The Genuine Moan — Part 2
VI. The Mount
"Will you willingly put your butt on a dick, Twelve?"
They'd cut me down. The ropes unwound from my thighs, my calves, my chest, the braids leaving deep red grooves in the skin that burned as the blood rushed back. They ungagged me. The relief was physical: the jaw popping back into alignment, the tongue uncurling from the floor of the mouth, saliva flooding the palate in a rush that tasted like rubber and salt. My hands were free. No ropes, no cuffs, no restraint. Just training.
Greer leaned close. The coffee breath. The good soap. He nodded toward the bull. "Same cock your sire just rode. His body's still on the shaft: the slick, the residual trace, everything his insides left behind." The voice didn't change: same patience, same steady register. "I know what you want, pup. You want your dad close. This is the closest the schedule allows." A pause. "Mount the bull. Show me the chute opens on its own. And as a reward, your dad mounts you one last time."
"Surrender, boy."
The bull lay on his back on the mat, cock standing vertical, eleven inches, slicked, the head glinting under the lights. His face was blank. His hands rested at his sides. A tool. A training aid. A cock with a body attached.
Up close, the shaft was enormous, thicker than my wrist, the veins raised under the taut skin, the head swollen dark and wet. And under the chemical sharpness of the lube, another scent: musky, organic, unmistakable. My father's body. The smell of his insides clinging to the shaft, the intimate residue that Greer had named and the nose now confirmed. My shaft jumped at the recognition, a pulse of blood that followed the scent home.
"Lower yourself."
I stood over him. My legs shook, the tremors that had lived in my thighs since session one, the tremors that four years of collar had never trained out because the tremors weren't disobedience, they were truth, and the truth was that the muscles still knew what no felt like even when the mouth had forgotten how to say it.
I squatted. My hands braced against the bull's chest, the skin was feverish, dry, the chest of a body that didn't care who sat on it. My hole found the head, the cockhead pressing the muscle, the chute stretching, and this time the stretch was my own doing, my legs lowering my body onto the cock, my weight driving the entry. Self-penetration. No restraints. No excuse. The will surrendering what the muscle had already given up.
The head passed the ring. The shaft followed, inch by inch, the depth filling, the walls stretching wide, the prostate compressing under the angle. And then the slickness registered: not just lube, not just the bull's residual warmth, but something underneath, something organic, something the shaft had carried from my dad's insides into mine. The residue of my dad's body coating the walls of mine, father and son connected through the tool that had opened them both.
My cock jerked, a hard, involuntary pulse that had nothing to do with the prostate and everything to do with the knowledge that I was riding my father's wetness, that the residue coating me was his. The cock pulsed again, harder, and a bead of pre-cum stretched from the slit and fell.
"Stop." Greer's voice. I froze, the shaft buried to the root, the bull's pelvis flat against my ass. "Nobody pushed you down, Twelve. Nobody spread your legs. Nobody held the cock steady. You found it, you aimed it, you sat on it. Your own weight drove the entry." His hand found my shoulder, brief, procedural, the touch of a man checking a gauge. "Would you call that obedience? Or would you call that choice?"
The hole. Not my hole. The possessive had dropped away somewhere between the first inch and the last, and I hadn't felt it go.
Greer's eyes narrowed. He never missed anything.
"Something just shifted behind your eyes. I don't need to know what you lost in there — your face already told the room." The hand lifted. "Good."
"Present your body to your dad." His voice from the side, steady. "Arch the back. Show the chest. Let's give your dad something to look at."
My hands went behind my head. Present position: elbows wide, chest open, the posture nobody had ordered but the body assumed because four years of collar had written it into the spine. I arched. My dad stood three feet away, unbound, free-standing, hands behind his own head in the same position. Two slaves presenting. His eyes were on me, not on the cock disappearing into my body, not on the sphincter stretched white around the shaft, but on my face. On my eyes. Watching his son learn a skill, the same focus he'd brought to the batting cage, to the pool's edge, to every lesson delivered before the collar made lessons into something else.
"Try to cum without hands. Ride it." A pause. "Find your spot, pup. Explore your body: tilt, shift, feel where the pressure is. Your dad just came hands-free on a stranger's cock. He knows the drill. Show him you're a fast learner."
I rode it. My hips rose and fell, the bull's cock stretching and emptying, the prostate jolting on every descent. My cock bounced against my belly, slapping the skin, the head leaking a steady string of pre-cum that pooled in my navel and overflowed down my abs. My balls (weighted, leaden, aching) swung with the motion.
I couldn't come. The audience (my dad watching, his eyes on mine, his cock hard, his nod still echoing in the space between us) froze something inside me. The orgasm built to a wall and couldn't climb it. My body wanted release and couldn't find the gate because the gate was behind my dad's eyes and his eyes were proud and the pride held the gate shut from the other side, and no amount of riding could force it from mine.
Greer watched. The pencil tapped the clipboard twice, then stopped.
"You can ride a stranger's cock and your ring stays open. That's the muscle. But your prostate won't fire because the man watching you is the man you need inside you, and a tool doesn't carry his voice." He leaned forward. "Your body wants to cum for your dad, not in front of him. Different circuit. We'll train that next."
The hand. Once. Brief. The scalp registered the pressure before the brain named who it belonged to.
"Progress. Real progress. Now we know exactly how to finish you."
The deal. It was forming in the space where the orgasm had stalled: my father's cock as the price of a surrender I'd already half-given. I would moan for him. I would make it genuine. And the muscle that opened for love would learn to open for any cock, because that was what Ridgemont sold: not obedience, but the real thing, and the real thing required a real instrument, and the instrument was my father, and my father was theirs.
VII. The Reward
"All fours. Your dad will mount his boy."
The mat. My hands and knees on the foam, the old foam, the thin foam, the foam that had memorized a thousand boys' weight and gave back nothing. My father behind me. His knees bracketing my calves, the same position Harlan used, but the weight was different: lighter on the left knee, the bad knee, the one that popped.
His voice. Not Greer's orders — his own. Half-obedience, half-genuine, the two indistinguishable, like water and salt in the ocean:
"I'm going to push in now, son. Let the ring give way. You know how. You know the shape of my cock. The body remembers. Let it remember."
The head pressed the sphincter. And the sphincter gave way.
Not gradually. Not through the fourteen-session war of attrition that Harlan's cock had fought five days a week. The muscle released like a fist unclenching when the person it's protecting walks into the room, immediately, completely, the resistance dissolving into recognition because the chute knew this cock. The gate had learned this cock in the barracks, in the dark, in the bunk where both of us were property and neither of us had a name and the only thing left was the shape of each other, memorized by skin.
"There." His voice. Close. His lips near my ear, the breath close, the same breath from the barracks: guilt-breath, scared-breath, breathing through something he needed and hated and loved simultaneously. "Feel that? That's the second ring. Let it go. I'll hold here until it opens."
He held. Two inches past the outer ring, the cockhead pressing the inner sphincter (the deep gate) and the inner gate resisted because the inner gate hadn't had fourteen sessions of Harlan's methodical assault, the inner gate was the territory the training hadn't reached, the last lock.
My father held. Patient. The patience that had been cruelty in the barracks was instruction now. His hands rested on my hips, thumbs in the divots of muscle, fingertips on the crest of the pelvis. Steadying. Not gripping.
The inner gate opened.
"Push back against me." His voice. Low. Coaching. The voice a father uses at the batting cage, at the pool's edge, on the bike with the training wheels coming off. "Show me you want it. My good son."
I pushed back. The cock pressed into the depth, all of it, his pelvis meeting my ass, his balls settling against my perineum, full, close, familiar. The rhythm began. Not the metronomic Harlan-rhythm, the metronome that beat the same note forever. An uneven, hitching rhythm, the rhythm with human error in it, the rhythm with pauses and surges and a catch on the third stroke that came from his bad knee shifting on the mat and the catch was specific. I'd memorized it in the barracks, the hitch in someone's rhythm that you learn by hearing it through a wall, the catch in the melody that proves it's live and not recorded.
"Your hole is perfect, son." His voice between strokes. "Do that for your owner and he'll keep you forever."
He shifted the angle, a quarter-turn of the hips, and his breath caught.
"Your ring just gripped me, son. Not fighting. Holding. Like it doesn't want me to leave." A pause, two strokes, the third one deeper. "Your back is arching into me. That's new. You never arched in the barracks. You used to go flat and take it. Now you're pushing back, meeting the stroke." His palm flat on my lower back, pressing down. "Your body is learning to want the depth. I can feel it. Your owner will feel it too."
Greer's voice arrived from across the room, where he sat on the stool with his clipboard. Not an order. An observation: "You're enjoying your dad's cock, Twelve."
Not a question. A diagnosis. The blush hit again, the flush rushing up the neck and across the ears. He'd read the body (the arched back, the hard cock, the chute yielding without a fight) and named what the body was doing before I could hide it.
"I don't care if you enjoy it. But your body is showing everyone in this room that you do. So let's use that." The pencil tapped the clipboard. "My order is: show me. Moan. Push back. Arch the ass. Show your dad how much you like his cock inside you."
The naming did something. The shame flooded in and the shame was scalding and the scalding poured down into the belly and the belly poured it into the cock and the cock poured it into the hole and the hole tightened once — not in defense but in want, a clench that gripped my father's shaft and pulled, a muscle-hunger that the shame had fed instead of killed. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted my dad deeper. The shame of wanting it and the wanting were the same current, running the same circuit, and Greer had plugged the circuit in by saying it out loud.
I moaned. The first one was performed, an actor's moan, shaped by the mouth to satisfy the order, aimed at the clipboard across the room. My lips formed the sound and my throat pushed it out and it was competent and empty and Greer's pencil scratched.
The second moan came from the prostate.
It came from the angle my dad found on the fifth stroke, the angle that pressed the gland dead-center, the angle Harlan found with mechanical precision but my father found by memory, by the private cartography of a cock that had mapped this depth before. The moan rose from the deep belly, from the gut, from the place where the prostate connected to the voice through a highway the training hadn't built but the father had paved, and the sound that came out of my mouth was not performed.
The sound was wet, broken, caught between a gasp and a sob, and it was genuine, and I couldn't tell it from the first one because the genuine one felt the same in the throat except it didn't: it felt deeper, lower, it came from the floor instead of the ceiling, and the floor was where the truth lived.
I knew before Greer did. I felt it leave my throat and heard it hit the room and knew the difference the way a singer knows when the note stops being technique and becomes the voice itself. The performed moan had lived in the mouth. This one had lived in the gut. And the gut didn't lie.
Greer's pencil had stopped. He looked at me. Nodded once.
He didn't need to say it. The nod was the diagnosis. The surrender that had been internal (private, mine, the last thing the clipboard couldn't reach) was now external. Witnessed. Confirmed by a free man's silence, which was worse than his words, because his words I could have argued with.
Irrevocable.
My father's pace changed. Slower on the strokes that made me gasp. Holding depth on the ones that spread the chute widest. Not just fucking. Teaching. His body had become a lesson plan, his cock a curriculum, his rhythm a syllabus designed to train my hole with the unhurried precision his voice had used to train my ear: through repetition, through care, through love indistinguishable from breaking.
"Feed your boy."
My dad pulled out. The withdrawal, the sphincter gripping the shaft, confused, the muscles spasming in the wake of the cock's absence like a mouth closing around a word that's already been said. He came around to my front. His cock was wet, slick with lube and the internal slick of my body, and he pressed the head against my lips and I opened my mouth and the cock slid in and the taste was salt and latex and something underneath that was neither, something that tasted like the barracks bunk and the chain and the name whispered into the dark.
The load. Three pulses, deep in my throat. I swallowed. The taste of my dad's cum (thin, bitter, salt-sharp) coating my tongue and sliding down and settling in my stomach alongside the knowledge that I'd moaned for his cock and the moan had been real.
He stepped back. Present position. Eyes down. Done.
Greer's palm on the crown of my skull. The good-dog weight. Once.
"Good boy. That's my gratitude: your dad's taste in your mouth. Remember it." A pause. His fingers curled against my scalp, firm, unhurried. "You liked that taste, pup? I think you did. Here's your motivation for next time: you cum on your dad's cock, a real one, hands-free, the kind your prostate just tried to give you, and I'll let your dad clean it off you. His tongue, your load. Think about that. Your father needs his pup's taste like you needed his."
VIII. The Schedule
"I'll schedule a series of sessions with your dad." Greer stood by the door, the clipboard under his arm. "Real family reunion. Lots of bonding experience."
My father stood in present position by the wall. I knelt on the mat, hands on my thighs, head down. The load sat in my stomach. My cock was softening, slowly, the blood retreating, the shaft deflating like a sail in dying wind.
"You'll be rewarded with your dad's dick. But if I see no progress between sessions, I add weight to the sack: yours and his. You clench, both pairs ache."
The carrot and the stick were the same thing. The carrot and the stick were my father. The carrot I could ride.
The cum sat heavy in my stomach, a thin, bitter weight that I could still taste at the back of my throat whenever I swallowed. My jaw ached from the gag. The rope grooves on my thighs had darkened from red to purple, and the skin around them burned when my knees shifted on the mat. My hole pulsed, slow and open, the sphincter sitting at a width it had never held voluntarily before today, and the openness felt like a draft through a door that someone had forgotten to close.
IX. Graduation
Weeks passed.
The sessions blurred. The dildo bench, ascending gauges, mounted on a platform, each one a step closer to the dimension my body had been trained to accept. I mounted. I opened. I stayed erect. I presented. The sphincter that had fought fourteen sessions of Harlan's cock learned its lesson not from Harlan but from the memory of my father's tongue and the promise of my dad's cock, and the learning happened like all learning happens at Ridgemont: through repetition, documentation, and the systematic conversion of love into compliance.
After each mount my father pulled from the hole and fed me. The same cock, slick with my own depth, pressed past my lips and the taste that followed was mine: the salt-sweet musk of my own insides clinging to the shaft that had trained them open. Session after session the sequence repeated (cock in the hole, cock in the mouth, the body's own taste recycled through the father's instrument) until the flavor became the flavor of obedience itself, the taste I would carry into every future household long after his face blurred and his voice faded and the only thing left of him was the reflex: mouth opens, throat relaxes, the ring softens for the next cock, and the body swallows what it's given because my father taught it to swallow.
The resistance was gone. In its place was reflex: the muscle yielding to pressure like the knee jerking for the hammer.
The final test.
The room. Greer on the stool. My father brought in, present position, three feet away. Close enough to smell. Close enough to see the cock stiffen (it stiffened, instant, involuntary, the biology that didn't pretend). Close enough to reach if reaching were allowed.
Greer didn't allow it.
"Do you need your dad's cock as a stimulus, Twelve? Or is your behavioral response strong enough on its own?"
The question was a trapdoor. Both answers fell the same distance. If I said yes, the training had worked but not completely: the key was still necessary, the lock still engaged without it. If I said no, the training had worked completely: the lock was gone, the door stood open, and my father's cock was no longer special, no longer the sacred thing I'd been protecting inside my hole for fourteen sessions of Harlan's cock and four years of collar.
I ran the logic in three seconds. A free boy would have flinched, argued, broken something. A trained boy diagrams his own compliance in real time, selects the answer that serves the system, and calls it a choice.
I chose the answer that bought me a clean record. A clean record bought me a good placement. A good placement bought me a heated room and a kitchen where my brain was the point, where my hands could move at the speed of my intelligence, where the boy behind the eyes could still exist as long as the hole performed on schedule.
The deal. The deal I'd made without words. I perform here so that I'm excellent there.
"Thank you, Sir. I don't need the reinforcement. I control my body."
The voice that said it was new. Not the barracks voice, not the scared-boy voice, not the voice that whispered yes Sir because the jaw knew the shape before the question landed. A measured voice. A product's voice. The voice I'd carry into every future household, into every future bedroom, into every future session where an owner's cock pressed the chute and the sphincter softened without argument because the argument had been settled here, in this room, by a father's tongue and a trainer's patience and the slow, systematic murder of my into the.
Greer nodded. Turned to my father.
"Your son became a perfect slave whore."
My father's chin lifted. Not defiance — I knew what his defiance looked like, I'd seen it once, at the processing lot, when a handler had reached for me and my father had stepped between us and the handler had broken his nose and the defiance had lasted four seconds and cost three weeks of isolation. This wasn't that.
This was pride.
His eyes found mine. The brown that lived in both of us, the color that had looked at me across breakfast tables and across chain-link fences and across the three feet of cold air in this room while a stranger's cock worked inside his body. The eyes were wet. Tears tracking down the cheeks, the same tear-tracks I'd traced with my eyes through the barracks dark, the same salt I could still taste if I pressed my tongue to the memory.
But the tears were different.
In the barracks they'd been guilt. In the barracks the tears had said I'm sorry, I'm sorry for what I've done, for what the world has done, for the cock inside you that should be a hand on your shoulder at a baseball game. The guilt had been tender. The guilt had been the last proof that my father still knew this was wrong.
These were pride-tears. These tears said my boy will survive. My boy will get a good placement. My boy's hole opens on command and his cock stays hard and his voice doesn't crack and I did this, my cock was the key, my tongue was the lesson, my patience was the curriculum, and the product walking out of Ridgemont will be worth the premium because I taught him how to take what's coming.
"Thank you, Sir." My father's voice. Steady. Unprompted, no order preceded it, no trainer's clipboard demanded it. He spoke because he wanted to speak, and what he said was:
"Thank you, Sir. For transforming my pup. He'll fetch a real price now. Thank you for showing my boy his place."
Greer's knuckles rapped my father's cockhead. Casual. The way you'd flick a gauge to check if it's stuck. "Good instrument. Earned its keep." He wiped his hand on his thigh. "I'll credit half your monthly feed. The other half you'll earn on the next detail."
The next detail. And my father would take it. Whatever they sent — the field, the yard, the breeding bench, another trainer's session — he would take it with the same devotion he'd brought to mine, and the devotion would earn him another half-month of feed, and the half-month would end, and the next detail would arrive, and my father would run the wheel because the wheel was the only place where his tenderness had a function and his obedience was answered with something other than a chain. He would run it forever. He would call the running purpose. And when the wheel stopped needing him, he would be sold off or scrapped, and he would not see it coming because he'd mistaken the treadmill for a staircase.
The proof was in the words he'd already handed Greer:
Pup. Price. Place. My father had adopted the system's language, not just the animal words but the market words, the words that turned a son into a line item. He'd stopped saying boy and started saying pup, stopped thinking my child and started thinking the product, and the shift was the graduation certificate, and the certificate wasn't for me.
It was for him.
The price wrecked me worse than any cock. Not the pride-tears — I could have survived those. The price. My father had calculated my market value and thanked the man who inflated it, and the gratitude in his voice was unperformed, and the truth of it was the blade.
Greer watched my face.
"Your dad just priced you, Twelve. And your body gave." His voice, quiet, the diagnosis register. "Not clenched. Not shamed. Gave. The way it gives when my palm is on your skull. Your father's pride in your value just told your body safe." A pause. "That's the deepest surrender in this room. Deeper than the hole, deeper than the moan."
He turned to me.
"Boy. Thank your dad for the training."
I knelt. Present position: knees apart, hands behind my head, elbows wide. My father stood above me, back straight, chin level, the posture that Ridgemont had drilled into his body the same way it had drilled the postures into mine. His cock was hard. Still hard. The biology that didn't pretend: four years of collar and the cock still rose for his son, instant, involuntary, the instrument that had trained the surrender standing at attention three inches from my face.
Below the cock, his balls hung in the chrome ring. The same single weight from session one: no additions, no extra chrome clipped on for infractions. I looked at my own sack. Same. One ring, one weight, the original set. I hadn't cost him. The hostage price had never been collected. The pride hit low in the chest, dense and sick, the pride of a boy who had protected his father by learning to open his hole on schedule, and the protection and the degradation were the same achievement.
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to the head.
The kiss was slow. Deliberate. My mouth on the cockhead that had been inside me, that had taught my hole to surrender, that had paved the highway between the prostate and the voice. I kissed it with the practiced gratitude of a mouth that had learned which instrument shaped it. The taste was salt and skin and the faint ghost of lube, and underneath it the taste of the barracks, and underneath that the taste of the name I'd just checked for in my skull.
"Thank you, Sir. For teaching me to open for whoever buys me. My Master will be satisfied with the product you made."
The words came out against the cockhead, my lips still touching the slit, the vibration of my voice traveling through the flesh into my father's body like his voice had traveled through my sphincter in the first session. The product's voice. The voice I'd carry into every bedroom, every session, every placement. I heard it leave my mouth and the leaving was the graduation: not Greer's clipboard, not the dildo bench, but the sound of a boy thanking the cock that trained him in the language of the institution that owned him.
Not dad. Sir. Not love. Training. Not my body. The body. The product.
The hole that opens on command and the cock that stays hard on schedule and the muscle that doesn't argue because the argument was settled here, by this cock, by this man, by the patience of a father who broke his colt: slowly, completely, with love that looked like correction and correction that felt like love.
My father's hand moved. The hand — the hand from the fence, the hand from the barracks bunk — reached down and settled on the back of my neck. Five seconds. The fingers settled into the groove between the tendons, the palm cupping the nape, the grip identical to the grip he'd used through the chain-link fence at the intake yard when they'd separated us.
But the meaning had rotated. Twice.
Not you're mine wherever they put you. Not even you're ready. Now the grip said: I'm proud of my pup. My sire. The animal I raised. The product I shaped. Your price will be high and your master will be satisfied and the satisfaction will be my achievement. The grip of a father who had stopped fathering and started breeding, and the breeding had worked, and the pride in the breeding was the last nail in the coffin of the man he'd been before the collar.
His hand lifted. He stepped back. Present position. Eyes down. An obedient animal who had taught his offspring to be an obedient animal, and the teaching had been love, and the love had been the weapon, and the weapon had worked.
Greer walked to the door. The clipboard tucked under his arm. The pen clicked into his shirt pocket.
"See? I'm not a cruel master, Twelve. I managed to train you without punishment. Remember that. Cooperate in your future training and you'll be rewarded." He opened the door. The hallway light fell in a rectangle across the concrete floor. "That's the lesson."
The door closed.
I knelt on the concrete. My father stood by the wall. The room was cold. The fluorescents hummed. The chrome weights on my sack caught the light and shone.
My hole was open. Relaxed. The sphincter sat at rest, not clenched, not guarded, not arguing. A product feature. A spec on a brochure. A door that had been locked and was now unlocked and the key had been my father and the lock hadn't known the difference between love and training because there was no difference, not in this room, not in this world, not in the body of a boy whose hole had learned to yield for the same cock that had made him.
My name. I said it inside my skull. Once. Like checking a pocket for a coin you know you've already spent.
Still there. But the pocket belonged to a slave.
If this story hit right, leave a rating — it helps others find it.
More from Roman Wolfe's Holdings:
His Father's Hand (Gay, Incest) — where Twelve's story continues — less erotic intensity, more of the dad/son relationship unfolding outside the training room.
Roman Wolfe's Family Lot (Incest, Gay) — A father and son are auctioned off as slaves together, their bond tested by degradation and exploitation.
The Education of Roman's Fresh Meat (Gay) — Two young slaves, Cody and Jax, are bought by a wealthy owner, Roman, and taken to his ranch for training and breeding.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
