Draft Animal For Sale Ch 01

I knew what I wanted when I walked into the gay bar. Accepting it, and preparing for it, had taken me seven years.

I was taught cognitive therapy techniques at fourteen. When you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Of course I applied the tool set to every aspect of my life. Some, it proved useful. I methodically worked through what turned me on, finding out what I actually wanted sexually and coming to terms with it.

Early experimentation proved that I liked sex with both primary plumbing configurations, and was enthusiastic about performing oral sex on just about anybody. I was submissive, an exhibitionist, and developed an immediate fetish when I learned about pony play.

I knew I wanted a man about ten years older than me, enough of an age gap to create a power dynamic, but not enough that it got weird. I wanted to be that woman in the video, pulling the cart, with my owner riding in it and driving me. Miss me with the head plume, though. I was not a show pony. I was a draft animal. I wanted to be taken out to the field and worked hard, driven like an ox.

By the time I reached that point mentally, I'd already been doing prep work for two years. My right knee developed issues, needed corrective surgery. I leaned into the strengthening exercises before and the physical therapy after. The work got done, with not even the slightest scrap of enthusiasm but with a grim determination that began to concern my parents.

I lived in a homophobic, redneck neighborhood, and attended a redneck, homophobic magnet school in the next neighborhood over. Cover was required for survival. The Appalachian Trail had deep lore, especially when you got to Through Hiking. I became a trail enthusiast. A map went up in my bedroom, and I started plotting routes. My neurodiversity lent itself readily to front loading Trail info, and infodumping at the slightest provocation. My parents and then pretty much everybody else learned to not ask questions about my exercise regimen, my diet, or really much of anything, as I would link it to my plans to Through Hike the Trail and go on until their eyes glazed over. I did meet my first actual boyfriend, though, another hiking enthusiast who became the first guy i sucked off outdoors, then the first guy to fuck me outdoors. We saw, well, a lot of each other for a few months, but then his father got a job in Cleveland and we didn't dare write.

Getting my academic shit together was hard until I discovered the Dayrunner. I quit trying to remember shit, and wrote it down. Once I let my OCD tendencies loose, and got maybe a little neurotic about checking the book, my grades came up. I ignored my guidance counselor, and put in for a history scholarship at a historically Black university in the next state over. Five were supposed to be awarded every year. I was one of three applicants, and not being Black, was quickly recruited for racial balance, which sounds bigoted and kind of is. The state in question was no better than where I grew up, and white folks tended to shun the university in question, making it hard for them to achieve their federally mandated quotas of non Black students.

Going there meant my parents distanced themselves from my life. Fine with me - I stayed with local friends over the Christmas break and gave myself a present I couldn't have gotten at home: an orchiectomy. Cost me six months of crappy student wages, but I got it done by a butch doctor who did sliding scale work for the queer community. He did a great job, too, took out the excess scrotal tissue and left me nice and tight behind my dick, just a single thread of scar tissue, hard to see if you weren't up close.

That made changes in my body that were noticeable. No replacement testosterone for me. My hair lightened, but was already so fine the texture change was minimal. I lost the incipient beard that had been trying to form. I was a late bloomer in the facial hair department. No great loss. I rounded off a little. Brushing it all off as side effects of physical conditioning wasn't quite believed when I went back to my parents' house that summer, but my father decided I was doing steroids to put on muscle instead of working out, and I left him his illusion.

My sophomore year, I only made two modifications, but they precluded my going back to my parents that summer. The livestock ring i had put through my cock could be hidden with baggy pants. The piercing ran side to side through the shaft, just behind the head, where a foreskin would have been if I hadn't been circumcised at birth. The ring was large enough that it went around the head of my cock when I was fully erect, and could be flipped over to lie against the top or underside of my shaft.

The second livestock ring went into my nose, and that was where the line got drawn. It went through a hole in the cartilage made with a dermal punch. Hurt like hell and gave me two black eyes, but I had a stainless steel ring that flared my nostrils and hung down past my lower lip, big enough there was no mistaking it for anything but an animal restraint. That was when I started wearing a Pony Pride t-shirt.

I spent that summer on a queer collective farm in the not too distant mountains. I lived mostly nude, but then so did several of the other residents. I slept initially on a cot, and then on a bed of hay I brought in to replace the cot. Seriously, sleeping on hay on the floor was more comfortable than the scout camp surplus folding cots they had. I worked in the fields, volunteered for as much grunt labor as I could handle, and spoke less as the summer wore on. And yes, i sucked a lot of cock, ate a lot of pussy, and got railed up the ass on a regular basis. Talking wasn't necessary after I'd established what I liked, what I was willing to do, and that I was generally available for fucking. I told my parents at the start I was going off to live on a farm, then just stopped communicating with them. I had no further financial obligation to them, and emotional connections just weren't their thing. They dropped out of my life like they'd never existed.

And so it came round to my 21st birthday. I had five semesters towards a history major with a 3.9 GPA. The Dayrunner, and the meds I'd scored along the way, had helped, but nobody's perfect. I'd trained for distance, strength, and endurance. I had livestock rings in my nose and cock that made it clear when I was nude that I was a gelded draft animal. And I started running an ad in the gay papers.

Draft gelding seeks actual farmer with heated barn/stable for long term relationship. Serious only.

The first few responses got tossed, but then I expected bogus ones from people who thought I was joking or making some kind of double entendre. The one who asked me if I was hung like a horse? Got a note back to look up gelding. The one that just sent "moo moo buckaroo" got a chuckle as I recognized the punchline he'd quoted, but likewise got tossed.

Then one arrived with a Polaroid of a beat up Ford truck with farm plates sitting out in front of a barn. The note on the back just asked, what do you really want?

I posted my reply to the classified desk under the reference number, and the paper forwarded my reply to keep us both safe until we decided to meet.

I want to live in your barn in nothing but a collar with my tags on it, I wrote back. I want to be hitched up and worked hard by someone who likes watching my naked ass sweating. I want my owner to fuck my mouth and ass frequently and with enthusiasm.

Back came the reply. This Friday night, it said, with a specific time and bar mentioned. Wear your Pony Pride shirt so I can recognize you.

And here I was, in a gay bar, having walked in here knowing, or at least thinking I knew, what I wanted. I got a shot of whiskey, found a table nearby where I could be easily seen, and waited.

A couple of guys came up, tried to hit on me, but were obviously not who I was waiting for. Then he walked up.

Faded jeans, dusty work boots, a plain black t shirt and a denim jacket over it. Taut, spare frame, wiry, not a body builder but a man who did physical labor for a living. John Deere ballcap, worn and grease stained, over short- clipped brown hair and brown eyes that had also faded, and developed a permanent squint. His mustache was close trimmed, and faded at the edge into stubble, not that smudge that urban guys wear to try and look tough, just the face of a man who shaved before dawn and here it was after dark.

"You the one ran the ad?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. Keeping it short and leaving off any honorifics until we got to know each other seemed right and proper.

He looked me over, not like a gay man sizing up a possible sex partner, more like a rancher assessing an animal at a trade show. My cock stirred, a wash of arousal running through me.

"What d'you need to know from me?" he asked.

I went with a prepared test question. "What kind of axe do you use to split your firewood?"

He cocked his head, frowned. "That a trick question?" he asked. "I use a maul and a sledge like a sensible person. Been savin up for a splitter for my tractor."

"Yep, trick question," I told him. "Have to weed out the wannabes. You have any questions for me?"

He gestured to my drink. "You paid up or on a tab?"

"Paid up," I told him, and tossed off the rest of the shot.

"Let's go then," he said, stood up, and walked away, not a glance back. I followed, quick-like.

We went out across the parking lot and down a side street about half a block, to where a once black Ford truck with a cargo topper, now more body putty and primer, waited. He unlocked the back, raised the hatch, lowered the gate.

"Everything off, " he said, and held out an empty feed bag.

I kicked off my shoes, dropped them in the bag. Unbuttoned and slid down my shorts, letting my cock free, its ring glinting in the streetlight's orange glow. Stepped out of the shorts, dropped them into the feed bag, and laid it on the tailgate so I had both hands to pull off my shirt. It went into the bag, and i handed it to him, and stood nude at the back of the truck, waiting for instructions.

He patted the gate, then reached in and opened the door of a wire dog crate.

"Up and in, boy," he told me, and smacked me on the ass, not hard, like you would a reluctant dog to get them into motion.

I climbed up into the back of the truck, crawled into the dog kennel, and turned around to see him close and latch the door. He put up the gate, tossed the bag with my clothes into the back among a jumble of tool boxes and belts, loose coils of rope, and a few more empty feed bags, then closed the hatch and locked it without a word.

I heard his boots on the pavement, then the truck jolted as he opened the door, climbed in, closed it. The engine started, the radio kicked on with Johnny Cash, and the truck rolled out.

I had no good view outside. The crate was over to one side, and the topper windows were murky, not really meant to be seen out of in the first place, and smeared with dirt.

The kennel had been cleaned since its last occupant, thankfully, and smelled of cheap disinfectant with undertones of canine urine. The floor was rusted in one corner. I settled in as best i could, and tried not to wonder if I was going to end up a murder statistic.

We drove for a while. I had no watch, no way to tell time, but a few songs played, old school country, back when it was about farming and heartbreak.

The truck turned down a gravel road, went a ways, finally pulled up under a post with a floodlight. I felt a jolt as he stepped out, another as the cab door closed. The lift hatch went up and the gate down, and he reached in and opened the kennel door.

"Out you come, and on your knees," he told me, in the same calm voice you'd use with your dog.

I scrambled out of the kennel, and slid down off the gate onto a mostly dirt turning circle, in front of a stable with a few lights on down its central walkway, the other side of a row of stalls from us. Okay, I was on an actual farm, that was good, but I had more important things to tend to.

I dropped down onto my knees, and reached for his belt, assuming why he'd ordered me into a submissive position. He said nothing, just watched as I undid his buckle, unbuttoned his jeans, brought out his cock and wrapped my lips around it. His shaft firmed, and I ran my tongue up the underside, savoring the salty, musky flavor of his body.

I glanced up. He'd shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and watched me quietly, not much expression I could read, kind of vaguely bemused, like he was watching his dog sniff his boots when he came home. I half expected him to take a hand out, ruffle my hair, rub me behind the ear, and say, good boy.

I ran my tongue around the head of his cock, rolling back his foreskin, happy to find just the salty tang of a man who's paid attention to his hygiene, he's just sweaty from the day's work. A sweet drop of precum smeared across my tongue, and I took a moment to savor it, sucking without lip or tongue action for a moment.

Then I got to work, lips, tongue, throat, mouth only, no hands, getting this man off. It didn't take much. He must have been thinking about this blowjob on the drive. Just a couple of minutes of effort, I hadn't rotated back to direct suction from lip and tongue caresses, when he groaned, and his cock pulsed. I swallowed as he filled my mouth, enjoying the hot salty thickness of his semen, and ran my tongue up his shaft to encourage the last drop as his hardness broke.

Then he ruffled my hair, rocked his hips to pull his cock out of my mouth, and said, "good boy," as he zipped up. Then, "heel," and he turned and walked away.

I lunged to my feet and hurried to follow, taking my place behind him and to his right as he'd commanded. He led me round to the end of the stable, and in through a human sized door into the back, at the far end from the big double doors. Three stalls ran down each side, high wooden partition walls dividing them, sliding doors on overhead tracks closing them off except the last one on the far side.

He walked up to the stall entrance, waved a hand, and told me, "in". As I walked past him, he slapped my naked ass, making me jump forward a little. That cleared the doorway, and he slid it shut. I heard the bolt slide home, locking me into the stall. Without a further word to me, he left. The horse in the next stall blew a mildly frustrated snort after him, but settled back down quickly once the door had closed behind him.

The stall was clean, had fresh straw thrown down, although it smelled like another animal had been in it recently. I still smelled like dog and rusty metal from the crate I'd ridden in, and had no room to complain. I knelt, went to all fours, and drank from the water bucket in the front corner opposite the manger. The blowjob had left me thirsty, needing to wash down the cum I'd swallowed.

Then I piled up the hay, made a nest, and went to sleep on the floor of a stall, naked, with the taste of a man's cum still in my mouth.

I didn't know his name. That made me smile. He hadn't introduced himself to the new livestock.