Liberty Species (1/3): M/m; NC; FF; BEAST

Chapter One

 

‘By chance – honestly! – I caught Charlotte playing in concert, on the Sky Arts channel. It was a programme from Mahler – the Symphony No.3 – at the Carnegie Hall. A superb arrangement… quite sublime!’

‘Fuuuuccccck!’

‘Anyway – I thought you’d want to know that she’s doing okay, it seems. I guess she felt ready to move on with her life: It’s been nearly six months since you left her, after all, and she mustn’t waste her twenties, moping about!’

‘Awww… FUCK you!’

‘Now, I’m going to be delving into your core, Sam. So… I need you to open-up for me, as we’ve practised together – open mind, open hole – because you’re feeling a little… inflexible, today. Let’s make this easy for both of us, yes?’

It’s just me, Sam and the fisting bench in the small studio. On the wall in front of him is a floor to ceiling mirror and, over its peripheral sections, motivational mottos have been stencilled for the boy to consider:

Strong boys take it DEEP!

Give Sir the G-A-P-E.

Thank me later!

This isn’t an easy session, for Sam – I mean, they never are, because that would be pointless, but I’d prefaced today’s fisting hour with a disclosure: 

‘I’m going to use less lubricant, this time, and see how we get on. You’re naturally moist up there, so I don’t think you’ll miss the excess lube too much.’

My left forearm is a long way into his rectum, fulfilling the promise of the session. When it becomes a gross intrusion, like this, Sam feels me so acutely that he’s anxious not to twitch, lest something inside of him rip.

He remains an imposing presence on the bench, with his gym routine having been enforced throughout; first by Bernadette, and then during the four months of his dairy service in the parlour, and finally through his weeks with me, after I purchased him at auction for $885 as an infertile boy, milked dry, of little conceivable utility.  

Sam gets a high quality diet, though not a very flavoursome one because his existence is functional, now. Lots of nutrients; plenty of protein. There’s abundant muscle strapped to my furniture, but viewed as I see him now – from the rear – it’s Sam’s thighs that are prominent – upright and splayed to his folded knees, which squash into cushion pads covered with black vinyl.   

Having spent too much time in my fisting studio, Sam can mount himself quickly at my instruction, arranging his front along the upper tier of the fuck bench, ready for me to secure his limbs in cuffs and straps. It’s easier for him to work under his own initiative, than have me force matters – a universal truth!

With him weighing-in at 86kg, and me screwing into uncharted territory, the bench frame construction is tested to the point of satisfying creaks, and slight play at the joints. It won’t happen, but it would be fun for the over-stressed fisting furniture to collapse mid-session.

Sam’s insides are familiar to my hand – the soft tissue, and those parts which always fight me, pushing back against my advances. The bumps and turns, and the resonance of his pumping heart felt through muscle, as I inch closer to it and his other crucial organs.

Stretched paper-thin, the boy’s ass lips tickle the hair of my mid-forearm in a way that amuses, as I wiggle forward.  

Familiarity prompts me to fist for more every time – new cavities, fresh tightness – in my ongoing plunder.

Sam struggles to stay composed at my fist point, and his breathless imprecations evidence a boy at the end of his tether:  

‘Ahhh fuck!’

‘Awww shit…. awww fuck!’

‘Ahhhh no…. fuck!’

Less often, Sam bursts with anger, and especially when I’m probing difficult terrain marked by narrowness and curvature in his depths:

‘FUCK you!’

‘Get THE FUCK out of my hole!’

‘You FUCKING sick cunt!’

Rarely heard – because I train-out unnecessary whining with consistent discipline – are Sam’s pleas:

‘No, no, no… STOP!’

‘Something’s tearing, I swear… please stop!’

‘PLEASE… Sir… just fucking stop… just, stop… please.’     

Sometimes I have a spare hand, ideally placed to slap that pale rump reared just in front of me. That doesn’t work if I’m double fisting him, with both hands, but in that case the repercussions will be dealt with later, as I won’t tolerate a grizzling boy.

My method varies, according to the aims of my training. Using both fists, twirling them at Sam’s sphincter like opposing washing machine drums, builds his gape – the boy’s ability to accommodate great girth. Sam yells himself hoarse when I train his gape with double wrists, as I jerk and scratch in his ass chute like I’m on a mixing deck. He was scared of two-handed fucking when I imposed this method on his training regime, telling me it wouldn’t fit, and would literally ruin him! He begged me not to, but I promised to start gently with the double FF, before we ramped it up.

Today, though, I’m training depth with one full forearm. My objective is to bore him out, more than before.

Sam’s capacity to focus through this session comes and goes, but when able to do so he takes deliberate looks at me, in the mirror. These are the contemptuous dagger stares of a boy who sees a man with glasses and a receding hairline, old enough to be his daddy. But Sam’s dad was a good man, and irreplaceable.

I am careful to look back, checkmating Sam’s gaze, and what I see is a boy with puffed cheeks and a corrugated forehead, making heavy weather of his fisting. His ass game is laboured; too keen to show me his pain, but he’s typical of straight boys with two-thirds of a forearm skewering their exhaust pipes. This one is a long way from adapting to the needs of bad men.

Sam’s getting frantic. I’m pushing into the darkest places I really shouldn’t be, and he feels me so intimately. I’m one ill-judged (or vengeful) move away from wrecking him.  

He’s ragged. The breathing is short and panicked. The neck keeps swivelling, away from our reflections in the mirror and back, towards me, trying to manipulate me personally with his profound pained look. I’m in him, almost to my elbow.

My knuckle slides into his filth. We’ll need to have a conversation, when I’m done, because the primary (flush) and secondary (rinse) enema bags he emptied, in preparation, aren’t cleansing high enough up his pipes. It’s fine – I have bags of much larger capacity.

I want to drive a fraction further.

‘Breath,’ I say, as an order.

‘Sir…’

I hold back, giving Sam the space he needs to pick up his pieces and put them back together.

His flesh is moist. The welts from my whipping have faded nicely: those episodes are history, now, so long as he chases the programme I’ve designed for him.

He’s still hyperventilating; grabbing for air, and swearing on his exhalations. Every day we’re busting ‘limits’, and I’m asking the kid to operate in zones of danger. Cumulative trauma follows my sadism.

I slap his right ass mound, hard enough to make it ring and to leave my red handprint over that pliant muscle.

‘I said, breath!’ I tell him, my patience evaporated. ‘Deep breaths… stop resisting me, and quit the stressing.’

‘Sir…’ he starts a complaint about my style of fisting, but I’m not in the mood.

‘Breath,’ I reiterate, in a measured tone to model the response I’m seeking. ‘Calm down, and draw air sweetly.’

Again, I give the youth time to implement my instruction. I hear the exaggerated, nasal inhalations as Sam works to stabilise his cycle. When he sucks air, greedy, I feel the contraction of his diaphragm through my arm wedged tightly in his anus. And, as he blows, I sense the tension dissipate.

The boy’s innards are pleasing to my touch: warm as a fireside, squidgy and – at this depth – leading my hand through exotic curves.

‘I need just a little more, today,’ I tell him.

‘Sir,’ he accepts without a fight, but his concern triggers his grip of my fisting arm to tighten again.

‘Let’s make this nice and easy, Sam. Huh? Nice… and…. easy,’ I say, as I ready my final move on him.

He’s slow to cry, these days. The breadth of his experience, across BDSM disciplines, has raised his tear threshold high. Sam endures well, now.

Still, as I thieve an extra inch at the upper reaches of his waste channel, barely lubed and forcing my last grab of territory, Sam gives that strained, convulsing gasp that often presages sobbing.

I’d like to forestall his weeping, and he knows it’s wrong to abandon emotional self-control, too easily.

I slap that prime rump again, twice, diverting the boy from his state of negativity.  

‘Despite all of your fussing, that became a competent depth-charge routine. Hold your head high, and let’s build from this,’ I say, generous with my praise.

My arm still making a puppet prisoner of him, Sam sniffs hard to stop his waterfall before it starts.

***

I mentioned the whip.

Think of a young lady, dressed as Madonna, reciting the collected thoughts of Benjamin Netanyahu, in a Tehran public square. Sam’s flogging was at that level of retribution.

It was – is – a difficult transition for Sam, from the monotonous certainties of the milking parlour to his new role with my niche media label, Liberty Species.

Bestiality is a loaded word, so I avoid using it when I sit a boy down for his introductory briefing, on day one.  

‘You’re going to be working with animals,’ I told Sam, like I was running a conservation charity.  

But of course he figured what I meant – in broad terms – and the pacified, acquiescent Sam of the milking parlour, regressed in volcanic style.

The newly infertile boy lashed-out, physically, and my quick-witted accomplices restrained him before punches landed. He roared at me, with a puce face and temples throbbing. 

I attempted to bring Sam back into line with reassurance:

Just like the milking, he’d be trained in the service of animals, and not simply thrown into everything on day one!! There was a logical, step by step progression, and we’d follow it. I knew he wasn’t an expert, ready to perform animal work with brilliance – so there would be clear instructions and coaching, to help him improve! And – above all – I would make myself available, every day, to listen to Sam. If particular animal assignments caused him concern, then we would talk it through to work-out what his blockers were, and bust through them!

All I asked was that Sam give it a go, trialling some easy starter activities. There’s lots of stigma around bestiality, and foolish governments have tried to legislate it away – like you can ban sex! – but, executed carefully, animal work is amongst the most eye-opening of pursuits for a boy with a submissive bias. And, not all of this stuff is super-gross! 

Yet Sam wasn’t persuaded by my logic, and turned petulant on me. He refused to leave his cell, and declined to continue honing his chiselled physique in the gym.

So, we dragged Sam to the barn, where he was held in suspension by four wound chains – one for each cuffed limb extremity – exhibiting him as a broad star; arms and legs flung wide and helpless.

That’s how Sam was whipped; to the ass, of course, but also well beyond that core punishment zone, down his thighs and all across his broad back, curling-in and stinging hard, before rising in a criss-cross of bloody welts. He shrieked until hoarse; and until the cows in their field, 200 metres away, lowed with alarm or in sympathy.

Improving attitude; adjusting behaviours; encouraging receptiveness. A toned gym rat thrashing madly in his chains, with occasional pauses for the question to be asked of Sam, again:

‘Ready to start working with animals, now?’

‘FUCK off!’

…which earnt the kid another round with the multi-tailed whip, no longer taking care to avoid his ball sac with the snappy ends, that hurt the most wherever they land.

Vulnerable in his forced star, I had access to Sam’s front, as well. Lashing from a position behind the boy, whip tails snaked around his flanks and struck square over his compact tit nubs, raising curdled screams. 

Changing implements I used the rubber truncheon on Sam’s abdomen, punishing that taut six pack to yellow and black bruises in thudding volleys of aggression, barely controlled. The youth performed a wild dance for me, in his chains.  

‘Shall we try just a little bestiality, huh?’ I encouraged Sam, to end his immediate torment.

‘I can’t…I just can’t!’ he whined.

The purpose of disciplining boys is to open minds, turning can’t and won’t into bullied maybes. The door ajar and trials underway, horizons can be broadened day by day until serious work is getting done, without the boy dwelling too much on the depravity, in an unproductive way.     

Sam wasn’t ready to give his maybe to animal work, though. What pushed him over the line was his first piercing: a nice big hole punched through his dickhead, without pain relief, through which a fat ring of steel was looped as he screamed. A suitably bulky piece of jewellery – and a functional one – to dangle at the end of Sam’s prick slab that no longer shoots swimmers.  

I was ready to move on quickly with my piercing kit: his tits and that low-swinging nut sac, for a start. But Sam wanted to talk, and it was urgent:

‘Please… I’ll do what you want,’ he said.

I laid down my needle.

‘What I want – by way of reminder, Sam – is for you to do sex work with animals, and associated farmyard tasks. And, I want you to do this with sensible engagement, not tantrums. Now, is that what you’ll do?’

‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘You agreed it was a taster… a trial, I think?’

I confected a thin smile, and huffed air through my nostrils with a sound he’d recognise as frustration.

‘I need serious commitment,’ I told him. ‘Some of this stuff isn’t actually hard, physically. But it does require a certain… state of mind, I suppose. There’s lots new, to learn, and most of it isn’t pleasant for you, as the sub… but it’s all do-able with the right approach, yes?’

He was sullen, for fifteen seconds, and then Sam asked his killer follow-up:

‘For how long is this?’

A naïve question, with his experience of non-consensual BDSM and wicked perverts. But I understood, I guess – it was his search for hope, in endless contemplation of a way out. He couldn’t hit unlucky with every bastard he was passed-around…. could he!?

‘The bestiality programme is measured in months,’ I said. ‘It’s to make sure we can progress you in a structured way, filled with your achievement.’

‘Fuck,’ he said, twisting in his spread-eagled chain bondage.

‘I promise I’ll help you, if I see great progress,’ I said. ‘Shall we do some work with animals then, Sam?’

***

Sam’s a big boy, squatting with folded knees in what we shall call the inspection pit, for want of a better descriptor, though it’s far shallower than those used by car mechanics.   

Chance, however, is a bigger boy still, measuring 17 hands. The roan stallion stands astride the pit, looking contended; his neck craning over the closed lower section of stable door, ogling his fillies in the yard beyond, as his striking mane flutters in the breeze.

The servicing scheduled for today is of Chance, by Sam, but the boy is slow to engage with his duty. Weeks in, Sam still considers equine masturbation to be unnatural, and plain wrong. His reluctance to do this sick stuff is what makes his movies, released under my Liberty Species imprint, so popular!

Then, a moment of misfortune. Sam looks up, as he considers making a start on the 18” horse schlong – but the animal chooses that second to take a sharp piss, into Sam’s face and around his neck. It’s an occupational hazard, with horses not being ‘house trained’, but Sam curses the soaking of pungent urine, dripping from his chin:

‘Oh, for fuck sake!’

He can’t let this setback become a distraction, but his drenching with horse piss has made the 26-year-old look beautifully miserable, for my cameras.

‘Start to engage. No timewasting!’ says Ivan, my leading guard.

There will be no niceties in the way Sam is addressed, through this scene. Please and thankyou aren’t part of Ivan’s lexicon, but anyway, experience has shown that with animal work, boys need to be managed in a direct, demanding way. Give them any latitude and they’ll resile from the task. Supervision must be ultra-tight, for the magic to happen.

Sam is being overseen by Ivan and Nikolai, and they’ll be heard – but not seen – in the movie of this equine encounter. The strength of the taboo, with legal ramifications for individuals identified as participants, means men aren’t keen to show their faces unmasked.

Also, this is Sam’s show, to be worked under his own initiative. Directorial inputs should be limited.

‘C’mon, get going! Pleasure Uncle Chance!’ says Nikolai – another Russian with experience guarding prisoners of war, who came recommended by Ivan.

Sam gives a shake of his head. There’s despair in his demeanour, before he’s made a single active move.

Six stalls fill the stable block, home to two colts and four stallions, including Chance. Sam has been passed around the building, getting to know all six horses intimately. He has come to understand a great deal about character and temperament – of the horses, as well.

Lately, Sam’s horse time has been focused on stall six, home to Chance. Mutual trust has made the connection a little easier, though it’s not a monogamous one for either party.

Chance is a distinctive horse, in a stand-out way, though not a classically majestic beast for movie stardom. Strawberry roan, my most hung equine boasts a fiery chestnut – almost ginger – face and ears; pricked and alert to language. His flanks are an even mix of white and chestnut which, lit brightly, appears off-pink in colour. These are the wild looks set to intimidate those who lack confidence but, whilst Chance is a determined animal – selfish, perhaps – he is more predictable than his stablemates.

The kid is stroking Chance’s dick, with hands coated in a water-based lubricant that’s light and safe. He knows to be reasonably assertive in his work – you’re not going to hurt the horse, Sam, so give it a good tug!       

The boy is careful, though. Sam uses good observation to monitor for signs of restlessness in Chance. Horse emotions can change like a switch has been flicked. When he started as a stable lad, Sam wore a protective helmet on his skull, to guard against kicking assault from an irascible thoroughbred. It reminded the boy of his time in the Tesla Fantasia headwear, watching streamed porn and getting milked! But, there were complaints from my customers that the helmet covered too much of Sam – notably, his lustrous brown hair, and some of his starker facial expressions. I sided with my paying fans, and Sam’s helmet was withdrawn, being replaced by advice:

‘You’re experienced enough to work without protection, now. But the danger is still there, so please practice risk-aware kink, in the stable pit! Know your horses, and watch for agitation. Be ready to duck and dive as necessary.’

Sam’s hands were made for this work: The span of his palms and the elegant length of his fingers allow reasonable – but not full – coverage of Chance’s dick circumference, as the boy’s digits curl around that pulsing horse meat.

The youth uses both his hands, arranged close on Chance’s shaft. The backs of Sam’s hands host veins in patterns of modest prominence, but unusual prettiness. It’s easy to imagine he and Charlotte strolling, as lovers, with palms clasped together; her thumb taking pleasure in stroking Sam’s veins, and her fingers noticing – but respecting – the scaly skin on the pads of his fingers. She knows that Sam pushes himself harder every day, in the gym, and it kind of turns her on, to be dating an alpha man with that drive.

Chance seems unbothered by Sam’s gym callouses as the boy masturbates him. The kid has become something of a horse whisperer, during his time on the lowest rung of the stable work ladder. Avoiding sudden movement and excessive noise, Sam has formed cute judgment of Chance’s mood and, after prompting, he talks to the animal in a stilted but calm manner, as he jerks him off:

‘Gonna have some fun together, yeah?’

‘Look out for me down here, bud.’

‘Such a handsome boy, today!’

Sam looks towards a roving camera, apparently, but in reality to Ivan and Nikolai standing behind the cameraman; one brute with stocky arms folded across his chest, and the other displaying signals of impatience. Sam must manage the horse, but keeping the boss men off his back is a high priority.

The boy works his hands along the eighteen inches with a stronger sense of purpose. He bumps across Chance’s medial ring and encroaches on the vicinity of the flared dickhead, twitching. The floor of the stall is concrete covered with a bed of straw, and Sam’s bare knees graze as he shifts his weight, to address his equine Master from the optimal angle.

‘Use your mouth,’ says Ivan, sharp.  

Sam removes his cupping hands from the horse dick; lets his chin slump onto his chest; narrows his eyes and begins a mini-breakdown, underneath the stallion in the stall.

‘Tongue on the fucking dick. Now!’ says Nikolai.

This is a standard escalation in stable sessions, but repetition hasn’t busted Sam’s inhibitions. He knows what he must do, but – as he’s told us  – it’s so fucking gross!

Sam recovers a semblance of composure. His longevity in my bestiality scenes is a mark of his tenacity, when times get tough. His eyes are wet, but not his cheeks.

A long, poked tongue – cleanly crimson – extends onto the fore section of Chance’s dick. It’s a shy tongue, at first, but it doesn’t take much of a glare, from Ivan, to get that organ swiping, teasing, and loving equine prick.

Done for too long, licking horse dick leaves the surface of the boy’s tongue as rough as sandpaper. Sam is incentivised to move this servicing along.

‘Get a hand back on that fucking prick!’ Ivan calls, and the boy jumps to it.

Working with animals tests how low a boy can go, in terms of self-worth and his place in the hierarchy. But Sam’s getting pretty low, physically; arching his back into a dip as he crouches beneath the hind of the horse, slurping along Chance’s bottle-thick dick.  

It’s a mottled horse cock: predominantly pink, but with splotches of black strewn along the length. You would not call it a pretty dick, but it’s highly functional – much like Sam’s sword of meat, until his well ran dry.

From Sam’s oral attention the horse gives signs of stimulation, fidgeting its back feet on the straw, unsettled, and throwing its neck, lusty-eyed.

That brush of a tail rises – Sam doesn’t notice, from his low-lying position – and Chance takes a dump. The horse shit clods miss Sam by at least 40cm, and inevitably this has happened before, so isn’t a big surprise. But the stinking adversity turns Sam extra-sad, and he stops his fellatio of Chance to drop his head, and get sniffy with self-pity.

‘Fuck… please…’ Sam murmurs, to whoever may listen. A substantial, conventionally masculine boy, driven to the end of his tether by degradation.

‘Who told you to stop!?’ Ivan says. ‘Who the fuck said you could have a break!?’

‘Sir… please… I’m trying, but…. this is SO, so, gross…’

‘Tongue and hands back on horse schlong. Now, Sam,’ Nikolai bullies.

The boy flashes a defiant, furious look to the camera as he re-engages.

‘Suck that horse off, properly,’ Ivan presses him. ‘Get your tongue to the crown, and snack on horse lollipop.’

Sam is so close to refusing and sobbing, but he’s tried that tactic before – many times, in this challenging environment – and he knows it just leads to arguments he’ll lose, lots of unnecessary pain, and extra bestiality events added to his schedule, by way of practice. It’s so fucking hard, but it’s best to keep the head down and push on.

The boy dislikes Chance’s dickhead with intensity. There’s something vile about the softer flesh of the crown, as sensed by his tongue, and licking the animal’s piss slit exposes him to foul tastes. That, plus the shovel-sized load of horse manure adjacent – starting to attract irritant flies, now – makes a potent stink he struggles to deal with. Then, there’s the quivering of hard horse cock as Sam causes it excitement.

He makes an effort to man-up but, in truth, Sam looks so wretched under the rear half of the stallion, doing his job whilst praying it won’t kick-out, having had enough of being caressed and blown and fussed over by this strange boy.

You can’t edge a horse to extend the experience, and I suppose that’s fortunate for Sam. When they’re ready, they shoot without giving clues to their ecstatic condition.

Sam has a yawning tunnel mouth poised at Chance’s dickhead, preparing to swallow that horse meat by its circumference and – perhaps – to impress me with his work ethic. The kid is desperate to show me positives from his active duties, these days.

Sam doesn’t quite get to stretch his coveted lips to their maximum before Chance fires his load: into the boy’s mouth as he rushes to snap his jaws shut, and then over his face in the most comprehensive way. It’s quick, and when Sam next looks up for my cameras, it’s as though the entirety of his face has been wallpaper pasted. His eyes, concealed behind the gooey mess, blink to free themselves from this horse cum porridge.

‘Fuck yeah!’ Ivan says, satisfied with what he has overseen.

Chance, spent, will behave unpredictably in his post-orgasmic comedown. Already the beast is neighing, and shuffling in the stall. Sam will be extracted from danger, so he’ll be fit to continue his journey.

***

‘Head up. Eye contact,’ I say.

I’ve asked for privacy, so Ivan and Nikolai have withdrawn, though not beyond shouting distance – just in case of trouble.

It’s just me, Sam, and a handful of horses in their stalls, tossing hay and snorting, bored of indoor confinement.

Sam didn’t feel the chill whilst he was working for Chance, but it’s mid-October, he’s naked, and the stable block is unheated. The nervous perspiration he’d accumulated, wanking the stallion, clings to his smooth torso like condensation, in beads that don’t run.

His hands are clasped behind his back, on trust: no bondage. His feet are planted apart, bare on the dirty concrete. He hasn’t cleaned-up.

‘Hey, splatterface,’ I say, and I step forward into his space, squeezing his left cheek between my right hand thumb and forefinger. The equine cum is gluey, as it starts to dry.

From the boy’s angular chin, dollops of Chance’s seed plop onto his chest, down that gully of a pectoral cleft. It’s too viscous to run-on.

‘You swallowed?’ I ask.

‘Sir,’ Sam confirms.

We have this rule, that boys doing bestiality mustn’t spit. Anything that enters their mouths, goes down.

I let a stand-off silence drift on, and I watch Sam start to struggle. There are no tears, but he’s flushed and sniffy. He flexes on those size 12 feet, close to sobbing but equally close to lashing-out at me, to land a curled fist square on my nose. That’s far less than I deserve.

Sam doesn’t move against me, though. I’ve taught him the most important skill a submissive boy can learn, which is self-regulation.

‘I know it’s not easy,’ I say, pinching him over his dimpled cheek, again.

He doesn’t rise to my bait, remaining stoic – or sullen.

‘There are lots of encounters still to film,’ I say. ‘But, what you’ve done so far… is acknowledged. What I need to see, over your time remaining, is more of that respectful attitude and open mind, huh?’

‘Fuck you, Sir,’ he says, through a face so plastered with horse cum it’s a struggle to read his expressions.

‘No horses tomorrow, I think.’

Sam squirms his key muscle groups, but stays planted on the spot I’ve designated for his feet.

‘Sir… plea…’ he starts.

I silence him, with a vertical finger placed across his animal-sucking lips.

‘It’s gonna be okay, yeah?’ I assure him.

***

Chapter Two will be published next week 

- Everything you read here is fiction, presented for the purposes of entertainment -