Gay Erotic Stories

Part IV

An hour later, the kid wakes in total darkness.

“Hey,” he calls out. “Hey, is anyone there?” He sees the dim light from the kerosene lamp pushing feebly at the pitch black beyond the low stall wall, and Mr. Black shows up at the entrance to the area. From the kid’s position on the table, the man looks as if he’s standing right between the kid’s legs.

“What do you want?” the man asks.

“I have to take a piss,” the kid says.

“Go ahead,” the man replies. He turns to go, and the kid calls out to him.

“Hey, wait! Come on, man! You can’t expect me to do it like this,” the kid says, looking down at the collar-and-chain arrangement that keeps his thickened cock flat against his belly. “I’ll piss all over myself.”

“So piss all over yourself,” the man says over his shoulder. “We have to clean you up anyway.”

Darkness again, and with the prospect of letting what will undoubtedly be a wickedly strong stream of piss go all over his chest and stomach looming before him, the kid starts to cry. He involuntarily closes his eyes and raises his chin, and the sobs take over his body. He is about to do it when he hears a noise. He opens his eyes and sees that there is light again. Mr. White has just put the lamp on the table next to the kid’s left foot, and Mr. Black stands in the doorway again.

The kid wipes his face against his shoulder.

“Please,” he says, “let me up so I can piss.”

“The hell with that,” Mr. White says. “We’re here to join the party.” He steps up on the foot of the table, straddles the kid’s hips and opens his button-fly jeans with one easy move. He semi-hard cock is of average length, but thick. He holds it in his hand and gently pushes back the foreskin. Immediately, he lets loose with a stream of strong-smelling, bright yellow piss that hits the kid square in the chest. The kid closes his eyes and mouth and turns his head away, but there is really no way to escape, and Mr. White laughs.

The man urinates on the kid for that seems like an endlessly long time, and then, with his cock still dripping on the platform between the kid’s legs, he puts his hands on his hips and says, “Now let’s see it.”

The kid swallows hard. The piss doesn’t flow immediately; the conditioning from early childhood is hard to overcome. But finally it does -- as he suspected, a strong steam that flows over his stomach and chest. Mr. White laughs again.

When the kid is done, Mr. White tucks his cock back into his pants, jumps off the platform, and says, “Now, we let you up.” He nods to Mr. Black, who moves forward, and the two men release the kid from his bonds. They take the collars off his neck and genitals first, and then undo the cuffs on his wrists and ankles.

The kid starts to sit up, but Mr. Black pushes him back down on the platform, saying “Not so fast, Kid.” Mr. White takes a set of shackles -- iron leg cuffs held together with a two-foot length of chain -- from a hook on the stall wall, and hands them to Mr. Black. As he locks these on the kid’s ankles, he looks at the kid and smiles. “You have to clean up the mess you made. We need your hands free for that, but we want to put a little crimp in your style, just in case you decide to run.”

They get the kid up on his feet -- a task, because the kid is stiff from being in one position for so long -- and hand him a rake. Pointing to the urine-soaked straw that covers the ground under the platform, Mr. White says, “Rake the straw up into a pile over here.”

“I need a rake,” the kid says.

“Use your hands,” replies Mr. White, pushing the kid down on all fours.

The kid works slowly at first, crawling under the platform and pulling the hay together into small piles. But when Mr. Black pounds on the planks over his head and shouts for the kid to “hurry the fuck up,” the kid works quickly to push all the straw out from under the platform. Mr. White has brought in a wheelbarrow, and a simple gesture is all that’s needed to start the kid piling the straw in the bin. When the first load is complete, they tell the kid to pick the wheelbarrow up and, with one man leading the way and the other tracking behind him, the kid takes the load out a side door under the hayloft.

Dawn is just breaking over the thick woods across the field from the barn. The kid notes how warm it is already -- probably 80 degrees. It’s going to be a hot one.

They have the kid dump the straw in a compost pile, and then lead him back into the barn for a second and third load.

When he is finished dumping the last of the straw, the kid stands behind the wheelbarrow, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm. His body is now covered with grime -- dirt, dust and bits of straw all mixing with the sweat and urine to form a gray-black coating that all but hides the bruises and redness from the beatings and the treatments with the candle wax.

“Come on,” Mr. White says, grabbing the kid at the back of the neck, “Let’s clean you up.”

They lead him over to the side of the barn, where a small water tower stands, the area under the tower covered with a wooden platform. They make him duck underneath one of the lateral struts of the steel tower structure, and when they are all standing directly underneath the water tank, they pull his arms up and tie his wrists to ropes that hang down from the supports above them.

Mr. White strips off his shirt and pulls off his boots, and tosses everything to Mr. Black, who ducks back outside the support structure for the tower, sets the clothes far enough aside to avoid their getting wet, and pulls a black hose from a large hook on the side of the barn. He points the business end of the hose in toward the kid and Mr. White under the tower and turns on the water.

The kid braces himself for cold water, but he is surprised that the water is warm. The metal tank overhead, painted black, must be absorbing enough heat during these blistering late summer days to keep the water warm throughout the night.

Mr. Black wets the kid down, sending a particularly heavy stream of water first into his groin and then into the crack between his ass cheeks -- and laughing about it as if this is the greatest joke in the world. Mr. White grabs a bar of soap and a stiff brush from the corner of the wooden platform and begins soaping the kid’s body. He uses the brush to scrub the grim off the kid, and then he soaps the kid up a second time.

He starts playing with the kid’s flaccid cock, touching gently at first, and then grabbing the shaft and stroking more firmly as the organ responds. The kid closes his eyes and moans. He is muttering “No, no,” and he pulls his face away, but he doesn’t struggle.

Oblivious to the fact that his pants are getting soaked, Mr. White moves in closer, pressing his groin against the kid’s hip and nibbling at the side of his neck. The smell of the soap mingles with the smell of sweat and dirt still hanging in the kid’s hair, and it almost drives Mr. White wild. He moves a hand down the small of the kid’s back and over his firm ass. Balling his hand into a fist, Mr. White drives his whole forearm down into the crack between the kid’s ass cheeks and then further, between his legs. Tipping backward. Mr. Black lifts the kid’s feet off the ground.

“Oh, FUCK!” Mr. White says. “I think it’s about time I plugged that tight little hole of yours.”

“There’s plenty of time for that.” It’s the man from the truck, who has come up upon this scene quietly, surprising Mr. Black and Mr. White.

“Boss…”

“You’ll get your turn, Mr. Black, when he’s ready to beg for it. Finish cleaning him up, and bring him up to the loft.” He turns and walks back into the darkness of the barn.

To be continued.