Chapter 7: Save A Horse
The humid air on the porch tasted thick, saturated with the skunky tang of weed, Trent’s musk, and the heady scent of Mike’s own asshole, still stretched and wet from Trent’s relentless tongue. Mike hovered above Trent’s face, perched on his hands, his asshole pulsing, gaping, inches from Trent’s mouth, his finger tips lightly working his sore nipples. Trent’s tongue, thick and slick, protruded rigidly, glistening in the porch light’s flicker. "Grind," Trent commanded, his voice muffled but thick with authority. "Grind that hungry fucking pussy on daddy’s tongue. Stick it deep. Ride it." Mike obeyed, lowering himself slowly. The hot, wet point of Trent’s tongue pressed firmly against his open hole.
He bore down, pushing out, feeling the incredible invasion as Trent’s stiffened tongue slid inside him. Not deep, just the tip breaching his rim, but the heat, the wetness, the aliveness of it was electric. He moaned, a low, desperate sound ripped from his chest. He began to move, rocking his hips back and forth, grinding his stretched, puffy hole against Trent’s face. The rigid tongue speared shallowly into him with each backward rock, the friction intense, the wet slurping sounds obscenely loud in the quiet night. Trent groaned beneath him, the vibration traveling straight up Mike’s spine, making his trapped cock jerk painfully in the soaked jockstrap pouch.
"Yeah," Trent growled, his hands gripping Mike’s ass cheeks hard, spreading him wider, forcing his hole open against the relentless pressure of his tongue. "Fuck that tongue, pussyboy. Make it wetter. Make it messy." Mike pushed back harder, riding the rhythm, lost in the sensation of being fucked open by that demanding muscle. He could feel Trent’s nose pressed against his perineum, his hot breath washing over his balls. The plug was forgotten; this was raw, primal connection. As the continued to squirm on Trent's tongue, Mike felt that familiar sensation he now craved. The friction and the arousal combining. He knew the cream was leaking out when Trent's tone changed. Now greedy, desperate, impressed. Mike clenched and released his hole in time with the tongue-fucking, spurred on by Trent's constant encouragement. His own cock throbbed, untouched, the pressure building low in his belly, coiling tight. He knew the signs. "Trent... fuck... I’m close," he gasped, his movements becoming more frantic, grinding down harder, desperate for that friction against his prostate.
"Don’t you fucking cum," Trent snarled, pulling his tongue back slightly, denying Mike the deepest pressure. "Not yet. Keep riding. Show me how that pussy wants it." Mike whimpered, the denial sharp, but he obeyed, rocking slower, grinding his swollen rim against Trent’s lips and chin, coating him in slick. The edge receded slightly, replaced by a deeper, aching need. "Good boy," he rasped. "Now." The permission was all Mike needed. He slammed his hips back down, impaling himself fully on Trent’s rigid tongue, burying it deep inside his clutching hole. He cried out, a ragged shout that echoed off the glass panes, as his orgasm ripped through him. Thick ropes of cum pulsed from his cock, soaking the front of the jockstrap, hot and wet against his skin. His asshole clenched rhythmically around Trent’s invading tongue, milking it, pulsing with the force of his release. Trent didn’t pull away. He held Mike down, his tongue buried deep, feeling the powerful contractions, swallowing the wet heat Mike’s hole squeezed around him. He sucked hard, drawing the spasming flesh into his mouth, drinking in the taste of Mike’s climax mixed with his own spit and Mike’s ass. Mike shuddered violently above him, gasping, spent.
Before Mike could even register the aftershocks, Trent’s hands were moving. He hauled Mike upright, pulling him off his face. In one swift, powerful motion, Trent lifted Mike up and down, yanking him backwards. Mike landed hard, sitting upright on Trent’s lap, his back pressed flush against Trent’s broad, sweat-slicked chest. Trent’s thick arms locked around Mike’s torso, pinning him. One hand slid down Mike’s stomach, Trent's massive hand cupping Mike's soaked jockstrap. Trent peeled the jockstrap pouch to one side, exposing Mike’s softening cock, glistening with his own release.
Trent’s other hand was already slick – coated in the mess of Mike’s cum and the wetness from his ass. He didn’t hesitate. He plunged two thick fingers straight back into Mike’s gaping, sensitive hole. Mike gasped, oversensitive, the intrusion sharp. "Fuck! Trent!" "Shhh," Trent murmured, his lips brushing Mike’s ear. His fingers worked deep inside Mike’s ass, scooping, gathering the thick cum that had soaked the jockstrap pouch. The supplements were working. Mike's load had become heavier and thicker. Mike felt the wet, sticky mess being pushed inside him, Trent’s fingers feeding his own spend back into his stretched passage. "Take it," Trent growled, fucking the cum deeper with his fingers. "Take your own fucking load inside your pussy. Where all loads belong." The sensation was bizarre, intensely intimate – being filled with his own hot release. Trent’s fingers withdrew, slick and glistening. He brought them to Mike’s lips. "Taste," he ordered. Mike opened his mouth obediently, sucking Trent’s fingers clean, tasting the potent mix of his own cum and ass. It was primal, filthy, and utterly compelling.
Trent’s fingers slipped from Mike’s mouth, leaving a trail of their mingled taste. He didn’t pause. Roughly, he hauled Mike off his lap, spinning him. "Back on my face, now," Trent growled, his voice thick and hoarse. "Gimme that messy hole." Mike wobbled, legs shaky, still buzzing from his climax. He obeyed, scrambling clumsily backwards over Trent’s prone form on the porch chair. The rough cane scraped his hands as he straddled Trent’s head, lowering his aching, stretched asshole back onto the hot, waiting mouth below. Trent immediately seized him, hands digging into Mike’s hairy thighs, forcing him down. That fat, relentless tongue stabbed upwards, spearing deep into Mike’s sensitive, cum-slicked channel. "Fuck!" Mike gasped, arching his back. The intrusion was almost too much, oversensitive flesh protesting then yielding. Trent lapped greedily, sucking hard, his nose buried in Mike’s perineum, inhaling the potent musk of sweat, ass, and his own spent seed. He worked Mike’s rim with lips and tongue, making it puffier, wetter, slurping loudly as he devoured him.
Mike groaned, the dual sensations overwhelming – the brutal tongue-fucking inside him and the sheer, shameless need radiating from the man beneath. He felt hollowed out yet utterly filled. His cock, nestled in the soaked jockstrap, gave a feeble, aching throb. It wasn’t an erection; it was a raw, deep need for release, a pressure building low in his gut unrelated to his spent cock. He needed to take, to feel that control flood back, even for a second. His gaze dropped to Trent’s lap. The thick bulge of Trent’s cock strained obscenely, the head glistening with pre-cum. Without conscious thought, Mike leaned forward, bracing one hand on the arm of the chair, towards Trent’s massive cock, rock-hard, the flushed purple head wet, veins pulsing. Mike didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head, opened his mouth wide, and engulfed the swollen crown.
The taste exploded on his tongue – salt, musk, pure Trent. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, his tongue swirling over the sensitive slit. He took as much as he could, his lips stretching tight around the thick shaft. Trent’s reaction was immediate and seismic. His tongue froze deep inside Mike’s ass as a guttural roar tore from his throat, muffled by Mike’s flesh. Mike sucked harder, desperate, feeling the tell-tale tension coiling in the shaft against his lips. "Suck it, suck it daddy!" Trent snarled, bucking his hips upwards, forcing more of his thickness into Mike’s mouth. Mike gagged slightly but held on, bobbing his head, milking the head with his lips. It only took three more fierce sucks. Trent’s body locked rigid beneath him. "Fuck! Take it!" he bellowed.
A hot, thick jet of cum blasted onto the back of Mike’s throat. He swallowed convulsively, the salty-bitter load flooding his mouth. Another heavy spurt followed, then another, thick ropes painting his tongue, filling his cheeks. Trent grunted like a beast, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself into Mike’s greedy mouth. Mike swallowed every pulse, sucking him ruthlessly dry until Trent shuddered and went limp, his tongue finally softening inside Mike. Mike pulled off with a wet pop, licking his lips, tasting the potent residue. He slumped back, his ass still resting on Trent’s chin. Trent pulled Mike down into his lap, grabbing Mike’s head, twisting him round into a sloppy, filthy kiss. Their mouths mashed together, trading spit, the tang of Trent’s cum, and the earthy musk of Mike’s ass. They kissed messily, hungrily, grinding against each other, lost in the shared filth of their release.
Eventually, breathing ragged, Trent broke the kiss. "Up," he commanded, his voice rough but calmer. He helped Mike stand on shaky legs. "Bathroom. Clean up." Trent guided Mike by the small of his back through the dark, quiet house towards the master bathroom. The cool air inside was a balm after the humid porch. In the spacious bathroom, under soft overhead lights, Trent turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature. Steam began to fill the room. He peeled Mike’s soaked jockstrap off, letting it drop to the tile floor with a wet slap. Both naked, they stepped under the hot spray. Trent grabbed a washcloth and a bar of sandalwood soap. He started gently, methodically washing Mike’s back, his shoulders, the curve of his ass, his thighs. The touch was thorough, cleansing, surprisingly tender without seeking further arousal. He rinsed the suds away with cupped hands. Mike returned the gesture, washing Trent’s broad chest, his powerful arms, the sweat and musk dissolving under the water and soap. They didn’t speak. The only sounds were the rush of water and their quiet breaths. It was intimate, grounding, a necessary reset after the porch’s raw intensity.
Towelled dry, oral health thoroughly administered, Mike moved out and towards the door leading to his own bedroom down the hall. "Night, Trent," he mumbled, exhaustion hitting him. Trent’s hand shot out, closing around Mike’s wrist. "Nah," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "With me." He pulled Mike firmly towards his own bedroom. Mike didn’t resist. Trent pulled back the duvet and climbed in, then patted the space beside him. Mike slid in, the sheets cool against his skin. Trent immediately curled around him, his larger, powerful body spooning Mike’s back. One arm draped possessively over Mike’s waist. Mike sighed, the solid warmth at his back unexpectedly comforting. The scent of clean skin and sandalwood filled his nostrils. He felt safe. Enclosed. Within minutes, their breathing slowed and deepened, synchronized in peaceful sleep.
Mike stirred, consciousness returning slowly. Saturday morning light filtered through the blinds. He was still on his side, Trent’s arm heavy across him. But something else registered. A slow, insistent pressure. Trent’s cock, thick and already half-hard, was nestled firmly between Mike’s ass cheeks. Trent was moving almost imperceptibly, a gentle, sleepy grinding, his hips rocking just enough to slide his shaft through the cleft of Mike’s ass. The friction was warm, intimate, undeniably arousing. Mike shifted slightly, pressing back. A low, satisfied groan vibrated against the back of his neck. "Mornin'," Trent rumbled, his voice thick with sleep and desire. His hand slid down Mike’s stomach, fingers brushing over his soft cock before settling possessively on his hip, guiding the slow rutting motion. "Feels good, huh?"
"Yeah," Mike breathed, relaxing into the sensation. Trent’s lips pressed against his shoulder blade, a soft kiss. They lay like that for long, lazy minutes, Trent lazily grinding his cock against Mike’s ass, Mike drifting in the warm haze. Trent’s hand occasionally drifted, fingers tracing Mike’s nipple, sending pleasurable sparks through him, or squeezing his pec. It was drowsy, unhurried play. Eventually, Trent sighed, giving Mike’s hip a final squeeze. "Right. Let's move," he said, his tone shifting from sleepy intimacy to practical command. He slapped Mike’s ass lightly. "Workouts. Then chores. Groceries." He swung his legs out of bed, stretching, his muscles rippling. Mike rolled onto his back, watching him, the imprint of Trent’s cock still warm on his skin. Trent glanced back, a smirk playing on his lips as he saw Mike’s gaze. "No butt plug or ass play," he warned, though his eyes held a familiar heat. "It needs to rest occasionally. We start again at four, sharp. Basement." He headed towards the bathroom, leaving Mike with the promise hanging heavy and thrilling in the quiet morning air.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind Trent, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Mike lay still for a moment longer, the phantom pressure of Trent’s cock between his cheeks still warm, the promise of 4 PM buzzing under his skin like low voltage. With a grunt, he pushed himself up, the cool air hitting his sweat-damp skin. Duty called – workouts, chores, groceries. The rhythm of Saturday.
Trent emerged moments later, pulling on running shorts, his muscles gleaming faintly damp. "I'll meet you in the garage," he stated, grabbing his keys. "Don't dawdle." He was out the front door without another word, the screen door slamming. Mike heard the thud of his running shoes as he sprinted from the house.
The garage air smelled of oil, rubber, and dust motes dancing in the slatted sunlight. Mike rolled his shoulders, the familiar ache of exertion a welcome anchor. He started slow, dynamic stretches: lunges that pulled deep in his groin, arm circles that loosened his rugby-ravaged shoulders. He concentrated on the burn, the stretch, the grounding ritual. He was midway through a hamstring stretch, leaning forward over one extended leg, when the garage door rumbled open.
Trent stood silhouetted against the bright morning, sweat darkening his tank top, chest heaving slightly. He grabbed his water bottle from a shelf, chugged deeply, rivulets tracing his neck muscles. "Warmed up, princess?" he asked, a familiar edge in his voice, surveying Mike’s position. Mike just grunted, pushing deeper into the stretch. Trent dropped his bottle with a thud and moved to the weight bench, loading plates onto the bar with metallic clangs. The session began, the rhythmic clank of iron, the sharp exhales, the strain in their voices filling the space.
They worked in near silence initially, the focus intense. Spotting each other became necessary as the weights grew heavier, arms trembling on the final reps. Trent’s hands on Mike’s back during a heavy bench press were firm, professional. But later, as Mike struggled with the last bicep curl, Trent’s hand slid under his elbow for support… and his thumb drifted, just for a second, brushing across Mike’s covered nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt. Mike gasped, the curl wobbling. "Focus, Mikey," Trent murmured, his thumb pressing harder, circling the pebbled nub before retreating to support his arm again. "Squeeze it up. All the way." Mike gritted his teeth, finishing the rep, the ghost touch sparking deep in his belly.
Later, as Trent strained under heavy squats, Mike stood close behind him, hands braced lightly on Trent’s hips, ready to assist. On the final, grinding ascent, Trent’s hips thrust back slightly with the effort, his ass pressing firm against the growing bulge in Mike’s shorts. Mike instinctively pressed forward, grinding his hardness against the sweat-slicked curve of Trent’s glutes for the briefest moment, lending that final push. Trent locked out the rep with a guttural roar, then stood panting, leaning back slightly into Mike’s solid presence before stepping clear. "Good spot," Trent rasped, a knowing glint in his eye as he wiped his face, glancing down pointedly at Mike’s tented shorts. "Control yourself."
Post-workout, showered, they reconvened in the kitchen. Trent moved with efficient grace, pulling out blenders and ingredients. "Breakfast," he announced. Mike watched as Trent piled in yogurt, protein powder, oats, berries... and then pulled a small vial of thick, dark green liquid from a cupboard. He poured a generous glug into the mix. "Special blend," Trent said, catching Mike’s look. "Clears you out nice. Smooth sailing for later." The blender roared, pulverizing everything into a thick, purple sludge. Trent poured a large glass and slid it across the counter to Mike.
Mike sipped the smoothie; it was surprisingly palatable, earthy with an underlying sweetness. As he drank, Trent leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, Mike standing side on to him. His gaze wasn't on Mike’s face, but lower, fixed on the curve of Mike's lower back. Then, slowly, deliberately, Trent slid his own hand down the front of his loose shorts. Mike watched, frozen mid-sip, as Trent’s hand moved beneath the fabric, a distinct, rhythmic motion betraying what he was doing. He was stroking himself, casually, his eyes locked onto Mike’s groin. "Drink up," Trent said, his voice low. "Don't waste it." He gave himself a slow, deliberate squeeze through the fabric, his knuckles pressing against the outline of his cock. Mike swallowed hard, the sweet smoothie suddenly thick on his tongue, heat flooding his own body as Trent openly fondled himself just feet away. Trent smirked, gave himself one last firm stroke, then pushed off the counter. "Chores, Mike. Get moving." He turned and walked towards the laundry room, leaving Mike flushed and painfully hard, finishing the smoothie under duress.
The promised "clearing" effect hit Mike around noon, swift and efficient. By 3 PM, he felt hollowed out, scoured clean inside and out after a long shower. He stood in his room, towel slung low on his hips, and saw it: another black box, identical to the one that had held the white lace lingerie, sitting squarely on his bed. Anticipation prickled his skin. He lifted the lid. Nestled in black tissue paper lay another outfit.
It was black lace, intricate and delicate. A harness-like top with wide straps meant to cross over his chest, framing his pecs and hairy torso. Below it, not shorts, but a complex arrangement of lace straps forming a jockstrap-like structure. The waistband was thick lace, connected by thinner straps that ran down over his groin. Crucially, the back was entirely open – just two thin straps connecting the waistband to a central, lace-trimmed ring that would sit just behind his balls. The rest of his ass cheeks remained completely uncovered. A small, matching lace garter circled each thigh just above the knee.
He dressed slowly, the lace cool and surprisingly soft against his skin, the structure holding his cock and balls snugly in a delicate pouch while leaving his ass utterly exposed. He stood before the full-length mirror. The effect was startling. The black lace contrasted sharply with his hairy build and weathered skin. It framed his body, accentuating his chest, cinching his waist slightly, drawing the eye inevitably down to the open back, to his ass. He turned, craning his neck to see.
His reflection confirmed it. His hole, usually a tight furl unless Trent had been working it, looked different. Fuller. Puffier. A pronounced, dark pink swell, like a small, ripe berry nestled between his cheeks. It wasn't the temporary engorgement Trent created with his tongue; this looked deeper, more settled. Still evolving, far from the "mancunt" Trent sometimes growled about, but undeniably changed. A slow, permanent alteration. He shifted his weight, flexing one glute, then the other. The puffy ring seemed to glisten faintly. He bent forward slightly, hands on his knees, looking back between his legs. The image was jarringly obscene: the hairy, muscular man in delicate lace, his thickened hole presented like an offering. A thrill, hot and shameful, shot through him. He held the pose, admiring the view, tracing the lace straps on his thighs, feeling powerful and profoundly vulnerable. His cock stirred within its lace cradle. The clock read 3:50 PM.
The basement door creaked open at 4:02 PM. Mike descended, the cool air a contrast to his heated skin. The familiar scent of concrete and stored goods was joined by something else: the sweet, skunky aroma of weed. Trent sat on the old couch near the utility sink, already rolling a thick joint between his fingers. But Mike’s gaze snagged on the room's centerpiece. Where stacks of boxes usually stood, now only clear space remained. Dominating that space was a sturdy, freestanding steel frame, holding up a wide sling of thick, black leather straps. A sex sling.
Trent lit the joint, took a deep drag, holding the smoke as he looked Mike up and down, his gaze lingering on the lace harness framing Mike’s chest, then deliberately dropping to the his barely covered cock. Trent made a circling motion with his finger and Mike turned around, bending forward slightly to show off his puffy ring. He exhaled a plume towards the ceiling. "Fuck, Mikey," he murmured, a slow grin spreading. "Look at that fucking pussy. Gettin' prettier every day. Come here." He patted the couch beside him.
Mike sat, the leather cool under his bare thighs. Before Trent gave him a toke, he passed him a blue pill. "Yes, it is what you think it is. And no, it doesn't just affect your dick. Trust me and you'll see". Mike threw the pill into his mouth and chugged some water from a nearby bottle. Trent grinned at him and passed the joint. Mike inhaled, the potent smoke burning his lungs, the familiar fuzzy warmth spreading quickly. They passed it back and forth in comfortable silence for a minute, the shared ritual easing the tension. Trent’s hand, rough and warm, landed on Mike’s thigh, high up near the lace pouch. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin there, purposefully grazing his balls as he did.
"Feel that clearout?" Trent asked conversationally, his fingers tracing lazy circles, drifting higher, just brushing the edge of the lace pouch covering Mike’s cock. Mike nodded, the weed amplifying the sensation, making his skin hypersensitive. "Good. Gonna need it open." Trent’s hand slid further, fingertips skimming over Mike’s hip bone, then tracing the curve of his flank, coming to rest on the swell of his ass cheek. He squeezed gently, his thumb dipping, just barely brushing the outer edge of Mike’s puffy hole. Mike gasped, a jolt shooting straight to his cock. Trent chuckled, low and dark. "Easy, pussyboy. Just gettin' acquainted." His thumb rubbed up and down Mike's crack, occasionally skimming around the sensitive rim, never quite landing, making the nerves sing. "So fuckin' soft there now," Trent breathed, leaning closer, his other hand reaching to trace Mike’s nipple through the lace chest harness, pinching it gently. "Like a cunt." Mike moaned softly, arching his back involuntarily, pushing his chest and ass into Trent’s hands. The dual assault, the weed haze, the stark reality of the sling looming nearby – it was overwhelming. Trent’s finger at his hole pressed slightly harder, testing the give of the swollen flesh. "Yeah," Trent murmured, his voice thick with anticipation. "Gonna get that hole proper wet tonight. Gonna make you drip." He pinched Mike’s nipple sharply. "Up. Time for the sling."