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
