Breaing the Stallion

First, I apologize for my long hiatus. I am grateful to those of you who share my prurient interests, and you deserve better than waiting a year between chapters.

Second, since my last update, much has happened in the world that has made it less safe for queer people. Know that there are many of us out there who love you and wish you well. Please reach out if you are struggling and want to be connected with resources.

Finally, this story contains graphic content and potential trauma cues for sensitive readers. Specifically, this story contains themes of non-consent, abuse, domestic violence, and other similarly dark themes. If this is not something that you can handle or would enjoy, then please read no further. This is a work of fiction, by and for consenting adults. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintended and purely coincidental.

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Chapter 5: Teach in small, incremental steps.

I wiggled my hips, enjoying the feel of Brock's hard body against mine. Specifically, I was enjoying his massive, athletic ass against my crotch as I played the big spoon. I had just woken up, but my stallion still dozed peacefully against me. I stared at Brock for a while, enjoying the feel of his damp body against mine and the smell of his morning musk. Brock sweats profusely in his sleep; I

love

the scent.

As much as I didn't want the moment to end, it was Brock's first day of 'work' at my family's ranch. And I intended to keep a short, tight leash on my boy. Accordingly, I shifted my hips slightly, poking Brock with the hard tent of my pajama bottoms. His back reflexively arched, rubbing his firm, perfect ass against me.

"Good morning, Stud," I softly cooed. "It's time to get up."

Brock mumbled incoherently. I squeezed him then, digging my hard shaft into his ass.

"Up, up we go," I whispered.

I considered pulling my pants down and taking his perfect ass right then. It would be quite a show of dominance to wake him up by shoving my cock inside of him. But I hadn't any lube within reach, and Brock hadn't 'prepared' himself to bottom, which I didn't want to deal with. I instead angled myself such that my cock pointed upward, with its bottom side angled against Brock's pajama bottoms. I then grinded against him, dry humping him until he was more than alert.

"There's a good boy," I murmured, "It's your first day, and your boss needs his morning coffee."

Brock mumbled an incoherent complaint but slowly rolled out of bed and stood up.

"Are you asking for coffee?" He forced the question through a yawn.

"Yep," I spoke softly, barely awake myself. "Coffee in bed, please! There's a French press in the kitchen above the electric kettle. You'll see the beans and the grinder on the same shelf. You know how I like it, Stud," Of course he knew; he'd made me coffee on many occasions back in the dorms. "Water to 190 degrees, steeped in rough grounds for four minutes. Then eight ounces of coffee to one ounce of cream. Chop chop!"

Brock shook his head but knew better than to complain. I briefly considered levying 'punishment' for silently walking off with that attitude. But I was constantly aware that flying too close to the sun too quickly could ruin everything. I was further aware that, if Brock ever built up the gumption, he could snap me in half like a twig. I'd made that mistake with subs before, and I wasn't about to get my ass kicked. If I was going to punish Brock, I would need a more cognizable excuse.

Not ten minutes later, I heard the bedroom door reopen and Brock emerge holding a cup of steaming coffee. I took it from him gratefully, then inhaled the scent under my nose.

"Good boy," I admonished. I enjoyed the warmth of its steam for a moment before putting the cup to my lips.

Brock looked at me with anticipation. He knew that I was particular about my coffee and wasn't above asking for another cup. This would be my excuse.

"This isn't right," I said flatly, lowering the cup from my lips, "You steeped the beans for too long and with water that was too hot. Make it again."

"Are you

serious

," Brock replied, making no effort to hide his annoyance. I knew better than to move too fast too quick. But I also knew that to break a horse I needed to be consistent in enforcing the rules and continue unwaveringly in my assertion of authority. I needed to take this risk. I needed to punish Brock.

"I mean," Brock continued. His voice was deep and resonant, but I could hear the panic building underneath his facade. "I tasted it just to check. The coffee's fine. I did what you said exactly."

I waited until he finished speaking, then stared at him for a moment. It's important not to be reactive to your animal's tantrums: ironically, blowing up at Brock would only reinforce his malfeasance. Brock was testing me; he would regret this decision. The true master speaks when he is ready to speak and does not rush to respond. I stared at Brock silently for several moments, watching him stir. This wasn't the first time we had an interaction like this. Brock knew that, because he challenged me, punishment would swiftly and surely follow; he could be as confident in this fact as he could in what would happen to an egg if he hit it with a hammer. Unrelenting pressure breaks a horse. Slowly, his face fell. I could see the obvious realization sweep over Brock that punishment was about to follow. Brock knew at that moment that he had been defeated.

I stood up, holding the coffee in one hand. Brock looked fearfully at me. I enjoyed the expression on his face--he knew that punishment was forthcoming, but didn't know what it would be. Frankly, the anticipation itself was likely more than enough to traumatize this poor boy.

But I enjoyed punishing Brock.

"It sounds like you don't believe me," I spoke calmly as I stood up from the bed. "Come over here. I want to prove it to you."

Brock just continued looking at me, hunched forward like a scared dog.

"Don't be shy, Stud. Come over here."

Brock slowly shuffled toward me until he was standing within arms' reach. He reached out his hand, expecting me to hand the coffee back to him. No such luck.

I reached my hand out, assertively grabbing Brock by the shoulder. I then applied downward pressure, pushing him to the ground. After months of 'training,' Brock instinctively knew what this meant. Without thinking, Brock dropped to his knees and opened his mouth.

I was pleasantly surprised by the immediate obedience. My little pup was being quite a good boy. But this would not mitigate his punishment. This one was for me.

With the coffee cup still in my left hand, I moved my right hand from Brock's shoulder to his jaw, then moved his head upward such that his open mouth was facing upward at me.

"You need evidence that you botched the coffee. Understood. Let's see what we can do about that."

Holding Brock's face in place, I put the rim of the cup against his lips, then began to pour the hot coffee into his mouth. Brock sputtered and tried to move away, but my strong ranchers' hands held my little bronco firmly in place.

"There's a good boy," I cooed as steaming coffee poured down Brock's throat. When he couldn't swallow the scalding liquid fast enough, and his mouth was filled, about a third of the coffee spilled over the edge of his mouth and onto the floor. As the cup emptied and Brock struggled to painfully swallow what he could, I gripped his jaw shut, forcing him to swallow the rest.

I then pointed at the mess on my bedroom floor.

"You're not going to leave that mess on my bedroom floor now, are you? These floors are hardwood, and we can't leave messes like that."

Brock could barely speak between his pained gasps.

"No, you're not going to leave that mess on the floor. So be a good boy. Slurp it up."

Brock breathed for a few minutes, trying to maintain his composure. I just continued staring, never breaking eye contact. Inevitably, Brock's will was defeated. He bowed his head, lowered himself to his forearms, and began slurping up the spilled drink.

As I watched Brock on all fours like an animal, my cock felt like diamonds. I had reduced this proud jock to a beast of burden. Even more so, I had broken his spirit and made him obedient to my whims. As I imagined the depraved things I could force him to do, I felt as if I would explode in my pants then and there.

As Brock's head was stilled face down against the ground, I pulled down my pajama bottoms and let my massive member bounce freely in front of me. I wanted to stroke myself but knew that I was mere moments away from showering my pup with his master's seed. But I didn't want to cum

on

him, I wanted to cum

inside

of him.

"Stop," I commanded. Brock looped up and whimpered when he saw the monster that bounced in front of his face. "On the bed. Pants off. Legs up. NOW!"

My stallion obeyed without hesitation. Mere seconds later, Brock was face-up on my bed with his legs open and up, presenting his ass for me to destroy. I quickly grabbed the bottle of lube from my bedside table and squirted it directly onto my cock, rubbing it all over.

As I angled the head of my cock against his hole, I thought about how laying down and exposing one's tummy is often a sign of submission in the animal kingdom. This was appropriate, as I was the dominant in our little pack. And it wasn't close.

I looked Brock fiercely in the eye as I pushed myself inside of him. I gave him no warning or slow entry. This moment wasn't for Brock; Brock's master wanted to fuck him, and a good boy keeps himself ready for his master to fuck him.

While I'm typically not one to finish quickly, Brock's obedience--and my subsequent punishment--had already pushed me to the edge. Within mere seconds of pumping my titanium rod in and out of Brock's hole, I dug my fingers into his massive pecs as I exploded inside of him.

I spent a few moments catching my breath, then looked Brock in the eye. He fearfully returned my gaze, then looked around the room, avoiding eye contact.

"Look at me, Dummy," I commanded.

With apparent effort, Brock obeyed.

"If I say that the coffee is wrong," I spoke slowly and matter-of-factly, "Then the coffee is wrong. And that's that. Now you're going to make me a fresh brew. And because you questioned me..." I paused mid-sentence, staring at Brock. He dared not interrupt but merely laid there with his head gradually lowering like a whipped dog. If Brock had a tail, it would be squarely tucked between his legs.

"Because you questioned me," I continued, "You won't be unlocked this week. Question me again, and it will be the month. If there's a third strike, then we're looking at the rest of the summer. At least."

I then winked through my wicked grin, and glanced down at Brock's groin, "And if all else fails, we have tools to 'fix' misbehaving livestock."

I laughed as if I had just told a joke. While I had

no

intention whatsoever of harming Brock's beautiful cock and balls, I had no intention of clarifying whether I was being serious. Brock merely gulped loudly and nodded.

"Y-y-yes, Sir!"

"Good Boy."

***

I spent the rest of my dreamboat summer ordering Brock around. The other ranch hands knew that something was up between us. Seeing this shirtless, sweaty Adonis moving hay or mending fences, I simply

could not help myself

but to steal him away into the woodshed for hours at a time. Or behind the barn. Or in the stables. Or behind the grain silos. It wouldn't have taken Sherlock Holmes to deduce what I was doing to Brock, and word spread quickly among the ranch hands. But I didn't care. Brock was mine. In my view, it was my right to have him when and where I wanted him.

He wasn't the first ranch hand that I'd been 'involved' with. In high school, I'd fostered a similar relationship with one of the linebackers from my school's football team. Unfortunately, I flew a little too fast and loose with that 'stallion,' and got an ass-kicking to show for it. As well as an... undesirable reputation among some of my classmates. I didn't care. It was a learning experience. And that learning experience informed my training over my

new

stallion.

I also decided that Brock should grow his hair out more. I wanted him to look more like one of those cliché 'hot guys' one sees on the cover of a bad harlequin romance novel. Indeed, Brock looked amazingly similar to those cookie cutter models with his rigid body, his square jaw, and this thick mane of hair. Had I put him on the horse and taken a photo shoot, I legitimately

might

have been able to sell his photo to a publisher.

But I did not allow Brock to ride horses. There were several reasons for this, ranging from the practical to symbolic. First, I would not allow my beautiful possession to do anything that would risk him injury. I had gotten used to a hunky piece of ass warming my bed each night, and I'd be damned if I let anything jeopardize this luxury. Second, if Brock

were

to be injured, I could expect a slew of voices--both familial and professional--asking Brock questions about his working conditions on the ranch. This was not a risk I was willing to take. Third, I frequently kept Brock both caged and plugged; I worried about the impact horse riding might have on my favorite parts of him if anything was caught or jostled. Finally, it felt 'incorrect' for Brock to be the one riding the horse. To do so implies a certain degree of control and authority, and to visually convey this upon Brock seemed so incorrect. Thus, he often walked beside me as I rode from the house to the corrals.

As the summer progressed, I 'generously' bought Brock several new outfits. Each were too tight for his massive, rock-solid frame. But function wasn't the point; I cared less how he performed in his work as I did the eye candy he provided me when I oversaw that work. Thus, Brock spent most of his days wearing jeans--which were so tight that Brock could barely fit over his muscular ass and thighs--and skin-tight shirts.

I couldn't keep my eyes off him during the workday. Nor could I keep my hands off him in our moments of privacy.

"I've been thinking, Bud," I spoke casually to Brock one day as he was shoveling fertilizer. I leaned against a fence, making no effort to appear busy. "I really don't see you going anywhere as a business major. But did you know that our university has an ag-science program?"

Brock hesitated before answering. He knew where I was going with this.

"I did not," he spoke casually between scoops.

"Yeah!" I didn't have to feign my enthusiasm. "It's an overlooked subject. But I think that agricultural science would be good for you! I mean, you've been a wonder around here. Imagine what you could do with that education!"

We both knew why I was bringing this up. Agricultural science is practically useless outside of niche industries. Indeed, there is a reason that most universities 'overlook' it. And while there would be a cognizable reason to major in this if Brock was to work for me indefinitely, my little establishment would be just about the only place that would hire with a degree like that. In short, Brock would have nowhere else to go.

I brought the subject up occasionally. I knew that if I insisted, Brock would flat-out tell me 'No.' And I must avoid this at all costs: if Brock becomes comfortable with telling me 'No,' even in a perfectly reasonable context like this, then telling me 'No' will be easier in other contexts. I could not let this happen. Thus, I merely brought the idea up regularly, but casually. Even a mountain will be worn down by gentle weathering.

***

That summer, our little ranch saw its most profitable season yet. This surprised me, as I spent more time with my hands on Brock's body than I spent managing the ranch. Perhaps this spoke to my effectiveness as a leader? Regardless, we earned enough in profit to build a small mother-in-law suite outside of the main house for my mother to move into. She always wanted a smaller space to herself. And as the 'man of the house,' I was looking forward to spreading out in the family home. I was also looking forward to more privacy with Brock.

With a little cajoling--and a more liberal use of the key to Brock's chastity cage--I persuaded Brock to sign up for online classes for the fall semester. This would allow him to continue living in my ranch house while attending classes. And because he had practically no money, turning down another few months of free room and board was not something he could pass up.

The timing was perfect: with the main house left only to Brock and me, I found myself more easily able to exert control over his day-to-day. He would spend his mornings studying and reviewing his online classes; his afternoons and evenings as my live-in housekeeper. While Brock had not planned to work as a 'ranch hand' after the summer, his transition to 'housekeeper' was nonetheless humiliating.

My treatment of him did not help. I rarely allowed Brock to leave the house. Indeed, unless he was performing a chore or using the bathroom, I rarely allowed him not to be in the same room as me. And why shouldn't I have kept him on a short leash? I saw Brock as my possession, or rather, the spoils of my conquest. Why shouldn't his body always be within my arm's reach?

This further allowed me greater leeway in the 'uniforms' I bought for Brock. While he had felt humiliated by the too-tight jeans and button-down shirts I insisted upon during his work as a ranch hand, Brock was now relegated to an assortment of jock straps, leather chaps, and other impractical outfits that I curated and chose. And though he barely complained when I threw out the clothes he originally brought to the ranch, I still found it necessary to punish him for this indiscretion. Gradually, my grip tightened around Brock's will, as well as his freedom.

By winter semester, Brock had formally changed his degree to agricultural science and fully shifted his schedule to taking online classes. This only took a small amount of persuasion.

By this point, I felt that Brock was in the final stages of being 'broken.' The way that he spoke to me had changed. He completely stopped questioning me when I asked him to perform a task. He had trouble maintaining eye contact, unless I ordered him to look me in the eye. (In fact, I only really made him look me in the eye when he was giving me head or when I was fucking him on his back. Otherwise, I preferred that he maintain that submissive and defeated downward gaze.). But the moment that Brock was fully and finally 'broken' arrived on March 31 of his sophomore year. I will remember that date until the day I die.

I had just arrived home from an out-of-town conference. As I stepped through the front door, I could hear Brock tinkering away in the kitchen. A combination of basil, rosemary, and other herbs and spices wafted through the house. The smell was mouthwatering.

"Mmmhhhh, something smells delicious!" I exclaimed, announcing my presence and verbally rewarding Brock's work. Brock immediately stepped out of the kitchen, wearing a small blue apron and a smile.

"Welcome home, Sir!" Brock's head was bowed in a subtle sign of deference, but he seemed more chipper than usual. Curious about this change in his demeanor, I pushed a bit further.

"Dinner smells amazing," a grin grew on my face, "But you know what I want first, Dummy!" With one quick motion, I unfastened my belt and unzipped my jeans. Brock immediately dropped to his knees in front of me. I removed my hands from my belt and let him finish the job of pulling out my growing cock.

Brock worked the base of my cock with his big hands while his lips worked the head of my cock. I was consistently impressed that Brocks hands could be so large, muscular, and veiny, and yet have such smooth, soft-to-the-touch palms and fingers. I expected that this was a result of my insistence upon regular use of gloves, lotion, and sunscreen. In moments like these, it pays to care for your property.