A story written by Pete Brown. (Part 20 of 21). Click here to see all the published chapters of the story.


Although Hank was hugely excited as we rounded the final bend in the steep, winding road that we’d been driving along for some time since we left the main highway, I have to say that the sight that greeted me was less than awesome.  There was a tiny cabin, more like a shack, really, made of wood, surrounded by a number of paddocks.  Although the cabin looked shabby and run down, the fences around the paddocks were immaculate, as was a low barn-like structure some distance away from the shack.

“This is home, Steve”, Hank said proudly.  “All mine – well, apart from the bank loans.  As well as the paddocks near the house here where I keep the stock that’s been broken, I’ve got over five hundred acres of range in the hills where the horses run wild.  I only really use the barn when it’s winter and there’s mares in foal.”

Well, frankly, it didn’t look much, I thought.  And instead of going straight into the cabin, Hank’s first thought was to go on a tour of the paddocks, examining all the stock, making sure the troughs were still running properly with water, then going into the barn and bringing out hay.  The horses seemed to have a real affection for him, nuzzling him and playfully butting him as he fed them, and he in turn seemed to really like them, stroking their heads and talking to them softly as he worked away.  I was enlisted to fetch more hay – those bales are fucking heavy, you know –  and generally run around fetching and carrying for Hank as his inspection proceeded.

It must have taken the best part of four hours before Hank was satisfied that the stock was all OK after he’d left them for a couple of days, and then we finally went  back to the truck to pick up Hank’s meagre travel bag, and went into the cabin.  It was like something from those old-time cowboy movies – just one big room going up to the rafters, a bed in one corner, a huge fireplace on the wall opposite the door, a big rough wooden table at the end remote from the bed with four chairs around it, and a beat-up looking couch in front of the fireplace.  There was no TV or CD player or anything, no dishwasher, no visible signs of kitchen appliances.

“This is home, Steve”, Hank again had that proud tone in his voice.  “It may not look much, but it’s mostly paid for, and it’s all you need when you’re working up here with the horses.  We don’t have any power, so it’s a bit primitive, but you’ll be surprised in the winter when the wind is howling out there how snug it can be with a big fire raging and the oil lamps are alight.”

“Where’s the bathroom, boss?  After that journey….”

“Oh, there’s an earth closet out the back.  You’ll need to draw a few buckets of water from the well every day – that’ll relieve me of one chore – to keep in here for washing:  heat it up over the fire.  You can also wash the clothes for us both, as another job:  there’s a washtub kept out the back, and as there’s only two of us, it’s not all that hard to do it  by hand.  Now, let’s get a fire going, then we can think about supper, as there’s not all that much daylight left and I want to conserve the oil lamps as much as possible…  There’s some logs outside, but I’ve rather got behind on splitting them:  you’ll need to go to the woodpile, saw some up, and split them… Have you ever done that before?”

“No, boss… But I’ve seen it done on TV and in the movies… It can’t be all that difficult.”

“You’ll be surprised, Steve!  Still, it’s good, hard work…. We’ll need a fair few, as you’ll be surprised how much wood we get through every day…”

He was right, of course.  You think sawing tree trunks is going to be easy – with a power chain saw, probably it is.  But with a hand saw, it’s really hard work. And then swinging the axe to split the logs into segments uses an entirely different set of muscles…..  Still, it was good to be working hard again, and I almost revelled in the feeling of power I got from pulling the saw backwards and forwards, and swinging the axe:  this is what a man’s body was meant to be used for, I thought, not standing there, ironing Rob’s fancy clothes!

I was pretty hot and sweaty by the time I’d done a respectable looking pile of logs, and when I started to carry them into the house, I found that Hank had already lit the fire.  The place looked a lot less depressing as the flames lit it up, and as the temperature outside had been falling, it was good to be inside.  There was a delicious smell, too.  “As it’s our first night back, there’s a treat”, Hank told me.  “My speciality – fried cured pork belly that I’ve cut off the flitch, and my special beans.  Don’t expect to eat like this every day, as money’s tight, and anyway there’s usually not time – I’m so shagged out after a day’s work that I often can’t be bothered.  On those nights we eat slave chow.”

“Boss, you eat slave chow?”

“Sure, Steve, why not?  It’s perfectly nutritious, it’s easy, and it’s cheap.  If it’s good enough to keep slaves going on, then it’s OK for me, I guess. But tonight, as I said, we’re celebrating…. Here…..”  He tipped out two enormous pieces of dark grey meat and a whole mess of beans onto a plate and handed it to me.

For a moment, I didn’t know what to do – Rob had never let me eat at the table with him, and I’d always had to stand in the kitchen to cram down my slave chow. But Hank seemed to be treating me like a regular guy, who he’d invited around for pizza or something.  He gestured at the table, and we sat opposite each other, and he started to shovel his food down.  To be honest, it was so long since I’d eaten proper food, or sat at a table, or used cutlery, that at first I was really hesitant as I tried to get the hang of doing these things again.    But in spite of the fact that it looked unappetising, the pork and beans was delicious, and soon I was emulating Hank in shovelling it down.

Hank sat there as I scrubbed at the plates in cold water, then, as I watched, he sniffed at his pits. “Man, I stink!  Almost two days without a shower, all that driving…. I’d normally just forget it, but now you’re here, Steve….”

I sniffed at my shirt, and it was pretty rank, too. “You’re right, boss, I guess we both need to shower…”

“Oh that wasn’t what I meant!  It’s not that bad, a good male scent…. It’s just that we don’t have a shower, only a tin bath.  And I’d normally forget it as it’s so much work – I usually only bother before I go into town on Saturdays.  But now you’re here, you can do the work:  fetch in the bath from outside and put it in front of the fire, and put two buckets of water on the fire to heat up.”

Well, I was tired too, but I didn’t want to upset Hank, so I hauled in the old tin bath, drew up two really big pails of water from the well in the yard, and almost staggered in with them, they were so heavy.  There were two special niches in the fireplace so that the buckets could be close to the flames, and Hank and I just sat there in silence, watching the fire.  It didn’t take long for the water to heat up, I suppose, and Hank told me to tip it into the tin bath.

He was completely unselfconscious in stripping off in front of me – well, I suppose I had seen his dick and balls when we changed jeans on the journey.  But naked, he was a really good-looking guy:  he had one of those rather wiry bodies, extremely well proportioned, and with the muscles just visible as he moved, but not grossly overstated as if he’d been working on them – a proper man’s body, that you only get from a good diet and real hard manual labour. When he turned around I saw at once that he had the real male shape, too – broad shoulders, a strong back tapering down in the classic “V” to flare out again, just slightly, at his butt.  He had those long, muscular thighs that says “hard work”, and as he moved, I got tantalising glimpses of his dick and balls through them.  If I’d thought about it, I suppose I’d have been amazed at these thoughts – only a few months ago I’d have been horrified if anyone had even suggested that I would be admiring another guy’s body.  And it wasn’t just that I had been trained as a pleasure slave, and had got used to seeing lots of clients – no, it was more than that:  I genuinely appreciated Hank’s body for what it was, a thing of sheer masculine beauty.  But my dick, straining at my jeans, told me something else, too – it wasn’t just beauty, it was sexually exciting.  I could almost imagine the sensation of sliding my dick between those firm, lithe butt cheeks, and forcing it into what would surely be a tight, virgin hole…

Illustration by Theo Blaze

As I continued to watch, Hank stepped into the bath then lowered himself gently into the water, giving me lots more opportunities to see his body in action.  He sat there, soaping his pits, pecs and belly, and the intense sexual feelings I now had got the better of me.  I got up from the couch, and went and knelt beside the bath.  Pulling off my shirt so it wouldn’t get wet, I took the soap from Hank’s hands and started to gently wash his back.

“Hey, Steve – another benefit of having a slave around the place….”  Hank sounded really pleased at what I was doing, and I cupped my hands together so that I could ladle water from the bath up over his head and shoulders, to wash the soap off.  He seemed to be enjoying it so much that I got bolder, and started to soap his hair – there’s something really sensual about that, isn’t there – the way you get to run your hands all over a guy’s skull as you massage the soap into the hair, then the way you can move our hands down onto his shoulders and throat?  Throughout it all Hank was silent, as was I: somehow doing all this in the total quiet of the cabin,  the only sounds being the crackling of the logs and the splash of the water, seemed totally right.

My dick was really straining at my jeans now, and I didn’t want to stop.  Taking the soap again, I lathered my hands and reached down to take Hank’s dick – the water wasn’t really deep in the bath, and it was mostly exposed.  I stroked it once or twice, until Hank’s hands gripped my wrists.  “That’s enough, Steve!”, was his comment, said in a tone that was at once gentle, but completely firm.   In a smooth, lithe movement he stood up, and as I continued to kneel there I watched as he planed the water off the hard flat surfaces of his body, then reached for a towel and roughly towelled himself dry.

“OK, Steve – your turn now… You stink too, you know…”

I wondered how I was supposed to empty the bath, and stood there a moment. But then I understood, as Hank said “Come on, we don’t have all night… Strip those jeans off, and get in the water before it cools any more…. You’re a valuable slave, I suppose, and I don’t want you catching cold and being unable to work….”  He was grinning a s he said this, but, all the same, I really didn’t like the reference to me being “valuable”.  We’d been getting along just like two regular guys, and now he brought me back to the real world, with a crash.

I stood up and lowered my jeans, and Hank laughed as my erect dick stuck out in front of me.  “Jesus, Steve – the size of that thing!  I’d only seen it at rest when we were at Rob’s….”

In spite of all the training I’d had, and the way I’d been used all those months, I was surprised to find myself blushing.  Somehow having these very intimate remarks made in this small space, with only the two of us there, was both exotic and erotic.  To cover my confusion I lowered myself into the now relatively cool water, and started to soap myself.  Hank watched me all the time, his eyes raking over my body as I sat there in front of him – I guess I thought he was somehow inspecting his property!

It was good to get  clean, though, and when Hank ordered me out, as he said I’d been there long enough, I stood up and got most of the water off me.  Hank tossed me the towel he’d been using – it was pretty meagre and thin to start with, and after he’d used it, it was more like a damp rag – but I wiped it over myself, thinking how at one time I’d have been horrified at using someone else’s towel, especially when it was still wet!  At home, even from when I was a tiny kid, we’d always had our own towels, and on the odd occasion when I’d forgotten to take one to the sports club, I’d used my shirt rather than borrow one from my buddies.

As I stood there, Hank got up from the couch and came and stood by the side of the bath, and started to casually piss into the water my feet were still standing in.  I hurriedly got out to stand on the bare wooden floor as his stream hosed down into the water, and he remarked, perfectly casually “I’d advise you to piss in here, to, Steve – unless you want to pull your clothes on again, you’ll find that going to the outhouse at this time of night is pretty cold!”   So I did – although it’s odd, isn’t it:  however much you’re used to being naked in front of other guys, when you first piss with them watching, it’s difficult:  even though my erection had gone down, I had a real difficulty in making the piss start to flow, and had to really focus on it, and try to squeeze my bladder with my muscles.  But, once it had started, it was OK – you all know how it is when you’re pissing:  it may be hard to start, but once it’s hosing out, it’s all but impossible to stop!

Hank continued to sit in front of the fire as I ladled as much of the water out of the bath as I could with the buckets and tipped it into the sink on the corner (which had an outlet to somewhere outside), then picked up the bath and emptied the remainder of it the same way.  He stood up then, and tossed me a thin blanket.  “You sleep here on the couch, Steve – make sure the fire doesn’t go out overnight as it will be cold otherwise.  And make me coffee at first light, as we start work as soon as we can in these short winter days.”

I went to wrap the blanket around me and lie down, but he suddenly turned, his eyes raked up and down me once more, and he said “I guess there’s one other advantage of having a slave around the place – come here….” He took hold of me by the left bicep, and led me over towards the bed in the corner.  It seemed to me that he was used to handling and controlling slaves – there’s something about the way a man holds you and leads you that just signals to you that he’s in control.

I was thinking about how I’d “turned” all those important executives who’d wanted to fuck me, so that I could fuck them instead, as that’s what I really prefer; so when we were standing beside the bed I put my hands on his shoulders and exerted gentle pressure to push him backwards and down – it’s very important to take the physical advantage from the first moment, I find – somehow the other guy’s resistance crumbles much more swiftly after that.

But Hank was having none of this.  He pushed my arms off him, and instead put his hands on my shoulders, turning me around so that I faced the bed as he did so.  “Now, boy, I’m your owner, you know that!  I won’t put up with any of your slave tricks to try to fuck me!  Owners fuck slaves, at least around here they do – I don’t know what you’ve been taught in that city, but here, on my place, you obey my rules and I fuck you.  So no more tricks, understand?”

I must have been slow to respond, as the next instant there was a stinging blow on my ass – and, I can tell you, it really hurt:  Hank was a strong guy from all the manual work he did around the place, and his hands were toughened, too.

“I’ve been reasonable with you all night, Steve, and now you’re starting to take advantage.  When your owner asks you a question, you reply, or you’ll be punished.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, boss.  Sorry, boss…. I was only….”

Another slap, causing me to flinch visibly.  “No ‘buts’, Steve.  No arguments.  Just do it, OK?”

This time I was ready, and I just said quietly “Yes, boss, sorry, boss.”

“Good!  Now, I don’t like disciplining you, Steve, so let this be a lesson to you.  We’re going to live here close together, really close together, but you are a slave and I am your owner.  I want proper respect, and if I don’t get it, I will punish you – we’ve got a variety of crops and whips on the place that I have to use on the horses sometimes, and your rump will feel them, too, if  it needs to.  Now, that’s all I intend to say on the subject.  Get your belly down on that bed, and spread your legs – it’s a long time since I had a proper fuck, and a man gets tired of just making out with the five-fingered widow!”

Look, I’d been with enough guys by then to know that he had done this before.  Not only done it before, but did it pretty expertly, too.  I could feel the heat of his body as he stood behind me, then he kicked at my ankles with his bare feet to get me to spread my legs so that the height of my ass was convenient for him. There was a faint sound as he bent down, then I felt the warmth of his breath on my bare butt as he knelt there, followed swiftly by the pressure of his hard hands forcing my butt cheeks apart.  It’s always a shock when a big load of spit lands on your hole, isn’t it – and Hank must have been working up a real mouthful to spit at me.  He only spent a moment or two in massaging it into my hole, then he was on his feet again, and his hands were almost pulling my apart. “Right, Steve, here we go….”, he almost shouted.

Well, what can I say?  It was a really good, hard, professional fuck!  Hank didn’t pay any attention to me at all – it was clear from the way he moved that I was just a convenient hole for his dick, and that giving himself the maximum pleasure was the only thing that concerned him.  I know a lot of guys finish up like that, towards the end of a session when their primitive instincts completely take over, but most start off relatively gently, and at least pay some attention to the way that the guy underneath is reacting.  But Hank wasn’t like this at all – from the moment he thrust forward, hard, to force his dick into me, he was only concerned with doing what he wanted, what he needed, to do.

He finished remarkably quickly, then threw himself down on to the bed, and lay there with his hands behind his head, completely unashamed.  “Nice tight hole, Steve – I  thought you were a sex slave before Rob bought you?”

“Yes, boss… But, you know… Well, most guys like a pleasure slave to fuck them….”

“Wimps!  There will be none of that here.  Your hole fits well around my dick, and that’s the way it will be.  Now, fetch that wash cloth over and clean me off – that’s another advantage of having you as a slave – I hate having to mess around cleaning off the shit after a fuck like that..”

So I did – well, I’d done it enough times before to my clients, except  that then I’d been flushed out myself, so it was mostly cum I had to clean off their dicks, not  shit.  I mean, even though its your own, it’s not all that great to have to do it, is it? Hank just lay there watching me as I teased the cloth gently around his balls and wiped his dick gently. Then, without another word, he pulled the blankets to one side, rolled his body into the bed and covered himself up.  “Good night, Steve – and remember, coffee at first light!”, he said casually.

I was so fucking tired after the drive, the work, and the fucking, that I went into a deep, deep sleep in spite of the couch being uncomfortable.  I was woken by a couple of really hard slaps to my naked ass – Hank was standing there, having pulled the thin blanket off me, staring down at my morning hard-on

“I ought to give you more than a hand on your butt, Steve!  I told you not to let the fire out, and to wake me at first light with coffee…. And it’s fucking freezing in here and there’s no coffee! Still, no time for that now – get your clothes on, and let’s start work….”

I discovered the start of our new routine then – Hank tossed me his worn shirt and jeans from the day before, and he pulled on fresh ones.  I learned later that when I took mine off at night, I was expected to wash them so that they could dry overnight and be ready for Hank to wear “fresh” the next day – there were only three pairs of jeans and three shirts needed then, with Hank being able to have fresh clothes every day.

Hank found me my own horse that morning – not as large as the magnificent stallion he rode – and started to teach me how to ride.  I’d never been on a horse before, and at first it was scary.  And by night time, I’d discovered just how sore your muscles could get when you’d being doing something unfamiliar like this all day!  We rode around Hank’s place and he showed me where the wild horses liked to congregate, and pointed out the miles of fences that delineated his” range – fences that, I soon discovered, needed almost constant repair and attention: a job that fell to me.

That night it was really hard to get out the bath and fill it – I felt as if all my muscles were seizing up – but at least the warmth of the water did help to relax me a bit.  It became clear, too, that we didn’t eat “well” every night, as he’d said – Hank and I both just munched a big helping of slave chow (although he didn’t ration me, and I could have as much a s I wanted:  and after all day working away in the open air, that was quite a lot!).

And, in what was to become his normal way of preparing for sleep, he efficiently and ruthlessly fucked me immediately before bed.

That was to be our routine:  hard physical work on the ranch, then some chores” – Hank generally cooked, I cleaned and washed our few clothes, then a fuck, and sleeping separately.  Strangely, it wasn’t as boring as I’ve made it sound:  the ranch was spectacularly wild and beautiful, I loved working around he horses, and I enjoyed using my body and rebuilding my strength.  It wasn’t even as if I missed anything, either – when Hank did speak, he was a good companion and could always tell me something interesting about the horse we were working with, or about life in general.  And sleeping at night was easy – as soon as Hank had finished with me, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep in the way that healthy bodies that have been working hard do.

The only change to our routine was on Saturdays, when we went on the truck into the local small town to buy supplies, to get Hank’s cell phone charged up (he received and made a number of calls throughout the week in connection with selling the horses), and generally to “socialise”.  This was mostly exchanging gossip in the couple of stores that Hank needed to use, and ten in the bar.  Hank wasn’t a great drinker, but as a relaxation he allowed himself a couple of beers (he even bought me one, not something a lot of slave owners would do!).  And then he had a few hands of poker – I got to see how he could have defeated Rob so easily, as the ranchers around the table at the back of the bar were deadly keen, and really focussed on the game.

The first week Hank took me in they all marvelled at how Hank had managed to acquire me – I was, after all, far and away more expensive than anything that Rob could normally afford.  But there was a lot of laughing about “rich city dudes” when Hank told them about Rob, and they even suggested, laughingly, that he might like to toss me into the pot at their game. Mind you, I was worried when one of the bigger ranchers made Hank a fabulous offer for me – I knew, judging from the way that everything was eked out and the general lack of comfort at the place that Hank was desperately short of cash.  But he just looked at the guy and said “Well, thank you… But I guess I’ve kind of got used to having Steve here around the place.  He really makes a difference to the workload – you only have to look at him to see how a guy like that can work!”

“Yes, and looking at that butt of his in those tight jeans, I bet he makes a difference at night, too, doesn’t he?  You must have been awfully lonely at night up there all by yourself…”  I was surprised at how well Hank took things – or was it that in my previous life I just hadn’t been used to thinking about how real men regarded proper sex?  You got all that stuff in the papers all the time, the supposed “outrage”  when two guys were fucking each other;  but the more you talk to real men, I found, the more normal  it was for them to enjoy being with each other.

We’d have gone on like this for ever, I suppose, until some equine flu or something started to affect the herd.  Hank was almost beside himself, as the horses weren’t just stock, they were really important to him.  He had to call in the veterinarian, and although there was a fancy vaccine, it cost a lot – a whole lot more than Hank had.  He managed to increase his bank loan, but the spread had been barely paying its way before, and with this new debt, it wasn’t clear to me that he was actually in profit at all.  He desperately cut back – we now had slave chow almost all the time, and his couple of beers in the bar went to a single one.  He looked worried, too, all the time, and the cheerful Hank, who loved his life, was now more subdued, almost depressed.

One night after we’d swallowed down our chow and bathed, instead of taking me over to the bed to fuck, he dismissed me and went to bed without his usual nightly relief.  The next night, as he was about to do the same, I gently tugged at his arm and pulled me down beside me on the couch.  I put my arm around his shoulder, in the way I sometimes needed to with clients who seemed to be upset, and said “Boss, please…. Tell me what’s wrong… It’s nothing I’ve done, is it?”

“No, Steve.  It’s not you.”

“Please, boss – sometimes it helps to talk about it..”

“No, Steve.”

“Please boss….”  As I said this, my other hand gently started to stroke his dick  –  a lot of guys find this reassuring, as you probably know.  I carried on stroking him, but nothing happened.

“Steve, stop it…”

“But boss, you like to fuck,,,,”

“Steve! ”  he stopped abruptly,  then half turned his head away from me, in embarrassment.  He lowered his voice – always a bad sign with Hank, who was always open and cheerful, and went on “There’s no point, Steve.  It won’t go up….”

“Hey, boss, sure it will   – you’re a great fucker. That dick of yours is an expert:  believe me, I know.”  I was trying to be cheerful, but it didn’t work.

“No, Steve.  Look, it’s the stress, the worry.  The bank’s talking about calling in the loan, and I’d lose this place.  It’s my life, Steve.  What would I do if I lost it, and had to leave here?  But it doesn’t look as if I can stay – there isn’t enough profit in the horses, even though I’ve got time to break more of them now that you’re here to do the grunt work…”

“Well, boss, we could economise, cut back, sell something….”

“Steve, look around!  We’re running on empty already. And there’s nothing to sell… Except you!”

I was stunned in to silence.  But then I realised he was right – if he sold me, he could certainly pay off a large slice of his bank loan, and I knew from what I’d heard in town that slave prices continued to climb higher and higher as demand far outstripped supply.

“…but I couldn’t do that, Steve.”, he continued, and  I felt a great wave of relief slide over me.  “We’re making little enough profit now with me able to spend most of my time breaking the horses.  If I went back to having to do all the chores as well, I wouldn’t have time to break enough to continue to hold up the revenue…. So, you see, I’m in a terrible bind.”

Well, I wasn’t so certain that I liked being kept just because he couldn’t afford to do without me – I’d rather he had kept me because he liked me!  But perhaps he wasn’t telling the whole truth, I consoled myself.

We sat there in the dying glow of the fire, and he gave a great sigh.  “We’ve probably only got about another month, Steve.  Then they’ll foreclose, and I’ll have to quit.. And then I’ll have to sell you. I’m sorry, Steve – I’ve kind of got to like having you around.”

I tightened my grip on his shoulder, so that he knew I appreciated him.  “Boss – I’ve got an idea – perhaps someone else could look at the books?  Perhaps you’re too close to it, that you’re overlooking something…?”

“I doubt it, Steve!  And, anyway, I don’t know anyone who could do that, or, at least, would do it without charging a huge consultant’s fee, which I can’t afford anyway.”

“But perhaps I do, boss…”, and then I told Hank about Scott, and how his job was to go in to an operation and turn it around.  Hank didn’t believe Scott would be interested, but in the absence of any other plan, did eventually agree that it might be worth a phone call.

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Pete Brown – the interview with the author



Pleasure Slave (all chapters)



Overview Pete Brown stories



Kinky Art by Theo Blaze