Liberty Species (3/3): NC; BEAST; SNUFF warning

Chapter Three

Such is the stillness of the morning that the tractor has been audible for the entirety of the circuit, as a thrum that faded, turned, then amplified once again. 

Sam was woken at 05:45 for a 06:30 start, stretched-out on the cowling. He hates early alarm calls, and he detests his tractor rides, but today is the day and the circuit is great training for bigger things.

Waiting in the shelter of the barn doorway, back at base, I’ve heard the revs fall and rise as the John Deere made light work of the interesting terrain.

Sam’s voice hasn’t carried, above the throbbing of the power unit, but he won’t have remained mute because the tractor ride is too strong a test to be suffered in silence. Were it to become too comfortable, Ivan can (and does) press his right foot harder on the throttle pedal.

Sam takes his ride on top of the tractor hood, with legs astride it. Being a big machine, his groin is forced into a wide spread that aches after two minutes perched across the green hulk – and this is a 5km tour of the estate.

Modern tractors are more energy efficient than their rasping predecessors, but even so, a fair amount of heat is emitted from the engine, and it flows through slats in the cowling and straight over Sam’s bare legs. Early, comforting warmth soon becomes searing heat he feels as burning, but this is not a ride that Sam can leap from.  

Up the boy’s ass is a fat plug that gapes his punished lips. It’s a really mean toy: mostly in respect of density, for this is a solid piece that doesn’t flex as the kid is thrown around by a drunken pilot. Sat squarely on that plug, the boy’s wrists are cuffed behind his back, to a steel handle fixed on the hood top that functions as a grip for the rider.

Sam’s ankles are in bondage as well, manacled to rings fitted to the vertical side panels of the tractor hood. He’s unable to push himself up, significantly, to lessen the critical pain in his boy hole.

Sam faces the direction of travel, in front of the tractor driver. Only if he twists to the maximum can he make eye contact with Ivan; to protest, curse, and to plead.

The ‘toys’ have increased in size, each time Sam has been taken for a tractor ride. They’ve got longer (a bit), and wider (a lot).

Ivan has a fine view of Sam’s rear as the boy is launched by craters in the track, then slammed back down onto the hood, screaming as gravity does its work. In lurching he tugs his cuffs, chafing his wrists until they’re bloodied.

The tractor ride is one of those exercises that – whilst notionally passive, for the rider – leaves them exhausted. And now they’re headed back to me, heralded by the louder growl as the tractor approaches, and the sound of Sam’s sophisticated opinions on the duty:

‘AHHHH FUUUUUCK!’

‘FUUUUUCK!’

Headlights piercing the mist, the machine bumps along the final, concreted roadway and into the barn yard where I’m waiting with folded arms, an unimpressed facial expression, and no refreshments. Ivan stops the tractor beside me. As though he hasn’t noticed the sightseeing is concluded, Sam quivers on the hood with his head still thrown back, howling – alternately – with agony and tortured silence.

The engine is cut.

‘Deep breaths… collect your broken pieces, and put yourself back together,’ I tell Sam.

He can’t even manage a profanity, yet.

‘Take lots of this crisp morning air… drag it into your lungs… and recover,’ I say.

His head starts a slow, mechanical return to a resting position, and his silent-screaming jaws creep closed.

‘Oh yeah… quite the ride, huh?’ I ask.

‘Fuck…’ is all he says, with low energy, but it kind of answers my question. Over his time with me, Sam has been worked to the point of restricted vocabulary, where formulaic swearing and heavy sighs represent the limits of his chat. It’s a big change for a boy who could, until Bernadette acquired him, make compelling thirty-second pitches for his online fitness side hustle. I say it’s an improvement!  

We help Sam off his vehicular impalement, and he totters on the narrow running boards of the tractor, facing a leap to the ground with legs like jelly, if you’ll pardon the over-used simile: raspberry jelly, in this case, after the roasting of those limbs over the tractor grill. Ivan and I offer him a hand each, and the boy squeezes hard as he jumps.

Without permission, Sam sits on his butt in the slurry-strewn yard; his hands on his knees and his chin dipped to his chest. There is a trail of blood, from a source inside Sam’s hole: the rough ride has torn him, but it’s little enough to shrug-off as a minor injury, and I won’t be fussing.  

‘Stand, and pose,’ I tell him.

The brevity of his break upsets Sam because he doesn’t feel ready for protocol, done to my standards. But my demands aren’t a surprise to him and Sam stumbles to his feet, wincing from the chronic pain centre which is his asshole.

Feet planted wide, hands clasped behind his neck, with stacked chest puffed and tummy tucked – we’ve been here so many times, together, with Sam presenting himself for inspection to the exact specifications I set for a boy.  

‘Tighten it up… elbow wings pushed back to align with your shoulders,’ I say.

‘Sir,’ he grunts, making his sculpted torso taut, perfecting one muscle group at a time.  

I analyse Sam’s face, taking my own time. There’s a special bleakness about his eyes, now, that I see in two specific circumstances, only:

The first deadness is noted in boys on the toilet service pathway – shit eaters, basically – at the latter stages of their training, when the demand of them has increased to several ‘meals’ each day, and everything else in their existence has stopped, to accommodate relentless eating driven by the motivation of my discipline.

The second circumstance of dark-eyed brokenness is found in boys on this, the bestiality programme, at the very end of their usefulness.

Sam has fought courageously, and he wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of destroying him but – in the final instance – even a warrior boy reaches his limit. The appetite to continue is ebbing, and it’s visible.

Only now has Sam formed an understanding of what it means to truly serve – to give everything, in his submission; to give it all up.

‘Happy birthday, sugar. Welcome to 27,’ I say. And his jaw drops, as he processes it. The season is right, for sure, and probably the month, too. So yes – as a man of detail, Sir must have noted the day correctly. 

‘Ahhh… shit. I’d….’ he says, losing his train of thought.

‘Forgotten?’ I suggest. ‘Well, that’s understandable. You have more pressing concerns than cake and bunting.’

‘I never know what the day is,’ Sam explains, as though it’s news to me. Time becomes a confusion, here. 

‘You’re needed again, this afternoon,’ I tell him, without spoilers, changing the subject back to my requirements/his service. 

‘Sir,’ he acknowledges, barely audible.

‘Animal work, yes?’ I tease.

‘Sir,’ he agrees. No fight left, today, but he lets me see a hint of deflation.

‘But for now… I want you to clear the yard of slurry. Pick up a shovel… you know where the buckets are… and get this quadrangle so clean you could eat your dinner from it. Understood?’

He’s non-responsive. His head hasn’t slumped, though, and when I look carefully I notice the droplets on his cheeks aren’t from the rain that has set-in, but from his fresh tears.

‘Waiting for an answer, Sam,’ I push him.

‘Yes, Sir… sorry, Sir…I’m onto it,’ he says.

‘Okay, then. Ninety minutes to clean the yard, working at pace.’

‘Sir!’

***

From the shelter of the barn doorway, I watch my outgoing boy shovel the shit of various species. The rain has taken an edge off the smell, but also turned the discrete mess piles gloopy, and runny at their edges such that cow pats trickle into mounds of horse dung, etc.

The key sound is of the shovel back scraping over the concrete yard base – an unpleasant racket that persists, for Sam has too many square metres to clear. He has access to as many buckets as the job requires – big, plastic, building site tubs in bright orange with moulded handles which, when filled, Sam struggles to lift into the dry cover of the barn. The soaking has made that shit heavy.  

I recycle at least some of the mixed origin animal waste this facility generates. These bucketfuls are low nutrition material, for sure, but let me be candid: I’ve introduced you (in other stories) to the likes of Tom and heartthrob Kit, who eat for me. I believe a boy should have a varied diet, once their palate is developed sufficiently. Sometimes, we disagree about that….

The birthday boy is getting himself dirty, shovelling at speed and chucking filth into the nearest tub, from a height sufficient to cause splattering. He’s covered in runny waste up to his knees, and dotted with it to hip level. Sam shows me serious engagement with this thankless (literally) task, performed naked. Only his busyness keeps the boy warm. If I had to write a report card for Sam, I would commend his immersion in the life of this working farm, after a poor start.

My customers value Sam’s efforts, here, and perhaps I should have told him that? A total of 17 releases have featured Sam’s duties at my farm facility, though not all of those were of movie length, defined as 90 minutes or longer, post-edit.  

Scrolling my phone to pass time as the boy chases the objective I’ve set, I review feedback (‘likes’ and comments) on his recent short film, titled Hog Trough. The simple premise pitted Sam – restricted to hands and knees crawling – against my collective of Large White pigs, in competition for his dinner at the outdoor feeding trough.

Viewers enjoyed the barging and bruising inflicted on Sam as he battled to impose himself at the feed station, pushing shoulders-first between 380kg boars for a sight of the action, whilst the swine honked at and shoved the interloper. All that bravery on Sam’s part, for a meal of scraps collected (per contract) from the kitchen of the village primary school.

The boy’s instinct had been to hang back and go hungry, rather than antagonise the pigs and risk trampling. With their long whips snapping over his back and curling around his thighs, my Russians urged Sam to participate. Worse, the crowded scene resulted in some of the hogs getting lashed by the ends of stray whip tails, and that really darkened their mood, regarding sharing!

Feeding by his face, mashed into the school slop rejected by fussy 8-year-olds, and all the while being jostled by beasts threatening to toss the fucker out of their way; that face, when raised from the trough – soiled with rice pudding and strands of cabbage – was the epitome of young misery that Liberty Species customers jerk-off to.

Before he was done, and to complete the authentic pig experience, we had Sam bathe in the mud, rolling until he looked like a Nigerian boy. A tear he couldn’t supress cut through the dirt on his left cheek, wiggling a path to his jawline.

You’ve gathered, by now, that Sam has spent much of his time on my farm as a dirty boy, doing dirty things. Charlotte and easy, vanilla sex are forgotten – I can’t work with boys who pine after what might have been.

Switching to my accounting app, I check the receipts for Sam’s content. The total to date is $1,607,000, which is less than I’ve spent on this facility and wages, but there will be more farm boys with movies to shoot.

Hog Trough has grossed well enough, but the biggest hit remains Serial Oral Stallions (or ‘SOS’), which was movie-length+ and kept Sam busy for three hours in the stable block, circulating between every horse in residence. That was a joyless afternoon of creeping fatigue, and it showed across Sam’s beaten, cum-splattered face. SOS went viral, selling to new clients by word of mouth recommendation. But, I know we can go one better with Sam, on sales and engagement, and ruin.

‘The area to your right needs work,’ I say, clicking my fingers to attract Sam’s attention, and pointing to a patch of untouched slurry.

‘Sir!’ he answers me swiftly, and is on to it right away.

Physically, Sam is still a fine specimen, and he has presence in the yard, labouring tall and broad-shouldered. But the early signs of withering are there, if you look closely, and with them my interest in this boy is waning.

By my standards it’s been a long association, but I have responsibilities beyond the farm that are calling me back to the city: cocky straight boys of 20, who’ve never been prised open; and gay kids with fagcents who should be aspiring to the 13” x 5” toys held in my library.

Time to move on.

***

Ivan and Nikolai carry the structure into the yard, and even with two of them it’s heavy, and cumbersome to turn.

Sam, with me, watches. In layout, this new construction is similar to the dog fuck apparatus Sam has been cuffed to on several occasions. The difference is of size, and particularly height, because mounting this tubular steel framework will place Sam at least a metre from the ground. It’s a little wider, as well, allowing a broader parting of his legs.

He sees it with his own eyes and he’s not stupid, or naïve around animals any longer. There’s no need for explanation of purpose.

‘Aww noooo, man! Fuuuuuccck!’ Sam drawls.

Unauthorised, he drops to a balanced squat on his bare soles, and rocks. With elbows propped on his big thighs, Sam buries his face in his hands. He sniffs.

‘You knew this would come, huh?’ I say. ‘And I’m sorry for the lack of notice, but I think it’s for the best… for you. Time to get it out of the way, yeah? Clear it down… tick it off.’

Extending with his feet until just the toes press the barn floor, the boy can’t speak. He’s catastrophising it – how it will feel; then the consequences. It’s a rational reaction.

‘So, I don’t want to minimise this. It’s huge, and so madly testing of you, hmm?’

Tears are falling onto muddy straw, compressed by staff boots and animal hooves – maybe Sam’s cleaning detail should have included this barn, as well as the yard? His wretched sobbing becomes audible.

‘But you’ve taken a hell of a lot over the last few weeks – unimaginable perversions – and you’ve faced-off the pressure and the pain, and you’re still here, to see this one off, too.’

‘No!’ he complains, softly.

‘And you won’t be alone, because your guards will be at your side… and I will be with you, start to end on this duty, I promise.’

‘Chance?’ Sam asks. Best to check there hasn’t been a funny misunderstanding!

‘Yeah. You have a great rapport with that horse, out of all of them!’ I enthuse.

‘It’s the fucking biggest, you mean,’ Sam says.

‘I know, Sam. I’m keen for this to be an ultimate challenge… put you straight into the meanest horse fuck, without us keep coming back to it on every beast from small to large, until you’ve ridden the stable. One-off has to be better, huh?’

‘It’s gonna kill me,’ he says, matter of fact.

‘Ahh, honey,’ I say, and I crouch next to Sam, wrapping his heaving shoulders with my arm.

***

‘Once he mounts you, this will be over pretty quickly. You understand? Balls-deep and breeding you… no fuss,’ I say.

I’ve got Sam back to his feet, and am managing his expectations. We’re of similar height, but only one of us is naked and filthy. He’ll be bound to the frame as he is; calves caked with drying slurry.

‘Do you want to kill me? Is that it?’ Sam asks.

A promising question. I weigh my response.

‘I’m focused on footage – that’s my trade. What I want is to see you open-up, just as your training has taught you, and to film you hilting horse cock. Total service of Chance, yes?’ 

I watch his tension spiral. The prominence of his veins is a good indicator. That, and the clenched fists I’m wary of.

‘You want to kill me, I know!’

‘Sam… give this a chance…’ (I enjoy delivering that line!)

‘FUCK you!’

 

The discussion is over and the fuck frame is ready, in the centre of the yard Sam has striven to clean. The cameras are rolling, and the rain has stopped!

Sam refuses to walk the 14 metres as a volunteer. On the nod from me, Ivan and Nikolai stride across and grab the kid, taking an arm each.

His cooperation withheld, Sam is dragged from the shadow of the barn and out, to his theatre. He tries obstructive scissor kicks as he’s pulled along, and turns his neck to direct his anger at me, personally, shouting:

‘You don’t have to do this, Sir!’

‘Fuck. Don’t make me do this… Sir? Please?’

‘STOP this shit, you FUCKIN’ cunt!’

‘Please…don’t do it. I wanna live. Please?’

Limb by limb, Sam is overpowered and bound to his final frame: his trunk flat along the length of it, and his legs splayed extra-wide, bent at the knees, with ankles manacled tight to the rear end of the scaffold structure.

Securing the two dozen bondage points takes a while. The Russians don’t rush, for the sake of us filming this process of disabling Sam in detail. As the cuffs and rope are applied, Sam stays chatty for his cameras:

‘You think you’re big, hard men, yeah? Cowards! FUCK you!’

‘Motherfuckers! Let me fuckin’ go!’  

And, as his capacity to squirm free is closed down, joint by joint and muscle by muscle:

‘Oh sweet Jesus… oh FUUUUCCCK!’

The boy tests his shackles with violent tugs, proving their inviolability.

When my men are done they step back – with parting ‘bro’ slaps to Sam’s reared ass, for luck; those power bottom mounds being his high points, now.

‘Dirty little faggot!’ Nikolai mumbles, with a self-satisfied snigger. My guards have worked with Sam through every step of his bestiality escalation. They’re not the sort of characters who would admit to missing a boy, but they might, when he’s gone. In a private moment, last week, Ivan conceded that Sam had been good to manage: a diligent, persuadable boy. That was high praise indeed, from the sour-faced Soviet.

For now, it’s just the two of us – me and Sam. Well, okay, and a camera crew.

With my middle finger pressing under his chin, I coax Sam to raise his head such that we might talk seriously, man to boy. He sports a two-day growth of stubble and is sweaty to my touch in a sticky, oily way.

‘I want you to stretch-out, for that horse,’ I say. ‘I mean, properly spread those lips, huh?’

The straight cut of his jawline contorts to a baby face, ready to blubber.

‘Give me the G-A-P-E that you know you can pull-off.’

Poised to cry, he marshals sufficient composure to deny us that emotional mess. FUCK me, FUCK the cameras, and FUCK those sick perverts who buy this content! He won’t indulge our dicks with a meltdown, too readily.

‘Yeah? When he mounts you, I want to see you accommodate that horse cock as a generous host, right? Total service; final submission, huh?’

‘Sir.’

‘So… do you feel ready?’ I ask.

Sam maintains a steely focus on my eyes. The deadness I told you of, following his tractor ride this morning, has lifted somewhat. He’s actually looking primed, for this hardest piece of work.

‘I’m scared,’ he says.

I didn’t expect that, and I know it was difficult to confess, from the frame. I don’t think he planned those two words to fall from his lips. I respect him for them, though.

‘Tell me… do you want to live?’ I ask.

I still have his scratchy chin balanced on my finger. He doesn’t find this an easy question to answer. It’s no time for glibness.

‘Honestly… I dunno,’ he says.

‘Right. So, what are you scared of?’

‘Not sure. I suppose… I don’t want to die like this… just another victim. Maybe that doesn’t make sense?’

‘Oh, it makes sense,’ I say. ‘What do you intend to do about it, then?’

‘Sir?’

‘How are you going to help yourself not die like this, Sam?’

‘Fuck…’ he groans.

‘That’s not a useful response,’ I say.

‘Fuck knows,’ he whines. ‘Open up wide, like you say,’ he offers, weakly.

‘That’s a start. But there’s plenty more technique we’ve learned together. Think of the buzz words that prompt actions, okay? Push hard… stretch out… untense yourself… show respect… breath deep… hold on tight… focus… submit… and enjoy the ride!’

‘I might live, then?’ Sam snaps back, at my pompous list. ‘Like, really?’

‘I can’t promise you that. I wish I could, but you know it’s a dangerous turn. We’re testing the limits of the survivable.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, sullen.

‘But I know it’s worth you trying, okay? It’s not pointless… nothing I ask a boy to do is hopeless or pointless – it’s my first principle!’

‘Sure.’

‘And, you’re one of the finest boys I’ve trained. I mean that sincerely, Sam. Nothing has to be final… there’s always more to accomplish!’

‘More pain?’ he asks.

‘More pain, yes. And… related experiences.’

‘Fuck, Sir,’ he says; his face now burdened with an earnest look.

‘Shall we do this, then? I don’t think the wait is helping you. Or me.’

‘Sir!’ he raises his voice, as I turn away.

‘Sammy?’

‘I know you won’t stop this, but… I don’t want to die.’

‘Noted. Time to extend yourself, then. Yes?’

‘I will do, Sir. And also… fuck you!’

‘Ha!’ I say.

***

It’s going to be a dry fuck, without lube. That’s authenticity!

I spray Sam’s crack, and especially his winking boy hole, with the equine hormonal dilute that’s proven to attract. He finds it cold as that mist clings to his rump, down the insides of those muscular mounds.

There’s a hiatus, whilst my men collect Chance from his stable. It’s just a few minutes, but long enough to provide Sam with a set of over-ear headphones, streaming a motivational anthem with a thumping bass line. His head bops to the beat, and his muscles ripple on the fuck frame – notably those of his thighs, which will be close to the centre of the action.

The boy is readying himself; preparing, mentally. It’s an intelligent way to use this interlude.    

The horse – frisky; impatient – is led to the rear of the structure in the yard, and turned to face the boy mounted upon it. Chance throws his head, whinnying and stomping with a front leg.

I will speak with Sam for one last time, but on this occasion by his side, without imposing upon him my usual pressure for eye contact. This won’t be a philosophical dialogue because – we’ve agreed! – this is going to happen. It’s ‘call and response’ time, as the headphones are removed:

‘You want to stumble away from this?’ I challenge Sam.

‘Yes, SIR!’ he yells, pumped-up.

‘Ready to show me some masculine bravery, then?’

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘You can tell me who your boss is, on this frame?’

‘Chance, Sir!’

‘You’re ready for a fucking bronco ride to hell?’

‘Fuck yes, Sir!’

‘You’re still scared?’

‘No, SIR!’

‘Complete service, Sam?’

‘Total fucking submission, Sir!’

‘Great attitude! I know you fucking have this, Sam. I’ve never been so certain of success. Now… ready for duty?’

‘THE FUCK YES, Sir!’

 

When the horse rears up it dominates Sam with size, and though he’s a sturdy boy, the stallion shadows him comprehensively with its underbelly. Chance’s forelegs crash onto the fuck frame, one either side of Sam’s back, and the kid feels it shake. The elevated, anticipatory breathing and snorting are heard too closely, by the boy. Chance lays over him, not on him, but in his wincing Sam shows how he feels the weight of this.

The sun has broken through the cloud, at last! Of all the hurdles faced by the camera crew in capturing these moments poignantly, glare is an unexpected one. Calibration of settings deals with the excess contrast of sunshine and shade, returning Sam’s flesh to a tasteful light bronze.     

My men encourage Chance to pursue the opportunity beneath him. The horse has caught a nose of something arousing, but it’s strange and he’s hesitant. The Russians, meanwhile, lack the ideal temperament –  virtues such as sympathy and patience – to lead this beast to hole.

Ivan opts to seek Sam’s help:

‘Hey… fag…. you’re good with this one, and he likes you. Why don’t you call him on… beg him to fuck your dripping pussy, huh?’

‘FUCK you!’ Sam blasts back, red faced, and my guards are amused.

‘No… fuck YOU, bitch!’ Nikolai says.

 

Interested, Chance scopes the possibilities, pushing down at his groin in the area of Sam’s ass.

With a change of tactic, my brutes take a risk at the rear of the frame and reach in, to tug Sam’s mounds apart – one bun each.

I’ve moved to a position where – without obstructing the cameras – I can monitor Sam’s face, because there’s nothing more erotic than a facial, in scenes of doom: these are the money shots my fans pay-up for. The boy pulls distressed faces at the manhandling of his ass, with thoughts of what will follow.

Despite his bondage, we’ve been careful to leave Sam with the ability to rotate his neck, permitting at least a partial view of what’s happening at his rump end. He sees Chance’s massive excitement, and he’s frightened, becoming agitated on his fuck frame.

There’s no foreplay.

The first penetration is a single, savage thrust that puts Chance’s flared head and his leading six inches of length into Sam’s hole.

Chance whinnies, surprising himself with how tight this feels; and Sam lets out a curdling scream. It’s the girth, at this stage, that provokes the boy.

Sam won’t stop shouting about his pain. It’s a stream of incoherent objection.

I have to speak over him, though I’ll be heard well enough in the video edit:

‘And, breath. Nice deep breaths. Get your shit together. Lots more still to take.’

Without warning – horses don’t narrate their intentions! – Chance makes another shove into that hot clutch. The guards withdraw to positions of safety, as the horse will guide himself from here. The scaffold frame shudders at Chance’s advance.

Sam squeals. He checks back, but it will be the last time he does so. Anyway, it doesn’t help to see things, at all.

He’s tearful, in an uncontrolled way. In this brief moment, it’s the lack of any lubricant that’s telling, at his rectum.  

‘Okay… composure, yes? You’re doing okay. Stretch-out, to the max, as you know how to, right?’

‘It’s torn me…’ Sam stutters; feeling it, but not quite believing it.

‘Focus… prepare… lots more still to come,’ I advise him.

Chance has 18 inches of length to deploy, but it’s his circumference – say, 1.5x that of a standard Coke can, prevailing; and extra at the head – that’s the hardest dimension for a boy to cope with. Trained as a fistee under my tutelage, Sam is holding-out so far, but the medial ring is still to be dealt with, and already this is an incredible grind.

The horse launches forward, spearing Sam’s ass to two-thirds of his length in a single move, and my athlete pisses himself over the frame. Now, he’s as rigid as the steel structure itself, with everything clenched and on the verge of bursting. Sam holds his neck high; proud, but in a sort of scowling paralysis.

With delayed reaction to this latest anal onslaught, he screams:

‘FUUUUUCCK!’

I need to be with him.

I step over, despite the multi-angle filming, to lay an open hand on Sam’s forehead where his hair has matted, soaking.

‘Sssshhhh…. it’s all good. Going so well. Gonna be fine, yeah… but… one last stretch for me, right? FULL service, huh?’

‘It’s ripped me…’ Sam tells me, stunned by horse meat.

‘Sssshhhh…. nice and relaxed… open your back door… let him come in… balls-deep… you’re being so brave!’

 

Chance jerks his head and there’s a sequence of shrill neighing, as he plots what to do with the rest of that outsize dappled schlong.

Sam reconciles himself to being nearly finished. He retains capacity to experience fear; horror; outrage, as a star bestiality boy must.

He looks at me, jaw hanging slack, eyes fierce and black, wanting help. He deludes himself that  things may be recoverable, even at this late stage, if only I were willing to compromise on the hilting of every last inch. But really, this is with Chance to conclude, now.

The stallion stamps on the frame, over the impaled youth, and drives in his last. Vicious.

‘Show me a fucking hero,’ I tell Sam.

 

The visible damage comprises a flow of blood from Sam’s wrecked hole – not a torrent, but not stopping, either.

His ass has been turned-out, like a thin sleeve dripping with the juices of his entrails, and almost translucent. It flops from his conquered ring.

There’s an ugly bulge at his tummy, where something – or things – has been breached, and irreparably shifted.

Sam is bloody at his mouth, and Chance’s dick – the horse is being led away, without ceremony – is crimson, from head to balls.

My boy drifts in and out of consciousness.

 

I have Sam’s right hand in mine and he grips it, manly, as I stroke his bloodied back with my left paw. This is a slow expiry.

He flushes horse cum from that out-turned ass, in a milky cascade that’s separate from the blood loss there. Chance has bruised him purple and jaundiced yellow over the thighs, and his coat of sweat has turned ominously cold, and clingy. The dirt of the farmyard remains.

The head droops but I cradle it for him, so we can continue to enjoy eye contact. His moans quieten, and his puffs dissipate. He’s not seeing me properly. He’s tapering away. He can hear me, though.

‘Exceptional boy, Sam,’ I say.

His grip of my hand ebbs, and I let his fall away limp, but those lips – which have given full service to so many dogs, and horses -  curl, into the sweetest, most comforted smile.

*** 

- Everything you read here is fiction -

If you wish to contact me privately, my email address is ryanauthor@protonmail.com  

Liberty Species (2/3): NC; CBT; BEAST

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 -