers pulse, skin scorches live. Sleep crashes: Roman's gaze burns, Jax's cord-squeezed sack, pain floods… warmth cradles. Tomorrow what, Master? Endure… your slave.
Field Ox's Welcome to the Barracks
The barracks door creaked open like a rusted hinge, and the two fresh slaves were shoved inside naked, collars yanking tight as they stumbled onto the dirt-packed floor. No rags, no coverings—just bare skin, still unmarked by the whip, bodies glistening from the transport sweat. The air hit them first—thick with sweat, piss, and the metallic tang of exhausted bodies. Rows of field slaves huddled on thin mats or chained to walls, naked or in filthy scraps, bodies scarred and muscled from endless labor. Low murmurs hushed as the new meat arrived: two young bulls, one smooth and pale, the other darker and furred, collars fresh and chafing.
Field Ox loomed in the center—35 years old, 230 lbs of square, scarred muscle, grubby holsters rubbing his thick cock raw. His long whip dangled from his belt like a promise. He grunted, eyes scanning the arrivals without emotion, voice flat and mechanical, like a hammer on anvil.
"Line up, trash. Present pose—legs wide, hands behind head, cocks forward. You're meat now. Human livestock. Property. Assets with payback periods. Raise your value or amortize to scrap."
The smooth light-haired one clenched his fists, heart pounding hard. He snapped into Present, back straight, eyes down, hole clenching against the draft. These fucks… I’ll endure. Obey, survive. But I hate every one of these bastards. Body’s too smooth—like a kid’s. Shame burns worse than the collar. Why the fuck is my cock thickening already? Not from this… not from their stares.
The dark-haired one followed, ribs jutting sharp. He dropped into pose, heavy sack swinging low. Fuck… naked in front of all these broken eyes. Shame like fire. But body wants it… wants the whip, the probe. Hate myself for leaking already.
Field Ox circled slow, boots thudding dirt. "You live in debt. Master spends on feed, chains, whips, meds. You owe every breath. Work it off daily—or get scrapped. Simple economics."
He stopped behind the smooth one. Broad palm slapped ass cheeks apart, fingers rough-probing the tight, hairless ring. The light-haired slave gasped, hole puckering, shame flooding cheeks crimson. Stranger fingers inside, all these eyes watching my smooth hole. I’m lower than dirt, livestock like he said. But if I hold as good meat—maybe worth keeping. Nausea twists gut, cock stirs traitor—why now?
"Body's Master's asset. Keep it clean, strong. Raise its value—or drop to zero." Ox yanked the smooth slave’s balls low, weighing them like fruit, thumb rolling the orbs. Sack skin stretched thin, pre-cum beading. The slave bit his lip bloody, thighs quivering. Hurts… but he’s checking quality. I’m property. Lower being. If I hold—maybe worth something.
Next—the dark-haired one. Ox gripped the cock base, squeezed hard, head bulging purple. The slave whimpered, knees buckling, but held pose. Then Ox spread his cheeks wide, fingers tracing the dark fuzz around the hole. He snorted, voice low and approving.
"Look at this hairy hole… real man’s ass, not boy’s. We like fucking these—tight under the fur, but they open nice when broken."
Fingers plunged in, twisting rough through the coarse hair, tugging at the dark curls framing the ring. The dark-haired slave moaned low, hole clenching around the intrusion, shame and heat flooding his gut. He likes it… likes my hairy crack. Says we’re for fucking. Body burns, cock leaks harder—hate this, but it wants more. I’m lower trash, but maybe worth more 'cause of this fur. Gotta raise value, show open.
Ox pulled out with a wet sound, wiped fingers on the slave’s thigh. "Good asset. Hairy ones hold up longer in the fields—more to grip when we breed 'em. Amortizes better over ten years."
Around them, the barracks stirred with quiet, broken sounds.
A scarred veteran near the wall let out a soft, rasping chuckle, barely audible. "Smooth one’s blushing like a virgin calf… bet he leaks first."
Another, chained low, muttered under his breath: "Hairy’s already dripping. Ox likes 'em furry—means more nights in the breeding pen."
A third slave, face half-hidden in shadow, whispered to his neighbor: "New meat thinks they’re tough. Wait till dawn—they’ll crawl like the rest of us."
Laughter was low, choked, more like wheezing than joy—old habit of mockery turned inward.
Ox stepped back, whip cracking air once—slaves flinched uniform. "Show bodies open always. Free folk see your worth—Master sees you earn for him. Hide? Penalty. Drop value? Scrap heap."
The smooth one swallowed hard, hole throbbing from the probe. They’re laughing… at us. But they’re right? We’re property. I owe for this 'life'. If I show open, raise value—maybe worth keeping.
The dark-haired one trembled, cock half-hard despite shame. They chuckle… but Ox said they like fucking hairy ones. Means I’m good for something. Lower being, but gotta earn. They laugh 'cause they know—we’ll break too.
Ox barked: "Kneel. Both of you. On your knees, foreheads to dirt. Repeat after me—loud, clear. Or the whip teaches instead."
The two fresh slaves dropped to knees, foreheads pressing cold dirt, asses up, holes exposed to the barracks air. Field Ox towered over them, voice slow and deliberate.
"Repeat: I am meat. Human livestock. Property."
They echoed, voices cracking:
"I am meat… human livestock… property…"
As the first words hung in the air, the barracks tensed—shadowy forms in the corners shifted, spines straightening like pulled strings, breaths catching in unison. The other slaves, hardened bulls with scarred backs and low-hanging sacks, froze mid-breath; their eyes gleamed feral in the dim light, bodies leaning forward instinctively. One grizzled veteran, his hairy chest rising sharp, muttered the line under his breath first—lips moving silent at the edges, then whispering low and fervent, like a prayer that chained him to life. Another joined, a younger stud with a freshly branded thigh, his voice a ragged rasp syncing with the new meat's echo, pre-cum beading on his half-hard cock as the words justified every lash, every stretch, every humiliating drip. Soon the whole room murmured in waves—throats working, foreheads dipping lower in reflex, asses clenching as if the mantra squeezed them from inside. These words were their anchor, the steel foundation propping up their broken wills: supporting the endless labor, excusing the shame of leaking cocks and winking holes, proving their existence as valued meat rather than scrap for the mines. The chorus built graphic and raw—sweat-slick bodies quivering, balls drawing tight in shared submission, voices blending into a low, animal hum that vibrated the dirt floor.
"I exist to raise my value. To work, to open, to earn every breath I take."
"I exist… to raise my value… to work, to open, to earn every breath I take…"
"My body is not mine. My hole is not mine. My cock is not mine. They belong to Master."
"My body… is not mine… my hole is not mine… my cock is not mine… they belong to Master…"
"I owe my life. I will pay in labor, in shame, in submission. Or I will be scrapped."
"I owe my life… I will pay in labor… in shame… in submission… or I will be scrapped…"
Ox nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Remember it. Every morning, every night—repeat until it’s all you know."
He turned and lumbered out, door slamming shut behind him.
Barracks fell quiet again. The two new slaves stayed on knees, foreheads to dirt, bodies trembling, minds churning the words they just spoke aloud. Whispers from the shadows faded—tomorrow's labor loomed, and the affirmation already echoed inside them like chains.
...
Field Ox turned on his heel, boots scraping dirt one last time. The heavy door slammed shut behind him with a dull clang that echoed through the barracks like a final nail in a coffin. Silence hung for a heartbeat—then the huddle of field slaves stirred.
They moved slow, deliberate, like a pack circling new pups. No rush, no aggression—just quiet, almost ritual curiosity. Rough hands reached out: a palm clapped the smooth light-haired slave on the shoulder, another squeezed the dark-haired one's bicep, testing muscle like livestock at market. Fingers traced fresh collar marks, slapped asses lightly, not to hurt but to feel.
"Easy, bros," one murmured, voice low and gravelly. "Relax. We're fraternity here. Fellow slaves. All in the same yoke."
Another slave—older, scarred across the chest—squatted in front of them, eyes level. "You saw the Master yet? Real one, not just Ox. Fuckin' mountain of a man. Power rolls off him natural-like. Born to own. True хозяин. We all serve him. Every hole, every muscle, every breath."
The smooth one flinched at the touch on his ribs, body rigid. They're touching me like I'm theirs… like I'm one of them already. Hands everywhere—shame burns hotter than the probe. I hate this. I hate them. But… they're smiling? Like brothers? No. This is wrong.
The dark-haired one tensed as callused fingers brushed his hairy crack again, casual, almost affectionate. They slap my ass like it's normal. Like I'm home. Body still leaks from Ox's fingers… hate it, but their hands feel… familiar? No. Fuck no. I'm not like them. Not yet.
A younger field slave grinned, teeth crooked. "Life here's simple, bros. No decisions. No worries. They wash us, feed us, keep us strong. We just work and serve. Even let us fuck once a week—real mercy. Young ones like you get to breed the older stock. Their asses? Fuckin' beasts—hairy, muscled, deep. They moan like bitches under young cock. Never fucked like that on the free side. Thank Master for that gift."
The smooth slave's face burned. They talk about fucking like it's a reward. Like it's normal. My hole still throbs from Ox… and they envy it? I'm meat. Lower. But… once a week? No. I won't break that fast.
The dark-haired one swallowed, cock twitching at the words despite himself. Older ones moaning… hairy asses taking young dick… fuck, body wants to imagine it. Hate myself. But they say thank you to Master? For that?
Another slave leaned in, tracing the fresh brand on the smooth one's hip with a finger. "Nice mark. Clean lines. Hurts like hell first time, yeah? But it helps. Reminds you who you are every second. Mine's faded now, but I still feel it. Made me understand—I'm property. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He nodded at the dark-haired one's chest—small steel rings glinted through dark nipples. "And these? Lucky fuckers. Rings look good on young meat. Lifts your value—Master likes 'em perky and decorated. Makes buyers drool. You'll thank him later when they tug 'em during inspection."
The smooth one hissed as a thumb brushed his unmarked nipples—still raw from the transport clamps. Rings? They envy metal in skin? Pain shoots through my chest just thinking. Shame… they stare like it's jewelry. I'm not a fucking show animal. But… they say it raises value. Fuck.
The dark-haired one winced as someone flicked his ring lightly—sharp sting straight to his cock. Hurts… but they smile. Say lucky. Body heats up again. Hate this. Hate how it leaks when they touch. But… maybe they're right. Maybe this makes me worth more.
A deep gong rang through the barracks—three heavy strikes.
Instantly the air shifted. Slaves snapped upright.
"Lights out!" someone barked low. "Three minutes to lie down! Move!"
Hands grabbed the new ones—gentle but firm. "Come on, bros. We'll show you free cells."
They were led through the dim rows—tight iron cages, barely enough to curl in, floors hard-packed dirt under thin straw. One slave tossed them scratchy wool blankets that smelled of old sweat and piss.
"Get in. Sleep fast. Dawn comes quick."
The smooth one crawled inside, knees scraping, body folding small. The cage door clanged shut. Trapped. Like rats. They call this brotherhood? But… no choices. Just sleep. Survive.
The dark-haired one squeezed in beside him in the next cage, blanket rough against hairy skin. Cage feels… safe? No. Wrong. But they helped us. Said relax. Said fraternity. Body still hums from the rings, from the probe. Tomorrow—work. Debt. But… maybe it's simple. Maybe.
Barracks lights dimmed to nothing. Whispers died. Darkness swallowed the rows of chained bodies, only soft breathing and the occasional clink of collar against bar. Tomorrow's labor waited in silence.
Elite Dorm
In the elite dorm—separate wing smelling of clean wood, sweat, and faint musk from the evening fuck—three heavy gong strikes rolled through the corridor like an order no one questioned.
Cody and Jax heard them from their narrow niches. Bodies around them moved fast and familiar—knees scraping, chains clinking, straw shifting as boys hurried into their cages. Quick, practiced motion: fear of the whip mixed with the knowledge of their place. Some stumbled, others crawled smoothly, but the haste was the same—three minutes to settle or face consequences.
Cody curled on his side, knees to chest, back pressed to the bars. The cage was tight, iron biting into skin, forcing him small and contained. First night here. Among them. Strangers who serve the same man, clean his house, give him their holes, fuck his mares on command. The space limited him—restricted movement, set the rhythm, kept him in line. It felt like protection from himself, from the chaos of not knowing what came next. But everything was unfamiliar: the polished wood under the bars, the faint ring of metal in nearby nipples, the quiet absence of curses or open resistance. He was naked among naked, collared among collared, but alone in a way that pressed heavier than any chain.
Jax lay in the next niche, heavy limbs folded awkwardly, cock still half-thick against his thigh from the day's handling. First time in this dorm. Not dirt floor, not ankle chains. Here it's… different. Cleaner cages. Boys who move without question. The bars closed him in, limited him, gave structure to the endless day. It felt like safety from his own impulses, from the fear of doing wrong. But the smell, the sounds, the breathing from every side—boys who had already accepted this life—made his chest tighten. They’re like me now. Like us. Serving. Giving everything. The thought settled cold and unfamiliar.
No one spoke to them. No one needed to.
On the veranda overlooking the sunset, Roman stood with a glass of whiskey in hand. The nigger boy knelt beside him—tall, smooth, nipple rings catching the dying light, heavy cock resting on his thigh. Roman absently stroked the short, coarse hair, fingers trailing down the nape, mind drifting to how that dark skin would gleam later with oil and sweat, how the hole would clench first around fingers, then around cock. Calm. Almost drowsy.
Roman's Veranda Tease
A distant engine growl broke the quiet—familiar, cocky, low bass throb.
House Foreman doors bare-chest short-shorts collar-keys jangle.
"Master Victor here, Sir."
Roman lips curve sly. Quiet night spikes live.
Knee nudges the nigger boy aside—slave crawls obedient eyes-floor, gut twists disappoint stab: no-fuck tonight, Master-cock dream shatters, belly cramps rogue, but head-palm warmth lingers crumb-joy—stroked means valued.
Roman glasses table, shirts straight, gates stride.
Victor climbs pickup-beat headlights blaze, beer grip, grin splits wide—eyes locking on Roman with that spark of easy heat, hand clapping his shoulder a beat too long, thumb brushing collarbone in silent claim amid the gathering dusk.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
