“The Story of Ox” by Paul Smith (Complete)

Hi Guys,

Paul has graciously sent us a reformatted version of his eighteen part “The Story of Ox” as a single file for easier access.

On behalf of all of us, I want to thank you, Paul, for sharing this really fun story with all of us these past several weeks. My favorite line in the whole work is the very last one! (Bold type – four words.)



The Story of OX

by Paul Smith

  1. Muscles at Midnight
  2. The Van
  3. The Journey to the Farm
  4. Unloading the Beef
  5. The Rape of the Bodybuilder
  6. Basic Training
  7. The New Master
  8. The Bit and the Yoke
  9. The Big Muscleman
  10. Every Inch Helpless
  11. Repast and Reflection
  12. Return to the Plow
  13.  The Corral
  14. An Evening at the Races
  15. The Punishment of USMC
  16. The Punishment of Sextoy
  17. The Punishment of Mr. Tits
  18. The Punishment of Ox

Part One


“So, you all packed up?” Ted asked.

It was 4:20 p.m. at the offices of McGuire Thompson & Jones. A very respected law actuarial firm. 14th Floor, suit & tie. The office of Mike Jones, one of the studs of the office. Both in profit return and physique. At 24 he had risen up the ranks over the others with his keen business sense and devotion to work. When he focused he was intense. Any project he was assigned to came in on time, under budget with no tags. Golden boy.

It was not hard to see him as a favorite. Along with the work ethic came the physique. No one commented on it but everyone noticed. Mike had been a bodybuilder in college, competed in junior contests. Why he stopped doing so was a mystery to many. But he did not stop working out. Instead he just seemed to get bigger. For no apparent purpose.

“All that I need,” Mike said, shutting down his computer.

“Two weeks vacation. Sweet!” Ted said. “Where you going?”

Mike grinned. “A little place out in the country. Far away from this place,” he said.

“Hell yeah,” Ted said. “Lay back. Do some fishing. Just relax..”

“Something like that,” Mike said, as he turned off the lights.

10:30 p.m. Mike at home in his apartment, looking in the mirror. He was packed for his vacation. His wallet and keys in his jeans.

There was a suitcase in the closet. But suitcases are only good for bringing along changes in clothing and personal goods. Those would not be necessary for this trip. In honesty neither would the wallet and keys, but they would be kept in security for his stay.

He was dressed in the jeans he wore last time. The ones he always wore when he went there. There was nothing especially different about them. Every pair of jeans he owned filled him the same way: straining in the quads and glutes, crotch. But he had decided this pair was the one he would always wear when he went to the Farm.

The t-shirt was new. A simple white crew neck, 2 sizes too small. Showing off the muscle. At work his outer shirts were always a little too big. He did not tease or show his physique at McGuire Thompson. Which only made him a bigger tease for many there. The shirts covered him but just suggested the treasures below. But his undershirt, the T, was tight as shit. He liked it that way. His muscles were always in bondage at work, trapped in that cotton top that made his pec, his lats, his delts bulge and his nipples poke up. But always under the $120 Brooks Brothers pinstripe.

But he was not at work anymore. It was “vacation” time. Time to go to the Farm for two weeks.

LONG TERM PARKING KEEP LEFT said the sign. Mike drove into the airport lot. He had secured the spot online, prepaid. Already registered and taken care of. It made him grin.

There were already three men there, under the left/north corner parking light. Jeans and tight white T-shirts, as required. Mike recognized the red haired dude. They served together last time. Had been hitched together. Mike nodded at him. The red haired dude recognized him and likewise just nodded. As his jeans started to tent from seeing Mike and realizing they would be together again.

The other two were strangers to Mike. A blond steroid brat maybe 19, and a Marine type that was maybe 5’7” but packed with the type of bull muscle that came from hard labor stevedore type of work. Mike nodded at the latter and got a nod back. They all wore tight jeans and tight white T-shirts. The steroid kid looked over. He looked a little scared.

Talking was not allowed. They all knew it. They signed the contract and agreed to it. So Mike walked over to the kid. Recognized him up close. Nodded. It was enough.

The Marine and Red just watched. Ah fuck I’m the leader again Mike thought. That only meant he would get beaten harder as an example. Which was not such a bad thing, he admitted.

Finally it was midnight and the white van pulled into the lot. The four muscled males put their arms behind their backs, as agreed to by the rules. The passenger door opened. Then the back door.

Kernan was in charge of delivering the new recruits. He was pleased by this batch. He recognized a return, Martins, the red-haired powerbuilder who suffered so hard when his nipples were abused. It would be nice to see Martins again in the Games Room.

This time also brought a Marine type. He was new. His shirt showed some hairs peeking out of the collar of his regulation t-shirt. Kernan liked hairy ones. They were always so fun to negotiate with. Another 10 or you get shaved! How they protected their manly chest hairs! What they would do to keep them!

Another newbie was the youngster with huge biceps. Handsome lad who overdid it in the gym. The t-shirt gave some big promises on him. Kernan could imagine this one being VERY popular with the Guests.

It took him a bit longer to notice the fourth man. He stood behind, politely allowing the first three to go in the back of the van first. But there was no mistaking him.

“Well well. Hello, Ox. Back for more?”

Mike bowed his head. He and Kernan had a history. And he knew his place in that story.

“Oh this is going to be a good session, I must say” Kernan said as he watched Mike step up and take his seat in the back of the van. By now Martins the Ginger had had his shirt and jeans torn off and was shackled to the bench on the left side of the van’s cargo space. They were working on the Marine.

Mike waited for his turn. He had not been touched yet. That is when he determined the change came through and it all could begin. The first touch when his shirt was groped and torn to be made to show off his BIG STUD PEC MUSCLES. His jeans lowered and his MASSIVE OAKS and his cock and balls were now naked and common property.

When he stopped being Mike and for the next two weeks was Ox.

Part Two


Roy and Emily had to catch a 1:30 am flight to Paris, which was the only reason why they would be on the roads at that time. At 73 and 71 respectively they were much too old for this sort of thing Emily thought. Pulling into the long term parking lot Roy chose a space far away from every other car, which seemed foolish to Emily as for the next 7 days car would fill up every space time and over again anyhow.

As Roy got the luggage out of the trunk Emily noticed a white van in the corner of the lot.

“Look Roy, it must be a muscleman convention or something going on,” she said.

Indeed outside of the white van were two young men. As both of them were wearing white T-shirts their upper bodies were easily displayed. One was a younger man but very muscular, like Emily would see when a stripper would be on Ellen as a joke. The other was older, taller and several times bigger in every proportion it seemed. A very powerful man, you could tell even from here.

“Oh, so you’re going to run off with a muscleman now eh?” Roy said as he lugged a suitcase out of the trunk and ejaculated the periscope handle.

“Looks like I’m missed my chance,” Emily said. “They just opened the door and the blond one just got in the van. I’m down to that Big Brute one. Ah well, they wouldn’t enjoy Paris. Just off for whatever those kind of boys do, I suppose.”

Mike stood alone outside the van, patiently waiting for his turn. He was the last of the night’s recruits to be loaded into the van by the two goons assigned to Loading Duty. It seemed like they were taking their time with the blond stud. Because he was putting up a fight? or was it just the anticipation? Like the stopgap you felt when a plane was barreling down a runway before it lifts off, or the anticipation from seeing a whip displayed in front of you until it finally cracks the first time across your back. Probably the latter, the anticipation. Either way his cock was hard inside his jeans.

Finally one of the goons came out of the back of the van and walked up to Mike. He was short and packed, a fireplug physique. Like his fellow Loader. They were known as Cling and Clang.

Clang looked over Mike with his eyes and the slightest tilt of the head. Without a word he took him by his left forearm and led him to the doors of the van. The grip was overly firm, signaling authority. Even though Mike was by far stronger. He would let him have his fun. And besides. Not that Mike was going anywhere.

Before entering the van Mike took a deep breath of air. Swelled up his chest. The last he would take inside a shirt for the next two weeks. Then he climbed up into the van.

The left side bench was occupied with the red-haired powerlifter and the Marine. Naked. Legs spread and secured by leather straps over the knee and under the bench with shackles. Another shackle for the neck to the side of the van. The third shackles for the wrists, crossed 6 inches above their heads. All gagged. On the right bench, opposite Red, was the blond Jock. While the other two transports stayed stoic in their new position, the kid was flexing a bit, testing his binds.

Mike couldn’t help but smile to himself at the sight of it. He had been that way his first time also. That first time you are transported it seems like you are going to the Farm to have your masculinity challenged, some kind of extreme Test. Which was the allure of it for the uninitiated. Hell, Mike admitted that was why he signed up the first time. The wrestling club he had joined offered those “private matches for hire” which satisfied his need in a way, but they were over in just a couple of hours. The Farm could last for weeks.

Clang slammed the door shut from the inside. Instantly Mike felt behind him the hands of Cling grabbing his t-shirt, tearing it up toward his head even if he didn’t have the bottom or top. As the happened Clang easily removed Mike’s athletic shoes and went for his jeans.

Mike lay relaxed as he was stripped. This was one of his favorite parts. When he submitted. Feeling his clothing being tugged and ripped off of him, his bare body revealed to his new captors. Knowing they would be impressed by his physique. Allowing himself to be put in bondage, to have his body totally enslaved to them. This body he worked so hard on, sweated out for, sacrificed to. And no one out there seemed to understand why he trained it so. Vanity they figured. Wants to rub it in our faces, how superior he is.

It wasn’t until Clang secured the shackles to his wrists, the final restraint for his new position for the journey to the Farm, that Mike reacted. He had shook Mike’s wrists to accommodate them to their new occupation. Then he reached down to give Mike’s pectorals a good hard side squeeze, just because they were just so asking for it. And then a nice little grope to Mike’s cock, which was ramrod hard.

“Fun eh?” Clang said, his first words. But they were quickly drowned out from an order from the front cab.

“Ready for transport?” Kernan said from the passenger seat.

“Affirmative,” said Cling, who liked to use big words whenever he could. He then went back to toying with the nipples of the gagged blond big tit muscleboy, who was flaring them up.

Kernan turned to the driver. “On to the Farm then. And take your time. Their contracts don’t start until 6 am Saturday. We have a little Zero Dark Time with them, eh?”

Part Three


The van took Exit 43B West and headed towards the country. Passed a Coca-Cola truck, barreled past a Corvette with no lights on. The Corvette Dude looked over at the Van Dude. In the driver’s seat was a short and hard looking man who never looked off the road. In the passenger seat was a man in his 40’s, somewhat handsome. Corvette barrelled on, no longer interested. In the van the passenger was deep in thought as he looked over the notebook in his lap that detailed his latest freight cargo. His name was Kernan. The freight cargo he was perusing was currently in the back of the van, out of sight from other cars. Four men of overly-defined muscle sitting bound and gagged, buck naked.

It was a good catch this time, Kernan admitted. They had seven men leaving this weekend, but the four entering would more than make up for the slack. Total studs this wave. A couple of returns and two newbies whom would be quite exciting to see in action, and how they would perform. And of course one of those returns was Ox. Kernan could not help but smile and get an erection at that. Ox was back for two weeks, the file said. Damn, and the dude pays for this? We should be paying him!

Kernan looked over another file. Jason was new. 29, a hairy hard muscled 5’7” man who was not a Marine but presented himself as one. He had volunteered for the Farm. He wanted to be punished hard. Like he had been captured in a war and been used as an example of American Hairy Chested Muscle now to be degraded by his captors.

Martin was back. Ginger and thick. Very strong and could take very much. Kernan remembered how much this one enjoyed taking the whip. You could merely string him up and he would get an erection, anticipating his broad back getting its workout from the leather.

Steve was the name of the blond prettyboy college bodybuilder. He was there because another man (his Master) had paid for it and instructed “take him aware of what his muscles are good for.” Kernan looked at the photos in the file of the youngster’s ass. “Too bad we can’t take that as well” he though.

But with Ox it was very different. Kernan began to get an erection as he opened Ox’s file. The photos taken of his physique in jockstrap, attached in the application. DAMN. A bodybuilder, chest and abs hair trimmed to show the muscle but also his hiruste ability. Other photos taken from his previous punishment sessions. His cock was smaller in proportion to the rest of his body, but perhaps that was not fair to the immense size of his thighs.   It was thick, however. A man’s shaft. Nothing to be embarrassed by.

Kernan had to laugh. Out of all the recruits this time, it was the freshman blond kid who won the cock contest. Poor kid will pay for it though, when he meets up with Jacques, Kernan though.

In the back of the van Cling was pec slapping ginger Martin over and over. He wanted to see if he could bring enough stinging redding slaps to that white skin so it would match his hair. Of course the lights were low so it was hard to judge and he just kept going

. Martin could do nothing but take it, try not to grunt as the dumb brute just focused on him, going on and on…

Clang was more interested in the penis of the young blond. He was stroking it against the stud’s will and making lewd facial expressions.

Enough of this, Kernan thought. He reached into the glove compartment where they kept the nipple chains. Like jumper cables they were color coded: the black ones did not give much of a bite, but the red ones HURT. Kernan weighed them in his hands as he looked back at the cargo in the back.

There were two metal bars running across the center roof of the van, back to front, separated by 4 inches. This now was being used as a pivot for Nipple Torture.   On each side of the bar a chain led down to the nipples of one of the captives. In between the bar hung a 7 lb weight. It could cause much jerking and tugging depending on the road conditions. And of course how much each athlete on each side of the clamps prepared his muscles to take the pain.

Opposite each other, the red-haired stud who was known outside as Martins but whose name was now Mr Tits had his large nipples grasped by alligator clamps, a chain following up to the bar on the top of the van, and lowering again to the clamps upon the recruit opposite him, the blond handsonme gymstud whom a minute was known as Steve but now was Fucktoy.

That left an interesting pairing for Kernan. Jason the pseudo-Marine against Ox. He had no qualms about whom he wanted to see lose. He had seen it before and enjoyed it very much when he would lose a wrestling match or Bondage Escape Challenge. How Ox would bridge up, offer up his giant bod in pain and humiliation against USMC.

And now the clamps were hanging between Marine and Ox. Biting into their nipples and clamps with a length of chains hung up across the bar like they were Christmas lights.

With every turn of the van or bump in the road the weight would bounce, jerk. Causing a tuggin on the nipple of each one of them. Nothing unbearable, but it was constant. It grew. Like Chinese Water Torture. That little weight shifting back and forth between the bars as it dug into the tender nip flesh capping off the huge impressive manly CHESTS of the once-proud studs.

Kernan knew how very much he wanted to go back there and dive into Ox. DAMN what that dude could take, wanted, ASKED for. It drove Kernan crazy. But he must wait until they got to the Farm. It would still be another hour.

Cling and Clang toyed with the peens of the once-proud bodybuilders. They gave out punches to the captive abdominals. They toyed with the oversized pecs. Never saying much.

To Ox Cling had some very special attention. Neither of them said a word. Cling, the dumb house slave. And Ox, the dumb chattel slave. They knew each other. Both were large of exaggerated gym muscle. For a bit, they respected each other. But they both knew their roles. Ox stuck up his 62” pecs as Cling swelled his 56’s and ENJOYED driving his fingers into the sides, digging them down to cause nerve pain.

And not one of the recruits would complain. They knew why they were here. By choice or demand. But knowing there was no escape. Total compliance to these men and whoever they would meet for the next week (or more) at The Farm.

There was 70 more miles until they reached The Farm – wherever that was. Until then Ox and USMC would tug either other’s nipples as both of them got rock hard. Mr Tits and Fuckboy would give a similar display. All the while their peens being stroked and sucked by Cling and Clang.

Until they reached the Farm. Kernan would give Cling and Clang their prize. Ten minutes in the van with the one recruit they wanted the most the do with him what he desired. Rough hard sex or torture.

And then when the van finally parked at its destination the four studs would be led out, naked and bound, 3 am. To get their introduction to The Farm.

Part Four


If you were to google “The Farm” on your computer you would get seven pages of organic vegetable sites. No search engine would come up with the private 70-acre Male Punishment Spread the white van was now 20 miles from. That was simply because they did not advertise on the web.

The Farm did things the old-fashioned way. Applications were sent through the US Mail, based on personal recommendations. “Lewd” photos were not downloaded and e-mailed but on printed on paper, solid and lasting, put in an envelope and handled by several persons through the mail route until it was opened and put into the hands of the Commander. Then they were added to the files. 3-ring binders containing the application. Handwritten confessions of Why I Wish To Attend and What I Expect. 14 pages of stats, background, and essay questions.

With the pictures attached. 5 pictures required. Head shot, shirtless front, full nude front, full nude back. The 5th photo was the wild card. “In your last photo, present yourself how you would wish to be presented at your first punishment. Any pose made to attend, clothing/uniform or lack whereof. Must be solo.”

Kernan looked at that fifth photo of Ox, sent in last year for his first stay. It had startled him then, and still did.

A bodybuilder. Dark haired, stubble of beard. Hairy chest and abs but trimmed. A man of solid muscle, powerful and handsome. In a yoke. Nude. His giant arms in bondage, back flaring up. His biceps and pecs flexing hard. His oak legs planted solid but spread, blatantly offering his hard-on. Yes, he had one. And eyes looking forward in what looked like a challenge.

Because of that picture of him submitting to the yoke and his extraordinary upper body muscles he had been dubbed Ox. It fit well.

The van slowed down as it entered the Farm entrance. It stopped in front of the fence. Honked. It took a while, but the gate was opened. By a naked college wrestler whose arms were bound behind him and had to lift the lock up with his mouth and use his back to open the gates while being flogged by a foreman.

The van then drove to the Bunkhouse. Parked.

Kernan turned and looked into the back of the van. “Enough,” he stated.

Cling and Clang stopped their abuses of the chattel. Letting go of the nipple of USMC and the balls of Fucktoy.

“Prepare the goods for inspection,” Kernan said. Grinned. “But of course, I promised some fun. Which one of these do you want to go last? Delayed a bit? I promise I won’t look. You can do anything you want to him.”

The clods gazed at each other. It was hard for them to concentrate. The big dick kid was lots of fun, sure. The military dude was nice. But if anyone, and anything goes? Even dolts like Cling and Clang could figure that out.

They looked over at Ox.

Kernan nodded the driver. “Let’s take them out. Inspection to begin.”

The four naked studs sat in their bondage until the back doors of the van opened. New men were there now. Clothed, in uniforms. Fucktoy was unchained and taken out first. Led into the parking lot. Gruffly made to stand. USMC was next. One of the guards took special pleasure of working the left arm up on him, unnecessarily causing pain. USMC took it. His cock flagged.

Mr Tits was next. A few of the guards recognized him – the Ginger Who Could Take Alot. They grinned.

Kernan then went to the back door of the van. “You have 10 minutes with him,” he grinned. Then he closed the doors on Cling and Clang as Ox was chained and helpless.

Part Five


Though they had no way of knowing, it was close to 3:00 am when the three naked new “guests” stood outside the van in front of a bunkhouse, facing four men in uniforms along with the driver and Kernan. The uniforms of these men were alike: steel toed work boots, jeans, and a dull brown leather vest. There was not one of them under 200 lbs.

Kernan took a step forward to look at their new batch. Looked into the eyes of the red-haired powerlifter who had been here before as Mr Tits. He did not assume the position. Starting from Square One, Kernan though. Very good.

“Welcome to you all,” Kernan said. “I know you are anxious to get started, but we will have to wait a little. One of your friends is a little busy in the van right now. So until he appears, we’ll just have to find a way to fill up 10 minutes or so.”

Kernan took his time walking down the line of the three men. “You’ve been cooped up a bit during the journey, just sitting, huh? Your muscles could use some work. Why don’t you hit the dirt and give me a 10 minute plank? NOW.”

At the command the powerlifter, marine and college jock assumed the position on the ground. Forearms straight, legs together.

“Now this is for 10,” Kernan said. He nodded towards the guards. They went to the porch of the bunkhouse and each came back with a style of braided whip.

“Hold your plank like the big strong men you are and you’ll be fine. If any part of your torso dips below your elbows, you will be whipped. If at the end of 10 there is any dirt evident on your chest, you will have earned hard punishment for your first day.”

Kernan looked at his wristwatch. “Let’s begin.”

Inside the van Ox was stretched face down, wrists and ankles spread eagle to the outmost upper body side shackles. His arms and legs forced him to bow downwards so his burly torso was just a few inches from the floor of the van. Behind him Cling was fucking his hard spread glutes, delirious over the fact that he was the first one to get the opportunity to get him this session. Clang was positioned beside Ox’s head, putting him in a choke hold with one arm and squeezing his nostrils off and on with the other hand. The suspension from the shackles plus the occasional lack of oxygen, along with the brutal fucking, was causing Ox to heave and buck. He made no noise though. What he was feeling was …

“OK that’s 5. Give me my turn,” said Clang, moving towards the backside of Ox.

“I’m not finished yet!” complained Cling.

“Finish on the floor!” roared Clang. “It’s my turn.”

So with hardly a break Ox got his second fucking at the Farm. And his feet had not yet touched the ground.

Outside the college hunk had 2 whip marks, both across his bubble butt. Marine had earned one and got it across the upper back. Only Mr Tits had held the plank solid so far. But it was only 5 minutes. There were 5 more to go. Or 6 …

As Clang plowed the solid ass of Ox Cling had positioned himself below the handsome bodybuilder. He shifted a bit until he found his perfect spot. An inch under the armpit hairs of Ox.

Cling had always been a little embarrassed when he tried this in the real world, which is why he savored his work at the Farm. With one beefy hand he pushed up the hard side of Ox so the hairs were spread at their most glorious. They were black, wiry, a good 3” field of hirsute manpit. First he thrust his nose into the left armpit of Ox, savoring the smell of sweat. Then he began to lick.

Every area of hair, every length was enjoyed by his tongue. He used it to twist the hairs around, braiding them some until they made a small rope. Then with his teeth he would tug, causing a sharp pain in the vulnerable armpit of his little treasuretoy.

He took a break to lick the face of Ox. The big buck was good looking, he admitted as he grinned while slopping his tongue over Ox’s nose, eyes, ears. Then he nestled down under the right armpit for the second course. Holding it still as Clang pounded away.

It had been 10 minutes by Kernan’s watch. He looked down at his recruits. Two had dropped in the dust. Mr Tits had been whipped three times but never dropped.

Kernan nodded over to the uniformed men. One of them went over to the van, pounded on the doors. There were sounds from inside: shuffling, unshackling. Finally the doors opened. Cling and Clang had put on their jeans again. Then jumped out, then reached in and led Ox out into the night air.

If anything the bondage and abuse had only made him look more heroic. He shook off the arms of Cling and Clang and walked up to the other three, horizontal to the ground and aching.

And it was then that Mr Tits intentionally let his body drop to the ground, to have his pectorals covered with dirt.

Part Six


“Up and form a line!” Kernan ordered, and the three naked muscle chattel who had been planking did as told, on either side of Ox, instinctively a good yard from each other.

“Now that your comrade here has decided to join us,” Kernan said with a smarmy grin, “we can begin with our work. We start with the basic stance. Spead your legs 2 foot. Feet straight forward.”

The four did as ordered.

“This is the Alpha and Omega rule of the Farm,” their leader said. “Your legs are to be open at all times. At NO time are you allowed to shut them. I am assuming you know why.”

None of the four answered, but they knew.

“Your cock and balls no longer belong to you. They are Property of the Farm now, and as such you will make them available at all times.

“Now, arms behind your back. Hands against the small of your back. Elbows behind back. Fingers horizontal to the ground, outstretched. No fists. No covering your ass. You know why.
Again, none of the four naked men answered. But their cocks were beginning to react.

“You ass no longer belongs to you. It is Property of the Farm now, and as such you will make it available at all times.

“Shoulders back, chest out, and nipples pointed up. You know why.”

At this Ox quivered. He dared not look over at his buddy from last time. They were separated by the Marine.

“Your nipples no longer belong to you. They are the Property of the Farm now, and as such you will make them available at all times.

Kernan stepped back a bit and watched the four assume the position. He fully understood the erections he was seeing. It was a core requirement to take orders, be subservient.

“This is your default position for the duration of your stay here. When not ordered to be in any other stance, be it work, show or sex, you will assume this position. No matter the scene or situation. Failure to do so will result in punishment.”

Kernan walked up to the Marine. Looked him up and down. Then took the man’s cock in his left hand.

“What is this?” Kernan said.

“That is my cock, Sir,” the hairy stud said, low but strong.

“Who owns it?” Kernan asked.

“You do, Sir,” the Marine answered.

Kernan crossed over to the powerlifter, Mr. Tits. He reached down and took the man’s large balls in his hands.

“What are these?” he asked.

“Those are my balls, Sir.”

“Who owns them?”

“You do, Sir.”

Kernan nodded. He went down to the blond musclekid. With a thumb and forefinger he took a hold of the kid’s left nipple.

“What is this?” Kernan asked.

“That is my nipple, Sir,” the Kid answered dutifully.

“What is it good for?” Kernan asked.

“It belongs to —” the young athlete started, but then realized with alarm what had happened. He did not know the answer. Kernan was looking at him. Hard. Behind him a couple of the ranch hands were grinning. One of them rubbing his crotch and sticking out his tongue at the handsome stud.

“I — I don’t know, Sir.” the Kid said, his voice trembling a bit.

“Offer them up some more,” Kernan ordered. The blond jock strained his pectorals up as far as he could. Tried to pop them so they would go even higher. It did not appear Kernan approved of his effort, however. Wincing, the Kid bucked his lower back a bit, trying to get his large pink nipples up even just a fraction of an inch higher.

Finally Kernan took his other hand to the other nipple, and started to brush both of them. The Kid strained, grunting, trying to keep his pecs up to the level they were now. The level that seemed to be required.

Kernan stood back. “Good. I trust all of you saw that. What you are good for now. Every inch of your bodies. For a Real Man to use as he pleases.” He let that sink in a bit. “In whatever way pleases him.”

Kernan nodded to one of the foreman. A bearded guy with a belly. He walked up to Ox and took his thick shaft.

“What is this?” he said.

“That is my cock, Sir” Ox answered.

“What is it good for?” the bearded guy asked.

“For a real man to use as he pleases, Sir” Ox said.

“Who owns it?”

“You do, Sir.”

The man grinned. “Bend over.”

Ox girded his legs and leaned forward as much as he could with his arms behind him. It was not long before he felt his hard glutes being fondled.

“What is this?” the man asked.

“That is my ass, Sir” Ox said.

“Who owns it?”

“You do, Sir.”

“What is it good for?”

“For a real man to use as he pleases, Sir,” Ox said.


Ox returned to his upright position.

“This concludes my introduction,” Kernan said. “We have some time before sunrise, when your first day will begin. I know it will be a fulfilling one for you all. And of course, the day will end with three of you being punished. Perhaps four.”

“You will now to led to your stall. It will be your resting station for the duration of your stay. Your assigned Master will be waiting for you there to give you your collar, your name, and the rules you will be expected to obey while under his instruction. I will be watching you throughout your stay here, and will be very excited to observe how well you achieve some tasks and how painfully you fail at others.”

Kernan paused. “But above all, gentlemen. Let’s have fun out there.”

Part Seven


The naked chattel were accosted from behind, one on one by the guards in the vests, an arm pulled up behind half behind the back and led to a trail that led from the left of the bunkhouse. There was no real use for such aggression as each of them were ready to willfully comply. Both liked it rough, however. And it gave the guards a good chance to reach up and toy with the asses of the new recruits. All of them were hard, sculptured — and wide open for use.

The Stalls were only a few minutes away. Built like the standard horse containments, hard wood on three sides and a gate in front. Inside each was a mattress with shackles on each corner and a spigot along the back. There were twelve in all; three had the semblance of occupancy and four had a Man waiting at the gate.

Ox was brought to the last stall on the left. Standing there was a familiar form. Arnold. Ox remembered him from last time. Arnold was just a guard then, not a Master. Obviously he had graduated. Not surprising Ox thought as his mind began to give to scenes in which he had with Arnold before.

He was in his late 30’s, older than Ox. Thick but not fat but not muscular 6’1” and 205, Black, bald. And a southern drawl in his voice.

“Well, it looks like I got me the big prize this time!” Arnold grinned as Ox was stopped in front of the Stall. He nodded to the guard. Ox brought his arm back from behind him. Flared a bit. Then assumed the Position. Staring in front of him, focusing on a post 20 feet away.

Arnold approached and rubbed his hand across Ox’s broad chest. Cupped the pectoral muscle. Went down to the sides, across the abdominal wall. Taking his time.

“Don’t know if you remember me, but I sure do remember you,” Arnold purred as his fingers went into Ox’s bush, half teasing in a way that was not masculine at all. Which made it even more humiliating. Which made Ox’s cock twitch big time.

“And I’m sure you remember this,” he said, as he reached over to the collar resting on the gate bar. Rawhide, metal links on the back, a metal label diametrically across. It had two letters on it.

“Yeah we kept it on hand. Knew you would be back.” Arnold held the collar up in front of Ox’s face, held one end up and slowly upfurled the other so it was horizontal. “Though I must say it

hasn’t been exactly in retirement. There might be some – stains – soaked in since the last time you wore it.”

“Ah yes, you have been remembered.”

Ox stood still as Arnold placed the collar around his neck. The links covered with a small flap to prevent chaffing. In front a small bronze silver plaque that read OX. Below it a loop for attachments.

Dumb Muscle Beast he thought to himself. Now was the time he separated the worlds. In the van, standing in row, he was still in some part the lawyer who had agreed to this “vacation.” He had been treated like a man, albeit one who had No Idea What You Are In For. But once the collar was on he was able to erase that from his brain. He had that ability.

How did his muscles get so big? Hardy genetics and gym work were the obvious answers and the truthful ones. He had always responded to the weights, his diet somehow grew nothing but muscle and nary fat. Hard dedication. To become a bodybuilder, as most assumed? There seemed to be no other reason why he should sacrifice so hard both in the gym and in his lifestyle. He (Ox, not that lawyer whose name he could not now remember) always had another purpose, one he never told anyone at the gym or in his family (in which he was not close) or his partner (which he did not have).

“Yes now a muscle beast,” Arnold said aloud. Ox was too lost in his mind – and the sensation of his upper body now being OWNED by a collar – to realize Arnold had repeated his thought.

“While here you will be in the fields 12 hours a day, hitched to a plow or guiding a router. We have a construction project in the left quadrant, and you may be needed there. Just to hold up girders. Nothing too complex. Just dumb brute strength.”

“Your evenings will be dictated on how you perform during the day.” Arnold smiled and stroked Ox’s cock. “I don’t have to tell you – you don’t have a chance there. We’re going to punish you every night. EVERY night. And you know why?”

Ox looked over at his new Master. A steely look. Both knew what it meant.

I will not submit. You will submit. Break my muscles but not my pride. I will break your muscles and make you beg. I will not beg. You will beg. I will beg and be your toy, but you will not break me. How are you not broken by being enslaved as a toy, humiliated and fucked? Because …

From a stall downwards there could be heard a yelp and a scream “Not that!” One of them. None of the recruits had spoken much, or yelped, so it was impossible to tell by the voice who had said it.

Arnold pointed to the mattress. “You will get sleep. Bound, as sleep is important. Not straw and concrete. If you wish that we can accommodate. I assure you the mattress is somewhat good but flea bag.”

“You will be fed well. We want your strength. Proteins, vegetable, fruits. Eaten with the hands. All liquids you get from the spigot. Or given a cup. You never give your hands to liquids. All of them.”

Arnold began to caress the face of Ox. His solid jaw. “That’s during the day. Hard labor to drain you of your strength. Then the nights. Ah, you know what we want from the nights, yes Mr Big Hairy Chested Muscleman? Mr I’m Stronger Than Anyone, Do Anything You Dare! Huh?”

Ox breathed deep.

“Yeah, the Games. Lots and lots of Games.”

Ox shrugged. Memories flooding in. His first Master, Collins. The Maypole scene. The bench press auction. When he and the red-haired powerlifter wrestled round-robin.

From the distance there was a bell rung. 4 rings.

“Time for the Run,” he said. “Stand there like a good hoss as I prepare you.”

Ox stood as his arms were put behind him, a wooden dowel 3” thick against his lower back so he was thrust up, wrists behind and circled with rope. From the front of his collar a leash was attached. Finally a bit was placed in his mouth, secured by leather straps behind the head.

“Stick ‘em out, Ox!” the black man said as he lewdly rubbed the nipples and pec muscles. He led Ox out from the stall and into the main area. There he met the other recruits, similarly bound by rod and rope behind their backs. But there were deviations.

There was the blond kid, who now wore a collar that said SEXTOY. His cock had been painted red. The hairy Marine was forced to pushups, his collar saying USMC. Finally there was the red haired powerlifter who had a cowbell hanging from his ballsac. His collar said MR TITS.

There was an animal noise from behind. Horses. The recruits stood (or in Marine’s case, flexed) as they heard their Masters come up from behind.

It was still dark and they could not see well the field before them. In bondage, arms behind

back so they could not dig down and run fast. Instead they would have to prance.

Their Masters were on horses. Each one had a whip in his hand.

“Early exercise. Get that fresh morning air in your lungs. Or get whipped. GO!”

A crack of the whip is what they needed. The four musclebound studs, bound, began to run. Given a lead. After 20 seconds the Masters on horseback followed. Making sure they kept up the pace. Going – God knows where. They reached a point and then they were told to turn around and go back again. A lash against the shoulder or buttock if they faltered.

The run only ended when a glimpse of sunrise began over the horizon.

“Now we begin!”

So Sextoy and USMC were taken to the Complex, to the Weightlifting Room and the Pain Chamber, respectively. And Mr Tits was taken to the quarry. And Ox was led out to the back 20 acres.

Part Eight


These are my friends

            See how they glisten

            See this one shine in the light

           How he smiles, my friend”

The morning sun was still low on the horizon when Ox was led to the back field. Waiting for him were two instruments that caused a thrill to jut through him. The yoke he had used before. 30 lbs of wood, leather and iron to be spread over his shoulders. Wrists to be clasped into the leather cuffs, the metal screws. And by the side of the field before him was the 5-blade plow. Wood and metal, very basic in design, bulky and poorly aligned so as to cause drag in the earth. The early light caught the metal blades a little through their rust and dirt.

Before him Ox would see a field that went on a good five acres. A mess of grass, dirt, rocks. Of course such landscape did not come naturally. It had been planted and arranged by other chattel before his arrival. Some labored to create the field, just so the other could labor to destroy it. A perpetual circle.

Arnold had been joined by a hand, a mustached thick bellied brute. Brute held up the yoke. Dutifully Ox raised his arms unto it as Arnold enslaved his wrists. Ox’s upper body immediately began to adjust to his new position. With his legs always-spread he thrust out his pecs, his champion shoulders situating under the crude wooden tool of labor designed for beasts.

A whip across his left buttock made Ox step forward to the border of the field. “Enter,” Arnold commanded. Ox took five steps then stopped. Waited.

The chains were attached. Even without the tension Ox could feel the plow being attached. He looked forward. The field went on forever, it seemed. He felt his nipples become hard. The sounds of the final clasps.

Arnold stood before him. “Today we need the front 2 acres plowed up by nightfall. Failure to do so will result in punishment.” He grinned. “But you are so big and strong, yeah? You will have no problem in doing this, I’m sure.”

Ox bowed his head. Waited for the whip to strike his ass again. Then he began to plow.

This is how you do full-front Steve said Gotta show the judges the concentration yeah that’s it now side hunker hold down left wrist and twist show the pec yeah that’s what they want to see all that meat you need to show it don’t be shy fuckin’ whore those tits out why do you think you were lifting all this time boulder those delts stud it’s your body here no one else’s fuck the others

Not so rough careful there you’re big for your age remember that Coach said damn you could train for Olympics i could try to arrange some you’re a natural take your shirt off you’re not like the others

The first hour was rough going, full of stones and mud passages. Ox was whipped by Brute when the blades skipped up. Forced to back up and try again. To alleviate the problem Brute would mount the plow, as each side had installed in each wooden planks big enough for a man to stand on. By design. The extra weight broke the earth but took longer than necessary in time. Almost an hour lost for a strip of land that should have taken 20 minutes.

It was still another hour until Ox reached a bench on the border of the field and was allowed a rest. Brute sat on the bench and took out a bottle. Ox was given a sip: water infused with nutrients that would pay off when the sun got hotter. No food yet.

Brute put down the bottle. “Refreshed?” he asked.

“Thank you, Sir” Ox said dutifully.

“Now my turn,” Brute said, and unhitched Ox from the plow. He led him to the bench and roughly bent him over. He took 20 minutes fucking him, pleasuring not only in Ox’s hard tight ass but pleasing himself with Ox’s lats and pecs. He fucked him twice.

By the time Ox had been chained back to his plow it was almost 10 a.m. and he had only covered a small patch of the ground that must be finished to avoid Punishment. Ox knew he had to work harder from here on out, grunt down tougher.

The field ahead only got rockier, causing skipping with the plow and more and more of Brute weighing down his load. Brute was not light with the whip as well. He enjoyed marking the hard white musclebound glutes on Ox, not yet tanned. After a few days those globes would be as colored as his legs but for now they were pale, markedly different “hidden” areas. Of a man who kept his pants on in public as he was in decent company. Not like now. Soon such stripes would be common up and down that back, his legs. But for now they were in such contrast!

A road lay up ahead, dividing the first acre. By design they were not alone. Ox could see from down the field there was something approaching. A small parade. When he got further it became clear.

Mr Tits had before him an industrial wheelbarrow filled with large rocks. 140 in weight he was forced to push. On his shoulders was a harness attached to a plank that stuck out behind him three feet. It had a saddle on top of it. In this saddle rode a man, 140 lbs, very small but very vocal in his humiliations. MT had a bit in his mouth, forced to position himself to take both burdens equally.

“Come on, Mr Big Chest! You are such a strong and sexy man! Big muscles! Faster!”

A blow to the legs caused MT to fall. The plank was unleashed from him, his wrists still bound. In the field Brute gave a whip to Ox’s right buttock.

The two masters stepped down and met by the side of the road. Ox and Mr Tits stood, legs spreads arms behind small back chest out.

Finally the two walked back. “Chesty fucks Ox. Make it good.” his man said.

Ox and MT looked at each other. In a second they broke. Brute took Ox, still in his yoke, and bent him over the wheelbarrow. Ox’s champion front bent over the crude rocks as his ass was spread upwards. MT, arms behind back, went behind and began to ram his thick cock up the solid ass of Ox.

Sorry dude it seemed Mr Tits said from his thrusts as the masters watched and beat off.

Fuck me harder brother! Ox said from his relaxed ass and flexed legs. The big quarry slave could read it. They were both jocks into it.

Tits knew that at the Farm there was no guilt in pleasures, sexual or physical, top or bottom. That they had identified in receiving made them no lesser men. In fact it made them the Man Object. And now he was making Ox the ultimate object.

MT had fucked men before, but he never fucked like he did Ox over that bench. The feeling was mutual. Ox always liked it more when a fellow slave boned him. Yeah the bosses, Master and Guests could be bigger. And he would feel MUCH bigger later. But having his former slave partner up his ass in the mid-day field, the two of them realizing their worth and place as muscled studs performing for fieldhands and bosses. Not just for voyeuristic thrill but knowing such reposes would prevent both to finish their ordered labors and be subjected to punishment that evening.

Of course Mr Tits was already marked for Punishments due to the dirt on his chest during his arrival. Ox was still in need of an excuse.

Brute looked out at the field. Almost half the day and they had only covered ⅕ of the land. He could call in more fellow guards to play with his charge. Lots of them wanted to fuck Ox. And others who wanted something else from him. Not the sex, but the muscle punishment. So far Ox had not gotten that yet. Yes, there were plenty of guards that would like that…

Brute stepped back up on the plow and drew his whip across the right ass cheek of Ox. “Forward, animal! I command you!”

Part Nine


Ox stepped forward again into the field as he heard Mr Tits being attached again to the heavily weighed barrow. “Back to the Quarry to return these, then back to the Chamber.” Mr Tits had broken the rocks then been given a reprieve to haul a sampling out around a circuit of the Farm. And to fuck Ox.

A whip to his ass. Ox began again his work. To plow the 2 acres by sundown. It was halfway through the morning and he had only finished maybe ⅕ of the field. Biting into his leather mouthpiece Ox flexed and started in again.

The sun was beginning to get warmer and with no clothes to absorb the liquid Ox began to glisten head to toe. His cropped torso hairs matted to his pecs and abs, the swatch of hair in his armpits making rivers spew down his lats, his bushy pubes raining drops of salty stunk on his constantly-flexing huge upper quads. He began to leave a mark of dampness over the ground he passed, as if he were walking in wet rubbers.

The morning wore on with Brute ordering a few unnecessary rests. Ox would stand in proper position, legs spread arms behind chest out, as his sore physique would be toyed with by his foreman. Brute enjoyed ordering around the big slave. He enjoyed making the bodybuilder stud profer his thick, short cock with no say in the matter. And of course every delay all but assured the plowing task would not be completed and Ox would have to be punished.

It was almost noon when a horse rode up with a young long-haired guard. “Report to the gym for lunch. He’s to share today with Sextoy.”

Ox stood obediently as the plow was released from his yoke. The bit taken out of his mouth. Ox flexed his jaw a bit. The yoke was removed and replaced with a 3-foot beam behind the back, elbow curled. Ox’s shoulders were unused to the new position, causing a sweet discomfort.

Long Hair produced a chain 20 feet long. It was attached to the ring on Ox’s collar. The other was wrapped around Brute’s fist. He got on the horse, sitting behind Long Hair. “Hee-yah!” and the horse took off.

Ox’s upper body could not conduct well to running with his arms pitched to his sides and his neck pulled forward. His legs had been doing nothing but small short bursts all morning from the plowing – to suddenly be forced to run shocked his muscles. The pace was not enough to make him fall. It was enough, however, to cause sharp jolts of pain in his lower body.

The gym was a quarter mile away. From outside it appears to be a one-story complex; there were actually two levels under the ground. It had been built by slave labor from years before. Some of the chattel who dug and hauled and constructed actually had the honor of being punished there.

Long Hair and Brute dismounted and entered the complex. Ox stood forgotten, chained and in his armpin. He spread his legs.

10 minutes later Brute returned. “It appears we are a bit early. But we might as well get out of this heat, eh?” A cruel snicker followed, as the sweat-drenched Ox could only bow his head.

Brute took Ox by the cock and led him into the complex. From the front doors they turned to the left and went down a ramp. There were a series of rooms on the side, designed after racquetball courts found in an ordinary gym. Solid walls on three sides and a plexiglass wall/window in front. In the second room was Sextoy.

It was the first time Ox had seen him in the light; before it had been night or the darkness of the van. He looked younger than before, could pass for college age. Classically blond and handsome with a physique that had been improved by supplements and extensive gym work. Pretty muscle, not that of a blue collar worker. Rounded pecs, broad taper. And a pair of biceps that were oversized, like grapefruit.

He was unshackled in the room, free to roam. Naked except for his collar and a leather cockring with thin wires encasing his balls. Around him was perhaps 3,000 lbs of free weights and a bench press. There were cameras in each corner of the court/room and an old-fashioned intercom speaker in the center.

The porn pretty stud was doing dumbbell presses while standing in the center of the room, both arms at once from his sides up over his head. His actions were robotic. Obviously he had been doing this and other weightlifting exercises since sunrise. The weights were small, perhaps 15 lbs. By now they would feel like 50’s.

As his actions were rote, so seemed his voice. As the dumb chattel raised the dumbbells he counted them in a monotone.

“I am a big muscleman … 73. I am a big muscleman … 74. I am a big mus—AAARRRGGG!”

The dumbbells fell to the floor and the naked muscleman buckled. By remote control his ballsac had been electrocuted through the wires. There was a pause as he doubled over. Sextoy looked up. He noticed Brute and Ox outside his cell. But just after the eye contact …

BBBZZZZZZZZZZZ!!! Then it stopped.

            The blond stud fell to his knees, cupping his manhood. He fell and rolled a bit on the ground. With deep breaths he make it back to his feet.

“Continue …” a low voice over the intercom ordered.

Sextoy picked up the dumbbells. Lifted. “I am a big muscleman … 1. I am a big muscleman … 2.

Brute had begun to rub Ox’s cock while watching the lifting demonstration. Ox watched his fellow chattel, almost unaware of the attention he was being given. He was entranced by the movement, the slow and steady flex and strain of the shoulders and torso of his comrade. How his showpiece balloon muscles seemed to be in perpetual motion, designed to show the unlimited strength in his body.

It was not until Sextoy reached 50 that the voice from the intercom returned. “Stop. Stand.”

The kid lowered the dumbbells and assumed the Farm position. He dared not look at Ox even though the two of them were opposite each other. Ox’s nipples being fondled by Brute.

“Lunch,” the voice announced.

The stud in the room kept his position until a guard approached. In his 50’s, thick. He nodded at Brute as he opened the gym room door. With a key he removed the device from Sextoy’s cock and balls. It was placed on the bench press. It would be used again after lunch.

A chain was placed in ST’s collar hook, a short 4’. He led the chattel out of the room and met up with Brute and Ox.

“They have a meal set up behind. They get 30 minutes of food and talk, agreed?”

“Of course,” Brute said as he finally left his fingers from Ox’s left nipple.

“But what I wouldn’t give to hear what these studs this say to each other when they at lunch…”

Part Ten


As Sextoy was kept in the left side of the Complex in the Weights & Strength area, USMC was being kept on a basement floor that first day. The Complex had been designed in a careful order. The above ground floor could pass for a civilian gymnasium, if one did not look closely at the details or observe the practices of its “trainers.” The second floor, first underground, was a series of rooms connected by a single corridor, resembling an office building. Each room was soundproofed and themed to a specific kink or scene, represented only by an innocent looking number. But chattel would soon learn to fear/desire when they heard they were being taken to 4, or 7.

The third floor, the basement, was unfinished in true dungeon fashion. The east side resembled more of a medieval type of situation, with irons and racks and whips. The west side more of a WWII makeshift space for prisoner attention, with ropes and beams and generators. It was the latter where USMC had been located.

In the morning the hairy muscleman had been stretched spread eagle across a rounded rack, forced to thrust up his groin as a group of men stood over him to inspect. They were not the usual guards or hands, but fully dressed in shirt and ties.

“Interesting,” one would say as he rubbed the inner thigh. Pick up his penis. Rub his forehead. USMC could not move a muscle.

“Tighter!” A click click could be heard as his muscled limbs were stretched more. USMC would shift, breathe hard, adjust.

“Yes,” another would say as they felt the neck muscles bulge, run a finger down his calves.

The compact muscles of USMC kept them amused for hours. Ordering the rack to be tightened, released. Watching the hirsute muscleman arch and flex his stud body in pain, then to see it collapse and slowly roll as if asking for mercy. A few men came and went, but there were a few that stayed for the entire 4 hours until his break.

USMC had been marched to the Quarry. There was the big powerlifter man, pick in hand, hacking away at the side of the solid rock formation. Mr Tits had spent his morning doing nothing but swinging his pick, extracting 300 lb blocks from the wall, then cracking it into smaller 100 units. His back had many stripes as the rock had not been broken sometimes as his foreman, Boris, had wished. Boris was an ugly little man who enjoyed bossing around big studs. He was very much enjoying his assignment with Mr Tits this day.

Tits had filled a wheelbarrow full of rocks. Then USMC was ordered to push it across the Farm. As he left Boris put his hand on Mr Tit’s left glute. “Against the wall,” the foreman ordered. The red-haired powerlifter complied, facing the rock, his arms spread, his legs spread. His ass spread.

The circuit around the Farm had included the back fields where USMC had met with Ox and Arnold. It was not by foolish lust that it was decided USMC was allowed to violate Ox. It was designed to give him release, to reestablish his sense of manhood before he would return to the Quarry to leave the barrow and return to the Complex where he would once again he put on Muscle Pain Display for the men in the shirt and ties.

For Mr Tits it was a morning of shoulder breaking work, intersped with posing sessions. Boris would order his chattell to stop his work on the rocks to pose for him. Biceps flexes. Bending over and holding his ankles. Pec poppng while his arms were behind him. All the while Boris would be jacking off, freely grunting and hooting aloud. The hairy powerlifter could do nothing but continue flexing for him. It was what his muscles were good for.

In hours later a deputy ran up. Crewcut, a little overweight. Leathers. It was lunchtime, and Mr Tits was to report to the Complex. Boris frowned. Before he let Mr Tits go he had a few minutes sucking on the man’s thick cock. Then MT was chained and marched by the deputy to the Complex.

Mr Tits stood in display formation (legs spread arms behind back shoulders back chest up) outside the complex until USMC was brought out. The compact stud had shackles on his wrists behind him.

Boris looked over at the guard who had brought out USMC. “May I?” he asked, licking his lips.

The beefy guard smiled. “Sure. Go for it, bud.”

“Stand over there!” Boris ordered to USMC. Next to Mr Tits. The pseudo-Marine did as told. Side by side.

Boris walked to them, then turned his back. Then grabbed each of their cocks in his hand. “Let’s GO!” He started to march.

And the two naked studs, each of them twice as muscular and strong, willfully allowed themselves to be led by him by their manhoods. Around the Complex on the cobbled sidewalk until they reached the pavilion. There were Ox and Sextoy, standing at required attention. And the troughs filled with food.

Part Eleven


Lunch at the Farm was generous. Tin troughs filled with strips of steak and chicken, steamed vegetables. At each end of the table on a post were bottles filled with protein water that could be drunk via a metal tube. There was no silverware or glasses. Chattel ate with their hands and suckled their drink.

Mr Tits was the first to speak. “So how many’s been fucked already?” He and Ox raised their hands. USMC and Sextoy, the newbies, looked a little uncomfortable.

“Wow,” Sextoy said. He was almost staring at Ox. The blond kid fidgeted some. “I mean, you don’t look like you’d enjoy that.”

Mr Tits growled. “What do I look like, huh?” He then laughed. “Dude, by the time this is over all of us will have done each other probably 12 times. On top of what they have in store for us. Which is a hell of a lot.”

“And seeing how you have the biggest peter here,” Tits continued to Sextoy, “I think you’re in a good position. In the pecker order, that is.”

“Eat your chicken, Tits,” Ox said with a grin. “Enough with the bad jokes.”

“Wait till we wrestle again, big guy” the redhead said under his breath.

“Can’t wait,” Ox said. Flexed a bit.

USMC smiled. “You two have been here before, right?”

“This is my fourth time,” Mr Tits said. “I actually helped build the Spanking Room and the track. Guess they’re not bored with me yet.”

Ox smiled. “Tits here won regionals in weightlifting contests. Benchpress champ of the State. Been in magazines. Had sponsors and the whole nine yards.”

Sextoy shifted in his chair. “That’s damn impressive. And you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Mr Tits said. “Powerlifting ain’t as glamorous as the bodybuilding circuit” he said with a laugh. “Instead of getting paid shit you get paid half a shit. No one’s interested in photographing you in your skivvies when you’re a bull.”

“Not true,” said Ox. “There’s a market for that.”

“Yeah, but I’m allergic to cigar smoke,” Mr Tits said. “Now look at our friend Ox here. You can count the abs. The oversized nipples. That butt. Those guns. This is the guy they want on the cover of magazines.”

Ox bit into a carrot. “Think Sexy boy here is the cover model.”

“Ah, fuck you,” Sextoy said.

“With Marine here as the top,” Tits said, looking over at USMC. “Seriously, you look like you should be wearing the boots around here.”

“Not me,” USMC said. “I’d rather take the whip then crack it.”

“Why?” Ox said.

And the table suddenly got silent. The men looked at each other. A few jaws chewed on peppered steak.

“Not quite sure yet,” USMC said, low. “Other guys would work out to get impressive muscles, to show for the girls or be the strongest in the pit. I just wanted them big so I could endure more pain. Don’t know how it happened. I mean, when my chest hairs starting growing in, when I was about 16 or so, I was so fucking fueled. I was going to be a big hairy chested he-man! The big stud! Then I’d watch the wrestling and started getting boners at the guys who lost. Found out about B&D. It gave me a bigger boner. Suddenly being the big hairy-chested he-man jock wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Fuckin’ cool,” Sextoy said.

“What about you?” Tits said to Sexoty. “You should be dating Miss Cheerleader, huh?”

“Hell no,” Sextoy said.

“OK, then the captain of the football team. It’s a new world out there.”

“Pass!” Sextoy said. Didn’t understand when Ox chuckled. “I guess I’m a lot like MC here. Not sure why it happened. Just know what I like. Know what people think I’m good for. Oh yeah, and by the way, I have done some modeling.”

Laughs and wolf whistles around the table.

“It wasn’t underwear or anything. Just for a local clothing line. A cool place. They made these wild T-shirts. They had me pose in them. The shirts were always pretty tight. And the jeans I was wearing. But what I loved the most – is that it was damn obvious why I was chosen but they never admitted it. I’d just pose, flex a little. I was meat. Sure the shirt was on, but looking at those pictures, it was obvious most people were more interested in what was underneath.”

“They all want what I’ve got. Then can force me to show, but they can’t force me to submit. And if they can — more power to them.”

Silence. Then Mr Tits picked up a strip of steak. “I think you just said a mouthful, kid.”

“So – what about you, Ox?” Sextoy said.

The buzzer rang. Lunch was over. The four took turns at the water spouts to get their liquids. Then the foreman reappeared. Sextoy, Mr Tits, USMC and Ox stood at attention legs spread arms behind chest out as they were leashed. Back to the gym, the quarry, the torture room, the back field.

Before they left, however, Mr Tits’ foreman for the day, Denny, asked for a moment.

“I’m so sorry we forget these,” he said. “Please forgive us.” As he produced a pair of steel clamped nipple clips. Gator bites.

Mr Tits froze as he saw them. The big man could do nothing. His huge pecs sticking up and out as Denny placed the jaws on the powerlifter’s huge pink aureoles, first the left and then the right. Tits immediately hung his head down. As his cock grew to full erection.

“Bounce them!” Denny ordered.

Mr Tits shifted his spread legs. Then he began to flex his pec muscles, popping them.

“What do you say, boy?”

The 210 powerlifter held his arms behind him. Legs spread. His 62” chest thrust up and bouncing, alternating as he recited:

Bounce the left, bounce the right

I’m a titwhore day and night

He was forced to recite it over and over as each man was taken back to his place. To endure the afternoon sessions. But they could not erase from their minds the sight of him. That big man, in agony over the metal clamps on his broad chest, reciting that verse over and over.

Part Twelve


It took a full hour for Ox to make the half-mile return to the back fields as Long Hair, the guard assigned to his travel, insisted on having a little fun along with way. Along the way they had passed a fence with three wooden horizontal slats across. The horny guard had made Ox do pushups with his ankles across the first slat, his face hitting the dirt on each repetition. After 50 he had Ox stay in position as he urinated in the dirt where the stud slave’s face had made an impression and made him do 50 more. Ox was then marched to rest of the way as the sun caked the foul mud on his face, causing a stench in his nostrils not half of which there was actual piss dirt up them.

When they got back to the field Brute was waiting. Dutifully Ox stood as the yoke was clamped across his shoulders again, the bit placed in his mouth. For the afternoon there was an addition – a small metal cow bell with a metal chain that was wrapped around his ballsac and hung a few inches down, between Ox’s massive thighs.

Ox was led to the section of the field where he had stopped before lunch. There was a large majority of the field still virgin.

“I really don’t know why you haven’t done better, Ox,” Brute said sarcastically. “Guess you’re a little out of practice. Hopefully I can inspire you to pick up the pace a bit.”

With that the man jumped on the plow, weighing it down an extra hundreds of pounds, and cracked the whip.

Ox became determined. The sun was now at its zenith and the heat was draining but his muscles would not surrender. The crack of the whip across his ass, his lower back, across the shoulders, would cause only a half minute of pause. He entered to proverbial Zone, known to athletes of every stripe, when the body somehow never tires even though they had reached the normal limit of endurance.

The clanging of the bell, which perhaps was intended to humiliate him, actually fuelled him. Every time he heard to dull clang from his balls he knew he was going forward, closer to finishing his challenge and – perhaps? – avoiding the Punishment that would await him.

Hours passed. Only once Ox was stopped and given water. As he suckled the bottle his cock was suckled by Brute. Then it was back to the plowing of the stony hard dirt.

Ox could sense the time was almost up. There was only less than 500 yards that needed to be turned by his force. He judged by the sun in the sky he had about an hour left. Depending on what his guard had in store, he could make the goal.

He knew these decision were planned. Was he being spared the Punishment Sessions for this first night for some reason? His mind began to race. The other three had no choice – they had been marked early back in the arrival. Ox had been the only one that had been in question. When they knew he could take punishments very hard. Would he be forced to watch the other three go through the Punishments and make to decide —

Such reasoning was going through Ox’s brain when he was ordered to stop. Then Brute put a leather blindfold on across his eyes, blocking everything, and then violently slugged his face around 10, 12 times. Bits of the bright sun along the sides did nothing to help his disorientation and he felt (thought) he was being turned around. He felt the whip on his back and he began to plow.

Ox plowed more. The sun somehow felt hotter now, his sweating more profound. The ground was always rough. Rocks were everywhere.

Yet somehow it THRILLED Ox. Yes when he was in the van and helpless against the guards he was helpless and it was jigging. But that position had been a helpless bondage, one no one could resist but endure. Now he was willfully using his muscles, giving his strength, thinking he was doing good when it would probably result in a total humiliation.

Indeed the taunts from Brute – “Yes, faster! Not much time left!” “Oh yeah your muscles have never been flexed harder!” And finally words Ox could not interpret: “Yeah, here he comes!”

Three hard cracks of the whip across his shoulders took Ox down. As he felt Brute remove the blindfold from his face he heard the hootbeats approach.

Ox stood where the unplowed land began. Behind him was crazy circles. He had been plowing earlier field, whipped to go left and right until the time was right to position here.

Upon the horse was Arnold, Ox’s commander. He looked down at the tethered muscleman and the guard.

“You have failed, Ox.” Arnold intoned.

“If I may say, Sir,” Brute said. “I tried my best. But he refused to finish his job. He told me because he was a ‘big muscle man’ and better than all of us that he shouldn’t be used to plow fields like this. He stopped his job just to teach us a lesson.”

All three men enjoyed the tale.

“He told you this while the bit was in his mouth?” Arnold asked, amused.

Brute stroked his legs. “He told me with his MUSCLES. With his shoulders, always flexing off. And his pecs all up and out. And every time I whip his ass he bounces his glutes, left and right back and forth. Teasing! He was just saying ‘Look at these perfect Muscles on me! You WISH you were such a perfect muscleman like me!!’”

Yes, that was good enough.

“Ox,” Arnold said. “You refused to plow the field although you could. You did this deliberately just to brag about your muscles and your strength and how you were BETTER than us and would not submit to us. You must be punished for that. You must be punished hard.”

‘Take him to the Arena. He will join the others. All of them will be punished tonight. Tonight they will learn….”

Arnold looked over at Ox. Their eyes met.

“And cancel all assignments for tomorrow. None of them will be in condition for work after what we have in store for them tonight.”

Part Thirteen


As Walt Disney had divided his theme parks – boasted as being The Happiest Place on Earth – into distinct districts, so The Farm had been designed. And it made many men happy. It brought other men extreme pain, suffering and humiliations. But in a strange way, made them a different form of happy.

Upon the entrance of the Farm was the Bunkhouse, a kind of visitor center used for transit. The Complex was a large building used for indoor punishments. The Arena an open-air stadium use for outdoor torturing. The southeast quadrant held the fields – wide open acres used for farming mule use Diagonally across at northwest was the Quarry – the only section designated by Nature as it was an actual hard mineral deposit. A final strip was the Construction Zone. Here buildings were achingly build by manual labor, then torn down by manual labor, then built up again by manual labor.

Ox was led to the Arena as the sun was beginning to make everything hazy. There was an outside wall, ecliptical. Just inside the wall there had been constructed a small corral, the kind you see in old TV shows for horses. A sign hanging over the gate said TO BE PUNISHED. In the center was a pull up bar. For now there were 12 bags of protein drink hanging from it, metal tubes waiting. USMC was already there, arms bound behind. Ox joined him. It had been almost 5 hours since he had nourishment. He took two sacks of the protein into his mouth, glad for the nourishment.

Looking over at USMC Ox noticed he had no marks on his physique. He could see the slight swelling of buffreed restraints on the hairy blast-built jock’s wrists and ankles. He figured there had been nothing but bondage and humiliation for him.

Sextoy was the next to arrive, bound. The young blond “OMG hunk” had a strap at the base of his root that caused his cock, the largest of them by at least 3”, to stand in constant erection. Finally came Mr Tits, whose erections were doubled and situated on his chest. The clamps had been taken off but the lewdness of his once pea/now bullet nipple tips betrayed the afternoon’s workings.

Sextoy and Mr Tits were given time to suckle. Take in the protein. All four men stood within the corral as men started to arrive to watch. Taking their places around the fence. At first it was just Farm workers. Brute, Boris. But Ox began to see new faces. He recognized one – Biceps – who had been here the last time Ox had served. Former chattel, now paying not for the experience but just to watch a Punishment Session of others like them.

And of course Guests. Men with alot of money. Men who had had sex with a guard the night before and sweet-talked him into a seat. Some were built, many were flabby.

The effect was instant. The four muscled naked men, arms bound behind them, their masculinity on total display in the crude corral, forced to display their goods. Surrounding them fully-clothed sadists: fat bullies, gym douchebags, past-their-prime military zealots, shy guys with violent fantasies. It excited Ox.

There was no crowd control either. The opinions and taunts of the crude crowd was heard crystal clear by the displayed studs. Crude remarks about their biceps, their cocks, their asses and what they wanted to see done to them. What they would do with them.

In due time Kernan approached the corral, dressed in full leather. There was no mistaking his rank at the Farm, nor his interests. He looked natural in his Dungeon Blacks: his body and face a classic fit for the style. Indeed remembering him in his street clothes earlier made him look strange, uneasy.

The crowd became silent as Kernan glared at them. He then turned to the corral. “Present!” he ordered.

USMC, Mr Tits, Sextoy and Ox walked to the front of the corral where Kernan and the majority of men stood. Assumed the position. The air was becoming cool and it excited every naked inch of them.

“Gentlemen, this are our beef for this session. Some by consent, others by order. For the two weeks we will indulge ourselves with them as we see fit.

“I think you will agree we have a strong showing this time. Not a one of these bucks broke during their first day introduction. They did, however, fail at a rather simple challenge each of them were given. And for that, they must be punished.”

A loud roar was given by the crowd. A spontaneous voting of how severe the punishments should be. The clear winner was Very Hard.

Kernan quieted the crowd. “Each one of these bucks will be taken to a separate room for their Premier Night Punishment. You may follow whichever one you wish. Depending on their fate you will be able to watch directly in the room or invisible through a window. Please remember however that once the session starts no one is allowed to leave the room. No roaming!” Kernan grinned. “I am sure, however, that most if not all of these studs will be required to come back tomorrow for another session.”

Laughs. “Try EVERY night!” someone shouted.

“I always give the benefit of the doubt,” Kernan said, “but I am sure if you come back at any time during the next two weeks we will have a show for you. While each of their torments will be different, I assure you their suffering will be equal – and great – no matter which day you visit.”

“And now, in keeping with our tradition, we will begin Premier Night Punishment with the Night at the Races. If you will report to the Track, we will begin in 30 minutes at twilight.”

Guards entered the corral and attached chain link leashes to the naked men. Arms behind him, they were led to the Track for the first Game.

Part Fourteen


The metal risers facing the Track at the Arena were intentionally shabby. They were meant to invoke not the Roman Coliseum but a high school stadium, a more familiar environ for the men the attendance. The ones who played sports in school could remember it with glory. For the majority, however, an athletic field was a place where the jock males obtained glory; then they would return to school and torment them. To be able to sit in these kind of seats and watch an athletic “competition” where the jocks would be humiliated and destroyed for their amusement was cathartic. And it gave them a woody.

The track itself had been prepared for the event. The first quarter was the regulation vulcanized rubber ground. Metal studs covered the second. The third was slopped with grease. For the Final Four the track was again regulation, but overhead only a yard up was a series of wooden arches. From them dangled electric wires with bulbs at the end.

Waiting at the starting line were two contraptions designed by a former chattel who used to play professional football. Two pieces of wood 6’ long with straps, in the center bisecting another rod centered with a wheel. It resembled a teeter-totter when standing alone.

Ox and Mr Tits were brought to the track and stood before the two sets of the apparti. Their arms were loosened and they were ordered to assume push-up position.

Ox and Mr Tits were of course the bigger specimens of the class this time. Ox the pseudo-bodybuilder and Tits the true powerlifter. Their legs were lifted and strapped onto the front side of the wooden slats so they became one. Forced to assume push-up position.

USMC and Sextoy were brought forward. Their arms were still tied behind them. Gags were placed in their mouths so they would be forced open. USMC was placed behind the apparatus of Mr Tits. Sextoy behind Ox.

Face down, the stud chattels’ legs were tied to the wood of the teeter-totter. The weight of their bodies caused Ox and Mr Tits to strain hard. Attached to their collars was a chain which ended with a 10 lb weight, designed to keep their heads down at all times. In push-up position Ox held up his end of the balance as Sextoy’s face and chest lie on the track. The same was true of Mr Tits and USMC. Ahead of them 50 meters of challenge.

Mr Tits and Ox were ordered to remain the pushup position as the crowd settled in. Designed of course to make them weaker before the race began. Their legs in an unnatural position, their upper bodies forced to bridge to relax the lower back. On the end side Sextoy and USMC flexed and girded their bodies up for what was going to be a rough stretch.

The sound of a trumpet was heard and Kernan stood next to the starting line. “Gentlemen! Welcome to the Opening Night Race! Please restrain from interfering with our contestants here. Each team will have 10 minutes to complete the track.”

“I do not have to remind what is at stake here. One team – two studs – will be punished EXTRA hard this evening, in accordance on who wins and who loses. While all four of them are going to be subjected to a punishment tonight, two of them will be given a much more harsh torture session than usual. It all depends on how they perform. In just 60 seconds….”

The audience hooted and applauded. Some men yelled out lewd comments about Ox and Mr Tits and their muscles.

Then, just as the countdown got to 30, two fieldhands ran out onto the track. Each of them had a 7” dildo in their hands. One to Sextoy, the other to USMC.

Before the studs could register and shift to accommodate the swift violation of their asses, the trumpet sounded again. The Race was on.

The plastic track had a pebble surface. Such a design gave traction to athletic shoes but was rough on bare hands walking in pushup position. It was also rough to the chests of those dragged behind. USMC and Sexoy learned early by lifting up their heads they would not get their faces scraped against the rough surface. The weight on the chain caused their neck to flex harder. Legs spread by the wood and moreso by the violation of the plug. It was a workout they had to take.

The position also caused their chests to pitch forward onto the track. Upon the first quarter of the track it was the wisest position to take.

Then they entered to the metal studs on the second quarter.

The metal studs along the track were dull and did not tear. They just brought irritation. And pain. Sextoy kept his head up along this section, straining extra hard on his neck, sacrificing his pecs. USMC’s face was down much of the way during this section. There would be lifting when he could take no more, but he preferred to keep his head down on this stretch.

For the Engines, both Ox and Mr Tits felt the pain on their palms as they moved forward. The position of the wheel was getting harder with every yard, and the addition of the studs brought on more pain, as intended. Both men gained speed in this portion of the track, which caused complaints/yelps from their cabooses. Both men knew it was for the best, however. Finishing the track first was the only thing that mattered now. Whatever pain incurred now would be nothing compared to what would be added to the loser afterwards. The engines just hoped the cabooses understood that.

Half punished for using their muscle, half by having their muscles punished.

It was hard to understand when they reached the Greased portion of the track. Mouths open with a gag, the smaller studs closed their eyes and tried their best to close their mouths but the grimy oil invaded their mouths anyhow.

Ox was the first to stop crawling forward in pushup position but go on his elbows, the better to get more traction. Mr Tits soon followed. But it was hopeless. The grease caused their stud tails to weave back and forth. They could not move forward on the track. Minutes ticked away. And their muscles were getting weaker every minute.

Half punished for using their muscle, half by having their muscles punished.

Each man, forward and behind, could hear the crowd. Encouragement and rape suggestions.

It took a full 7 minutes to get to the final strip of the track. By now only 2 minutes on the scheduled trial. Absolutely impossible. If not just for the length, but for the low-lying strings of bulbs hanging down over the track.

They looked like Christmas lights. They were live wires.

The moment Tits and Ox crawled under the vines and felt the shocks they fell face down. Tried to ift up again. If they did – SHOCK. After three tasings Ox realized he had to crawl at half-pushup position to avoid the wands. It was much harder on his muscles which were almost spent by now. He looked over to Mr Tits. Could tell he had not figured it out yet.

So Ox traveled the last quarter of the track, dragging Sextoy behind him. Yes he lifted too much and got a shock. It took him longer than expected. But looking back he could see Mr Tits and USMC yards behind. It was no time for brotherhood. He needed to win this. To prove himself the Alpha slave. And to help out Sextoy, who had taken much punishment by the race.

Thus Ox and Sextoy crossed the finish line first. The winners of the Race.

Mr Tits and USMC did not even finish. They were kicked and stomped on the five foot marker before the finishing line. The Losers.

Some hands dragged Tits and USMC to the finishing line. The four chattel lay there, still in their leg/barrow bondage, face down.

Kernan walked over and stood in the center of the four naked muscle men.

“The Winner of the Races – Ox and Sextoy! Congratulations.”

The crowd of men showed their appreciation. Applause and pornographic suggestions about their bodies.

“The Punishments will begin for each of them. And since Mr Tits and USMC lost —”

“They will get the lesser punishments.”

“Ox and Sextoy are the Studs tonight. They deserve the HARDER punishments.”

Sextoy flexed in his bondage. “But we won! If we win, we get the lesser, right –”

Ox looked down at him. A honest, male look. “Sorry, stud. The tougher you are, the harder they give it to you.”

Guards began to separate USMC from Mr Tits. Then to Ox and Studboy. Night had fallen. They were put in handcuffs and walked to the chin-up bar where Kernan waited.

“USMC? Take him to Room 7.”

Part Fifteen


The door to Room 7 belied its size from the hallway. The ceiling of Room 7 was quite tall, which made the length look not as full as it actually lay. It was called The Trapeze Room.

It was a very simple room, one of cheapest to construct. Cinderblock walls, concrete floor, a speaker in one corner. Nothing else but six trapeze rings hanging in a row, 5 feet from each other. A pulley system on the ceiling mechanically adjusted them to be lowered or heightened as needed. On each trapeze bar were two shackles with chains that ended with a clamp. A false wall with a large mirror provided the section for the audience. The lighting was segmented so the entire room could be lit quite harshly, or just sections at a time. Or entirely dark.

USMC stood as two guards put manacles on his ankles and wrists. Chains hung from each, a foot in length. He was then led to the first trapeze ring. His wrists were attached by the clamp on the aerial chain close to his hands. The device was then lifted until the naked stud’s toes were dangling inches from the cement floor. USMC hung in silence as the guards left and the five other apparati grinded and adjusted to the same level or higher. The lights were moderate.

The pseudo-Marine hung by his wrists for a good ten minutes until a pair of guards entered. Grabbing his legs, they jackknifed the captive and attached his ankles to the second trapeze, then exited. USMC was left in this position for another period of time. The guards re-entered, the released his wrists from the first trapeze. USMC swayed by his ankles, his hands and fingers not quite touching the ground. Again the guards left.

USMC knew what was coming next. This time the guards bent him backwards towards the third trapeze, his wrists secured. Now he faced downwards, his back folding in a painful position. It seemed the length the guards left was longer this time.

He was exercised down all 6 rungs, hanging from his feet, arched, hanging from his wrists, buckled.   When he got to the final rung he assumed he would be taken back in the same fashion. Over and over. Slow stretching torture.

Suddenly the lights became intense, blinding. He was hanging from his feet on the sixth trapeze. The men came in and picked up his arms to apply them to the closest apparatus. But the only attached his left arm. And released his right ankle.

USMC was forced to twist in his stretch. It caused his spine to abnormally configure. He had to

flex his muscles to avoid the pain. That only worked for 3 rings. He was exhausting, and the pain was becoming more intense.

Sometimes the lights would go out entirely as he hung by just a single wrist for what seemed like an hour. Other times both hands would be tied but only one ankle bent behind the same trapeze rung as the lights flashed on and off.

He knew he was breaking.

In the back of his head he knew he was safe. He was never left in any position so long as a joint would become dislocated. But how could they tell? In his increasing stupor he figured it out. This is why they had him on the rack during the afternoon. Those tortures had simply been research to see how much he could take in the Trapeze Room for his first punishment.

He had tried to be stoic, but when the guards came in to position him again, USMC let out a moan at last. It was ignored. He was spread one wrists/one ankle facing the ceiling and left alone again.

He began to moan. He held to moans for the next two positions. When he was left dangling by one ankle he spoke: “Please no….” Again, ignored. It continued.

Time began to slip. He had been taken up and down the row three times now. He was sure of it.

The light on the far side of the room was blazing as he was hanging in the dark. He could not escape the blare no matter how he moved his head. Every muscle ached. He was sweating profusely.

When the guards came in to pick up his arms to attach them to both the second and third bar he said, “Please I give…” It was not proud. It was weary. There was no strength in it. The guards left and USMC faced the floor. He was close to something. Breaking? Crying?

Suddenly a voice came over the speaker. “You will answer some questions, yes?”

USMC lifted his head a bit, even though there was no reason. Was this a signal that the end was near?

“Yyyyy…” he said. “yes…”

But there was no question. For minutes. It had been a trick! he thought. Those fucking BASTARDS!! And he found new strength. Strength from anger. Insane anger.

His body swung the trapezes violently, arms spread and one leg up. He rocked back and forth, feeling the strongest he had since the session began.

But then his body could not continue. He broke down. Chest heaving. Back breaking. He stayed like that what seemed for minutes. Then the lights returned to normal.

“You will answer questions, yes?” the voice over the speaker asked again. Very politely.

USMC shut his eyes. “Yes. Yes….”

Another dreaded pause. But then the voice spoke.

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes,” USMC said. There was no need to be heroic.

“Are you in great pain?”

He grimaced. “Yes … I am,” he answered.

A pause. “Where did you go to elementary school?”

The question might as well had been asked in Latin. He could not process it. They were fucking with him.

“Do you wish to be let free?” the voice asked.

“Yes….” USMC said. “Please.”

“Where did you go to elementary school?”

USMC stared at the ground. His shoulders were about to break. Drool began to form in his mouth. It paused, then stretched, then landed on the concrete floor.

“Pine … Hills … Elementary …”

They kept USMC there for another 15 minutes. He revealed the name of his high school principal, the color of the ocean, how old he was when he gave his first blowjob, the age when he first grew chests hairs, and more.

When the audience members had satisfied themselves enough USMC was let down from the trapezes. Lying on the floor he was totally defenseless. Guards took off his manacles. He was given protein drink to suckle. Then he was led back to his stall, to his mattress. Only the guards realized the sun was already out. He would rest as promised for well into the next day.

Thus was the First Night Punishment of USMC.

Part Sixteen


Sextoy, the blond musclekid, had been brought to the Farm on the insistence of his mentor. He was scheduled to spend a week that his benefactor asked should be “enjoyed and tested by as many men as possible.”

Thus for his first night punishment the handsome jock was taken to Room 3, The Wrestling Room. In the center was a pro-ring style wrestling ring, lights overhead with an old-fashioned megaphone-style speaker and a trap door. 2 rows of chairs were on every side. The room was very full this evening.

Sextoy was led into the ring and left there. Naked as usual but still not used to the condition, he was however too sore from the Races to try to cover up. Instead he just bent over some, resting his hands on his thighs, breathing low. The lights over the audience lowered a bit, as if being in the ring was like being on stage.

From the trap door above the center of the ring fell a pair of vinyl lace up white pro boots. On the sides of each was embroidered SEXTOY. Dutifully the stud sat down in the middle of the ring and laced up the boots.

The audience was not silent during this display. Sounds from whistles to propositions emitted from the men Sextoy could barely see.

Just as he finished an article of clothing dropped from the chute. It was a pair of Speedos, with a red/white/blue American flag design. Standing up he put on the swimgear. It was a bit strange feeling his genitals encased again, he thought. Somehow … a little bad?

After tucking himself in to the all-American gear and tying the drawstrings he stood a while. Sextoy had never wrestled in school. Like all guys he had watched pro matches and knew a bit what to expect. But not what Farm Rules would be for sure.

“For our first match,” a theatrical voice sounded over the loudspeaker. “In the ring, weighing in at 178 lbs, Sextoy!”

Cheers and jeers from the crowd.

“And his opponents – at a total combined weight of 547 lbs. The Bash Brothers!”

Into the ring strode two huge men dressed in international singlets, tall black boots, and leather straps around their knuckles. There was no way they were brother genetically. Possibly only related by their love of sadism. Like all of the wrestlers on the card this evening, they were Guests who paid good money for their chance to sport with a Farm chattel in the ring. When Sextoy’s blond, blue eyed, gym buffed muscles and extraordinary biceps had been posted as a possible wrestling jobber it caused the largest rush in requests the establishment had ever experienced.

A bell rang. Sextoy hoped against hope that one of his opponent would leave the ring and wait in a corner, that he would have to take on just one of these monsters that were a good 70 lbs of bulk bigger at a time. Instead the two just grinned and circled the stud.

The match went on for 25 minutes before Sextoy’s trunks were torn down. At no time did any man leave the ring. Sextoy was held and punched, stretched out across the rings or across the mat, held and stomped, slapped around man to man like a pinball. The muscleboy never get in one hold. For the last 10 minutes he was naked again, both men double-teaming him.

A warning bell sounded that the match had to end. They pinned Sextoy by one of them stepping on his abdominals while the other covered his face.   The final bell rung and the two men raised their arms. Then they rolled Sextoy over a took turns fucking him in the ring.

The men left, one keeping the Speedos as a souvenir. Sextoy crawled to a ringpost. The audience applauded, snickered. Questioned his manhood.

After a few minutes another piece of clothing dropped from the chute into the center ring. It was a gold lame g-string. Sextoy stood and went to the lewd costume, put it on.

“For our next match. Sextoy! And his opponent, Dungeon Master Dominic!”

An extremely hairy bull in full leathers came out. Sextoy was nothing but muscle and go-go boy strap against him. The match was 20 minutes of the kink Master using his black leather boots on every inch of Sextoy’s physique. Kicking, choking, squishing. The man hardly ever used his hands, preferring to use Sextoy as a futball or a doormat. After the pin he preferred a blow job to a fucking.

Sextoy had no strength left now. He had no idea how many more opponents they would bring out, or what they would like about him. The next piece of clothing made it fairly easy.

From the ceiling dropped a pair of square cut lycra shorts with a red bulleye target across the crotch. The opponent was a very fat man who was maybe 65 years old. The man was into cock punching. For 20 minutes the “wrestling” consisted of Sextoy being set up against the ropes or lying on the mat, waiting until BAM a fist square on the bullseye. Sextoy’s gonads were never hit; his large cock was always the intended receiver. Sextoy rolled around the ring clutching his rod. He was beginning to beg. After the match the fat man fucked him.

The rest were a blur. Sextoy began to only remember three things: beating, fuckng, dressing. Of all the remaining matches could only distinctly remember two. The first he was having wear sheer nude panties with the ruffles on the side while his opponent was dressed like a trucker. That man liked to choke. Several times Sextoy almost passed out from the throat restrictions, only to be relieved and the trunker would jerk his cock before choking him again.

The other was when he actually wore a shirt, a mid-cut football jersey showing his abs and lacer-padded shorts, as a young guy who weighed maybe 127 assaulted him nonstop. It was closer to groping than wrestling. His clothes stripped off, his muscles and pit hairs and nipples were licked. Sextoy the handsome gym musclestud was putty in the geek’s hands. That fucking was especially hard.

Sextoy would remember waking up on a mattress in his stall the next morning. It was already 10 am. He would be allowed to sleep in as long as he wished.

Thus was the First Night Punishment of Sextoy.

Part Seventeen


This was the fourth time Mr. Tits had “vacationed” at the Farm, and at each time the mistake was always made by new hands -was he a Master or chattel? Mr. Tits had to looks and build of a classic leatherman. Thick muscled, brute handsome, hairy. While he and Ox were the largest and strongest of the new studs there was a marked difference of their physiques. They were both about the same height and weight, but Ox was built in classic bodybuilder form where Mr. Tits was powerlifter. The muscles on Mr. Tits were just as big as Ox but not as defined.

He was solid in the gut, no 6-packs showing off. The arms were hamhocks that did not cut down the triceps when he moved an arm down. His glutes were not etched. But there was one portion of his body he was extremely proud of, as the two words attached to his collar would suggest.

The 62” pectorals of Mr. Tits were a sight to behold. A man so thick with bulk muscle might seem to be looked at as a square, beef-all-around. But Mr. Tits owned a set of pectorals that were beyond normal bench pressing and weight lifting.

They thrust out like bowling balls from his upper body. His rock shoulders and hard lats existed only to support them. It was hard to look at any other portion of his body as they drew the attention immediately. It did not matter if he had a shirt on or not. Shirts were a problem and had to be tailored; anything broad enough in the chest had sleeves that went a good 2” below his wrists.

And as his powerlifter pecs displayed full flag in shirts, when the shirts were removed there begun the true nature of Mr. Tits, and why he submitted to the Farm every year.

Directly on the outmost shelf of Mr. Tits’s showpiece pectorals lay a pair of nipples. They were large. Their aureoles were the size of silver dollars and the nubs were the size of peas. And they were very sensitive. A few brushes and a twist of a nipple could bring the big 6’2” stevedore down to his knees, totally submissive. It was almost like he was a superhero: everyone saw him as the big strong stud; if one person knew his secret they could easily take him down and control him, dominate, force him to….

These thoughts were in Mr. Tit’s head when he saw he was being led to Room 11. He had been there before. The Classroom.

It was one of the smaller rooms, and by first look uneventful. Like a standard university classroom. A whiteboard in front, a lectern, and facing it rows of desks. Only tonight beside the whiteboard stood a wooden T-bar with heavy weights on the bottom.

There was no seat available as guests filled up the available space. There was an SRO crowd lining the back of the room as Mr. Tits was led in, naked. Stood in front of the T-bar. As he saw the words written on the board:


On a table they lay perhaps the largest congregation of nipple clamps now or forever on sale. From steel monsters that looked like jumper cables to thin, wispy delicate yet rigid wires designed to pinch-and-tease. Every one of them designed for the same target.

The guards held his arms as a third man came out with leather straps. He began to lace them around Mr. Tit’s pectorals. Quickly it became a harness that was designed to thrust up and out the already-thrust chest muscles. This would make them even more huge, almost grotesque in some eyes.

The leather straps formed a solid square across his huge chest. On each side the straps bit in, across his upper pecs horizontally the straps captured. There was no need for the cross-over tieing pattern. That was only used to make the chest muscles look bigger than they actually were. Mr. Tits needed no help in this area.

The lower leather straps were invisible underneath the overhang of the titslabs. The ropeman took another length of leather under the them again, just to thrust up those party-time mantits some more.

When the roping was done Mr. Tits was set against the T-bar. His should stretched behind the wooden beam caused the bondage on his tits to become even more restrained. Bulging out like sausages from casings. His legs were wrapped around the base of the T and shackled, not on the ground but a good 3” above the ground so his legs were not useless. A leather ball gag was placed in his mouth, strapped on. Mr. Tits flexed. His shoulders would now have to support his bulk. And his chest bridged out, lewdly.

It was difficult to tell when the big man’s nipples were excited as his nubs were always so swollen, up and out. But his 5” cock told the story. His shifted in his bondage. He knew he was trapped. There was no escape. He would have to take this.

The men in the desks were very content watching the huge Daddy with a hardon submit to them. There was no shortage of fantasies among them of what they wanted to do with him. Worship, punish, buddy…

Finally a man entered in a lab coat. The stereotypical nerd doctor. He looked over Mr. Tits and grinned, then faced the room.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Tonight we have been assembled for a public education class. How to effectively apply nipple clamps to a muscleman. This is a class you all signed up for, yes?”

Laughs, snickers.

“We have before us the 50 most effective tit clamps now available on the market. Which is right for you?” He glanced back at Mr. Tits. Looked forward. “Do you want a long, slow punishment? Or a quick, yelping begging for mercy? There’s a clamp for that.”

The man in the lab coat picked up a chained nickel-plated alligator clamp.

“We can start with the basics. But very first, you must be sure your object is ready to receive.”

He crossed over in front of Mr. Tits. The brawny powerlifter shifted his legs, pinned to the T-bar. Gagged.

“Look at these!” The lab coat man flicked the erect pea nubs of Mr. Tits.


“Look at that, gentlemen. That looks like consent to me.”

Mr. Tits shrugged again, then fell.

“And just wait until you see this,” the man said and took Mr. Tit’s left nub in his fingers. The effect on the powerlifter was amazing. He flexed, struggled. Barreling out his left pec up and out. Flaring. Until he fell back and sobbed. So wired were his nipples. And the clamps had not yet been put on.

The first hour of the demonstration was the man in the lab coat applying a vast array of hurting clamps on the thick sensitive nipples of the Big Man. Worse was when the “teacher” would first demonstrate the wrong way to place them on “as this could cause undue pain.”

Mr. Tits was assaulted by his huge nipples for an hour by the man. Then the students were invited to come up and try for themselves. This created a new kind of agony for Mr. Tits. A swarm of men approached him, all of them staring at his chest. Rubbing his pec meat before applying a rubber-tipped alligator or a forked-tongued snipper. Some of them intentionally did it wrong, just to hear him howl in agony.

And the clamps went lower. Mr. Tits was supposed to be a chest model but many a biting clamp wound up on his balls, the tip of his penis, in his ass. They caused much pain.

But it was his proud oversized chest that Mr. Tits derived the most enjoyment from his punishment. Yes he enjoyed it. The pain that tore through every muscle as his nipples were tied up and hung, holding up his full body weight, caused Mr. Tits to ejaculate. He was a true tit whore.

He was taken to his stall and layed on his mattress. Mr. Tits immediately fell to sleep for a long time. He would be shown a video later of that last half hour. Tied to the T-bar, swaggering left and right like a limp flag. All the times his big man-tits bouncing. Left, right. Left, right.

Part Eighteen


While USMC, Sextoy and Mr. Tits were led to the Complex to their rooms, Ox was kept behind. Arnold, his owner, intercepted him. “Plank,” he ordered.

Naked Ox, sore from the Races that had forced him to drag and exert forward in a plank position, assumed it once more. There was no weight now to abuse his muscles. But somehow it felt worse. The muscle memory was infiltrating his body. Ox’s brain could not fight that.

The day of long hours performing animal labor, every muscle kept moving at all times was designed to exhaust them yes, but also to seer the muscle memory inside. So that when Ox was stationary his synapse would revolt. Twitching. He needed to flex, keep in motion.

After a long period Ox was finally allowed to stand. A leash was put on his collar and he was led to Room 22. The Hall of Muscle Punishment.

It resembled a museum, almost. Elegantly attired with marble floor with a gold carpet down the center. On each side were niches that contained statues of Herakles suffering in his Labors, Samson bound to the columns, Atlas haunched downwards with the World on his shoulders, Prometheus chained and spreading his abs up. And in the front a stage with chains to hold their next display. Tonight it would be Ox. A living exhibit of muscle punishment.

Upon the stage was a simple looking X-frame with parallel bars just above the ankles and the wrists. On the bottom were foot pedal rests; in the center a bar across the lower back region. Ox was led on stage and shackled onto the cross, his feet standing on the pedals and his wrists to the shackles dangled from the top bar, which looped through a socket on the upper cross to keep them held firmly back. By remote the bar raised an inch to adjust to Ox’s height. Over it all was a sign that read: MR BIG MUSCLEMAN.

Spread eagle on the stage, Ox waited as the room began to fill with spectators. Lights in the general section went lower as display lights on the statues of Herakles, Samson, Atlas and Prometheus were low lit, showing off their musculature in shadow relief. The lights on Ox were kept bright.

The upper bar was lift higher and Ox’s muscles began to grow taunt, forcing him to stand on tiptoe. The bar behind his lower back caused him to thrust out his groin, keeping his quadriceps flared. Men began to walk up and enjoyed stroking them. They also enjoyed toying with Ox’s cock. They were very excited to be able to play with a bodybuilder’s penis as the big man was forced to strain.

Ox said nothing as his body was being violated in this way. None of these men were remotely his equal when it came to physique. To be forced to submit to them, to be enjoyed no matter how lewdly, only made Ox feel more manly. He looked over at Atlas and flared his chest.

The men were then asked to step back. They did and all stared at Ox. Seconds ticked by. Then Ox screamed.

The foot pedals were wired for electric shock. After the initial stunning Ox grabbed the bar above his hands and lifted himself up into a quarter pull-up position, lifting his feet off the pedals. The men grinned and cooed as Ox’s upper body became etched in muscle contraction, forced to hold the flex.

For 40 seconds Ox kept in the pull-up position. The chains on his ankle shackles did not tug but were constant reminders: you cannot leave. Ox had no idea if the electric current was still running through the pedals. After another 20 seconds he dared to lower himself…


Again Ox lifted up, maintaining the half pull-up. It swole out his shoulders and biceps. After the exertion of the Race he did not have his full strength, and as anyone who has done pullups knows being forced to hold a half repetition was infinitely harder.

Ox kept the position up for another two minutes, his biceps beginning to ache. Then a voice over a loudspeaker said, “You can rest. The voltage has been off for 30 seconds.”

Ox slumped down to find it was true. He had been flexing more than needed. But there was no way to determine the voltage had been turned off. Except by testing…

On his flat feet again, Ox’s upper body muscles heaved. His shoulders and arms had gotten an unexpected and tight workout. He knew another one would be coming soon, as the men would not let him rest for long. He began to gear up his arms, fostering up strength for another lift.

Then ZAP! This time from the bar across his lower body.

Without thinking Ox pitched up in a crossbow, his legs and arms straining. By reflex he fell back on the bar.


The second time Ox was able to keep his back bridged up to avoid the zapping bar. Standing on tip-toe, wrists straining, midsection showing the 8 packs as hard as the statues next to him. Only his were slightly convulsing. So much more fun to touch than marble.

After minutes Ox did not know if the bar was still live or not. He still had strength but knew he should try to conserve it. Slowly he rested his frame back …

It was not a good idea. The bar was not only still lit, but the current was somewhat higher. Ox was forced to bridge out again.

Then the bar on his wrists was raised an inch higher.

The stretch caused Ox’s arch to lessen. Immediately he hit the bar and jolted out. His shoulders ripping then holding on. His calves were close to being drained from being strained and flexed forward. All the time his pecs first and foremost sticking out.

As Ox was arched and straining in hard concentration, men approached him giggling and stroking his body. They did not care about his pain. He was just muscle to be displayed. No different from Herakles or Samson.

Ox was strong, but every man has his limits. At last Ox fell back on the bar. It was off. He had no idea how long it had been so. He might have been needlessly flexing for minutes. It made him feel dumb, not just in intelligence but in physical awareness. He was wasting valuable flexing muscle strength needlessly. Which is what the men wanted.

By remote the arms of the cross would separate inches longer, causing Ox to tighten and strain. Even when his height and physique was extended to the maximum, there seemed to be another half inch that was extracted. This was when Ox could hardly breathe. His huge chest inflated up and down, visibly by 3 inches. A look of agony on his face.

It went on for hours. Ox was forced to flex, stretch, display his body for the men. If he did not he would be tazered by the feet or back, causing him to display. Sometimes his biceps were the focus of attention. Other times his manhood being thrust up. Or his hard ass muscles contorted. The arms were twisted and flexed at their limits. Biceps, triceps. His abs dipping in canyons of pain.

“No more of this … please …” Ox said after what he could not determine was the length of his bondage and punishments since its beginning. In fact it had been seven hours.

After this confession he was kept in additional bondage positions for another hour. Arms stretched, legs akimbo. All the time presented up and out for display and touching by the men who had never lifted a weight in their life, or just watched videos of muscular men and wanted to know what big strong muscles would feel like. Ox said nothing. He was stunned. His body complied. All strength gone. Dumb muscle. Forced to flex in any position.

And his penis was erect the entire time.

“Do you submit?” the voice over the loudspeaker asked, with a lisp as Ox was contorted with his legs and arms pinned back, his chest thrust up.

Ox slumped on his rack. No shocks now. His big beef body was twitching some. The triceps, the pecs. All the men watching. As his cock throbbed.

“Yes … I submit…” Ox said low.

The lights went up a bit. The arms of the cross were lowered by remote until Ox was presented facing in a horizontal X. Every Stud Bodybuilder Muscle exerted on display.

“Flex your muscles for us!” the loudspeaker said.

Ox grimaced. Then flared his biceps and thighs in his bondage. Glad there was no voltage.

“You submit to us, do you?” the voice asked.

Ox breathed. “Yes. I will. I … beg you … no more…. Please ….”


Ox did the flexing show. Bodybuilder poses and porn spreads. Anything they wanted. The arms were relaxed and he could go biceps curls like they wanted. Pec popping. Whatever they wanted. He complied.

Ox would be let down from the cross and taken out on the floor when he would be forced to be Free Form flexing. He did not remember this very much. He knew his collar was on the entire time and he was tied up for the majority of sessions with the different men who dominated him now that he was the Alpha Stud Male Gone Pussy. There was a cat whip. There was a skinny guy who had a long type of pincher that was used on his nipples and cock head.

All the time he was in front of Atlas, Prometheus, Samson, Herakles. Putting up his arms, flaring his back, forced to say “Look at my big muscles!” before he was whipped again. Flexed his muscles again. Proved his strength again. Had his nipples abused again. Flared and yelped again. Bodybuilder muscles worked beyond their limits again. Until he broke.

How could he explain the reward of being Tough and Broken? Every warrior trains to prepare against it but secretly knows it will come. That is why they train harder. To incredible muscular proportions, to fight it. Or secretly wanting to experience it. Like Ox.

No male with a 60” chest and 34” waist wants to be ‘admired’.   They built those muscles for a reason. To show off. And to use. Show their strength, how manly they are.

The punishment was not an assault. It was a welcomed test. The more unfair the situation the more he has to try to prove his muscles. A big honest Stud against nasty Men who were jealous of his hard-earned physique. Which was why Ox was back at the Farm. To be punished HARD. His gym muscles an assault to the big-gut former jocks and the never-muscled horny deviants who wanted to own a bodybuilder and do nasty things to him.

Ox would wake up in his stall the next day. It was after noon. He could not move without great pain in his muscles. He looked up. Protein drink would be available from the tube on the left wall.

And a blue ribbon outside. BEST IN SHOW FIRST NIGHT


3 thoughts on ““The Story of Ox” by Paul Smith (Complete)

  1. Sad that a part 2 never came out. This is one of my favorite stories on this site. I would LOVE if somebody would do the illustrated panels for this as well! I’m not very good with photo manip tho

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