Draft Animal For Sale Ch. 05

Author's note: this concludes phase 1. Sorry it took a while, I got stuck on Saturday morning. Phase 2 is plotted and sketched in, with some material written. Phase 3, which concludes the story, is roughed out, with a couple of scenes sketched in. The series ending is written. I just have to get there.

Monday, I started putting in applications at farms and riding stables in the area, looking for a position as a stable hand. I would have to wear pants at the very least, and could not be bridled or harnessed while working, but the humans around me would expect me to smell like sweat and barn, and would not mind.

After work, I went to the home supply store, and bought two bales of straw, a small silicone water trough, a food bowl, and on impulse a small bag of sweet feed to snack on. The person next to me on the bus noticed what I was eating. They shook their head, but did not say anything.

At home, I stripped off, then went through the kitchen and revised my diet and eating habits. The water trough I filled and put on the floor by the washing machine. The fridge and freezer got cleaned out of anything that couldn't be spread out, cut up, or otherwise easily reduced to bite size bits. I cleared out the human dishes and utensils I wouldn't need any more and put them in a box to freecycle. My evening feed went into the food bowl, and I ate it down on the floor on all fours.

Afterward, I broke down my cheap Swedish bed. The mattress went directly on the floor. I used the frame to build a low box around it. One bale of straw filled the box nearly to the top when loose, but I knew it would pack down.

I slept better that night.

=======

Tuesday, I interviewed very briefly at a riding stable. The owner, a big, muscular woman with buzz-cut hair, looked me over, and shook her head.

"Most of my customers are cougars with stablehand fantasies," she told me. "I'm not sayin' I'm hirin' more for servicin' them than cleanin' th' stables, but the pay ain't great and you'd be livin' mostly on th' tips, if ya follow me?"

I understood. She needed a stallion, not a gelding.

Wednesday, the stable owner looked me in the eye, then slowly reached out and took hold of my nose ring. I said nothing, but the change in my posture when he took hold of my lead ring spoke volumes.

He let go, nodded. "Not my scene," he told me, "I'm bear identified. The pay ain't great, but there's as many hours as you can stand. If you sleep here once in a while after a long night, that's okay, but don't go makin' a habit of it."

He paused. "What you wear," he said finally, "is up to the stable manager. We're a boarding stable, so there ain't no customers back here, just horses and staff."

The stable manager, a big, bearded, muscular man with a plaid flannel fetish, likewise looked me over, and shrugged. "Keep your pants on," he told me. "Your Sir send you here?"

"No, sir," I told him. "I don't have a proper owner yet."

He laughed. "Don't go gettin' your hopes up here. 'Bout two thirds of the staff are straight, and the rest ain't inta twinks."

That was fine with me.

I quit my polo shirt job that afternoon. I think they were glad of it. I know I was.

Thursday, I started at the boarding stable. I wore boots and jeans and no shirt. Being the new hand, I was started with the worst end of the mucking out. A few of the men looked me over, but they wanted stallions too.

I had hard, sweaty work to do that kept me moving all day, and went home exhausted. It felt good.

My straw smelled like barn the next morning.

=======

It is Friday. I stand quietly, naked, on the sidewalk, holding my keys. Someone takes pictures. I snort and lean back when they try to reach for my nose ring. They go away.

The truck arrives. My owner lets down the ramp. I walk up, and into the trailer, feeling loose straw and recent wetness under my feet. I sniff and inhale wet metal, little trace of any other animal. I am happy that my owner has washed the trailer out between animals. Maybe he is not so sad any more.

He harnesses me quickly, efficiently, not hurrying but not wasting time. He is sure handed with the straps and not rough. I like it when men are rough with me but this is good.

My bridle is put on me, strapped, adjusted. I feel the comfort of the bit in my mouth, the surety that I will be worked as I am meant to be.

"Down," my owner tells me. I am confused. With my bit in, I cannot suck his cock.

He takes my upper arm, raises it, slides his hand down to mine. He wraps my fingers around his cock. I understand. I sit back on my haunches, raise my other hand, and stroke his shaft with my fingertips. His cock twitches, and I take firmer hold of it.

I stroke him slowly to start, and go faster a little at a time. While one hand encircles his shaft and pumps it, I run my other fingers down the top of his dick. When I reach the end, I slide my thumb underneath, and caress the fragile bit underneath where his glans connects. He groans, and leans into the stroking.

I loosen my grip, being careful as I have no lube. Faster, and putting pressure on the underside with my thumb on the out stroke, pulling his cum toward me. I encircle the head of his cock with thumb and forefinger, and fuck my hand with his cock.

Again he groans. He bucks his hips, and the first jet of cum splatters across my face. I time my strokes to his surges now. Another thick, heavy jet splashes across the side of my face and down onto my shoulder. A third, and a fourth, hit me directly in the mouth, for all the good that does. My bit and bridle are soaked. I try to work my tongue forward to lick his semen from my lips but I cannot get it past the bit.

He is done. I run my thumb up his shaft once more, wringing the last drops. They fall onto my chest, and drip down onto my thighs.

Cum drips down my face. A heavy drop slides off my shoulder and down toward my nipple. I hope it gets there. I am marked as his.

He zips up. He pats my head.

"Good boy," he says.

He puts the ramp up. The truck drives me away.

=======

The truck arrives at the farm. My owner walks up into the trailer. He clips the lead rope to my bridle. We go to the hot walker.

I focus on my gait. The walker starts me at a slow walk. I make sure to lift my feet properly and not shuffle. Walk becomes fast walk. My cock lead ring bumps off my thighs, tugging at my cock with each step. I am used to this and ignore it. When I move to a canter, the ring swings freely. I look over at my owner.

He is watching me, cantering naked around the hot walker in just harness and bridle. He does not see an animal. He sees a muscular young man, his sweating body exposed, a big silver ring between his legs swinging with each step. He rubs the front of his jeans, slowly. His cock may not be ready yet.

The faint musk of his cum, soaked into the leather, rises from my bridle as I sweat. I breathe the scents of our bodies. My eyes close. The walker guides me. It moves me from a canter to a trot. I let my self sink into my breathing, feeling the regular heaves for air timed to the steps.

I am stopped. Water. I put my face in it, suck it past the bit.

Motion again. Trot, focus, legs, knees. Breathing. Left in, right out, left in right out. Sweat between my ass cheeks making them slippery. Rings bounce off lower lip, left thigh, lower lip, right thigh.

Slower. Trot to canter. There was water. I am down to a walk. I come back to myself. The walker guides me through cool down. It stops.

My owner unhitches me. His jeans are straining at the front. His arousal makes me happy. I have worked hard for his arousal.

He takes me to the tack room. Harness first, one strap and then another. The weight lifts off me and I miss it. I shiver. He rubs me down with a coarse towel. The rough fabric rasps at my skin, and I arch and flex in pleasure.

He takes my bridle off. My mouth feels empty. I look up at the bit where my bridle hangs on the peg. There is a cum stain on the end of the bit, where my tongue could not reach. It was not washed off by me sweating in the hot walker.

He puts my hackamore on. He clips the lead rope to my cock ring. He holds my cock after he clips the lead to the ring, stroking me. My cock does not stir. It has been beaten into submission by the ring and the hot walker.

He leads me to my stall by my dick.

In the stall, he drops the handle loop of the lead rope over a stanchion. I jump as the flat of his hand slaps my flank, hard. It stings. The jump tugs at the lead rope.

He slaps my other flank. I expect it and I do not jump. He spanks me twice more, one strike to each ass cheek, then seizes my hip and drags me back, pushing me over with his other hand.

I bend over the lead rope, nearly taut now. My owner kicks my feet apart. He pushes a tube against my asshole. Lube squirts into me.

He keeps one hand on my hip, gripping tight. I will have finger marks again. Maybe this time I will be able to wank to them. His other hand guides his cock to my opening. He presses his cock against my asshole, and the head slips in with no resistance. I sigh. I am being filled.

He pushes, sending his cock up into me, making me take half a step forward. The rope to my cock eases.

He pulls back. His cock slides out of me. My hips rock back, partly me reaching for his cock, partly him pulling on my hip. The rope goes taut. I gasp at the tension.

Then he slams back into me, and all the pieces of me smash back together. Again he pulls back. I am stretched out and pulled apart. Thrust, and his jeans zipper scrapes the back of my thighs.

He pulls me apart. He smashes me back together. My cock screams for release, for a halt to the pulling, for anything.

His cock swells, stretching my ass. He cums, lunging into me to drive his semen as far in as possible. I imagine I can taste it, his cock has gone so deep into me. I feel him pulsing inside me.

And my own cock erupts. I scream as cum boils out of my tortured dick, splattering my thighs and drenching the lead rope.

We stand, gasping, for a moment. I feel our sweat running down between our bodies. He slumps, lets his cock fall out of me. Steps back.

He says nothing, but unhooks the lead rope, and gives it a twitch. I obey. I drop to my knees and take his dick into my mouth. With tongue and lips and suction, I clean his cum and my ass and the lube from his cock. Now I can taste his cum.

He gives the lead rope a tug, and I stand. When he unclips the rope, he puts the clip in my mouth. I clean my cum from the clip, and lick it off his hand.

I am still dripping when he turns out the lights and leaves the barn.

=======

The night is hot and humid. I wake itchy and sweaty, hay and dirt stuck to me.

The farmer has no clothes on when he walks into the barn. He wears a black leather chest harness, not a work harness but for show, and hip boots, not black leather fetish wear but brown rubber work boots, which my cock says is much more hot, trying to lift its ring. His cock hangs semi-erect. I lick my lips and think about having his dick in my mouth. He also wears an old and worn John Deere ballcap that is somehow more intimidating than a leather top's cap. All he says to me, though, is "out", when he opens my stall door. He points to the paddock. I go.

He sprays me down head to foot, not just my ass, when I come back from the paddock. My skin flinches from the cold water, but the shock feels good. I stretch and flex in the spray, showing myself off to him. His cock stirs, but he does not order me down.

Instead, he tells me to shake off, then leads me to the tack room. I am fed. While I am down on all fours, eating from a pie tin on the floor, my owner turns the other animals out to the paddock. I feel separated from the herd. I work on their rest day.

When my owner returns, he slaps my upturned ass, hard. I freeze, holding still to find out what I did. He slaps my other ass cheek. I grunt from the impact. The sting and burn takes a breath to develop.

He drops to one knee, seizes my ass with both hands. I drop down to my elbows, head down. His cock, wet with lube, probes at my ass, pushes insistently. I brace, push back, forcing my ass onto his cock.

My asshole burns at the sudden stretching, but I have worn my plug during the week and am ready. The burn passes as fast as his cock. All I feel is cool lube and pressure as his body meets mine, his cock balls deep in me.

He fucks me hard and fast. My knees scrape on the wooden floor of the tack room. I put my hands up to keep my face from being pushed into the workbench leg. My driver shoves me across the floor with each stroke. I rock back when he pulls back, eager to keep his cock in me, needing to follow him to be ready for the next thrust. All too soon, he groans, rams into me with his body weight, holds me tight against him. I feel his cock surge inside me. I wish I could feel his cum spurting into me.

He pulls out, orders, "Around". I turn, still on all fours. I clean his cock with my mouth, washing his shaft with my tongue. I love my owner for letting me clean him in such an intimate way.

He pulls his cock out of my mouth before I feel like I am done. He stands. Taking hold of my nose ring, he pulls me to my feet, turns me around, puts me at the tack bench.

I clench my ass, trying to hold his cum inside me while I am harnessed. It is not easy. He is rough this morning. He pulls the straps hard. The girth is too tight and he has to loosen it two notches. He replaces the hackamore with my bridle. I try to reach out my tongue and lick the cum stain on the end of the bit but he slaps me.

"No," he tells me harshly. I stare at him open mouthed. He takes hold of my jaw with one hand, pushes the bit into my mouth with the other. My thighs tickle. I have lost my focus and let his cum slip out of my ass.

I behave better, standing quietly while he finishes. When he is done inspecting my harness, he slaps my ass, adding another handprint.

"Out," he orders. He does not bother with a lead rope. He takes hold of my nose ring and leads me by hand. I follow too closely to watch his ass, so close but I cannot look down.

We go out to the shed by the field. A cart with folded metal arms on each side and a big white plastic tank in the back stands next to the door. I am put between the arms of the cart. I stand quiet while my driver hitches me to the cart. He attaches lead reins and takes them back behind me. The hitches on my girth belt keep me from turning around far enough to see what he is doing.

I hear a motor. There are clanks and other noises, like something sliding. The cart gets bumped, but the brakes are on and it does not move. The smell of wet compost washes forward. It rolls over me like a wet blanket, thick and heavy.

More sliding and clanks. The motor stops running. I hear a door close. The cart bucks, dips, and I flex my knees. My driver has climbed aboard. I feel the cart shifting as he settles in the seat.

"Hup," he says, and I dig in and brace. The brakes click off, and I lean forward, ready to pull.

"Walk on," my driver says. I put my weight into it. The cart rolls forward. It is heavy and does not stop or turn easily. I pull, and feel wetness down my thighs as each step forces a little more of my driver's cum from my ass. I wonder if he can see the wet streaks on my legs from where he is sitting, up on the cart that I am pulling.

We line up with the start of a fallow field. It grows only a low tangle of green, a cover crop I do not know the name of. My driver sets the brakes. He climbs down from the cart. I hear ratcheting mechanical noises. The balance of the cart changes. It wants to lean to the right. I am nervous. If the cart falls over, it will throw me over by the hitching couples on my girth.

My driver walks around to the other side of the cart. More ratchet noises are made, and the cart rights itself. I breath deep. My load is back in balance. I feel him climb back into the seat.

"Walk on slow," he orders. The end of the rein cracks across my ass like a whip. I rear up straight from the sting, eyes wide, and lunge forward.

My body weight is enough to get the cart moving into the field. The ground is softer here. I can feel the cart trying to mire itself. I keep it rolling, and the greenery crushed under the wheels stops the sinking in.

A fresh wave of compost rolls over me. I am blowing by the halfway point. I pull. The cart cannot stop.

Then "Gee up," comes the order. I turn. The cart turns a little more easily. It feels a little lighter. Then my driver swings down and it is a lot lighter. He slogs through the mud to me, takes hold of my bridle. I am walked through turning the cart around and set for the next pass. I can see the side of the cart while we are turning.

The mechanical arms are sprayers. We are spraying compost tea on the field. The cart will get lighter but the field will get more wet.

I set myself, taking in deep, slow breaths while I can. "Walk on slow," my driver says. I lean into my harness and pull.

The cart must be turned at the end, My driver gets down and takes me by the bridle to guide me. His hip boots sink into the mud the spraying is making. He shakes it off and kicks the cart wheels, shaking loose some of the mud.

The second pass overlaps the first. My feet sink into a thin layer of mud, then my toes find purchase on dirt underneath. I lean forward and shove my feet into the ground with each step. The mud pushes out of the way but also over my feet. I am wet by the end of the second pass, sweat above my girth belt, compost tea below. My feet are caked with mud. I shake it off as we turn.

I slog forward. The greenery crushed underfoot smells bitter and cuts through the heavy smell of compost. The mud splashes up onto my legs when I stomp too hard trying to find dirt under the muck.

My world narrows. Everything falls away. There is only the field on front of me, the cart behind me that must be kept moving, my breath aching in my lungs, my legs driving forward. My head goes silent. Words stop.

I work.

Fourth pass. I pull. Sweat cuts runnels in the mud that splashes up. The cart slides a little. It tries to get stuck. I will not let it. I set, and step, and the cart keeps rolling. It skews sideways as it recovers. A wash of compost tea sprays over me. I blink, and snort. I cannot see clearly. I walk where the reins tell me to.

At the end of the pass, my driver calls "Whoa." I bring the cart to a stop. He sets the brakes. He climbs down.

Water sloshes across my face. I shake my head, blink it out of my eyes. I can see again.

We turn the cart. Another pass. The field is sloppy. My feet slip sometimes. The thick smell makes it hard to breathe. My legs burn.

Then my driver is in front of me and is leading me out of the field. He sets the brakes on the cart, undoes the hitches. All I can see is the water trough. He slaps my ass. I lunge forward. Drop to all fours. Drink. Sucking in water past my bit. Dunking my head. Washing off the compost and bits of cover crop that flew up.

"Enough," my driver growls. He pulls me out of the trough by my bridle.

"Stay down," he orders. I sit back on my haunches, in the dirt by the water trough. He stands over me, his hand on his cock, stroking himself.

"You're so filthy I don't think I can find an opening I'm willin' to put my dick in," he tells me. I hang my head.

"Look up, boy," he orders. I tip my head back. The first jet of his cum hits me under my right eye, splashes across my face and down onto my neck. The second I catch on my bit, greedily sucking at the few drops that find their way into my eager mouth. The third splash hits me in the chest, and the last few dribbles he shakes off onto me. I feel droplets hit here and there.

"Heel," he tells me, and turns away.

I scramble to my feet and follow him. I am dripping with water, cum, sweat, compost mud. My harness will have to be cleaned.

The farmer puts down a measure of sweet feed for me in my stall. He takes out my bit and hangs it on a peg. I drop to all fours and push my face into the food, chewing greedily. The heavy sweetness and half cooked grains are both filling and comforting after the hard work.

"You look more like a pig than an ox," the farmer tells me.

I look up at him. He is clothed now. I look down. My feed is nearly gone.

"Get t'th'muckin' out," he says. He looks away, shakes his head, walks away. I wonder what I have done.

Still in full harness, still mucky with compost-water mud and wet with sweat and cum, I start mucking out. I shovel up animal manure and pissed-on straw. The wheelbarrow goes to the compost bin. Dust kicks up and sticks to me where sweat has washed off previous dirt and made room.

I cool down from the easier work in the shade. My head clears a little. This upsets me. I have noise in my head again. I work harder, trying to make my head quiet.

I run out of work to do.

I am standing by the wheelbarrow, thinking about taking it out to the hose, when the farmer comes back. He looks over my naked, filthy body, and laughs, once. more a grunt than a chuckle.

"Out to the yard," he tells me, and walks past me into the tack room.

I stand out in the barn yard. The mud on me starts to dry in the sun. Bits of it crack and fall off when I shift restlessly.

The farmer comes back with a brush and the hose. He sprays me down. The brush takes the mud off my skin. It has long, stiff bristles, to clean mud out of horse hair. They dig at me, leaving red marks.

He peels my harness off one strap at a time and hangs it up on pegs driven into the barn wall.

"Gonna need some saddle soap," he grumbles, examining my bridle. I am sad that I have made work for him, but happy that I have done work that requires harness maintenance.

When the farmer is done, and the sweat, cum, and muck have been cleaned from me, I have red patches all over where he has scrubbed. I am wearing only my hackamore, standing in the barn yard naked and dripping wet in a puddle of mud and muck.

"Step," he tells me, and hoses my feet off as I sidestep to dry ground.

Putting down the hose and brush, he takes me by my hackamore. I feel his hand against my face as he guides me to the paddock. He puts me in with the other livestock.

"Go rest with the oxen," he tells me. He closes the paddock gate between us and walks away.

I walk across the paddock, feeling the afternoon sun hot on my skin, up the low hill to the trees. The oxen are there, lying in the shade, chewing their cud. The Haflingers are down in the lower end grazing, with the burro. I lie down in the grass, feeling the prickle of chewed off blades across my body. I lean against one of the oxen, a gelding like me, an empty space where his testicles used to be. His hide is warm and soft, with rock-hard muscle below a cushion of fat and fur. I want to feel like that.

The ox does not mind my laying against him. I lean back against his comforting solidness and strength. The scent of the ox, dusty, a little musky, soothes me. The wind feels good across my skin. I doze. I am just another animal in the paddock.

=======

I wake to a whistle, and the ox I am leaning against shifting to rise. The farmer is at the paddock gate.

I trot across the paddock to him. The gait does not tire me so much now.. I resist the urge to show off with a canter.

My owner smiles but his eyes are still sad.

"Go on t'th' tack room," he says. "Your evenin' feed is set out. I'll be in when these two decide to get a move on." He nods his head to the oxen, still only halfway across the paddock, and gives them a sharp look. The oxen do not care and continue their slow progress.

I go to the tack room, drop to all fours by my feed tin. I hear the Haflingers blowing and snorting in the barn. They have pushed past the oxen and gone looking for their feed as usual. If I lived in the barn, I think, I could do evening feed for the other livestock. If there was feed I could eat, none of us would have to wait for the farmer.

My owner comes in and sees me trying to lick the last crumbs from the tin. It is wedged into a corner. He slaps my ass with a work glove. It makes a loud pop noise and enough sting I jump.

"Leave it," he tells me. He picks up my harness.

I am standing quiet and waiting to be harnessed before he turns around.

The straps are supple, and smell of saddle soap, a warm, comfortable scent. My owner is not cozy. He handles me roughly and pulls hard on the straps to cinch them. The bit is in my mouth, though, and I have a lead rope clipped to my bridle. I am doing what I am supposed to do.

My driver leads me out to the oval ring. The sledge waits for me. I am backed into position between the shafts. I get impatient slaps from my owner when I am not exactly where he wants me, making me move instead of telling me to. I hope I will be able to masturbate to all these new marks later and not be too sad to.

"Walk on," he tells me, and flaps the reins. I lean forward, drive slow and hard with each step until the sledge breaks loose.

When it does, my driver steps up onto it, mounting while the sledge is in motion. The sudden weight drags me back, and I nearly miss a step. I stomp my foot down, throw my body weight onto that leg, then back over to the center as I take the next step. The sledge keeps moving.

I do not break pace.

I will maintain my gait.

With my driver aboard, the sledge is heavy. It is sloppy on the turns. I cannot slow down. It will be harder to get the sledge moving again than to keep it moving.

I am driven forward. The work is hard and I am sweating freely when we pass the starting point. My driver kicks a box off the sledge into the dirt.

I hold my pace. The sledge is lighter and I work less hard on the turns. I am blowing hard anyway.

My head goes quiet.

I breathe, I work, I sweat.

My legs burn.

"Whoa."

I take three steps to stop. The sledge does not overrun me. I stand, blowing past my bit.

Hands on my hips. My feet kicked apart. A hand grips me between my legs, in the blank space where my scrotum once was. My nipple is seized, gripped like pliers. I twist but cannot move away. I cannot bend over. The sledge will not rock forward. The shafts hold me in place.

The hand between my legs strokes up, between my ass cheeks.

"Sweatin' so hard you're already lubed," my owner says, his voice husky and close to my ear.

His body presses against mine. His cock slips easily through the sweat running down my back, slips easily into me.

Hands grip my shoulders. He rams up into me hard, lifting me up onto my toes. The weight of the sledge holds me down. His hands pull me down, driving his shaft deeper into me. The zipper of his jeans chews at my ass before he pulls back for the next stroke.

I glance down, see the head of his cock so deep into me my abdomen bulges. I want it deeper but the sledge holds me in place.

He thrusts into me hard, growling like he cannot reach the place he wants. His chest slides against my back, and I can feel the roughness of his body hair rasping at my skin. I grunt with each thrust now. He hauls at my shoulders, slams his hips against my ass, like he is trying to split me like firewood.

He sinks his teeth into my shoulder. I cry out, I feel his cock surge inside me. He pushes frantically, trying to force his cum more deeply into me. His breath gasps against my skin, hot, past teeth clenched just short of drawing blood. I have been taken by a wolf.

He steps back, cock slipping from me, spits into the dirt.

Unhitches me. Unhooks my bit on one side, lets it hang loose.

"Down."

I drop to my knees, feeling cum dripping onto my ankles. His cock is before me. I take it into my mouth, and lave it gently with my tongue. From base to head, I sweep his shaft, cleaning, suckling, caressing. I run the tip of my tongue under the rim of his glans, and tickle at the sensitive bit on the underside.

He does not pull away. He lets me polish his cock with my mouth until I am satisfied, and I lean back to see if he accepts my care.

He stares at me for a long moment. Something passes between us but I do not understand it. He pats my head.

"Good boy," he says finally, as if what is going on is just too complicated for an animal to understand.

He takes me out of harness in the tack room, puts me in my stall. I watch him turn out the lights and leave the barn for the night.

I want to think about this. I do not want to think about this.

I settle for wanking, and going to sleep with my front as sticky as my back.

=======

I wince when I squat and do my business. My ass is sore from the pounding I took last night. The soreness means I overdid it, and may have problems later. The thought of being split like firewood brings me half erect.

The farmer sprays me off. I follow him to the tack room. I drop to all fours and eat. He watches me for a time. I wonder if he will add another mark to my ass. There are many now. I wonder if he will start the day by fucking me.

But he walks away, and turns the other livestock out.

When I am done, I stand quiet and wait. He comes back soon, and pats me on the ass as he goes by. I resist the urge to wiggle and flex under his attention.

He harnesses me quietly this morning. No hard tugs at the straps. No slaps for positioning. I open my mouth for my bit, and he just puts it in and adjusts the strap, without patting my face or talking to me. His silence worries me more than the rough treatment. I am thinking too much today and I do not like it.

He leads me to the oval track. The sledge is gone and the sulky waits for us. My cock springs to attention despite the weight of the ring through it.

My driver looks at my cock, and nods.

"Thought you'd like that," he says.

He backs me in between the shafts, and hitches me up. I feel the weight of the cart settle onto my girth strap, and the load distributes itself through my harness across my body. I stomp each leg, settling the load into the thigh cuffs so that my legs will carry the effort and not my back.

My driver checks me over, but his hands are quick and efficient and do not linger on me. He looks for hot spots but does not stroke or pet me.

Then he swings up into the seat and picks up the reins.

"Walk on," he says. I am already set, and pull when I feel the brakes taken off.

I am driven slowly the first lap, at a walk. When we pass the starting point, I am barely sweating. My driver flaps the reins and orders me to a trot.

This is better. I pick up my pace. My gait becomes my focus. Not just speed but form. I must step quickly and correctly.

I go. My breath quickens. I break a proper sweat. The trot becomes all.

My head goes quiet. The animal trots, head up, legs picked up high.

"Whoa."

I stop. My chest heaves as I blow hard. Sweat drips from me, making puffs in the dust around my feet.

My driver swings down from the cart and unhitches me. He clips a lead rope to my bridle and takes me to the water trough. I drop to all fours and plunge my head in.

The cool water clears my head further. This is not right. Has he gotten tired of fucking me in the traces?

I am led to the tack room and unharnessed. When I am down to just my hackamore, he takes me to the barn yard and sprays me off. He leads me inside and towels me off by my stall. I am grateful to finally be touched.

Then he puts me in my stall and walks away.

=======

Evan came back just a few minutes later with a wad of fabric in his hand. He opened the stall door, and leaned on the frame.

"It ain't gonna work out," he said sadly. "Wish it could, but it ain't." He offered me the bundle.

I took it. A t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Not mine. I looked at the bundle of clothes in my hand rather than at him.

"Anything I did, or something I can do?" I asked.

He shook his head, took a step back, put his hands in his jeans pockets.

"Nope. My family knows about me, but the local ranchers, not so much."

He looked down, too, not able to look me in the eye, and I felt sorry for him for the shame he was going through. "I got to stay under the radar here, and bringin' you home, might as well run up a Pride flag."

Now he looked up, and I met his gaze, and we both flinched at the pain we saw.

"It ain't enough," he said. "These weekends, they ain't enough, and I'm not a man does anything by half measures. If I can't have you entire, I need to be quit of you for the peace of my own soul." It was more words of deep personal significance than he'd strung together in the month and a half I'd known him.

I said nothing, just turned away, and pulled the shorts on. They weren't his. We weren't the same size. I didn't ask him whose clothes they were.

I rode back home in the cab. Neither of us spoke.

Given his neighbors, and the general farming community in the area, I can't blame him for keeping a low profile. I needed to do this full time if I was going to be able to maintain the muscle tone it required, and Evan couldn't have me on the farm during the week.

Now I understood why he'd been so rough, much more so than usual. Part of it was him venting his frustration in a way that I enjoyed, and part of it was leaving me some marks to remember him by.

He handed me a canvas tool bag when I got out of the truck. I walked away without looking back. He didn't start the engine until I was on the stairs.

Jamie saw me come up the stairs clothed. He started to say something, and then our eyes met, and he went into his apartment without saying anything.

When I got to my apartment, I opened the bag. It had my harness and bridle. I spent the next half hour sitting on the floor crying, sucking the cum stain on the bit until it no longer tasted like Evan.

I slept in my harness that night. It was difficult to put on by myself, and not comfortable to sleep in, but I needed it tight around me.