Chapter Two
Via the ring looped through the piercing at his dickhead – I
told you it would be a useful modification! – Sam is chained to a John
Deere tractor, resplendent in green with yellow wheels.
The tractor run, of 5km, takes the combination of
machine and trailing boy across some challenging terrain.
This is England, in autumn, and the conditions are as you
might expect. It’s wet and windy, and squelchy underfoot.
Sam’s only clothing is a pair of wellington boots, worn with
thick socks. The footwear is black, rising to mid-calf. Those boots were new
and clean, when Sam pulled them on. Ideally, they would have been worn-in to
the shape of Sam’s feet before their extreme deployment on his tractor run,
but Sam can’t expect to have everything his way.
Ivan is driving my tractor like a man who doesn’t realise
how much they cost. The Russian knows the 5k circuit, and how to exploit its
potential: ploughed fields, recently churned; the upland slopes where sheep
graze on thinned grass; and the valley track fording the stream – almost a
river, actually – to a depth that presents no problems for the John Deere.
Through the farmyard caked in slurry, the resident dogs
enter guardian mode, snarling and chasing-off this pathetic caravan. There’s a
crest of a windswept hill, and a slog across ground so waterlogged the tractor
must maintain momentum, to avoid becoming bogged down.
The rearward-facing camera, mounted on the back of the
tractor cab, captures the entirety of Sam’s run as a mini-feature for my
Liberty Species customers. In fact, this short film would be appreciated
by the wider Liberty Media mailing list – let me get my marketing man onto that!
I watch from a grassy knoll at the 3.5km mark, with Sam
already deep in the trenches, as they say. I’m dressed for the downpours
in a waterproof jacket and over-trousers.
I hear the tractor engine before I see them. There’s angry
revving – unnecessary, but it adds to the sense of jeopardy unfolding. The
low-geared machine can take the course at a stroll; at a jog; or at a sprint,
where the under-wheel conditions allow it.
Sam wants to walk the circuit, but the setting of pace isn’t
for him to control. There’s slack in the chain linking his knob to the towing
eye, but he wishes the margin for error were more generous, and believes it
should be, because this is dangerous.
The headlights dazzle through the gloom, and then I can hear
Sam shouting over the throb of the diesel engine:
‘For fuck’s sake!’
‘No… too fast… slow it….FUCK!’
Ivan, in the driving seat, turns to look behind as much as
he observes the track ahead. He’s checking that this tractor run is as challenging
for Sam as it must be. Ivan doesn’t need to swivel, as the rear view camera
streams a live feed to a monitor in his cab – but it’s fun to watch a
distressed boy directly.
There is tricky ground still to overcome, but Sam has
already been exposed to steep inclines, water splashes and stomps through thick
mud. My vantage point overlooks one of the few stretches of forest track that
are level, firm, and extend beyond 200 metres before encountering a new
obstacle to speed.
The rain, whipped by the wind, gusts nearly horizontal.
I nod to Ivan as the tractor passes, and he nods back in a
perfunctory way, where a Brit would give a thumbs-up gesture or even a cheery peep
of the horn. The Russian is absorbed with his sadism.
Sam follows, 13 metres behind the tractor and with the towing
chain drawn nearly horizontal; the slack fully utilised, almost.
‘Pick up your pace. Dig deep. Work your legs. Keep pushing,’
I call to him.
‘Sir….!’ Sam calls. He looks to me for several seconds and I
know he expects himself to say more – he wants to say more, by way of
protesting this assignment – but nothing further emerges from his lips as he battles
to re-fill his lungs sufficient to pursue the tearaway tractor hitched to his
long-meat. Conversation is out of the question, so I’m left with that simple,
respectful assent – Sir!
Sam recedes from view. His powerhouse legs, gym-built for
strength but less so for the 100m, scrabble over the compacted stone of this
section; it’s an easier surface than most he’ll encounter, but Ivan has
compensated by accelerating the pace of his driving to sprint. Sam’s
creamy butt mounds – as taut as the chain – quiver with the total effort of his
propulsion.
They disappear between the trees but, long after they’ve
gone, I hear Sam’s panicked voice echoing through the pines:
‘FUUUCCCCCK!’
***
‘Eyes to me. Focus.’ I say.
Sam’s bent at his waist, hands on his knees, panting.
There’s a carpet of vomit in lurid orange, between his feet and sprayed over
the rubber of his left boot. The kid’s guts are on the floor.
‘Stand up. Back straight. Eyes to me,’ I repeat.
‘Oh fuck…’ Sam groans.
He unfurls himself but it’s slow, and teetering when he
stretches to vertical.
‘Concentration. Discipline. Respect.’ I say.
‘Fuck…’ he whines.
‘Feet apart. Hands clasped behind your back. C’mon – this
isn’t a new learning.’
Fractionally, the elevation of Sam’s respiratory cycle
eases.
I click my fingers, impatient. ‘Eyes. Look at me, Sam… not past
me.’
He’s filthy. I mean, not just muddy up his legs, but
splattered and splashed from the toecaps of his boots to the hair on his head.
Front and back, and flanks. To go into blackface may be a cancelling offence,
these days, but that’s the look Sam wears – eyes stark and peeping from a pasting
of wet, peaty dirt that’s tar black. That’s how hard the tractor run was, for
Sam.
‘Listening ears,’ I tell him, as I intend to say something
profound. I preface my words with a solemn silence.
‘All I can ask for, Sam, is that you give everything to your
work. And, when I see the mess you’re in – like you’ve rolled in it! – well
then… I know you’ve pushed yourself extra-hard, to make worthwhile things
happen. So… my acknowledgment for that tractor run, and good effort.’
I watch him, and see the deep gulp that ripples his Adam’s
apple. He takes his own pause.
‘Sir,’ he mumbles.
‘And?’ I say.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ he says, clearly.
‘Better. Now… about this afternoon’s tasking.’ I say.
‘Fuck, Sir!’ he says, flick-of-the-switch indignant that I’m
proposing a two-session day, when the morning has reduced him to a broken boy
who pukes uncontrolled.
‘There’s a tight filming schedule, Sam. Anyway, this
afternoon has lots of passive stuff, for you. No more running around, today. I
promise!’
‘Sir…’
‘And, before you start your next duty, there’s a hot bath
waiting for you with a splash of muscle relaxant oil, after your energetic
morning.’
‘Sir, please can we not do this today….’
‘Because I know it’s a little tough, when you’re fatigued,
but this must happen this afternoon.’
‘Sir… okay, but… please can it not be animal stuff.
I’m in a bad place in my head… like, ruined. Even if we did it some other day,
maybe….’
‘It’s 3pm, at the kennels,’ I tell him.
‘AWWW… you CUNT! FUUUUCCCK!’ Sam wails, throwing his head
back.
Without consent the boy drops to his bare knees in the farmyard, places flat palms together, and prays to me that this can’t be so.
***
It had been a long journey here, for Sam.
At 23:00 hours, in the mouth of the junction where a
decaying fingerpost sign directs visitors to Freedom Farm, the hooded boy was bundled
from the back of a van, to the canvas-roofed truck bed of my Land Rover, for
the last leg of his trip.
The vehicle I’m describing is a 1974 model of the classic
Land Rover 4x4, beloved of British farmers and the army – not the current,
reinvented, £80k Land Rover beloved of urban British cocaine dealers.
The point is, there’s not much suspension on my old Landie,
and only thin cushions on the bench seats running longitudinally, one to each
side. There were just five miles to cover, but it took 25 minutes in the
veteran off-roader, bouncing along metalled byways, then unmade dirt tracks,
which themselves petered-out until the car was pitching at significant angles,
following a feint path worn by sheep.
Launched vertically by the bumps, Sam’s head hit the fabric
roof; and jerked laterally by the jolting progress, he tumbled to his side on
the bench. Familiar with this tortuous mode of transport I stayed upright,
opposite my latest farm boy.
The dairy team had wished Sam luck and sent him on his way
in a simple uniform of white T-shirt, black shorts and white trainers, and
that’s what he was wearing for this final journey, to my rural facility. The
Land Rover grind was the last time he’d wear clothes, beyond practical footwear:
animals don’t dress.
The passage conveys a good sense of the remoteness of the
destination. Nobody will hear your screams, and no passer-by will alert the
authorities to concerning goings-on. It’s a location where bestiality can be
practised unfettered – but always in that logical, progressive way that’s a hallmark
of my Liberty brand.
In my 4x4, hacking through the night, Sam knew this was
going to be bad, though it was only after we’d arrived that I sat him down for the
conversation: ‘You’re going to be working with animals’.
As his road trip neared its end, I reached across from my
bench to his and stroked Sam on his meaty inner thigh – the exact same spot I’d
caressed when I met him at Bernadette’s place and wished to encourage his milk
production.
‘It’s your opportunity to try something new… and different,’
I told him, as we lurched together.
‘Sir,’ he agreed, in ignorance of the new theme.
***
I’ve filmed a short monologue, which my video editor will
insert after the opening credits to Sam’s new movie.
I’m not afraid to show my face to camera; well protected, as
I am, by powerful people who happen to be my customers, and who have an
incentive to keep me in business, to satisfy their unending needs for more,
and harder. But it’s not fair to ask my staff to expose their
identities: Liberty Media is a responsible employer!
I use one of those hand-held wireless microphones that
earnest-sounding scammers walk with on Dubai pool sides, for Instagram adverts
promoting their latest ‘print free money!’ forex schemes:
‘I want to thank you for your business, and for your
loyalty. I know the risks you’re taking, in accessing content from the Species
library. My purpose is to justify that risk-taking by serving you the highest
quality bestiality content.
I’m proud to present Sam’s latest adventure – In the Dog
House 3. As you’ve seen in previous releases, animal work doesn’t happen easily
for Sam, and there have been struggles.
The aim of all Liberty productions – across the various
labels – is to show you how we make a boy miserable from his workload – and
ever more so, as his stay with us extends. It’s about spreading sadness,
whatever the nature of a boy’s challenge. With that in mind, I invite you to
sit back, relax, and witness the work of an utterly bereft farm boy.
And please – check your inbox from time to time, as Sam’s final feature promises to be big.’
***
‘You FUCKING shits!’
Sam’s temper doesn’t flare often, these days. The work we’ve
done with the boy has squashed his remaining hot-headed tendencies, instead
reinforcing obedient behaviours. We’ve spoken about status and, although Sam
was reluctant to accept his situation, there’s an understanding that he won’t
be a decision maker, anymore – there’s no justification for autonomy, in his
role.
Sometimes he just can’t help himself, though! Strapped to
the frame in the exercise yard, being drizzled on because the rain has eased but
not ceased, Sam has reacted to the barking of the hounds as they’re marshalled
for fun.
It’s like the fist-fucking frame in the way it arranges
Sam’s limbs, but closer to the ground, raising the kid off the kennel floor by 50cm
or so. Back, horizontal and stretched along the length of the structure; knees,
parted wide forcing the thighs to splay; soles of the feet, pale and reared
vertical; neck, cradled (and prevented from drooping) by a U-shape stand under his
throat. Sam’s practically immobile, but there’s nothing new about that.
There’s a long, canine wail, redolent of the sub-polar
forests, and without seeing the animal you can visualise it, snout raised high
as it chatters in long sentences. Other dogs reply in their own voices – there
are six, housed in this kennel.
The husky is let out. He’s fierce blue-eyed and keen, tugging his handler along. It’s a large adult, sensing imminent opportunity.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ Sam whines. There’s enough play in the nuts and bolts of the frame to create those satisfying squeaks as the boy squirms.
He’s hairless in his ass crack – both perineum, and puckered
hole. Never a hirsute boy, Sam was made bald where it matters on his second day
here, and has been kept so. For this session, his rump and target have been
doused with a spray replicating the hormonal odour of a bitch in heat, that’s
undetectable to our human noses.
It’s not Sam’s first time on the frame – this movie is a
second sequel. On each occasion he’s found it difficult, being placed in this
position. There’s still dignity to lose, and Sam retains an ethical conception
of what’s right, and what’s very wrong. I know – because he got
emotional and opened-up to me during aftercare, last time – that Sam finds
canine work dirty and sick: he worries about the health
implications (!). These are the concerns of a boy who hasn’t, in fact, accepted
his place in the hierarchy.
‘Guys, please…’ Sam says, trying for compassion from Ivan
and Nikolai, who’ll be running this scene.
My guards are fully masked, but for eyelets and narrow slits
at their lips. Otherwise, they’re head to toe in leather, offering some
protection against bites. They shrug-off the pleas of outraged boys.
Sam does a lot of neck swivelling, checking the emerging
state of play at his rear. He tuts and puffs, swearing under his breath:
‘Assholes!’
Catching a scent, the dog enters an overwhelming state of
excitement, scrabbling with the hind legs as he’s held by the neck, front paws paddling
furiously in mid-air. This husky has a strong name – Thor – and he’s full of
energy; crying at the humans restraining his advance.
It’s not Thor’s first time, with a boy, but it will always
be an irregular act that the dog must be shown to. My heavies act as guides for
Thor, inviting the canine onto Sam’s muscular rump with a variety of techniques
including calling-on, pointing, and dragging the creature into a humping position.
I know the fantasy, for some, is a seamless fuck the dog completes instinctively,
but the reality is a messy few minutes of flailing chaos for the cameras.
As the hound is manoeuvred and encouraged to engage with an
unusual orifice, the helpless boy gets stressed-out on his bondage frame:
‘You SICK fuckers! Just stop this crazy shit, yeah!? C’mon,
man… for FUCK sake!’
Sam’s payback is a slap to his right ass mound, delivered by
Nikolai with brutal, stinging, efficiency.
‘Fucking open-up, bitch!’ says my junior overseer.
The penetration – when alignment is achieved – is
unromantic. It’s a stabbing of furry dog dick into baby-smooth boy hole, plunged
with no thought for teasing foreplay.
This is within Sam’s capabilities: you’ll remember I started
my narration with the boy taking my fist(s). Sam’s been bored-out and extended,
ready for days such as this. On a technical level the straight youth is an
accomplished bottom, now – but also a rage-filled one.
Sam over-reacts to his dicking from Thor, reflecting his
anger more than his pain:
‘Ahhh fuck…. no!’
‘Get it fucking OFF me!’
Thor is managed by Ivan and Nikolai in a clumsy way.
Standing on his rear legs, almost erect, the dog fucks Sam vigorously whilst
threatening, always, to become distracted from the sexual attractions of boy
pussy and to break free from his handlers. Kudos to those who train unruly dogs
for a living.
Lots of camera work is done at Sam’s face, capturing his
full suite of reactions to this depravity: his fright and his fury; his anguish
and his total sadness. The cameras are alert for the boy’s tears, but there are
none. As bestiality turns go, this one from Sam has started in a self-regulated
manner.
The boy huffs through it, though; sometimes in rhythm with Thor’s
accelerated panting.
The dog humps Sam’s ass; it’s grey and white body stretched
gymnastically along the boy’s back, with forepaws sunk into his trapezii,
scratching at the taut muscle. Thor makes ecstatic yipping noises around his
heavy breathing, as he thumps into the boy.
There’s a sting in the tail at the root end of Thor’s
length, in the shape of the dog’s knot. Sam knows the canine anatomy too well,
so can hardly feign surprise, but insertion of the bulge catches him out, every
time, and generates complaint:
‘Awwww FUCK!’
The dick knot doesn’t demand a massive gape of his hole, but
I suppose Sam’s griping is more about the layering-on of his degradation.
Plenty more head shots are put in the can, of Sam scowling
and contorting his face at this ongoing doggy slamming. He looks back, often –
the frequency suggesting panic, or moral crisis. His guards shout occasional
obscenities:
‘Put-out for the dog, bitch!’
‘You enjoy getting fucked by a dog, huh? You like being
doggy raped, yeah? Fucking sick faggot… begging for more!’
When it happens, the climax is quick. Thor’s sex soundtrack
turns from yapping to whimpering cries as he busts his dog nuts, jamming his
seed into Sam’s tightness.
Sam feels that rush of hot cum. His face registers a
confliction of relief that the deed is done, and disgust that he’s allowed
himself to be opened for breeding by canine dick, again.
Nikolai hauls the spent dog off Sam’s mounds, away and back
to his kennel; languid in his gait, post-sex.
Ivan scoops cum at Sam’s tender ass ring, using two gloved
fingers to capture some of the plentiful goo dribbling from those pretty lips.
He steps forward to Sam’s head-end, and squats to reduce the difference in
height, until farm boy and Farmer meet at eye level.
‘Lick,’ Ivan says, offering his two cummy fingers, extended.
‘Fuck you!’ Sam says. And – predictably – he’s slapped,
squarely across his left-side jawline by Ivan’s open palm. Ivan always slaps to
sting.
‘Lick,’ Ivan repeats.
The sulky lips drift open from their pout, and Ivan wastes
no time in stuffing Sam’s cavern with his leather-clad digits.
‘Suck,’ Ivan says. ‘Suck them clean.’
‘Mmmfff!’ Sam moans, rendered incoherent by the fingers, and
by the sticky dog seed coating them, which clings to his tongue.
‘Suck,’ Ivan says, more relaxed now. He can feel Sam lapping,
so the resented work is in progress.
***
The pair of German Shepherd dogs, from an esteemed lineage
that has provided service to the police and military, enter the exercise yard
voice-first.
Unable to run, Sam is shit-scared. All he can do is cower on
his fuck bench, twisting his neck to check that – PLEASE! – those K9s are under
control. And swear:
‘FUCKIN’ cunts! Not two…’
The intention is to manifest a high level of aggression in
Sam’s workspace, without permitting the dogs to run wild and tear chunks.
More than the single husky, these double dogs enforce
subservience on a boy. This is the strictest discipline – boys don’t play-up,
when two from this bloodline appear on their scene.
Sam’s developmental programme has taken him beyond one
quick doggie fuck and done. He’s a whore, now, for +the six residents of
the kennel, just as he services six horses to my satisfaction. Not all on the
same day, though – I’m not a monster!
Sam was never a dog lover – I mean that in the sense it’s
generally understood – and, if it wasn’t obvious from his recoil when made to
share space with feisty breeds, he admitted it to me in the debrief sessions we
held in his early days of animal work. Sam’s terrified of getting bitten, and
it’s a risk, though the dogs are held on choking leashes and kept at heel… so
long as Sam’s action scenes proceed in accordance with the objectives I have
for them.
Sam knows to play his part in keeping the dogs calm, by
staying placid and not giving them too much of the smell of fear that makes
their mood volatile. It’s also about surrender, and offering-up what those
horny males need to take; not enraging them with a closed door. This is stuff
that boys struggle with, but it can be taught, and learnt.
Atlas is held on his chain, vocal, as the second of the
German Shepherds – Titan – mounts Sam lustily.
Titan needs little channelling, as this one has an
intelligent focus on hole: wanting it, and knowing where to find that moist boy
pussy, having mated Sam before – and other lads, because he’s not monogamous or
fussy.
Titan exerts a harder fuck than the husky, pounding on Sam
with his hairy dick whilst salivating across the boy’s back, layering drool
upon sweat. Titan growls as he fucks, teeth bared, but Sam knows to keep his
own focus, looking straight ahead and not back, into the beast’s fiery eyes.
The kid is rigid – which doesn’t aid the process – undergoing
his Alsatian fuck with clenched fists and domed biceps. Sam tries to avoid
giving the frantic commentary that his movie audience would get turned-on by,
because he doesn’t want to hand them that pleasure on a plate. But instinct does
its thing, eventually, and Sam emotes to Titan’s deep thrusts:
‘Awww…. fuck. Ahhh…. FUCK!’
It’s a rough sort of dick, and Sam is feeling the abrasion
up his chute.
‘Awww…. Jesus!’
‘DAMN… Fuck-Fuck-Fuck!’
Still no tears, though. In the viewfinders of roving
cameramen, Sam’s comically puffed cheeks loom large as he makes heavy weather
of coping with this bottoming.
The second dog, Atlas, is led to the front of Sam’s fuck
bench as his kennel-mate taps the boy’s ass. There’s a limited window of
opportunity to capture a spit roast, before Titan is sated.
Sam understands this progression, and he goes quiet. The
facial expression changes from exaggerated exertion to a stony look; paralysed
with the boy’s trauma.
‘Boss… please…’ Sam tries. Occasionally, he attempts an
appeal to my (elusive) better nature, via the medium of my guards, and always
with the same result.
Atlas is corralled onto a low wooden platform, facing Sam’s
head. Some commotion ensues, with the dog not appreciating the treat he’s in
for, if only he could organise his sleek body on hind legs, in the right
spot, and fucking stand still! Briefly, the beast refuses to be marshalled
by Ivan, and threatens the Russian with his gnashers, but Ivan is not a man who
gets perturbed by stroppy hounds.
Atlas is held hoisted by his neck, in front of the cradle
where Sam’s own neck is propped. There’s lots of manoeuvring going-on and it
still looks the opposite of choreographed, but of course, it’s an unnatural act
we’re facilitating.
‘Suck,’ Ivan says.
Even now, contemplating action at both ends, Sam doesn’t
cry. Everything we’ve discussed concerning the quality of stoicism is being
remembered, and implemented.
Ivan pulls the flighty dog closer to Sam, making the best
job he can of the mouth-to-dick alignment.
‘Fucking suck!’ Ivan says.
And Sam’s face is lost to the camera crew as he stretches
forward, into Atlas’s groin with tongue extended.
‘Lick, and suck, bitch!’ Ivan encourages.
At Sam’s ass Titan is nearly done, squeezed by that comforting
sphincter. The yard is a cacophony of whimpering, yelping and low growling; both
dogs being held in situ by their necks until their role in this performance is
complete.
We don’t hear much from Sam, buried in the sex of heavy-breathing
Atlas, but we know he’s working hard thanks to his muffled complaints around the
shaft:
‘Mmmwwwaaaa……Mmmwwwaahh.’
Titan’s fat knot ravages his asshole, and Sam thrashes on
the creaking frame; his veins corded and angry.
‘Suck… properly. No games!’ Ivan warns.
Sam mashes into the dog’s matted undercarriage. The boy’s dark hair is seen bobbing as he works onto and off that dick with lips formed into a pinched circle, looking to prove a level of devotion his handlers may accept as sufficient worship. It’s a miracle that dense brown crop of hair hasn’t fallen out in clumps, with the stress Sam’s been under, but for the moment it remains intact, retaining some of its sheen, even. It would only be a matter of time, though.
‘Faster! Get serious,’ Ivan snaps.
Sam responds to that coaching, elevating the pace of the
blow job. The ducking and diving of his head becomes rapid, accompanied by wilder
calls, now constant:
‘Mwahhhh! Awwww! Mwawww!’
Revelling in his oral pleasuring, overheating Atlas slobbers
over the top of Sam’s back, as Titan – about to climax – drools on the kid’s
waistline.
This is a premium bestiality scene – an arena full of
activity; with two anon human sherpas on the set, in gear; and a fucking mess
all-round. It’s so affecting for the athlete, reduced to this gang bang with
both ends plugged. He’s not crying, though.
‘Fucking bitch!’ Nikolai snorts.
‘Mmmmm!’ Sam says (something). His cheeks are puffed and
puce: he’s going down deep, to a knotty problem.
The dogs communicate mutual ecstasy to one another with
high-pitched squeals.
Their orgasms are near-simultaneous, which is a fluke and a
wonderful bonus for a filmmaker.
Titan and Atlas pump jizz into Sam’s orifices and, once they’ve
shot loads, they’re quick to become agitated – howling and screaming to be let
go of. Still leaking, the cousin dogs are pulled back to ensure the cameramen
can record proof it happened, in both holes.
There is fractious barking in the yard. The dogs are hungry,
having burnt energy, and they fancy a bite or two of Sam’s thighs – or, perhaps
his butt mounds would be the prime steaks? The beasts are permitted to strain distressingly
close to Sam’s flanks, bullying the boy tied to the frame, and launching their
hot spittle over him.
Sam pisses himself from that long schlong. Cameras record the
humiliation. Nothing is said.
‘Swallow!’ Ivan tells Sam, referring to his mouthful of
Atlas’s cum.
The boy shakes his head, broken.
‘Fucking swallow!’
A cold, hard slap to the side of his face makes Sam see
stars, and gets his throat moving on that gluey dog seed.
From his ass crevice Sam sheds a quantity of Titan’s cum;
elongating strings of the stuff, making for the floor, in no hurry.
‘FUCK YOU!’ Sam screams. Despite his months of experience in
multiple forms of submission, animals sent in pairs is a vileness too
far, and he finds his human voice. ‘FUCK. YOU.’ Sam repeats, in case he wasn’t
heard the first time.
I’m watching from the sidelines, out of camera shot for the
most part, but anyway I can be edited-out. Sam knows I’m here, lurking, always
with the authority to direct a scene with a kindlier slant, but never
fucking intervening to make things less nasty. Whilst he respects the hierarchy,
you don’t have to scratch Sam’s surfaces too deeply to uncover his huge
disappointment with Ryan. Yet he doesn’t personalise his anger, anymore: it’s
‘FUCK YOU!’ but never ‘FUCK YOU, SIR!’
Time to welcome the standard poodle.
***
‘Rim it. Tongue out, and poke deep,’ says Ivan, like it was
nothing.
Now, courageously late in the scene, we get Sam’s breakdown.
With a face of undiluted misery, the boy weeps. The boom microphone captures sorry-for-myself
sobbing sounds, followed by hard sniffing.
The medium poodle contrasts with the macho breeds deployed
to smash Sam’s holes. Boasting a white coat of the tightest curls, finessed on
the table of a top-rated grooming parlour, this gentle-natured boy was a
contender for Best in Class at Crufts, last year. Docile, our Prince –
that’s his name – tolerates being held, tail raised, for mouth-to-ass
servicing.
A fighting dog might, actually, have felt less raw for Sam.
But the command to rim this fancy toy, festooned with ribbons and an absurd bow
tie, hits new depths of degradation.
Prince makes playful noises, his eyes bright.
‘Fucking rim the dog, faggot!’ Ivan bullies.
There’s an absence of cooperation from Sam, his face wet
with hot tears.
‘Sir, please….’ the boy calls. His words are garbled,
through his phlegm, but his volume is raised. This is Sam’s appeal, going above
the heads of his two guards to beg me directly. ‘Oh fuck… please…’ he
continues, quietening to a moan.
Personal engagement is at my discretion – the Russians are
perfectly capable of dealing with insubordination, flipping it into compliance.
I don’t mollycoddle Sam by leaping to his side, the moment he calls, but having
considered what might work best to break this impasse, I step across the square
to join Sam, with my waist at the level of his puffy face on the frame.
‘Tell me your troubles, huh?’ I say.
‘Leave me alone! Fuck off, and leave me alone!’ Sam blusters
through his tears. It’s the outburst you’d expect from a truculent 13-year-old,
but it’s hollered by an imposing fitness addict twice that age… and it will
look superb on film.
‘You’ve done well today… so far… don’t let’s ruin
everything,’ I say.
‘Just go away…’ Sam repeats, but he’s mellowing as he
regains composure.
‘Tell me, hey?’ I ask, still chasing an answer to my opener.
‘Fuck off,’ Sam mouths.
‘Hmmm? What’s so bad, to cause such a fuss?’
I give the kid time and watch his brown eyes well-up, again,
with adorable sadness.
‘So fucking dirty!’ Sam blurts, emphasising the final
word.
‘I know,’ I say. There’s no point denying the truth of this
objection.
At this stage of his development, Sam is suffering from lack
of exposure to filth work throughout his training. How much easier he would
find it, to rim Prince, if the boy had weeks of toilet service experience under
his belt. I offer hard graft in that other yucky fetish within my Liberty
empire, but it’s too bad for Sam that he was channelled narrowly on the milking
lines, when his mouth might have been opened to a taste of waste.
Prince has been lifted away by Ivan, and pants tongue-out on stand-by, behind Sam’s bondage frame.
‘This is an important piece of submission, Sam. To set
expectations… I want you to dig deep. Yes?’
He’s sniffy, and stretching tense in his binds.
‘I hate literally everything here… but I hate this even
more,’ Sam says.
‘I think we might give you an easier day, tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Don’t fucking care!’ he says, scorning my attempt to
reach-out.
‘Okay,’ I sigh. ‘I want you to eat-out that dog, lovingly.
No more talk. We’re not getting anywhere.’
‘Fuck you, and fuck that queer dog!’ he shouts.
I step back from Sam and the frame, scratching my head. He’s
making this so fucking hard.
‘Nikolai… can we get the blowtorch, please?’ I ask.
‘No problem!’ says my junior tormentor, already on his way
to the tool cupboard.
***
We’d singe his low-hanging nut sac first, so the torch has
been gassed-up and lit at Sam’s rear, where he struggles to see it but can hear
the urgent hissing all too well. The gas burns with a slim blue flame, tapering
to invisibility.
We’d really use it on him – if necessary – and Sam believes the
threat of damage. In this most sordid of kinks – bestiality – plenty of boys
have proved so obstructive I’ve needed to burn them; cut them; half-hang them,
even. Sam has been one of the more sensible trainees.
‘No!’ he calls, shrill.
‘My patience is finished,’ I say.
The sword of flame is moved nearer to the boy’s nuts, by
30cm or so. He feels that raw, dry heat warm his worn-out gonads.
‘Fuck, NO!’
‘Eat-out that fucking dog,’ I say, offering Sam a final
opportunity to comply.
Prince’s hole is being offered-up to the boy, again: the bemused
poodle being held with feathered tail clear of his bullseye ring.
‘Fucking rim, Sam,’ I urge him. ‘Let’s get this fucking
done, yeah?’
As the flame starts to grill his leathery ball sac, the kid
bolts into tongue action.
His torment captured from multiple camera angles in
close-up, Sam presses into the hole of the prancing show-dog. To cope, he keeps
his eyes closed as much as possible, though sometimes he needs to be sighted to
aim his tongue at the tiny target.
‘Go deep… and excavate,’ I remind him.
The blowtorch continues to flame, though it has been pulled
back from the vicinity of Sam’s balls, swaying pendulum-like, granting him
space to deliver on the task.
The boy retrieves dog shit. Of course, it’s not enough, or
fast enough.
Prince exhibits signs of distress but Sam must work through them,
calm and steady.
‘More,’ I say, and Sam knows how to satisfy me. We’ve
practiced command and response so many times, together.
Knowing I need evidence he’s been digging deep, Sam
pokes his tongue for a camera: it’s stained mid-brown from tip to root. He’s
wonderfully tearful, but in the manner of an iceberg: the viewer will deduce
there’s a lot of emotional suppression going on.
‘Back in!’ I bark, and he’s onto my stage direction right
away.
Ivan and Nikolai, manhandling the poodle between them, joke
at Sam’s plight in a mixture of Russian and English. They point and swear –
he’s such a dirty faggot.
The boy extracts dog shit in lumps, from Prince’s back door.
‘Swallow,’ I remind him, and Sam’s demeanour breaks to a
despairing slump; his tears dropping from that angular chin having travelled
his cheeks in cascades.
‘Swallow,’ I repeat, with more assertiveness. I don’t expect
to instruct the boy a third time.
He gulps, accompanied by a brutalised shake of his head.
Ivan grabs Sam by his hair, tugging the head up by the
scalp. He spits a single pellet of gob with accuracy, into Sam’s right eye.
‘Fucking bitch… eating dog ass like a filthy faggot, yeah!?’
‘Yes SIR!’ Sam calls. He’s slapped across the jawline as
follow-up; still held by a clump of his hair.
‘Fucking dig it out!’ Nikolai yells.
‘Yes SIR!’ the boy shouts. Such a responsive, disciplined
youth.
Sam delves back into Prince’s sweet hole, finding and
retrieving and catching and swallowing the canine turd, like his life depended
upon it.
The dog has become a squealing, fearful hound, forgetting his
mannered ways.
Sam vomits with a violent lurch of his core, splattering the
dog’s hind legs and raising its anxiety further. The boy makes another, beaten,
head shake. He’s losing the mental cohesiveness that’s necessary to execute
animal work to the highest standard.
‘Back into ass, now, and clean it right out, this
time,’ I order.
His face a wall of tears, Sam turns his neck to look at me
and beg that this be ended. I’m the only one who can call a premature halt to a
scene.
‘Finish-off Prince, or I’ll bring Titan and Atlas back out
for rimming, yes?’ I say.
‘Pur-please…’ Sam stammers, pathetic.
‘Let’s end today well, and not at war,’ I say.
‘Please….oh fuck…. please,’ he whispers, destroyed.
‘It’s nearly over, honey. Tongue out, push back into hole – way
deep – and eat-out dog for me, yeah? You think you can do that, or…..?’
And Sam’s face is lost again, squashed into the poodle’s
tidy posterior as he slurps and mines and burps his way through this vital act
of service.
***
Following my recent IT setback - though I've used stronger terms in private! - Chapter 3 is a few days behind schedule, but will be with you by the end of the month.
- Everything you read here is a work of fiction -
