Draft Animal For Sale Ch 02

If you haven't read the previous installment, go do so. I'm not redoing the exposition.

I woke up in the night, and had to piss, and where I was hit and stopped me for a moment. I was in a barn, in a stall, naked, being treated like livestock. There was no bucket to piss in. Figuring I was going to have to muck out my own stall, I picked a corner up front, on the hinge side where I wouldn't step in it going in and out, but it'd be easy to reach with a shovel or manure fork. I spread my feet so I wouldn't splash on them too much, squatted, and let go, pissing down into the straw. The urge to clasp my hands behind my back was fleeting and easily dismissed. I let my hands hang loose at my side, and just let my body take care of itself.

When the flow stopped, I bounced a couple of times to shake off, and went back to the warm spot in the far corner where I'd been sleeping. A faint chill across my feet told me I'd sprayed a little, but not enough my feet felt wet, so good there. I'd be reeking of the farmer's piss by the next night, but I didn't know that at the time.

Seriously aroused, I laid back on the straw and stroked my cock, my erection as usual struggling against the livestock ring through my shaft. Holding the ring flat against the underside of my cock with one hand, cupping the head both to hold the ring still and feel my cum spray out through my fingers, I worked my cock with my other hand, squeezing less and stroking more as it stiffened. As wound up as I was, it didn't take long. When I came, I sprayed out the sides, around the livestock ring, hitting both my hips, as well as sending a jet across my stomach and up to my chest. I didn't wait for the cum to drip down my flanks, instead rolling in it so that the sawdust and straw stuck to me. I woke up at daybreak with stall debris stuck all over my sweaty, naked body, and revelled in my disheveled nudity. I looked, smelled, and felt like an animal, and I loved it.

The farmer arrived just a couple of minutes later. A good sign that he was out at the barn so soon after dawn, walking in just as the other animals in the stable were starting to get restive.

Working quickly and efficiently, he turned out two Haflingers, a pair of oxen, and a burro, sending them out into the paddock. Only once they were out did he take a lead rope down off the rack by the big doors, and strode over to my stall with it.

He slid aside the stall door, and clipped the lead to my nose ring. Tugging slightly on the lead, he clucked his tongue twice, like you would to say "come on" to a horse. I followed closely as he led me over to the big doors, trying to keep tension off the lead rope. He stopped there, looked out at the paddock where the other livestock were mostly at the far end under a shade tree, then unclipped me. I waited to see what he wanted me to do.

He slapped his thigh twice. "Twice on the right is yes," he said, then stomped his left foot twice. "Twice on the left is your safeword. Got that?"

I stomped my right foot twice.

He jerked his head toward the paddock. "Go on, go get your business done, then get back here."

I started past him, and he cracked me across the ass with the lead rope. Stung, I ran forward several paces, then glanced back. He'd leaned against the doorframe and was watching me, arms folded. I wasn't sure if he was amused or aroused or what. Very hard to read his expression.

I picked a handy fence post, put my hands behind my head, and pissed, then turned around, leaned back against the post, squatted, and took my morning crap at its base. There wasn't enough grass this close to the barn to sit down on and wipe. Walking back to him was uncomfortable.

"Turn around and bend over," he ordered when I got close to the barn. I did so, and yelped when a jet of cold water hit my asshole. He sprayed me down ass to ankles with the barnyard hose.

"You don't have a tail," he told me as he shut the hose off. "Can't have flies in your ass. Heel."

He led me, still wet, through the barn to the tack room, basically a stall that had been converted into a storage and work space instead of being set up to contain animals. The floor inside was wooden, and raised up a step from the dirt floor of the barn. The comforting smells of leather, sweat, and saddle soap filled the air. An assortment of harness, straps, horse and ox collars, and similar kit hung on pegs down the front and side walls. A bench across the back held leatherworking tools, spare parts, bits of harness being repaired or scrap left over from previous work.

There, he stopped just outside the door, reached in, brought out a spray can. "Arms straight out, close your eyes," he told me.

I complied. "Hold your breath," he said, and as soon as I gasped in a quick gulp of air and pressed my lips together, a cold spray washed over my face. The smell of chemical sunblock crept into my nose with the trickle of spray that found its way in.

He moved down to my shoulders, working out the length of each arm, making sure to get the top and underside, and sprayed my hands as well, before moving on down my torso. I breathed slowly, through my mouth, hoping the dampness in my nose would dry out before I had to inhale chemical fumes.

Once I'd been thoroughly saturated, and yes, he picked up my cock by the livestock ring to hold it out of the way while he sprayed my crotch, the lack of a scrotum making it easier to get the insides of my thighs, he set the can back on the shelf just inside the door, and went in.

He set a pie tin on the floor at one end of the workbench, full of something that smelled foodlike. "Down," he said, and pointed to the pie tin.

I dropped to all fours, crawled up to the pie tin, sniffed. Looked and smelled like rice with granola in. I lowered my head, took a cautious mouthful. I'd been practicing eating from a plate on the floor at home, so eating like an animal, on all fours, no hands, wasn't an issue. There was more than rice and granola going on here, some kind of savory flavor I couldn't identify right off.

The farmer watched me eat for a minute, his gaze roaming over my nude form, lingering a bit on my ass, currently up in the air as I stuck my face into the pie tin for another mouthful. The trick to eating like an animal is to not be afraid to get your face in it. I felt my cock stir, aroused both by how I was having breakfast and being watched while I did it. He turned away and started laying out harness on the workbench, picking out components from the wall rack.

I didn't finish licking out the pie tin. When I started chasing it, the farmer glanced down, and told me, "Sit."

I gave up on the last bits, and sat back on my haunches, arms tucked in at my sides and hands atop my thighs. He picked up the tin, set it aside, then picked up a rag from the workbench and mopped the breakfast remnants off my face.

"You're a messy eater, boy," he told me, not unkindly, as he worked. I said nothing, just gave him a sorrowful look.

He raised an eyebrow, and swapped the rag for a bridle.

"Open your mouth," he told me, and when I did, he pushed a thick rubber bit in, all the way to the back of my teeth. I forced my tongue down under it and focused on controlling my gag reflex while he fastened straps around my head.

"This's the burro's spare bridle," he told me as he worked. "Figured it'd probably be able to fit you, just got to get it adjusted. You don't mind having a used bridle stuck in your mouth, do you, boy?"

The question seemed moot. Yes, I had a bit in my mouth that had previously been in the burro's mouth. Burros are herbivores. They don't eat anything gross. And livestock don't generally care if you swap tack as long as it fits and doesn't chafe. The farmer hadn't expected an answer, anyway, any more than you expect an answer when you ask the dog how he's doing.

Satisfied with the bridle, he had me stand up, then put a girth belt around my waist, and got it cinched snug.

"Deep breath," he told me, making adjustments, "hold it, now blow it out." Another round of snugging up the straps and he looped them back through the buckles to tuck the ends away. Two more heavy straps connected to either side of my spine in the back, then he laid them over my shoulders and connected them to the front of the belt. Smaller straps linked them together in front and back, and around my sides. These had padding on the inside, and were punched with a series of slots and set with metal rings every so often, providing a lot of connection points for hitching me up.

Stepping back, he checked over his work, gaze sweeping down and back up me in a way that didn't arouse me sexually but did wind up something else I didn't yet have a name for. I wasn't being harnessed to be fucked, but to be worked, and it felt different, standing nude before this man in nothing but leather straps and being seen as an animal.

And then he clipped the lead rope to my cock ring and led me out of the barn by my dick. I moved quick to keep up, let me tell you. Having that ring tugged is fun to a point, and then it's really not fun, although kind of still is if you know what I mean, but that kind of fun can do serious damage if you're not real careful. I kept the tension off to the extent that I could. The weight of the lead rope itself put a stretch on my cock, and I fell into step with the farmer so as not to get yanked along.

We went out front of the barn, out into the sun, and I got my first good look at the place. There I was, walking across the barn yard naked except for a bridle and harness, being led by a rope clipped to a ring through my cock, and I was taking in architectural details, admiring the preservation on the farmhouse, noting that there were a couple of parking spots by the truck I'd ridden here in that were empty but obviously frequently used.

But I didn't have a lot of time, had to take in what details I could as we walked past it and over to a nearby shed. He looped the lead rope over a railing, left me standing in a bit of shade, and opened up the shed. Inside was an assortment of tools and equipment, including a small four wheeled cart, the sort you use to carry your tools and water cooler when you're doing driveway repairs. He looked it over, then glanced over to me, where I stood patiently waiting.

"It's near mid summer," he told me, "so there ain't no plowin to be done. I don't know exactly what kind of shape you're in, nor what kind of training or experience you might have doin this, so we're gonna keep it simple this time. We do this again, I'll know better how much you can pull, and you'll be that much better trained to respond to your driver's commands."

With that, he picked up the lead rope, and pulled me into position at the front of the cart. He dropped the lead rope, and I grunted as the weight of it falling pulled on my cock ring. He raised an eyebrow.

"Keeps you in place, don't it." Not expecting an answer, he got to work. Again, I stood quietly while he connected the cart's shafts to my girth belt, and clipped a set of reins to my bridle. These he kept in hand.

Walking around to the side of the cart, he released the brake on the right front wheel. I felt the cart shift slightly, and braced myself, but it didn't try to roll away.

The farmer walked past me and out of the shed, then tugged the reins gently. "Walk along," he told me.

I leaned into the forward step, and had to catch myself on the next step as the cart was lighter than I expected. He walked me forward until the cart was clear of the shed, then told me "whoa" and tossed the reins over the top bar of the round ring fence. He brought a few tools out of the shed and loaded them into the cart. I could tell by the shift in weight and the movement of the cart when he dropped them in, but couldn't see what he'd loaded, unable to turn around that far while strapped onto the cart's shafts. I heard him closing up the shed, then he came back, picked up the reins, told me "walk on" and led me out onto the farm.

Something dug hard into my side, like a burr under my saddle, except I wasn't wearing one. Whatever it was, it dragged across my ribs and was not enjoyable in context. I stomped my left foot twice, having to quick-step to manage it.

"Whoa." The farmer's response was immediate. He locked the cart's brake, then looked me over, my cock pulling his focus. I waved a hand at my left side.

He moved the straps, and swore. "Loose rivet," he complained. "Stand easy." He dropped the reins on the ground. I held position while he went off somewhere, coming back a couple minutes later with a handful of stuff.

First item was a pair of pliers, that he pulled out the loose rivet with. A zip tie followed that, to replace the rivet temporarily, and the pliers came back to nip off the excess strip. Then he ran a wet rag over my side, and I tried not to flinch as it wiped away the blood and sweat and dirt, revealing a set of scratches across my ribs.

He smoothed a handful of ointment across those, and they cooled, the itching pain fading to a nuisance.

"Better?" he asked me directly. I stomped my foot, yes. He nodded.

"Sorry about that," he said, looking me straight in the eye. "I should have caught that when I was laying out the tack. You good?"

I stomped yes. A few scratches from improvised equipment weren't going to mess up my mood. He regarded me for a long moment, then nodded again, gave my cock ring a quick playful tug side to side, and picked up the reins.

Another minute of fussing to make sure the strap wouldn't drag across the scratches and wipe off the ointment, and we got moving again, the tools and first aid supplies tossed into the cart.

We spent the next hour clearing brush and debris along the fencerow. The cart grew steadily heavier as he loaded detritus into it. I pulled the cart to where he wanted it, held it while he set the brake, then waited, shifting my weight from one foot to the other occasionally, and having a lot of time to both enjoy what I was doing and think about it.

This is where I bitch about porn. Specifically, male pony play videos.

Heterosexual pony play with a male pony and a female driver is all about humiliation and mistreatment of the pony for the savage pleasure of the mistress. Of course it is. Men must be punished for daring to want to step into what is obviously a female role. There couldn't be any other reason for a man to want to serve a woman other than a deep seated need for humiliation and shame, could there? Not in the patriarchal view, certainly not. Pony play among straights is seen as strictly for women, in the submissive pony role, although the drivers can be male or female, and straight guys are all about the girl on girl action doncha know. But a man who wants to be the one pulling the cart? He must be punished for the transgression.

Gay pony play videos are about the roles, and about the effort, and a bit about muscle culture, because so much of gay male porn is about muscle culture in one way or another. There's precious few of these. One in particular that I liked featured a big, stocky man with heavy body hair, his cock locked away in a chastity cage, harnessed, hitched to a cart, being driven up the road through a gay campground. He was red from exertion head to toe, and puffing like a steam engine, but making good speed. His driver, a man of about the same age, sat back in the cart, reins held loosely, a quirt in his off hand that he never used on camera. He watched the road ahead, and his horse, and generally acted like he was driving an animal that was supposed to be in the traces. A number of men watched them go by, a few nodding, a couple giving a thumbs up. The comments on the post started with "what an honor to draw his Sir through the campground" and went on with several more men commenting that yes, they would have liked to have been the one in harness. There were no comments wanting to be the driver.

Gay pony play is more serious about draft animals. Again, muscle culture. Gay culture is fine with men who want to submit to other men. Where would tops be without bottoms? A man who wants to be a big strong animal, and literally pull a heavy load, gets into the whole Tom of Finland aesthetic. The idea of a big, well muscled man sweating in harness as he works literally like a horse excites the hell out of some men, some of whom would like to be the driver, some of whom would like to be the horse, and some of whom just want to stand and watch as the wagon goes by, and gay culture is fine with all three of those types of men.

No humiliation needed. A video in which a man was unhitched from a plow and brought back to stable in a sweat, to be tended by another man like a draft horse that's just come in out of the field, toweled off, harness and bridle swapped for a headstall, checked over for any developing leg problems, washed down and brushed and put away with a blanket over him in a dry stall with fresh straw, all while his owner pats him, tells him he's a good boy and a strong boy, and talks to him like he's an actual horse? Half the guys watching it have already finished jacking off and are cleaning up by this point, and that's before we get to the sex scene in the stall, where the driver takes his time, the "horse" gets the cum shot with his driver jacking him off with a reach around while fucking him, and the "horse" is left in the stall with an ass full of cum held in with a tail plug. No whipping, no demeaning language, just a man who's done hard work being taken care of and lovingly used by another man.

I want to make this video. It needs to exist.

And all it would take was bringing in a third man, to run a camera while this farmer and I worked.

I know it was about an hour because there came a point where he threw a load of brush into the cart, tossed the hatchet and rake and short-handled shovel in after it, and told me, "Been about an hour. Probably ought to get you in the shade. You're sweatin off that sunblock."

He led me back down the fire road to the compost area, parked the cart by the wood chipper, then unhitched me. He unclipped the reins, draped them over the cart's shaft, and clipped the lead rope to my nose ring. Without a word, he led me back to the barn.

There, he led me over to a wheelbarrow that had a manure fork and shovel leaning against the wall next to it.

"You ever mucked out a stall before?" he asked me.

Still bridled, still with a bit in my mouth, I stomped for yes.

He nodded. "Good. You're gonna do the muckin out while I go run the wood chipper. " He waved a hand at the double row of stalls. "Clean'em out, fresh straw in each, and check the feed boxes and hay racks. Now turn around."

I turned to face the wheelbarrow. He pushed me between my shoulderblades so I bent at the waist. I grabbed the far edge of the wheelbarrow to support myself, looking down into the aromatic remnants of the last mucking out. He kicked my foot, and I spread my legs. A cold squirt of lube on my asshole followed.

He didn't fuck me. Instead, he slipped just the head of his cock into me, just past my outer ring, then held my hips with his hands, took a breath, let it out, and pissed into me. I could feel a sudden pressure and warmth spreading up into me. The pressure grew, pushed further insistently, and my gut threatened to cramp. I breathed deep, regretting the stink from the wheelbarrow I was bent over, and eased through it, relaxing instead of fighting and letting the threat of a cramp collapse from lack of anything to push against.

He pulled out, tucked his cock back into his pants, then slapped me on the ass hard enough to make me jump. "Get to it, boy."

I straightened up, picked up the fork and shovel, and wheeled the barrow over to the first stall, stiff legged as I fought to hold the piss in me while I was in the walkway area. As soon as I stepped through the door into the stall, I had to let it go. A jet of piss arced out of me, splattered into straw already fouled by the horses. It tapered off in just a second, the pressure in my rectum released, but my colon was still full of piss, and it trickled out of me as I worked. The farmer stood and watched as I started gathering up the horse crap and fouled straw, using the manure fork to rake it into the shovel, piss dribbling down my legs. Once I threw the first load into the wheelbarrow, he shook his head, and left.