Chapter 3: The Groomer's Choice
Mark lay on the cold, filthy concrete, the harsh spray still echoing in his bones. Jeb’s boots entered his blurred vision, splashing through the diluted mess around him.
The older man’s shadow fell over him, blocking the single bare bulb.“Get him up,” Jeb said, his voice a low rasp. Hands hauled Mark upright, his legs trembling violently beneath him.
Jeb moved in close, his calloused thumb scraping a streak of filth from Mark’s cheekbone. “Tonight’s a grooming night. You need to be… presentable for the buyers tomorrow,” Jeb explained, his gaze pitiless.“That means a real deep cleaning. Inside and out.”
He gestured with his chin toward the gaunt workers lurking in the doorway. “One of these boys is gonna take care of you for the night.Bathe you.Work you over. Make sure you’re… relaxed.” A cruel smile touched his lips. “You get to pick which one.”
Mark’s head swam, the words ‘pick which one’ echoing in the hollows of his ears.He became acutely aware of the men’s eyes on him, of their flat, hungry stares. He remembered the violent, shattering release, the hot flood of himself onto Boyd, the public spectacle of his body betraying him completely.
A fresh wave of humiliation, hotter than the hose water, crashed over him. He tried to shrink in on himself, his arms instinctively crossing over his tender, swollen chest.His hands fluttered lower, attempting to shield his groin from their evaluation.
His traitorous body, however, had already voted. A familiar, shameful tightness had begun amidst the cold and the filth, a physical echo of the degrading climax that had torn through him. As his hands moved to cover himself, he felt it: a stiffening, half-hard length against his own palm. He tried to press it down, to hide the undeniable evidence of his arousal, but the motion only made the blood-thickened flesh twitch against his fingers.
One of the workers, a lean man with a lazy eye, snorted. “Well, looky there.”
Boyd’s grin was a slash of yellow in the dim light.“Holy shit. You see that?Little faggot’s getting hard just thinking about it.”
Mark’s face burned. He could feel every pair of eyes lock onto the pathetic attempt at concealment, seeing straight through his trembling fingers.A low, rumbling chuckle moved through the group, a sound of pure, vicious delight. He wanted the concrete to swallow him whole.
“He’s blushing like a goddamn bride,” someone muttered.Jeb watched, his expression one of cold amusement. “Seems your body’s smarter than you are, boy.It knows what it needs. Now pick.”
“I… I can’t,” Mark whispered, the words sticking in his throat. His mind screamed at him to run, but his legs were water. The circle of men seemed to contract, the damp, reeking walls of the stall closing in.
“Can’t?” Jeb repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. He took a single step forward, a predator with all the time in the world. “Or won’t?”
Before Mark could form another useless denial, Jeb’s hands shot out. They didn’t strike him, but shoved him hard, one palm flat against his sternum.The force was brutal, direct, sending Mark stumbling backward.
He careened into the chest of the worker with the lazy eye, who let out a grunt and shoved him back toward the center. “Whoa there, princess.”
Mark staggered, arms wheeling, only to be pushed from another angle, a different pair of hands sending him spinning. “Spin the bottle, city boy!” another voice crowed.He became a ragdoll in a ring of grinning faces. Hands from every direction—some shoving, some groping a pinch of his flesh, one slapping his half-hard cock as he stumbled past—kept him in a dizzying, off-balance orbit. The world was a blur of concrete, leering eyes, and strobing light from the bare bulb overhead. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps. Each impact jolted his full belly, sent a fresh throb of awareness through his aching chest.
“Please, stop,” he begged, but the words were lost in the rough laughter and the scuffle of boots.
Jeb watched from the edge, a conductor of this brutal symphony.Mark’s vision swam, his footing gone. He tripped over his own unsteady feet, pitching forward.He didn’t hit the cold floor. He collided with a solid, sweat-slick wall of muscle and body heat—Boyd. The larger man didn’t yield an inch, letting Mark’s weight settle against him for a pregnant, terrible second.Boyd’s arms came up, not to catch him, but to trap him. One locked around his chest, pressing against his sore, leaking nipples. The other hand slid down, over his stomach, and cupped him firmly between the legs, feeling the full, shameful erection Mark could no longer hide.
“Ooh, he’s eager,” Boyd rumbled into his ear, the words vibrating through Mark’s spine.
He rutted slowly, the friction maddening.“Say it. Tell me what you are.”
Mark squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners.The words were ash in his mouth. “I’m… I’m a faggot.”
Boyd’s hand cracked across his face, sharp and stinging.“Louder.And moan it. Moan like the little faggot you are.”
A sob wracked Mark’s chest. He let out a shuddering breath that dissolved into a high, strained whimper. “I’m a faggot,” he moaned, the sound broken and weak.
“Better.” Boyd rewarded him with a harder grind, the pressure exquisite and awful.“Now, what’s my name? Who’s giving this to you?”
Mark’s mind raced, blank with shame.The correct word felt like swallowing broken glass. “Boyd…”
Another sharp slap.“Wrong. Try again, you stupid bitch.”
The threat of him leaving, of being handed off, loomed larger than the humiliation. “Daddy,” Mark choked out, the word foreign and filthy on his tongue. “Please, Daddy.”
“There you go.” Boyd’s voice dripped with slick approval. He pushed forward, just the crown of his penis breaching the tight, resisting ring of muscle.A sharp, burning stretch made Mark cry out. “Now tell Daddy why you need it. Be specific.”
Mark was trembling, a full-body shudder that came from a soul-deep fracture. The pleasure-pain of the partial invasion was a drug, pulling him under. He was chasing the ruinous climax from before, desperate for the shattered oblivion it promised.“I need it,” he panted, his back arching. “I need your big dick, Daddy.”
Boyd slid another inch inside, the stretch deepening, a glorious, punishing fullness. “Why?”
“Because I’m a bitch,” Mark whimpered, the confession spilling out. “I’m a whiny little faggot.”
“And?” Boyd prompted, his voice a gravelly growl as he seated himself another fraction deeper, making Mark gasp.
“And I need it so fucking bad!” Mark screamed, the admission tearing from some deep, broken place. “I need your big dick so fucking bad because I’m a bitchy, whiny, little faggot!”
“Good boy,” Boyd purred. And with a brutal, final thrust, he sheathed himself entirely, burying his full, impossible length inside Mark with a wet, splitting sound.Mark’s world dissolved into pure, white-hot sensation. The air left his lungs in a punched-out groan.He was impaled, filled, stretched beyond anything he thought possible. Boyd leaned down, his sweat dripping onto Mark’s face.
“Now,” Boyd commanded, his breath hot and sour.“Moo for me. Moo for your Daddy.”
Overwhelmed, split open, Mark obeyed. A low, guttural “moo” vibrated from his chest, mingling with his sobs as Boyd began to move.
The sound was a key turning in a rusty lock, and Boyd began to fuck him in earnest, his hips driving forward with a slow, grinding force that punched the air from Mark’s lungs with every stroke. “Wait,” Mark gasped, his mind scrambling for any escape, “let me go and I’ll… I’ll do anything else.” Boyd laughed, a harsh bark, and leaned close, his thrusts never faltering. “Them other boys outside ain’t got my patience,” he grunted, “they’d hold you down and take a straight razor to every bit of hair on your pretty little body, head to toe, before they even stuck a dick in you.” Mark’s eyes went wide with a new, primal fear, and as if summoned, rough hands from the shadows of the cabin seized fistfuls of his wet hair, yanking his head back.
The grip in his hair was vicious, scalping-tight, holding his head immobile while Boyd hammered into him from behind. Mark could smell the men flanking him—unwashed skin, stale tobacco, the oily scent of machinery. They didn’t speak, just breathed heavily, spectators to his breaking.
“See?” Boyd grunted, his rhythm a relentless piston. “They’re just waiting for a turn. You wanna be their pretty little hairless piglet? Squealing while they scrape you raw?”
Mark shook his head, a frantic twitch against the restraining hands. The image was obscenely vivid, a final layer of violation he couldn’t absorb. “No,” he sobbed. “Please, no.”
Boyd drove deep and stayed there, a burning, full ache. “Then be still. And take what I’m giving you.”
He stilled, the threat thicker than the cock inside him. The hands in his hair loosened, then withdrew, fading back into the cabin’s gloom. Mark went limp against the rough wall, his body accepting the full, penetrating stretch. Boyd’s sweat dripped onto his back, each drop a brand. He fucked with a slower, more deliberate cadence now, a deep, grinding claim that made Mark’s oversensitized nerves spark and jump.
A broken noise, something between a whimper and a moan, escaped Mark’s lips with each inward stroke. His own cock, trapped against the splintered wood, was painfully hard, leaking a slick thread of precum that clung to the timber. The shame was a bonfire in his gut, but the physical response was absolute, a betraying tide he could no longer fight. He was pushing back, meeting Boyd’s thrusts with a weak, shameful arc of his own hips.
“That’s it,” Boyd murmured, his voice a rough scrape of approval. He slid a hand around Mark’s torso, his palm rasping over the tender, swollen curve of Mark’s breast. He pinched the hardened nipple, twisting slightly, and a fresh bead of clear liquid welled up. “Dripping like a tapped maple. You’re fucking made for this.”
The dual sensations—the deep, pounding fullness and the sharp, clarifying pain in his chest—coiled the tension in Mark’s gut into a vise. He was hurtling toward the edge again, that same catastrophic oblivion. His breaths came in short, ragged pants. “Daddy, I’m gonna…”
“Do it,” Boyd commanded, his thrusts becoming punishingly short and hard. “Come like the bitch you are. Show me.”
The climax didn’t shatter him this time; it liquefied him. It was a hot, silent rush that left his muscles useless, his vision graying at the edges. His cock pulsed against the wall, spilling his release in weak, throbbing jets. His body clamped down on Boyd’s shaft in rhythmic, fluttering convulsions.
Boyd groaned, a sound of deep, carnal satisfaction, and followed him over. Mark felt the hot, sudden flood inside, a claiming warmth that filled the spaces Boyd’s cock had carved. Boyd held himself there, throbbing, for a long moment before slowly pulling out.
The loss was physical, a cold, empty ache. Mark sagged, his forehead against the wall, his body trembling with spent shame. He felt the trickle of their combined mess start to slide down the inside of his thigh.
Boyd stepped back, zipping his pants. He surveyed Mark’s slumped, filthy form in the dim light. “Christ, you’re a mess,” he said, but the edge was gone from his voice. It was almost matter-of-fact. “Can’t present you tomorrow looking and smelling like a fucking barnyard. Buyers expect a certain… cleanliness.”
He grabbed Mark’s arm, not with brutality, but with a firm purpose. “C’mon. Bath time.”
He pulled Mark through a door at the back of the cabin into a small, dank washroom. A deep, cast-iron tub sat in the center, already filled with steamy water from a pipe fed by the property’s spring. The air was thick with moisture and the scent of cheap, pine-tar soap.
Boyd didn’t instruct. He simply pushed Mark toward the tub. “In.”
Mark climbed in, the hot water a shocking, almost painful relief on his cold, abraded skin. He sank into it, wanting to disappear beneath the surface. Boyd, watching him for a moment, began to strip off his own clothes. His boots thudded on the floor, then his pants. His thick, still-glistening cock hung heavily between his legs.
He climbed into the tub opposite Mark, the water level rising and sloshing over the sides. The space was cramped, their legs tangling under the opaque water.
“Hand me the soap,” Boyd said, his voice low.
Mark numbly passed the rough brown bar. Boyd lathered his hands, the pungent smell of pine filling the steam. Then he moved forward, his knees bumping Mark’s. He began to wash him.
It was not tender. It was thorough. Boyd’s calloused hands scrubbed over every inch, from the hollow of his throat, over the disturbing swell of his chest—where his touch lingered, working the soap into the sensitive flesh until it tingled—down the curve of his distended belly. He turned Mark, scrubbing his back, the hard muscles of his shoulders, the globes of his ass, the back of his thighs. He washed between his cheeks, his fingers probing the sore, stretched entrance with a clinical roughness that made Mark jolt.
“Gotta be clean,” Boyd muttered, as if explaining it to himself.
The brutal scrubbing gradually slowed. The hands grew less abrasive, more possessive. Boyd rinsed him by scooping handfuls of hot water over his skin. Once the soap was gone, Boyd didn’t move back. He stayed close in the cooling water. He pulled Mark against his chest, Mark’s back to Boyd’s front.
One heavy arm draped around Mark’s waist, holding him there. Boyd’s other hand moved in slow, broad circles over Mark’s belly, then up to knead the swollen flesh of his chest again. It wasn’t to extract anything now. It was a slow, rhythmic massage.
Mark was rigid, confused, trapped in a new kind of proximity. The heat of Boyd’s body seeped into him. The hand on his stomach was strangely anchoring. His head fell back against Boyd’s shoulder, a profound exhaustion weighing down every bone. A sound escaped him, a faint, shuddering sigh.
Boyd’s lips were near his ear. “See? This part ain’t so bad, is it?”
The words were a poison, seeping into the cracks. This, the warm water, the solid presence at his back, felt like salvation after the concrete, the rope, the splitting pain. It was a lie. He knew it was a lie. But his body, desperate for any respite, craved it.
Boyd began to move subtly, rocking them both. His erection, which had softened, began to thicken again, nudging against the small of Mark’s back. The hand on Mark’s stomach slid lower, under the water, fingers tracing through the coarse hair until they wrapped around Mark’s own limp cock.
Mark tensed. “No…”
“Shhh,” Boyd murmured, his mouth against Mark’s neck. He didn’t stroke him, just held him, a warm, firm weight in his palm. “Just feeling. Just getting comfortable.”
He continued to rock, a gentle, insistent motion. His own hips pressed forward, his hard length now sliding against the cleft of Mark’s ass. The friction was maddening, indirect but undeniable. The hand on Mark’s cock remained, a passive claim. Boyd’s other hand slid up to cradle the base of Mark’s throat, not squeezing, just holding.
Mark’s breath hitched. His own traitorous flesh began to stir in Boyd’s loose grip, filling out, thickening. A low groan vibrated in Boyd’s chest. “There you go.”
Overwhelmed by a confluence of exhaustion, base sensation, and this horrifying parody of intimacy, Mark’s hands, which had been floating limply at his sides, moved. They came up and gripped Boyd’s thick thighs under the water. He held on.
It was an admission. A surrender.
Boyd made a pleased, humming sound. He released Mark’s throat and instead wrapped both arms around him fully, pulling him even tighter against his body. He shifted them slightly, guiding Mark’s hips, until their erections slid together, trapped between Mark’s stomach and Boyd’s encircling arm.
“Rub,” Boyd whispered, his voice thick.
And Mark did. He pushed back against Boyd, feeling the hard, hot slide of their cocks together. He moved his hips in a small, frantic circle, chasing the friction. It was different from being penetrated—this was mutual, conspiratorial. Filthy. His head fell back fully onto Boyd’s shoulder, his eyes closed tight. He could hear Boyd’s ragged breathing in his ear, could feel the man’s stubble scratching his temple.
“Yeah, you little fucker,” Boyd panted, his own hips bucking up to meet Mark’s grinding motions. “Use me. Get yourself off.”
The water sloshed around them, a rhythmic slap against the iron tub. Mark’s movements grew more desperate, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pleasure built, coiling from that shameful, joined point of contact, spreading through his belly, his thighs. He was rutting against his tormentor like an animal, and it was the most intensely alive he’d felt since he arrived. His fingers dug into Boyd’s thighs.
Boyd’s hand snaked down between their bodies, his fist closing around both of their cocks, squeezing them tightly together. His stroke was brutal and efficient. “Come on, pretty boy. Milk those fucked-up tits and cream all over my hand. Do it.”
The crude command, the overwhelming sensation, the unbearable intimacy of the act broke him. Mark cried out, a raw, undignified sound, as his orgasm ripped through him. His back arched violently against Boyd’s chest, his hips stuttering as he spilled over Boyd’s knuckles and into the bathwater.
Boyd followed seconds later, his own groan harsh and guttural, his hot release mixing with Mark’s, his fist pumping them both through the final pulses.
Silence fell, broken only by their labored breathing and the slow drip of water from the tap. Boyd’s grip loosened. He didn’t push Mark away. He kept holding him, both of them slick with sweat and spent seed, floating in the cooling, sullied water.
He nuzzled into Mark’s hair. “You’re ready,” he said, his voice a satisfied rumble. “They’re gonna love you at that auction tomorrow.”
The water had gone cold, a greasy film of soap and spent seed swirling around their limbs. Boyd’s arms, which had felt like a cage of living iron, finally loosened. He pushed Mark forward, a wordless command. “Out,” he grunted, heaving himself up and over the rim of the tub. Water cascaded from him, slapping onto the rough plank floor.
Mark climbed out, his body leaden and strangely hollow. The air was a shock, raising gooseflesh on his slick skin. Boyd worked a rusted plug at the base of the tub with his foot, twisting it until it gave with a groan. A deep, gurgling suction sound filled the room as the filthy water began to drain, carrying their effluence away.
Boyd tossed him a thin, scratchy towel that smelled of lye. “Dry. Everywhere.” He watched, arms crossed over his broad chest, as Mark complied with trembling hands. The rough fabric dragged over his tender nipples, making him hiss, and over the soreness between his legs. He was pink and raw everywhere.
When Mark was done, Boyd took the damp towel and hung it on a nail. He pointed to a low stool in the center of the room. “Sit.”
Mark sat. The wood was cold against his thighs. Boyd moved to a shelf cluttered with tin cans, jars of salve, and various tools. He retrieved a straight razor, a brush, a bowl, and a cracked bar of shaving soap. He worked in silence, building a thick lather in the bowl. The rhythmic scrape of the bristles was the only sound.
He started with Mark’s head, his large hand cupping Mark’s crown, tilting it forward. The first touch of the razor at the base of his skull was a cold, sharp whisper. Mark flinched. “Hold still,” Boyd said, his voice devoid of its earlier taunting cruelty. This was pure procedure. “You jerk, I’ll peel you like a grape.”
Mark locked his muscles, staring at the water stains on the floor between his feet. He heard the rasp of the blade, felt the drag against his scalp, then a patch of startling, cool air. Tufts of his short brown hair fell silently onto his shoulders and the floor. Boyd worked with efficient, sweeping strokes, clearing a wide path from his neck to his crown. The exposure was profound, a vulnerability that felt deeper than nakedness. With each pass, the person who had gotten off the bus eroded further.
Next were his armpits. Boyd hooked a hand under Mark’s arm, hauling it up. The razor navigated the hollow, its edge perilously close to the thin skin. Mark held his breath. The pubic area was worse. Boyd pushed his knees apart without ceremony. The cold lather was applied to his crotch. “Balls tight,” Boyd instructed, and Mark obeyed, terrified of the blade. Boyd shaved him with dispassionate precision, removing every curl of hair from his scrotum, his perineum, the base of his limp cock. The skin there was left feeling hypersensitive, new, and utterly exposed.
Finally, Boyd ran the razor over his legs and arms, leaving his skin smooth and strangely boyish. He rinsed the blade in a basin of clean water after each pass. When he was finished, he stepped back and surveyed his work. Mark sat hairless, pink, and gleaming under the lamp, his body transformed into something alien and plucked.
“Now the jewelry,” Boyd said. He rummaged in a small, stained leather pouch, producing a needle, a spool of black thread, and two small, heavy-looking stainless steel rings. He held the needle over the lamp’s flame for a moment, then let it cool.
He approached, the rings clinking in his palm. He didn’t ask. He pinched Mark’s right nipple, pulling the swollen nub away from the sore, rounded flesh of his breast. The touch was clinical. “This’ll hurt,” he said, almost kindly. Then he pushed the needle through.
Mark screamed. It was a white-hot lance of pure, focused agony that seemed to shoot straight into the core of the swollen milk gland beneath. His back arched off the stool. Boyd held him fast, his fingers like vices. He threaded the steel ring through the fresh hole, the cold metal a new shock against the burning tissue, and fastened it with a small clasp. A single bead of blood welled up, followed by a clear, pearly drop of fluid that dripped down the ring.
He repeated the process on the left side. Mark’s screams dissolved into choked, wet sobs. The rings felt impossibly heavy, foreign anchors in his flesh. Each slight movement made them sway, sending little jolts of pain through him.
Ears were next. The piercing of the lobes was a dull, distant pressure compared to the violation of his chest. Boyd inserted simple steel studs, twisting the backs on tight. “So buyers know you’re branded,” he muttered, wiping a smear of blood from Mark’s earlobe with his thumb.
He pushed Mark off the stool, onto his hands and knees on the damp floor. “Stay.”
Boyd walked to a corner and returned with a faded red canvas bag. He upended it. Three polished billiard balls—the eight-ball, the four-ball, the solid yellow one-ball—rolled onto the planks with a series of heavy, solid thunks. They were cool to the touch, their surfaces flawless.
He knelt behind Mark. One broad hand spread his ass cheeks wide, exposing him. The other, slicked with a glob of lard from a jar, pressed the cold, hard sphere of the eight-ball against his entrance. Mark clenched instinctively, a pathetic reflex. “Open up,” Boyd said, and pushed.
The stretch was immense, a slow, crushing invasion of unyielding sphere. Mark groaned, his forehead dropping to the wood. The ball was too large, it was impossible, but Boyd leaned his weight into it, a steady, relentless pressure that forced the muscle to relent millimeter by terrifying millimeter. With a final, wet pop, the ball slid past the ring of muscle and lodged deep inside, a dense, spherical weight filling his cavity.
Mark panted, drooling onto the floor. The sensation was of being packed, stuffed with something inert and permanent. Before he could adjust, he felt the second ball, the four-ball, nosing at the same stretched opening. “Oh god, no more,” Mark begged, his voice shattered.
“Two more,” Boyd said flatly. He pushed the four-ball in. It was easier, the way already conquered, but the added volume was breathtaking. Mark’s abdomen felt distended from the inside in a new way, a hard, mechanical fullness. The yellow one-ball followed, completing a heavy, shifting column within him. He could feel their individual shapes, their cool, smooth surfaces pressed against his inner walls. He was gagged from behind, utterly filled.
Boyd left him there for a long minute, kneeling and stuffed, the steel rings in his nipples pulling with their own insistent weight. Then he produced the final piece: a tapered black rubber plug, flared at the base, with a faceted glass jewel set into the end. He coated it thickly with lard.
He worked the billiard balls out, one by one, each exit a slick, hollow release that left him gaping and empty. Before that emptiness could register, Boyd pressed the plug’s tip against him. It slid in with obscene ease, the tapered shape burying itself deep until the flared base sealed snugly against him. The jewel, a fake amethyst, rested cold against his perineum.
Boyd patted his flank. “All done. You’re prepped.” He pulled Mark to his feet. The plug shifted inside him, a constant, intrusive reminder. The rings swayed. His shaved skin prickled in the draft. “Tomorrow, they’ll see a clean, smooth, properly accessorized product. Nothing left of that whiny little boy from the city.” He guided Mark toward a pallet of straw in the corner. “Sleep. You’ll need your strength.” Mark collapsed onto the rough bedding, curled on his side, every modified part of his body screaming a different, synchronized note of ownership. The auction awaited.