Kyle exhaled through his nose, looking at John standing in the lounge, naked and flaccid, obviously wondering what the man was going to do.
"Do you," Kyle growled, stepping close enough for John to feel the heat radiating off his naked torso, "submit to me?" as his palm landed heavy on John's shoulder, fingers spanning the sharp ridge of collarbone like a man testing a blade's edge.
John's laughter cut through the farmhouse air like shattered glass, sharp enough to make Kyle's fingers twitch against his shoulder. "Submit?"
John arched one perfect eyebrow, the lamplight catching the sweat still drying along his collarbones. "Farmboy, if you want to fuck me again, you'll have to try harder," his smirk widening as Kyle's grip tightened. "No... I don't submit to you. You fuck like a farmboy and not the man you claim to be."
Kyle's nostrils flared, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. The old farmhouse floorboards groaned beneath his shifting weight as he crowded John backwards, until the carved oak sideboard bit into the backs of John's thighs. "I can make you, you know. It'll hurt if I do," Kyle growled, his breath hot against John's lips.
Kyle's nostrils flared, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. The old farmhouse floorboards groaned beneath his shifting weight as he crowded John backwards, until the carved oak sideboard bit into the backs of John's thighs. "I can make you, you know. It'll hurt if I do," Kyle growled, his breath hot against John's lips.
"Don't get me wrong,” John said. “I like being fucked. I need to be fuck but I want a proper man to fuck me. Not a farmboy like you. You want to fuck me, grow up and make me."
John's taunt hung between them like a dare, the farmhouse's antique clock ticking loudly in the sudden silence. Kyle's grip on John's shoulder shifted, not loosening, but changing, his calloused thumb brushing the hollow above John's collarbone in a way that made John's breath hitch despite himself.
"Farmboy, huh?" Kyle murmured, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that skittered down John's spine. His free hand rose slowly, giving John every chance to pull away, before fingertips traced the curve of John's jaw with deliberate lightness. "Tell me, city boy, what does a real man do that I haven't?"
"He owns me, as he makes me his, and then I submit to his will," John responded. "You're still wearing daipers."
Kyle's hand cracked across John's ass hard enough to send him stumbling into the sideboard, the antique wood groaning under the impact. "That all you got, farmboy?" John gasped, fingers scrabbling against the polished oak as he arched his back deliberately, presenting himself like a challenge. The red handprint bloomed across his pale skin, the outline of Kyle's fingers already darkening.
The second strike landed lower, catching the crease where thigh met ass, and this time John's knees buckled. His knuckles whitened against the sideboard, but his laugh was pure defiance. "Still, fuck, still hitting like a kid," he panted, twisting to glare over his shoulder. Kyle's palm ached from the force of the blows, but the way John's cock twitched against the sideboard's edge told the real story.
"Stay," Kyle growled, pressing John harder against the sideboard until the wood dug crescents into his hips. The farmhouse floorboards groaned under Kyle's retreating footsteps as he stalked down the hall, leaving John flushed and panting against the antique oak. The silence stretched thick between tick-tocks of the grandfather clock, broken only by John's fingernails scraping varnish when Kyle returned holding something that made John's throat go dry, not just a collar, but a full harness, the leather darkened with age and care.
Kyle draped the harness over the sideboard beside John's hip, the leather creaking like a living thing as it settled. "Grandpa's breaking gear," he murmured, tracing a calloused fingertip along the cheek straps. "Last used by grandmaby Grandma Martha on him when he wouldn't submit," as his palm landed heavily on John's ass, right over the fresh handprint. "I think I'm gonna treat you like she treated him. What d'you say to that?"
John's fingers hovered above the harness, tracing the air just above the worn leather without touching, as if afraid it might vanish. The lamplight caught every stitch, every intentional groove where decades of sweat had darkened the material into something intimate. His throat worked visibly as his gaze travelled from the collar's brass O-ring to the intricate network of straps designed to cinch tight across chest and thighs with a central belt for the waist connecting it all together.
"You're joking," John breathed, but his cock twitched against the sideboard, betraying him.
The leather smelled of saddle oil and decades of sweat when Kyle draped it across John's shoulders, not roughly, but with the deliberate care of a farrier shoeing a skittish stallion. John shivered as the cold metal of the cock ring pressed against his thigh, his breath hitching when Kyle's calloused fingers traced the inside of his wrist before snapping the first cuff closed.
"Still think I'm just a farmboy?" Kyle murmured, his knuckles brushing John's hipbone as he threaded the waist strap through its buckle. The leather groaned as he cinched it tight enough to leave an imprint, but not enough to chafe, yet.
Kyle knelt, his knees cracking against the farmhouse's oak floorboards as he guided John's foot through the ankle cuff. The attached chain jingled faintly, a soft counterpoint to John's ragged breathing. "Grandma Martha used to say," as Kyle's breath warmed John's inner thigh as he fastened the second ankle strap, "proper restraint isn't about trapping someone," his teeth grazing the sensitive skin above John's knee. "It's about discovering what they really want."
John's cock twitched in its brass O-ring when Kyle stood, their height difference suddenly irrelevant as Kyle palmed the back of his neck. The harness straps creaked as Kyle kissed him, not the bruising clash from earlier, but something slower, deeper, that made John's fingers flex against his bound wrists.
The lead strap jingled like a bell when Kyle yanked it taut, the sound sharp against the farmhouse's peace as Hal and Ethan were obviously involved in more than fucking.
John stumbled forward, not from the pull, but from the way his knees went liquid at the sudden pressure against his throat. The leather collar bit into his windpipe just enough to make his pulse flutter against it, trapped and frantic as a bird against glass.
"Move," Kyle ordered, his voice rough from earlier in the afternoon. The lead strap creaked as he tugged John toward the farmhouse door, the lamplight catching the way John's throat worked beneath the collar as he swallowed, testing its limits, savouring its grip.
The lead strap jingled as Kyle yanked John toward the screen door, its rusty hinges groaning louder than John's bitten-off curse when the night air hit his bare skin. Beyond the porch, the oak tree stood sentinel in the dark, its gnarled branches clawing at the star-pricked sky. The rope swayed gently, not some frayed remnant, but thick hemp, oil-dark and looped into two nooses that hung at perfect eye level.
John's breath hitched when the noose brushed his collarbone, cool and rough against skin still flushed from the couple of smacks Kyle had delivered. "You going to fucking hang me up?" John managed to say, though his voice was cracking when Kyle's calloused thumb traced the harness strap between his shoulder blades.
John's breath hitched when the noose brushed his collarbone, cool and rough against skin still flushed from the couple of smacks Kyle had delivered. "You going to fucking hang me up?" John managed to say, though his voice was cracking when Kyle's calloused thumb traced the harness strap between his shoulder blades.
Kyle's grin was all teeth as he looped the first noose around John's wrist, the hemp rough against his pulse point. "Nah," he murmured, tying it off with a quick, practised twist. "Just gonna tan that smartass until you forget how to talk back," as the second noose cinched tight around John's other wrist before he could protest, not that he wanted to.
John hadn't told Steve or Ethan he’d been dabbling in BDSM for a while, pushing his limits each time he saw his master and although he knew this was going to hurt, he wanted it, he needed it as he faked struggling, just enough to make the ropes creak, his cock twitching in its brass ring as Kyle grabbed the pulley line.
The mechanism groaned like an old ship's rigging as Kyle hauled him up inch by inch, John's toes skimming the dry earth until... there... his bare feet left the ground entirely, swaying slightly in the night air. The harness straps pulled taut across his chest, the leather singing under his weight as he hung suspended between the oak's thick branches, muscles straining beautifully in the moonlight.
"Look at you," Kyle breathed, stepping back to admire his handiwork. John rotated slowly, the ropes twisting as he turned, every inch of him on display, the sweat-slicked harness, the angry red handprints on his ass, the way his cock strained against its restraint.
Kyle reached out suddenly, giving the pulley line a sharp tug that made John jerk upward with a gasp. "Gonna enjoy training you, boy," Kyle promised, palming the leather tawse he'd retrieved from the house, the same tawse his grandma had used on grandpa. "And you're gonna thank me for this lesson, and by the time I finish, you will submit."
The leather tawse cut through the night air with a sound like a whipcrack frozen in time, a sharp, hollow snap that made John's shoulders tense involuntarily even before impact. Kyle held the 24-inch strap at full extension, his calloused fingers testing its weight, the lamplight from the farmhouse catching every intentional groove where decades of sweat had darkened the leather into something intimate and cruel as he ran it down John's torso.
"Let's go for twenty strokes. What do you think?" he asked John as Kyle started to strip off his clothes until he stood in just his tighty whities, probably stolen from an innocent trespasser.
"Fuck you, you beast of a man," John responded, knowing he was about to be challenged more than his normal master.
"I will certainly be doing that when you submit. Just over there on the bench, and if you're nice, I'll use the lube that's waiting to be opened.
John looked towards the bench and his destiny, his cock throbbing against its brass restraint when the first stroke landed, the tawse's forked tongue splitting across both cheeks with a sound like wet lightning. The impact snapped his hips forward, sending him swinging wildly by the arms pulled above his head, every muscle straining against the ropes as the pain bloomed hot and immediate. Kyle waited, patient as the oak's roots, until John's swaying slowed to shallow oscillations before raising the tawse again.
The second stroke overlapped the first, precise as a surveyor's mark, and this time John's gasp tore through the night air sharp as the leather's crack. His thighs trembled where they hung suspended, toes curling uselessly against nothing as the pain radiated outward in concentric waves. Kyle traced the fresh welts with his free hand, callouses catching on raised skin, before delivering a third stroke just beneath the others that made John's back arch violently.
"Four," Kyle counted, his voice detached as the tawse found fresh territory lower on John's thighs. The swing this time was shorter, more controlled, John's body learning to absorb the blows even as his cock dripped against the harness straps. Blood pounded in John's ears between strikes, his breathing ragged as Kyle methodically worked downward, each stroke landing with measured force that left no inch of his backside untouched.
By the seventh stroke, sweat ran down John's shoulder blades, dripping down the harness straps as he hung boneless between impacts. The pain had crystallised into something pure and white-hot, burning away thought until only sensation remained. Kyle paused to wipe John's sweat from his brow with unexpected gentleness before the eighth stroke landed diagonally, crossing previous welts in an X that tore a ragged moan from John's throat.
The eleventh stroke found John floating in a haze of endorphins, his body swaying gently as if underwater. Distantly, he registered the tawse's impact, the way his muscles clenched reflexively, but the pain had transformed into a dull, pervasive heat that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Kyle's fingers brushed his hipbone, anchoring him momentarily before the twelfth stroke snapped him back to sharp awareness.
The fourteenth stroke landed with a wet crack just as John's bladder gave way, hot piss streaming down his thighs in golden rivulets that splashed against Kyle's bare feet. Kyle froze mid-swing, the tawse hovering in the moonlit air as John hung panting, his chin lolling against his chest while urine pattered onto the thirsty earth below. The scent of ammonia mixed with leather oil as Kyle slowly circled his swaying form, the harness straps creaking under John's trembling weight.
"Look at that," Kyle murmured, his calloused thumb smearing the wetness up John's inner thigh. "City boy's marking territory like a bitch in heat," as he pressed the tawse flat against John's soaked skin, the cool leather drawing a shiver as it soaked up the warmth. When Kyle raised the strap again, it left a glistening trail of urine in its wake, dripping onto the ground.
John's vision blurred at the edges when the fifteenth stroke landed precisely while piss still dripped from his balls, the forked tongues of the tawse snapping droplets into the night like scattered gold. His choked moan sounded more like relief than pain as his spent cock twitched pathetically in its ring - the humiliation burning hotter than the welts across his ass. Kyle wiped the tawse across John's trembling stomach, staining the leather darker with sweat and urine before lining up the fifteenth stroke.
The impact never came.
Instead, Kyle's palm pressed flush against John's wet backside, his fingers spreading the heat as he leaned close enough for his breath to stir John's sweat-damp hair. "Submit yet," he demanded, his voice rough with something beyond cruelty. John's lips moved soundlessly for three heartbeats before he managed to say, "Fuck off," the words coming out broken, half plea, half prayer, as Kyle's teeth grazed the nape of his neck.
The sixteenth stroke cracked across John's thighs like a gunshot, splitting skin where piss still dripped from his spent cock. His scream tore through the night air raw and unfiltered, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of Hal's property. Kyle paused, the tawse hanging limp at his side as John swayed grotesquely from the oak's branches, his harness straps singing under his weight.
"You're gonna say it," Kyle murmured, pressing two fingers against a welt as if sealing a promise. The seventeenth stroke landed diagonally, intersecting previous welts in a perfect X that made John's vision whiten at the edges. His toes curled reflexively, searching for purchase that wasn't there as his body swung wildly, the ropes groaning under his convulsions.
By the eighteenth stroke, John's whimpers had dissolved into wordless, animal sounds, half-sob, half-laugh, as his body jerked against its restraints. Kyle wiped the tawse clean on his own thigh before delivering the nineteenth with precision, the leather biting into untouched skin just below John's ass. The impact sent John spinning slowly on the ropes, his sweat-slicked back catching the moonlight as he rotated to face Kyle, his expression slack with something beyond pain.
Kyle stepped forward as John completed his rotation, their faces inches apart when he raised the tawse for the twentieth stroke. The leather whispered through the air between them, then stopped, quivering, just shy of contact. John's swollen lips parted, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged the space between them.
"I submit," John gasped, the words tearing loose like they'd been clawed from his chest.
The tawse hit the dirt with a dull thud as Kyle caught John's waist mid-swing, his fingers sinking into the harness straps where sweat and piss had made the leather slick. John's knees buckled instantly upon contact with the ground, his body folding forward like a marionette with cut strings, forehead pressing into the cool earth between Kyle's bare feet. The scent of upturned soil mixed with the sharp tang of urine still drying on his thighs.
"Good boy," Kyle murmured, his foot nudging John's chin upward until their eyes met, John's blown wide with surrender, Kyle's eyes were dark with something hotter than victory. "Now say it proper," as his thumb brushed John's split lip, the gesture was almost tender if not for the way his other hand still gripped the harness lead strap like a leash.
John's tongue darted out to wet his lips before dipping lower, tracing the arch of Kyle's instep with deliberate reverence. The first kiss landed just above the dirt-strewn toes, his mouth open enough for Kyle to feel the damp heat of his breath between toes. "I submit," John repeated against salty skin, the words vibrating through Kyle's foot as John worked upward, nuzzling the Achilles tendon before biting, not hard, but enough to make Kyle's fingers tighten in his hair. "I submit, Master. Will you please service me as your slave?"
The lead strap jingled like a rusted bell as Kyle hauled John forward by the collar, his bare feet stumbling through the dust until the wooden bench pressed sharply against his thighs. Kyle's palm landed heavy between John's shoulder blades, pressing him down until his cheek scraped against splintered oak, the bench's grain rough against his sweat-slicked skin.
John's harness straps groaned as Kyle knelt behind him, his calloused fingers hooking in the waistband of those stolen tighty whities he was wearing, the same pale cotton some trespassing college boy had probably pissed himself in last summer, and yanked them down to his ankles in one brutal motion.
The night air chilled John's exposed flesh as the tighty whities pooled in the dirt, forgotten as Kyle's thumbs spread him wide without preamble. John's gasp hitched when a lubricated finger breached him, the intrusion slick enough to burn but slick enough to sink deep on the first push. Kyle worked him open with single-minded focus, his fingers scissoring in time with John's ragged breathing, each twist of his wrist punctuated by the creak of leather straps and the distant cry of a barn owl. By the third finger, John was pushing back onto Kyle's hand like a man starved, his earlier defiance dissolved into desperate, wordless noises that fogged the bench's weathered wood.
"You take it good when you're broken in proper," Kyle observed, withdrawing his fingers with a wet pop that made John shudder. The lube bottle clicked open again, and Kyle poured a thick stream directly onto John's gaping hole, the excess dripping down his thighs to mingle with the piss and dust. "Gonna fuck you like Grandma Martha did Grandpa," Kyle murmured, "only difference was she used a strap-on cock," while he guided his cock through the cooling lube before lining up. "She told me years ago, the first time she used the strap-on, grandpa shot his load without any assistance before she even got his cock in her mouth."
John's back arched violently when Kyle sheathed himself in one firm thrust, the bench screeching across the packed earth as they slammed forward. The harness straps bit into John's chest with every snap of Kyle's hips, the central O-ring pressing cold against his sternum as Kyle rode him like a spooked stallion. "Feel that?" Kyle gritted out, yanking the lead strap taut so the collar crushed John's windpipe. "That's how a man fucks," as he thrust into that sweet spot with punishing accuracy, the slap of skin echoing off the farmhouse walls.
John's vision whited out when Kyle's hand fisted in his hair, wrenching his head back to expose the column of his throat. Kyle's teeth found the pulse point beneath John's jaw, biting down hard enough to bruise as his thrusts turned erratic, his pace fracturing into something primal and unpolished.
Kyle's punishing pace forced John to climax, his spent striping the bench in thick ropes as Kyle fucked him through it, the overstimulation wringing broken noises from his throat with every drive of Kyle's hips.
John's body arched violently as Kyle's climax tore through them both, his hips thrusting with brutal precision while ropes of cum forced their way deep into John's overstimulated passage. The sensation was too much, not just the heat flooding his insides but the way Kyle's cock pulsed against tender spots already raw from relentless pounding. White noise filled John's skull as another involuntary spurt of his own cum splattered across the bench beneath him, his cock twitching pathetically in its brass ring despite being utterly spent minutes ago.
Kyle didn't stop as his fingers dug bruises into John's hipbones as he ground deeper, milking every last drop into clenching muscle that could no longer distinguish between pain and pleasure. The harness straps creaked obscenely when Kyle finally stilled, his forehead pressing between John's trembling shoulder blades as they both gasped for air.
Hot cum leaked around the swollen base of Kyle's cock where they were still joined, dripping down John's thighs to mix with the piss and lube already staining the dirt.
"Christ," Kyle rasped against John's spine, his voice wrecked, as he shifted slightly and John whimpered, oversensitive nerves firing at the slightest movement, but Kyle just chuckled darkly and pressed in harder, savouring the way John's body clenched around him in protest. "Told you I'd make you submit," his teeth scraping the nape of John's neck as he withdrew slowly, dragging his cock through the mess he'd made until John sagged boneless onto the ground, his legs shaking too badly to hold him up.
John's wrists flopping forward like a marionette with cut strings. Kyle caught them before they could drop completely, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he threaded the chains to cuff each wrist, reattaching them to the harness's waistbelt with quick, practised motions.
"Down," Kyle murmured, his foot pressing between John's shoulder blades just hard enough to send him sprawling face-first into the dirt. The impact knocked the air from John's lungs, his cheek pressing against cool earth that smelled of rain and rotting leaves, exactly where slaves should be, nose to the ground.
Across the yard, the farmhouse door creaked open, Hal's silhouette framed in golden light as he leaned out. "Tell the others," his voice carried across the distance, rough with amusement, "dinner's ready," the door clicking shut before John could respond, leaving only the sound of his own ragged breathing and the distant hum of cicadas.
John's arms trembled when he finally pushed himself onto his knees, the harness straps digging fresh grooves into his sweat-slicked skin. His thighs shook with the effort of standing, muscles protesting after being suspended for so long. Kyle watched, arms crossed, making no move to help as John swayed on unsteady legs, the first step nearly sent him crashing back into the dirt, but he caught himself on the oak's rough bark, fingernails scraping the moss.
"Five minutes," Kyle observed, checking an imaginary watch as John finally straightened, his spine popping audibly. The lead strap jingled when Kyle gave it a testing tug, the sound sharp in the humid night air. "Move," he ordered, turning toward the barn without checking if John followed.
John did, of course. His steps were uneven at first, each one sending fresh jolts of pain radiating from his welted ass, but by the time they reached the barn's shadowed outline, he'd found a rhythm, just enough swagger left to make the harness straps creak with every other step. Lamplight spilt through the barn's half-open door, painting the dirt path in wavering gold. From inside came the unmistakable sound of Steve and Devin talking, Devin's low laughter punctuated by Steve's breathless cursing... and then John could see that Devin was pissing all over Steve's face and his friend was drinking it all down.
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