Draft Animal For Sale Ch 03

This is a direct continuation of the story in Part 2.

Friday night. I'm impatient on the bus riding back to my place after work, fidgeting, trying not to disturb people but I'm seriously keyed up. The instant I'm through the door, I'm pulling off my shirt, unbuckling my belt, getting my clothes off as fast as I can. I've been watching my phone for the text from Evan saying he's arrived, and hoping I get here before he does. No text so far.

Once I'm naked, I pace around my apartment, which takes like five seconds. I've got one room that serves as kitchen, living room, utility room, and everything, one bedroom not much bigger than a closet, and a bathroom smaller than a closet. Seriously, I have to stand in the shower cubicle to open and close the door. I pace again.

My stomach rumbles. I pop open the fridge, grab a bottle of premixed smoothie, slug down a mouthful and shove the bottle back into its place. I put myself on a low residue diet after last weekend, and cleaned out with an enema last night.

Then my phone vibrates. It's Evan. Pulling up now, it says. Okay, here we go. Walk of no shame at all.

I put my phone down on the table next to the note that says where I went, just in case, and step out of my apartment, still naked, only my key ring in my hand. I pull the door to decisively. Of course, there's Justin from down the hall, standing in his doorway, looking me over. He's too femme to be my type. I barely feel anything from his open inspection of my naked body.

"Somebody's got a hot date tonight!" He gave it a lasciviously admiring tone.

I walk past him. "I'll be back Sunday," I say, and head down the stairs to his "Oooo!"

If anyone else sees me striding nude across the parking lot, they don't make themselves known. Out at the curb stands Evan's beat-up truck, towing a horse trailer that was once bright yellow but has faded to unpleasant mustard over the years. The ramp is down. Evan is standing naxt to it, arms folded, watching me. He says nothing.

I say nothing. I walk up to him, cock ring swinging, nude in public with no concern about it whatsoever, and hand over my keys. He jerks his head at the trailer. I walk up the ramp. It's cold underfoot, and the interior floor is gritty, and has fresh straw scattered over it. My skin goes all to goosebumps when I see the bridle and harness hanging on pegs at the front, waiting for me.

This is not the burro's spare bridle that I wore last weekend. It's black leather, with silver stitching, and the straps are thinner. The bit is dark brown leather, and has chew marks that are human sized. The harness is likewise black leather, but heavier, and has rather a lot of straps. I can't quite trace them visually before Evan walks up into the trailer.

He takes hold of my nose ring, not roughly, but firmly, and my spine sizzles at his control of me. He picks up the bridle with the other hand, lets go my nose ring and grabs my jaw, forcing my mouth to open. The bit goes in, all the way back, and he starts doing the buckles as I force my tongue under the bit so I won't gag so easily. It tastes liike leather, and salt, and traces of a few other things that aren't enough to identify.

Evan works steadily, efficiently, not rushing but not wasting time either, adjusting the straps, checking the fit, making sure the bridle is snug around my head without being too tight.

"You mind?" A male voice from outside. Evan turns. I glance round, but can't turn my head to look as Evan has hold of my bridle. I recognize the voice though. Louie from the building next door is there. He's a leather daddy, not really my type of dominant. He holds up his phone.

Evan shrugs. "I don't care," he tells Louie, "just keep my face and the license plate out of it." He turns his back to Louie, clips a lead rope to my bridle, and to a stanchion on the trailer wall, tying me off so he can work on my harness. Louie starts taking pictures, video, I dunno what. This is fine with me. If he has video of me naked and being harnessed to use as spank material, maybe he'll quit chasing me.

Evan wraps me in leather, straps and buckles and big connector rings. Heavy straps go over my shoulders again, but they connect to big steel rings, the size of my outstretched hand, on the middle of my chest and back. More straps go from those down to the girth belt, four points of attachment evenly spaced around my torso. A pair of thin, narrow straps go between my legs, to either side of my cock, and connect to the girth strap in back. Heavy straps go down my thighs on the outside, and Evan connects those to massive thigh cuffs.

Satisfied at last with the arrangement and tension on my harness, Evan unclips the lead rope, and calls over his shoulder to Louie, "You're done now."

"Um - " Louie starts.

Evan gives him a look over the same shoulder, and Louie goes away. Fast.

One more check on my bridle and harness, then Evan walks out of the trailer, puts the ramp up, and goes round to the cab. The truck starts up, and he drives away, with me naked, harnessed, and bridled in the horse trailer.

=====

We get to the farm while it's still halfway light out. Evan pulls up by the barn as before. I wait, fidgeting a little, for him to let down the ramp. When I start toward it, he frowns, holds up a hand, says "whoa" like he means it. I stop.

"I know you're anxious to work, boy," he tells me, walking up into the trailer and slapping my flank to make me move over, "but you need to slow down and be mindful of what your owner wants."

I shiver at the word "owner." My cock twitches, rises a little. Evan is busy retrieving the lead rope, and clipping it to my bridle, and either does not notice or does not care.

He leads me down the ramp, out of the trailer, and over to a larger wagon, a big, wooden, taking the veg to market kind, with a buckboard up front for the driver to sit on. He leads me to the front of it, puts me with my back to the wagon, and I feel a heavy weight drop onto my girth belt. I glance back, and the tongue of the wagon is leadng toward the small of my back. I can't see the connection point, but I can feel Evan hitching me up. He clips a pair of reins to my bridle, takes the lead rope off.

"You ain't warmed up," he tells me, "so we ain't gonna push you hard tonight. I just want to see if you can pull this."

And with that, he reaches over, takes the brake off, then tugs the reins. "Walk on," he orders.

I lean forward and pull. The wagon is heavy, but it's also on wheels. I put my weight into it, dig in, drive forward, and the wagon moves. Evan steps back. I follow him, and then I've got the wagon rolling. I pull it down the driveway only a little ways before Evan calls "whoa" and sets the brake.

He runs a hand down my back, pats my ass. "Good job," he says, and I glow all over from his approval. Then he swings up onto the wagon, settles himself on the buckboard, and takes the brake off.

We spend some time getting the wagon turned around, most of which is me learning how to actually move to follow the commands I've already learned from watching draft horses working. By the time the wagon is pointing back up the driveway the way it came, I'm sweating freely, and panting a bit.

Evan flaps the reins. "Walk on." My cock spasms as I realize I am being driven for the first time.

I lean into the start, get the wagon rolling. It takes more effort going back the other way partly because of Evan's weight and partly because it's very slightly uphill. I'm suddenly very away of the slope, as the wagon wants to pull back the other way a little, and it's bigger than me.

I get the wagon back to where Evan wants it, and he calls "whoa." I'm panting and blowing by this point, and dripping with sweat. Evan sets the brake, swings down, pats my ass.

"Good boy," he says, and I almost cum. I'm doing hard, sweaty work for a man who likes to see me do it naked. This is so in my exhibitionist wheelhouse I nearly cry.

Evan unhitches me, swaps the reins for the lead rope. He takes me to the barn. We go to the tack room.

Buckle by strap, Evan unharnesses me, and hangs my tack up. He swaps the bridle for a rope hackamore. I miss the feel of the bit in my mouth, but it feels good to work my jaw. He runs a rough towel over me, wiping off the worst of the sweat and dirt.

Clipping the lead rope to my nose ring, he leads me out to my stall, and over to the water trough. It's fixed, and the recirculator is bubbling. Evan only lets me drink briefly before pulling me away.

"You need some salt with that water," he tells me, pulling down on the lead rope. I drop to my knees before him. He lets the lead rope fall. He unzips his jeans. I take his cock in my mouth. It's soft, and warm, and tastes of sweat and musk.

He relaxes, and i get ready. A stream of piss gushes into my mouth, hot, salty, acrid. I swallow. I swallow fast. I gulp his piss down thirstily, and suck his cock to get the last drops when the flow falls away all too soon.

He says nothing when he pulls his cock out of my mouth. A tug on the lead rope, and I stand back up. He directs me to the water trough, unclips the lead, and now I drink deep, washing down all that salt with clear water.

He zips up, steps out of the stall, rolls the door shut. He stands a moment, coiling the lead rope, looking at me through the grille in the upper part of the door. I stand quiet, not sure what he wants.

He leaves, and the barn lights go dim for the night.

I drink more water, still thirsty, then lie down in the corner and curl up naked on the straw. I am back where I belong.

=====

I wake up in the night three times to piss and drink more water. The first time, my lower back hurts. It goes away by the second time I wake.

Then it is dawn. I am listening this time, and hear the farmhouse door open and close. The oxen start blowing, and one of the Haflingers calls.

Evan comes into the barn with a pair of work gloves in one hand. He lays them aside in the tack room, and turns me loose first.

"Take the oxen out, and go do your business," he tells me. He goes to the horse stall, pets the nose of the one that called, soothes the animal. I open the door for the oxen, and step aside as they lumber heavily past. They know where they are going. I trot ahead and open the paddock gate. The oxen go through. I follow them and close the gate. Evan is still talking to the horses. The burro is getting impatient and kicking at his door.

I follow the oxen out, pick a spot, piss. My colon is empty from my diet. I go back to the barn. The horses and the burro pass me going the other way.

Evan is waiting at the paddock gate. He has the hose ready, but is frowning.

"No squat this morning?" he asks. I shrug. It would take many words to explain and he has not let me have words.

"Did you clean yourself out after last week?" he asks. I stomp yes. Evan nods, walks away, carries the hose with him.

"Good boy," he says as he goes, and "heel." I run to catch up, drop into my place behind him and to his right.

We go to the tack room. Evan puts my feed down on the floor in the pie tin. I drop to all fours, push my face in it. I am hungry. It tastes of rice and cheese and green veg and has crunchy bits in it that are salty. All too soon, I am licking the pan.

Evan takes it away from me. I stand. He takes off the hackamore, spraypaints me with sunblock, and puts my bridle on. I have a bit in my mouth now, which feels good. I don't have to talk.

The feel of the harness going on makes me shiver. The leather straps slide across my skin, hug me tight. I am bound and controlled, but free to work like the draft animal that I am. Evan makes adjustments, runs his hands over me, on my legs checking for hot spots and problems, on my flanks and ribs caressing, possessively stroking. I stretch and flex under his touch.

He clips the lead rope to my bridle and we go out to the oval ring. A sledge has been parked on the track, a crude sled with broad, heavy wooden runners, and a bed made of two cargo pallets. A stack of boxes and concrete blocks stands next to it.

"Today, we find out what kind of weight you can draw," Evan tells me, and backs me into position at the front of the sledge. I hold still while he hitches me up. After some cussing, Evan slaps me on the ass.

"Ready, boy?"

I stomp yes.

He moves four of the concrete blocks from the stack to the sledge. He looks at them, then at me. He takes hold of the back of my thigh, squeezes a little, assessing, then runs his hand up to my ass and strokes my flank before moving two more blocks onto the sledge.

Reins in hand, he walks round in front of me, backs up a step. "Walk on," he says, and gives the reins a tug.

I pull. The sledge does not want to move like the wagon did. I dig my toes into the dirt, lean forward, pull hard and steady. The sledge breaks loose, starts to move. It slides roughly across the dirt track, wanting to hitch and catch. I keep pulling.

Evan walks in front of me. I pull the sledge around the track. It does not get easier, but it is not hard as long as I keep moving. The runners pile up dirt in front of them and want to stop, and I have to pull harder every few steps to make them go over the piles.

"Whoa." Evan watches me as I stop. The sledge stops as soon as I am not pulling it. I pant a minute. I am sweating but not hard.

Evan puts a box on the sledge. I feel the shock through the sledge's tongue when the box lands.

"Walk on."

Getting the sledge into motion is harder. I have to put my body weight into it. It starts with a lurch, and I have to move fast to stay ahead of it. I slow back down after two or three steps, and return to the walking pace my driver wants.

We make two more trips around the track. Each time, my driver puts another box on the sledge. Each time, it takes more effort to start it into motion. I am blowing hard by the end of the last circuit, and can barely see for the sweat dripping into my eyes. That does not matter as my owner is leading me and I only have to walk where he wants me to go.

I stand quiet while he unhitches me.

"Did better than I thought you would," he says. He runs a hand down the back of my head, down my neck, pats my spine above the harness junction. I blow through my lips, making what noise I can to let him know I am glad for his praise.

He leads me to the water tank at the side of the ring. I bend over, plunge my face in, suck water past my bit. I come up for air. My owner watches me, lets me drink a second time. He stops me, pulls me away by my bridle, when I try to drink a third time.

"Not gonna have you founder on me," he says, letting go of my bridle and taking up the lead rope.

He leads me to the barn and back to the tack room. My bit is removed. He unclips the lead rope.

"Get the muckin out done," he tells me, and walks away. I do not see where he goes. That does not matter. I have work to do.

I get the shovel, the rake, the manure fork, and the wheelbarrow. I much out the stalls. The mucky straw I take to the compost bin. It is getting close to full when I put the last load in it.

When I fill the feed bins, I eat a handful of each feed. I am hungry, but I also just want to know what they taste like. The regular horse feed is dry and sawdusty. The oxen's feed is pelletized. It is crunchy but tastes like dry grass. The burro's feed has tiny bits of dried fruit in it and tastes better. The sweet feed, which is added in small scoops to the regular feed, is chewy and tastes like molasses and granola. I get another handful of it and chew on it while I haul flakes of hay to the racks.

I finish and my owner is not here. I take the barn tools and the wheelbarrow out by the paddock. I put them far enough from the gate that mud will not be a problem. I hose them off, and leave them in the sun to dry.

My owner is in the barn when I return. He puts down my noon feed. I drop to all fours, and eat hungrily. He watches my ass while I eat. I hope he will fuck me soon.

He does not. He takes away the pie tin when I start licking it, and puts me in my stall.

"Let that settle, boy," he tells me, and walks away.

I am left in my stall. I pace a little, but I am tired. I lie down.

I wake up because my stall door has opened. My owner is back. I scramble up and wait to see what he wants.

He says nothing. He clips the lead rope to my bridle, takes me to the tack room. There, he puts my bit back in and puts on the work gloves. We leave the barn and walk past the round ring. At the edge of the woods, he picks up a heavy canvas bag. He walks around behind me, and clips the bag to my harness. I brace for the weight, so that I do not stagger back into him.

My owner picks up a tool bag, slings it over his shoulder, and an axe that is leaning up against a tree. He leads me up into the woods.

The underbrush scratches at my legs. I ignore it. We go up a hill. A smell of recently cut wood fills the air. We stop by a fallen tree. Its stump is fresh and raw, with chainsaw marks.

My driver puts down his bag and the axe. He leads me to the side a few steps, then tosses my lead rope over a branch. I stay there and watch.

He takes the axe and chops the bigger limbs off the fallen tree, tossing them aside. He uses a large pair of snips from the tool bag to remove the smaller limbs. I am brought over, to the middle of the tree. He takes a heavy chain from the bag I am carrying. It has a big hook on one end, red paint partly worn off. The other end has a metal ring with two short leather straps tied to it. He runs one of them through the ring in the middle of my back, ties it to the other.

"Walk forward," he says, nd I take one step. He tugs on the chain to set the hook into the tree.

"Pull," he tells me. I lean forward, and strain, and the tree rolls over. "Whoa," he says. He takes the chain off my harness and puts it back in the bag. I am led to the foot of the tree, near the stump, and left waiting again.

Very soon, he comes back to me, puts away the snips. He takes a longer chain out of the bag I am carrying. He connects it to the strap over my left shoulder, over my shoulderblade in the back. He connects another long chain to my right shoulder strap.

The hooks at the other ends of the chains go into the trimmed log he has made. He pulls on the chains to set them, making me take a step back unexpectedly. I brace, catch myself, hold against the second tug.

"Easy forward," he says. I walk two slow steps ahead, feeling the chains tighten. He checks them at my harness again.

Taking the lead rope and stepping off to the side of me, he says, "Walk on."

I lean into the effort. It is like the sledge. The log does not want to go, then it goes all at once, and I have to trot a step or two to stay ahead of it. I pull, and the log follows. My owner guides me, staying to the side where he can see both me and the log I am draying. He leads me down the hill at an angle, lets the log catch against trees so it does not slide down. This makes my work harder. I have to pull the log off the tree it has fetched up against and get it moving again. I am sweating hard, and my legs are beginning to burn.

We reach the bottom of the hill. The rest of the way out of the woods is much easier. The log slides on the leaf litter that I have to kick out of the way for sure footing in the dirt underneath. I dray the log over to the wood pile.

My owner pats me on the ass. "Good boy," he says, as he unhitches the chains. He puts the chains back in the bag. Picking up the lead rope, he takes me back up into the woods for a second log.

I dray two more logs out of the woods before my owner says we are done. He takes the bag off of me before putting the chains back in. I stand by the last log, blowing, dripping sweat, while he puts the bags and axe away in the wood shed. The sun is nearly at the horizon.