Scout's Prize
The veranda wrapped around the back of the main house like a lazy arm, bathed in the soft glow of evening lanterns that hung from wrought-iron hooks. Roman Wolfe leaned back in his wicker chair, simple khaki pants and shirt clinging comfortably to his solid frame. The air carried the faint tang of cooling earth and distant stables, mixed with the low hum of crickets. A half-empty bottle of beer sweated condensation on the wooden table beside him. He glanced up as footsteps approached, familiar and easy, and a small, genuine smile tugged at his mouth.
Victor Kane stepped into the light, his light hair tousled as always, that boyish grin flashing with its signature dimples. At 25, he carried himself like a jock who'd never quite grown out of his wild phase: 70 inches of lean, defined muscle packed into faded Levi's jeans and a tight t-shirt with some faded rock band print. His blue eyes sparkled with that playful spark, but Roman caught the subtle weariness underneath. He carried a light tan from days on the road, and the faint stubble on his jaw said he'd skipped a shave or two. Victor looked alive, a bit rumpled, but magnetic in that effortless way that always pulled people in. Roman scanned him automatically: the broad shoulders, the casual bagpack slung over one arm, the scuffed Converse kicking up a bit of dust. Yeah, this was Victor—his Victor—back from whatever chaos he'd chased this time.
Victor dropped the backpack by the door and stepped forward, his grin widening. "Hey, man, good to see you."
Roman's smile held for a beat, warm and real, the kind reserved for old bonds. Then it sharpened. He set his beer down with a deliberate clink. "Yeah? So where the fuck have you been?"
Victor paused mid-step, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle. He didn't bristle, just owned it. "Ah, shit. Sorry, bro. I'm a little dick for vanishing like that."
Roman raised an eyebrow, waiting. Victor sighed, pulling up a chair and dropping into it with a tired thud. "Got a lead on something. Had to haul ass to the backwoods for a scouting gig. You know how it is."
Roman nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Couldn't pass it up?"
Victor shook his head. "Nah. Family out there dumping their kid. Had to handle it."
"Connection's shit out there," Victor added, leaning back. "Couple days out, three back. I'm wiped."
Roman picked up his beer again, taking a slow sip. "Hoping to turn a profit?"
Victor nodded, eyes lighting up a fraction. "Yeah, fingers crossed."
Roman set the bottle down. "So, the kid? You buy him?"
"Oh, yeah." Victor's tone shifted to business casual. "Dark folks out there. No freedom vibes. Kid's been sucking cock left and right."
Roman tilted his head. "Flipped him already? Profit in?"
Victor shook his head. "Nah, brought him along."
Roman's interest piqued, a short "O!" escaping him. "Where is he?"
Victor jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "In the truck."
"Show me the goods?"
Victor chuckled low. "Sure. But... got anything to eat? I'm starving."
Roman chuckled softly, waving a hand. "Light snacks with the beer, and cold meat for master Vic." He turned slightly, voice sharpening as he called out. "House Alpha. Victor's got a kid in the truck. Bring him here."
The table filled quickly: cold cuts, cheese, bread, more beer. Roman and Victor clinked bottles, the conversation drifting to easy bullshit. Races Victor had run, some mutual friends, the latest market trends. Nothing deep, just filler while they waited, beers emptying slow. The veranda felt almost normal, like two old pals catching up.
Then the House Alpha appeared. He was twenty-seven, his body smooth and toned, with short shorts and an apron hugging his frame. He moved with practiced efficiency, leading the boy into the light and positioning him dead center under the lantern's glow. The overseer dropped to his knees without a word, his eyes fixed on the floor, freezing in place like furniture.
The boy stood there. He looked eighteen, maybe nineteen. He was sturdy country stock bred from chores, not gyms, with broad shoulders, a dense back, and a body wired for labor. His light hair was messy, as if he'd run a hand through it a hundred times. He had an open face with a straight nose, lively eyes, and faint freckles dusting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. An uneven tan from shirtsleeves and collars marked his skin, and his lips were chapped from the road. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands constantly fidgeting. They dangled at his sides, clasped in front of him, and dropped again. His eyes darted nervously from the table to the men, then quickly away. He looked like a calf dragged to market, too dumb to smell the bolt gun. His hunger hit him clearly, and his pupils locked onto the food. His Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow. He wore faded jeans and scuffed sneakers, with a plain tee stretched tight over his chest and flat gut. He held no pose and put on no show; he was just standing there, exposed under the light, completely lost in the quiet.
Roman flicked a quick glance at the boy, then back to Victor. He lifted his beer, clinked again, and took a bite of cheese. Casual, unhurried. The boy wasn't the focus yet.
"You hauled him all the way dressed?" Roman asked, tone even.
Victor nodded, popping a piece of bread into his mouth. "Yeah. Backwoods, man—you know, barely seen slaves out there. Nudity's a big no-no with those righteous types."
Roman hummed. "Kid nervous the whole way?"
"Big time." Victor shrugged. "Didn't want to piss off the locals, so I kept him clothed. No collar either. Didn't need the attention."
"You know how those work crews stick together," Victor added, sipping his beer.
Roman leaned in slightly. "Parents dumped him cheap? Not to embarrass the family?"
Victor nodded. "Yeah. Sad, huh?" He paused, then shifted. "But look at him. Solid little bull."
Between bites, Victor added: "Too wiped from driving to even try him out."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "Not a virgin? Doesn't tank the price?"
Victor confirmed: "Nah, not a virgin." He leaned back. "Parents offloaded him 'cause he was sucking cock in the barn. Probably took it up the ass too."
"These country bulls. Pumped full of juice, fucking anything that moves," Victor said with a dismissive wave.
He turned directly to the boy: "So, not a virgin, huh?"
The boy stayed silent, no reaction. Just standing there under the lantern like livestock on a block.
Victor circled back: "Road beat me down. I just crashed out."
"But he's chill," Victor said. "Didn't try to bolt. Tied him up, sure, but no drama."
Roman nodded toward him, casual. "Vic, check how the kid's reacting."
Then, straightforward: "But you scored a good buy."
Victor's eyes lit with hunger, popping another bite. "Wanna take him for the night? I'm not big on young ones. You seem to dig 'em."
The boy heard it all. The casual talk of his virginity, of someone "taking" him tonight. It didn't click fully in his skull. The idea of being used like that, handed over sexually between two men who drank beer and laughed while deciding, clashed hard with his country-boy world. Not pure fear—just stunned confusion. His breathing deepened. Chest rising and falling heavy. Instinctive cope. Still silent, still standing. But his cock stirred once in his jeans, and the flush creeping up his neck said his body understood what his mind refused.
Victor winked at Roman, light and teasing, testing the air with that friendly jab.
The First Confession
The veranda lanterns cast long, warm shadows across the wooden planks. Bottles clinked softly as Roman and Victor finished another round. Victor tore into a piece of bread, chewing with the lazy contentment of a man who'd finally sat down after too many hours on the road. Roman leaned back, one arm draped over the chair, watching the boy standing rigid under the light.
The kid's breathing had changed. Deeper. Uneven. Almost panting. Sweat soaked his t-shirt dark at the armpits. The front of his jeans showed a thickening bulge that hadn't been there twenty minutes ago, fabric stretched taut over the swelling shaft. His freckled cheeks burned crimson, heat spreading down his neck to the collar of his tee. Tears already stood in the corners of his eyes, but he hadn't wiped them away. He just stood there, hands twitching at his sides, caught between fight and flight and something worse—surrender.
Roman took a slow pull from his beer, eyes never leaving the boy.
"When I look at a kid like this," he began, voice low and deliberate, "strong back, straight cock, eyes still full of fire—I don't see a mistake. I see destiny wearing human skin. Narrow hips, veiny arms, nipples that pebble the second the air moves across them, a dick that swells fatter for a stranger's fist than it ever did for pussy—all of it screams livestock dressed up as a man. Free men don't blush crimson when they're bent over with their holes on display. Free men don't leak pre-cum from a single look. These boys are penned stallions: muscle, aggression, and inside—an empty space waiting for a chain."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Slaves aren't like us. We're born to rule. They're born animals: hunger, fucking, fear. That's their operating system. 'Freedom' is just a glitch society allowed to run too long. Picture a wolf in a city apartment. Howling, clawing the walls, losing its mind without a leash. That's them on the loose: fighting, drinking, wasting cum on nothing. Inside—hollowness. Rage, shame, tears—they're not rebellion. They're nature screaming: Take me. Break me. Breed me."
Roman's gaze sharpened.
"We owners see it the second they hit the block. Fresh meat blushes, cock hardens under inspection—body already knows its place, even if the mind fights. Freedom was torture for them. It ate them from the inside until they started dreaming of whips, collars, cock in their holes. They're not people. They're stock—born to crawl, lick, come from pain. We fix the glitch: rituals, false hope, slow collapse until they howl Master."
He took another sip, voice dropping softer, almost intimate.
"We pour soul into molding useful animals. No one thanks us. We stay alone in that labor. All we get is warm holes clenching around us, profit from broken bodies sold, and the quiet satisfaction of giving them purpose. That's it. No parades. Just work—and sometimes their grateful tears when they finally understand."
Victor whistled low, popping another piece of cheese into his mouth. "Heavy, man."
Roman only shrugged. "Truth usually is."
The boy's chest heaved. A single tear slipped free, tracked down his freckled cheek, hung at the jawline, then fell. His jeans were visibly tented now. Fabric stretched tight over the thickening shaft, the damp stain at the tip darkened and spread. His balls ached behind the denim. Stomach clenched in rolling cramps. He looked like he might collapse.
Roman tilted his head. "Am I right, pup? You already feel it, don't you?"
The boy's lips trembled. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. Voice came out cracked, barely audible.
"Y-you're… right… Master."
The word Master fell like a stone into still water. The boy flinched at his own voice, but kept going, words tumbling out faster, raw, shaking.
"When you look at me… I feel it. Born slave. Narrow hips, nipples hard just from your eyes, cock… cock swelled in my pants right now, getting heavy from your words—like my body already knows. Parents caught me… sucking cock in the barn, in alleys… and sold me. That's the mark. Body always knew. Cock never got hard for girls the way it got hard when men humiliated me. In 'freedom' guys envied my shoulders, my strength… but inside… always empty. Didn't understand. Now I stand here and you can see how soaked my underwear is, how I'm dripping from your voice alone… thank you for the lesson… thank you…"
His hands shook violently as he hooked thumbs into the waistband. Jeans slid down muscled thighs, pooling at his ankles. T-shirt came next. Pulled over his head in one jerky motion, revealing smooth, strong chest, flat stomach, nipples already peaked dark and stiff. He stepped out of the jeans, kicked off sneakers and socks with clumsy, hurried movements.
Naked except for soaked briefs.
He straightened. Looked straight at Roman. Then at Victor. Then back to Roman. Eyes glassy with tears and something darker.
Inside his head one word rang like a hammer on steel:
Now.
In one movement he stripped his briefs, exposing young cock. Hands rose slowly. Fingers laced behind his head. Elbows wide. Chest lifted. Legs parted shoulder-width. Inspection—uncommanded.
His cock strained upward, thick and flushed, a rope of pre-cum drooling from the slit. Balls hung heavy, drawn up tight from shame and arousal. Pink hole winked once under the lantern light as his ass clenched involuntarily.
Victor let out a low, appreciative laugh. "Well, damn."
Roman didn't smile. He simply studied the boy. Every tremor, every drop of sweat, every shameful twitch of the cock.
Then he spoke to Victor without looking away from the trembling figure.
"You mind if I inspect your prize?"
Victor spread his hands. "Bro, I already told you. He's yours for the night. Do whatever. Just don't fuck up the resale value."
Roman rose smoothly. Crossed the veranda in four unhurried steps.
He stopped inches from the boy.
The kid was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. Every breath sounded like a sob held back.
Roman reached out.
Rough fingertips traced the line of the boy's jaw. Gentle. Almost tender. The boy flinched like he'd been struck. Then leaned into the touch. Barely. Instinctively. His cheeks flared hotter under Roman's thumb.
Roman's hand slid down. Over the collarbone. Across the chest. Thumb ground slow across one erect nipple. The boy gasped. Sharp, broken sound. Nipple hardened further under the callused pad, pebbling tight. His stomach cramped. Down the flat gut. Roman's palm grazed the trail of fine hair below the navel.
Roman cupped the boy's balls. Heavy. Warm. Drawn up tight against the groin. Rolled them slowly in his palm, weighing the sack like fruit at market. The kid whimpered. Knees buckled for a second before he caught himself. Cheeks flamed deeper. Fresh tears spilled, tracking through the sweat on his jaw.
Roman leaned in, voice low, only for the boy.
"Good pup. You're learning fast."
He turned his head slightly, speaking over the boy's shoulder to the kneeling House Alpha.
"Prepare him for tonight. Shave everything around the cock. Clean." His thumb stroked the boy's wet cheek again; fresh tears spilled over it. "Leave the stubble on the face. I like it."
The boy sobbed once. Quiet. Shattered.
Roman gave the balls one last gentle squeeze, then stepped back.
"Take him."
The House Alpha rose silently, clipped a short lead to the boy's wrist, and led him away into the house. Naked back glistened with sweat. Ass cheeks flexed with each step. Cock bobbed obscenely, still dripping.
Roman returned to his chair, picked up his beer, and took a long swallow.
Victor watched him with a crooked grin.
"Welcome back to the game, huh?"
Roman only smiled. Small, satisfied, dangerous.
"Game never stopped."
Victor's Night Pick
The veranda lanterns had dimmed to a low amber glow. Empty bottles stood in a loose cluster on the table; plates held only crumbs and a few stray olives. The night air carried the faint scent of hay and distant horse sweat from the stables.
Victor stretched, joints popping, then leaned forward with both elbows on the table. His blue eyes glinted with lazy hunger.
"Bro," he said, voice low and easy, "you gonna let me borrow the Blacksmith tonight?"
Roman gave a short, dry chuckle and shook his head.
"I'd give you any hole on the property, Vic. But the Forge Ox got pretty thoroughly wrecked a couple days ago. His ass is still loose and swollen. Probably too soft for your taste right now. I've got something else lined up, though. Couple of fresh thirty-year-old field bulls. Hairy chests, thick legs, fat cocks. The kind you like. Want to see?"
Victor's grin turned wolfish. "Fuck yeah. Shame about the smith, though. I love the way that big ox groans when I bottom out."
Roman tilted his head toward the doorway. The House Alpha had just reappeared, still in his short apron and shorts, skin gleaming faintly from moving through the warm night.
"You already prepped the field fresh meat?" Roman asked.
"Yes, Sir," the house slave answered smoothly. "They've been cleaned, shaved, holes flushed. Left just enough chest hair and face stubble to keep them looking rugged. Ready for inspection."
Roman had given the order the moment Victor's truck rolled through the gate. He knew his friend's type—didn't need to ask. Thirty-plus, muscled from real work, hairy pecs, a little rough around the edges. Satisfying Victor's wants—even in this small, unspoken way—gave Roman a quiet, private pleasure. Victor himself remained the one thing Roman couldn't quite reach, and that made every small victory sweeter.
Half an hour earlier three selected field slaves had been pulled from the evening shift. They'd been scrubbed raw, nails cleaned, assholes douched until water ran clear, groins and asses shaved baby-smooth. Only the short, dark mat on their chests and the deliberate stubble framing strong jaws had been spared. Clean white loincloths hung low on their hips. More decoration than coverage.
Now they stood in a row on the veranda's edge, lit by the lanterns. Hands laced behind heads, eyes locked on the floorboards. Legs spread at parade width. Three solid, thirty-ish bodies. Field-tanned. Scarred from chain and load. Cocks half-hard beneath thin cloth from sheer nervous anticipation. Balls drawn up in their shaved sacks.
Field slaves rarely stood clothed in front of owners. They lived naked among their own kind. Mud, sweat, whip marks, no dignity left to strip. But now, wearing even this scrap of fabric in front of two free men, one of them young and visibly hungry, sent a different kind of shame curling through their guts. Their cocks twitched and leaked beneath the cloth. Thighs trembled. Necks burned red. The thin loincloths hid nothing. Wet spots darkened the white fabric where each cockhead pressed against it.
Victor was already devouring them with his eyes.
Roman made a casual gesture. "Well? Go on. Inspect."
The house slave moved before anyone had to speak.
"Sure, Sir."
He stopped at the first man. Broad. Thirty-one. Former quarry worker. With one sharp yank he ripped the loincloth away. The slave's thick cock sprang free, already three-quarters hard. The house slave wrapped a fist around it and pumped fast. Five, six rough strokes. Shaft swelled to full, veiny attention, pre-cum smearing the house slave's knuckles. Then he spun the man around, bent him at the waist, and spread his cheeks wide.
"Sorry, Sirs," the house slave said without inflection. "These field trash aren't trained to present properly yet. This one's been collared six months. Most broken of the three. Takes cock well, no fuss."
Same ritual for the second. Quick jerk-off, rough spin, cheeks pried apart to show a clean, pink, recently-used hole. The slave's stomach clenched as his ass gaped under the lantern for two strangers. His cock dripped onto the boards.
Then the third.
This one was noticeably bigger. Thirty-two years old, still carrying the broad, unrefined bulk of a man who'd spent his life hauling rock and timber. Two months ago he'd been free, signing contracts, eating with his hands, sleeping in his own bed. Now he was property. Shoulders wide enough to block a doorway, thick traps sloping into a heavy neck, arms veined and corded from years of real labor. His chest was a solid slab. Broad pectorals covered in a dense mat of dark hair that narrowed into a thick trail down the center of his stomach. Nipples large, dark, already stiff from the night air and the humiliation of being handled in front of free men. Belly flat but powerful. Not cut like a gym body. Functional. Thick. Built to carry and lift. Thighs like tree trunks, calves knotted. Even standing still he looked like he could bench a grown man.
The house slave stripped him the same way. Sharp tug on the loincloth. It fell away. The cock that sprang free was thick, heavy, already half-hard from nervous anticipation. A few fast, rough strokes from the house slave's fist and it rose fully. Veiny. Flushed. Fat head glistening with pre. The slave's balls hung low and full beneath, skin tight from the shave.
The house slave spun him, bent him at the waist, and pried the heavy cheeks apart with both hands. The hole clenched once under the exposure. Pink. Recently used but still tight-looking.
The house slave paused, gripping the bull's hip firmly. "This one's only two months in," he reported flatly. "Still the wildest of the three. Might kick if you push too fast, but he opens up fine now. Loves choking on young cock, takes loads straight down his gullet."
A sharp jab from the house slave's knuckles dug into the bull's flank, prompting him. The slave's thick neck flushed crimson. Veins bulged under sweat-slick skin. His thick cock twitched violently beneath him. A fat bead of pre-cum oozed from the slit and splattered the floorboards.
The house slave, sensing the shift, delivered a sudden, hard slap to the bull's left ass cheek. Open palm. Full force. The crack echoed across the veranda. The heavy glute jiggled once, then clenched tight, muscle rippling under the skin. Victor's gaze dropped to the slave's low-hanging balls, heavy sack swaying between spread thighs, brushing the floorboards with each involuntary clench. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly against the tanned flesh. The slave grunted low, body jerking forward, but he held position. Legs spread. Back bowed. Hole winking from the shock.
Victor watched, fascinated. Another slap. Harder. Right cheek this time. The glute flexed and quivered, the muscle bunching powerfully before relaxing. The handprint overlapped the first, turning the skin an angry scarlet. The slave's thick cock jerked beneath him, a fresh bead of pre-cum welling at the slit and dripping to the floorboards.
Victor's grin turned slow and predatory.
"Hey, boy," Victor said, voice soft but commanding. "Come here."
The slave's thick neck flushed a deeper, uglier red that crept up from the collar and spread across his cheekbones like a slap. "Boy." Not man, not bull, not even slave—just boy. A word that could have belonged to a teenager, a kid still growing into his shoulders. And here it was, dropped casually onto a grown man who outweighed the speaker by at least fifty pounds, a man who'd spent his life being called "big fella," "boss," "mate" on job sites.
His heavy pecs rose and fell faster. The dark mat of hair across them seemed to bristle. Large nipples, already peaked from the night air and earlier handling, tightened further into hard points. As if the word itself had pinched them. His thick cock, still rigid from the house slave's rough strokes, gave a single helpless jerk upward. Pre-cum beaded fresh at the slit and dripped in a slow, shameful string to the floorboards.
He was used to being naked among other slaves. Used to bending over for overseers or breeding studs who needed his holes. Used to pain, used to orders barked in coarse voices. But standing bare in front of a young, free man—someone who clearly planned to fuck him tonight—was a fresh cut of humiliation. His cock jerked at the shame. Another bead of pre oozed from the slit.
He stepped forward. Slow. Obedient. Knees trembling just enough to notice.
"Big boy like you," Victor murmured, "and you blush like a teenager when I call you that. Cute."
Victor reached out, closed a loose grip around the base of the slave's shaft, and tugged downward. Firm, not cruel.
"Kneel."
When he dropped to the floor in front of Victor, the impact of his kneecaps against the veranda boards sent a jolt up his spine. He kept his eyes down, staring at Victor's scuffed sneakers, cheeks and neck still dark crimson. His cock throbbed in the open air, leaking steadily onto the boards between his knees.
Victor ruffled the short, sweat-damp hair. "Relax, pup. I know you're not fully house-trained yet. You'll catch hell for that later." His fingers scratched gently behind the ear like he was petting a dog. "Tell me, big man. You know why you're kneeling here?"
"Yes, Sir." His voice came out hoarse, a slight tremble breaking his deep baritone. "To be... your fuck-toy, Sir."
The words tasted like ash to a man who used to run crews and sign contracts. Forcing that explicit confirmation out of his own mouth sent a violent wave of humiliation straight to his gut. His stomach violently clenched in a hollow spasm, and his heavy scrotum shriveled into a tight lump, pulling his achy balls up to his stomach in a desperate ache. A hot, humiliating flush crawled up his thick neck, and his cheeks flared with a burning heat over the reality of what he'd just said out loud. A grown man, verbally owning his status as a disposable hole. Worse, his thick cock traitorously twitched at the sickening degradation, leaking another thick string of pre-cum onto the boards between his knees.
Victor laughed, low and pleased. "Good boy. You gonna give me trouble tonight?"
"No, Sir!" The answer came out fervent, completely given over to the shame. "It's a privilege for any field slave to serve a free man. I'll fight for that privilege, Sir."
Victor laughed, low and pleased.
"Good boy. Then your dreams come true tonight." He patted the man's cheek. "Your hole already prepped?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Sit here under my hand while Master Roman and I finish talking."
The big field slave folded himself at Victor's feet. Knees wide. Back straight. Cock rigid and leaking against his stomach. Victor's hand rested on his head, fingers carding through the short hair every few seconds. Once, twice, he let the man suck his thumb. Slow. Deep. Like a pacifier. The slave's eyes fluttered closed in something close to bliss.
From nameless field animal to a free man's fuck-toy. Heaven.
Inside his head he kept repeating the same frantic prayer:
Don't fuck this up. Don't fuck this up. Such luck, to serve a young master. Any hole he wants. Let me stay. Let me please him. Don't send me back to the mud.
Across the table Roman watched with quiet amusement.
Victor glanced up, thumb still in the slave's mouth.
"Thanks for reading my mind, bro."
Roman raised his bottle in a small toast.
"Anytime."
Two Different Heavens
The bedroom was dim. Only a single lamp on the nightstand cast a warm pool of light across the bed. The boy knelt on the rough carpet as ordered. Knees spread wide. Hands clasped behind his back. Three days since his parents sold him for barn-sucking secrets. Three days since the truck ride, the market, the collar locked tight. His body ached from the road. The real ache twisted deeper: anticipation knotted with terror in his guts.
He shifted weight. Heel to toe. Thigh to thigh. Trying to ease the numbness creeping up his legs. Every creak in the hallway made his breath hitch. Naked now. Soaked briefs discarded like trash. Cock hung soft and heavy between his thighs. Half-hard from veranda shame but refusing to rise fully. Nipples peaked in the cool air, hardening from cold humiliation. He stared at the carpet. Cheeks burned crimson.
Inside, a dark thrill burned hotter than fear. Finally. No more stolen glances at strong men. No more guilty barn fantasies. My fuck-hole, my useless meat, belongs to a real Master now. Every urge bent toward obedience. This is what I was born for.
The door opened.
Roman stepped in. Shirt unbuttoned. Sleeves rolled. He closed the door softly. Leaned against it. Studied the boy like livestock at auction.
"Up on the bed. Face down. Ass up."
The boy scrambled to obey. Knees sank into the mattress. Chest pressed to sweat-damp sheets. Arms stretched forward. He arched his back. Offered the pink, virgin fuck-hole. Cock dangled beneath him. Soft. Useless.
Roman undressed slowly. Boots thudded off. Pants dropped. Shirt peeled away. Naked now. His cock stood thick and hard. Veins bulged along the shaft. Heavy balls swung low.
He climbed onto the bed behind the boy. One hand gripped a hip bone, bruising meat. The other guided the blunt head to the virgin ring.
No lube. No mercy beyond the fresh shave.
He pushed.
The boy gasped. Sharp. Broken. The thick head breached the dry ring with raw fire. Virgin walls tore open under friction. Guts clenched in panic. Pain lanced up his spine to his balls, drawing them tight into his body cavity. Thighs trembled violently. Stomach cramped like a fist.
Yes. Master's cock wrecking my hole. Finally owning me.
But pleasure never came. No fire. No rush.
Roman thrust deeper. Slow at first. Then harder. Each stroke ripped guts apart. Raw friction ground against smooth walls. Prostate hammered like meat on a block. Wet slaps echoed. Smell of sweat and faint blood thickened the air. The boy's body jerked with impacts. Sweat poured down his back. Hole spasmed, walls fluttering uselessly around the invading shaft.
Why won't my cock fucking stand? What's wrong with me? This is what I craved. Hard breed. Owned guts. Why burn without the fire?
He clenched desperately. Muscles milked the shaft. Begging for a groan. Pain only swelled: guts stretched to ruin, walls scorched raw, balls slapping his own sack with fresh stabs. Throat closed on sobs. Tears scalded cheeks.
Roman's rhythm built. Deep. Punishing. The boy sobbed into sheets. Tears soaked fabric. Cock hung limp. Untouched. Dead soft. Balls ached empty.
Is this all I am? A soft-dick hole that can't even please?
Roman growled low. Hips slammed forward one last time. Hot spurts flooded guts. Thick ropes of cum painted walls. Breed sealed deep. The boy's body shuddered from the heat flooding his wrecked fuck-hole. No orgasm chased it. Cock shriveled smaller. Balls throbbed denied.
Roman pulled out. Wet pop. Cum oozed thick. Thin blood streaked thighs. Hole gaped. Pink flesh everted raw. Stinking of use.
Roman studied the ruin.
Then reached into the nightstand drawer.
Massive black plug emerged. Bulbous. Ridged. Base twice fist-wide. Meant to cork livestock.
The boy's eyes widened. Stomach cramped tighter.
Roman held it up. "Cork for my load, pup. Keep the breed sealed in your guts till morning."
The boy swallowed thick. Drew knees to chest as ordered. Exposed the wrecked ring. Tried relaxing. Breathe deep. Push out. Pain throbbed too fresh. Tip touched. He screamed. High. Raw.
Roman's hand cracked across his cheek. Then stomach. Hard. Open-palmed. Boy curled gasping.
"Ungrateful fuck-meat." Roman snarled. "Take what seals you. With thanks."
The boy forced himself flat. Arms stretched. Ass lifted. Tears streamed scalding paths. Hole fluttered open wider. Begging acceptance.
Roman pressed.
The boy howled. Body convulsed. Plug stretched beyond cock-width. Walls burned white-hot ruin. Inch by ridged inch ground in. Guts deformed around it. Finally, base popped past ring. Seated deep. Hole clamped neck. Locked. Property corked.
Roman stepped back. Breathing steady.
Rang the nightstand bell.
The House Alpha appeared instantly.
"Deep gag. Now."
The slave hurried out and returned with a thick black rubber gag. Long. Phallic. Designed to fill the throat.
Roman took it. The boy opened his mouth without a word. Tears still falling.
Gag slid deep. Past tongue. Into throat. Boy gagged, eyes watering fresh, but didn't fight. Roman buckled it tight.
"Take the meat outside," Roman ordered the house slave. "Tie to porch railing. Plug sealed. Gag locked. Let it think till dawn."
The slave nodded. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
He clipped a short chain to the boy's collar and led him out. Naked. Plugged full. Gagged thick. Cum and blood cooled sticky down inner thighs.
Night air hit like ice. The slave tied the boy's wrists high to the railing. Arms stretched overhead. Body arched. Ass pushed out. Plug shifted deep with every breath, gripping walls. Cum sloshed inside. Gag forced shallow gulps. Wet. Desperate.
The boy sagged into the ropes. Body trembled. Wrecked hole clenched the plug against the breeze. Cum and blood cooled crusty on his thighs. Any passerby could see him strung up like butchered meat. Cock shriveled dead-soft in the cold. Balls drawn up tight.
In the darkness, it clicked.
Why empty inside? Master's breed sealed in my guts. Yet no fire. But this. Chained. Plugged like livestock. Gagged. Waiting for dawn use. This is the warmth. Cruel ownership. Please, Master. Let me stay your broken pup.
Vic
Across the house, in the smaller guest room, the scene was entirely different.
Victor lay sprawled on his back across the wide bed, his jeans shoved down to mid-thigh and his shirt rucked up over his stomach. The big field slave knelt between his legs. He was thirty-two years old and had been collared for two months. Quarry muscle bulged on his massive frame, packing well over two hundred and twenty pounds of hairy-chested power that had once commanded work crews. Now his thick lips stretched obscenely around Victor's cock, his throat opening like a sloppy cunt with every downward shove. Victor's hand fisted the short hair, guiding him balls-deep. The slave's nose ground into Victor's pubes as he gagged wetly, spit bubbling from his stretched lips. Thick ropes of drool cascaded down his stubbled chin, soaking the dense mat of dark hair on his heaving chest. His large dark nipples scraped the sheets, peaked hard from the shame.
The slave moaned around the shaft, sending a vibration humming straight to Victor's core. His own heavy cock throbbed untouched, with thick ropes of pre-cum drooling from the slit in endless strings. His balls ached, drawn up tight under the hairy sack. Every brutal open-palm crack Victor landed on his thick ass cheeks made them jiggle red, jolting his leaking prick and splattering more pre-cum onto the growing wet spot on the sheets beneath his trembling thighs.
Victor's grin widened, lazy and pleased. His free hand kneaded one massive shoulder, feeling the tremor ripple through muscle that outweighed his own jock frame by forty-five pounds.
"You're in paradise right now, aren't you, big man?"
The slave couldn't speak. Mouth stuffed full. But the frantic nod ground his face deeper. Cheeks hollowed. Sucking like a desperate whore. Pushed his ass back into the next hard slap. Ass flesh rippling. Crimson handprints blooming on pale skin.
"Good dog."
Victor yanked him off with a wet slurp. Strings of spit and pre connecting lips to glistening shaft. Slapped the sloppy cockhead across the slave's stubbled cheek twice. Smeared the mess. Then guided it back between those thick lips.
"Keep going. Earn your place tonight. Or it's back to the fields with the mules."
Two months ago I signed contracts. Shook hands with foremen like an equal. Now choking on a kid's cock half my size. My own fat prick drooling like a bitch in heat. Why does his musk taste like mercy?
The slave dove back in. Hungry. Grateful. Face-fucked raw. Salty pre flooding his throat. Gagging slops echoing off the walls. Drool sheeted down his hairy chest. Nipples dragging trails through the wet fur. Throat raw. Bulging visibly with each thrust. His powerful thighs quaked on the mattress. Heavy balls throbbed untouched, sack slick with shame-sweat. Neck flushed crimson from collar to jaw. Eyes watering but locked upward in desperate worship.
Please don't send me back. I'll swallow every drop. Be your hairy hole-toy. Anything but the plow-chains.
He was in paradise.
Across the house the country boy dangled from the porch railing in chains. Cum cooling sticky on his thighs. Wrecked hole clenching spasmodically around the plug. Shivering. Cock dead-soft and shriveled.
In the guest room the field slave slurped like his life depended on it. Face sloppy with spit and pre. Eyes glazed in gratitude. Throat raw and ruined. Cock still dripping thick ropes onto the soaked sheets.
Two different heavens.
One built on pain and the slow death of self.
The other built on eager surrender and the joy of being used.
Please, young Master. Keep this broken giant on his knees. Let me gag for you forever.
Master.
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