Becoming a Farm Slave by Devlin Farr jawhol56yes@live.com
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction.
It was early morning May when I knocked on the door of a Mr. Davis in rural Idaho. I was tipped off about Mr. Davis' work by a gay kink website where his profile listed that he managed slaves on his family farm. The farm had been passed down to Mr. Davis by his father, who had passed away a decade prior. Mr. Davis' profile mentioned his age as thirty-eight years old, but did not offer much more than that—not even pictures—likely to keep his identity safe from inquiring eyes.
I, being a freelance journalist working in the world of kink, was looking for a racy new piece to pitch to one of the larger gay magazines. While I spent a nice bit of time exploring the kink scene in nearby cities, it was also fun to peruse the inner-depths of unknown websites that offered tales and experiences most gay men could only dream of.
I messaged Mr. Davis after reading his profile, intrigued by the idea of interviewing a man (who, I assured him, would remain anonymous) who enticed gay men to his farm with the promise of a healthy, labor-filled lifestyle of becoming a farmhand, as well as a sexual pet. I, myself, have often dreamed of such a fulfilling fantasy, but having been in kink relationships before, allowing the kinkiness to progress past hour-long bondage and a bit of puppy play was a line I didn't want to cross. For if I enjoyed what was on the other side of that line, I did not want to even imagine how far down that rabbit hole I'd venture.
So, after sending a few messages back and forth—he was local, only a two-hour drive away—Mr. Davis agreed to give me an interview and show me his stable, provided I bring no recording devices; no equipment that offered visual evidence I was there, such as cameras; and that I remain respectful of the way he treats his slaves. After all, he reminded me, they were there voluntarily.
Mr. Davis was adamant about that last point. No slave was allowed on his property unless they voluntarily issued their consent in the form of signing a contract. Everything had to be documented, for should the authorities come knocking he would not be held liable for indenturing his slaves.
As I rapped the door several times, I took a look around. The farmland was massive, with no other structures visible for miles other than a large barn behind the main house, with a small shack off to its left. On the drive in, I passed through a small town about thirty minutes away—perhaps no more than 5,000 residents. From there, it was dirt road after dirt road. I was surprised I was able to find the farm without getting lost, but Mr. Davis had offered very specific instructions about where to turn (using phrases such as take the first left after the 70 mph sign' and take the second right just before the large boulder with graffiti').
I was startled by the sudden opening of the front door, and turned quickly to greet the man standing in the doorway. He was large and imposing, a hulking figure. Where I was 5'10" and a lean 175 lbs, this man positively filled the entire framework of the door. He had to be over 220 lbs, no question, and his head nearly hit the wood at the top of the frame. Definitely taller than six feet. The hair atop his head was blonde, but trimmed very short. His profile said he was 38, so almost a decade on my thirty years, but his very presence gave him the authority of someone with greater age and wisdom.
The screen door creaked open and he offered a meaty palm. "Hello there, you must be Chris, I take it?"
"Yeah, that's me!" I said, a little awestruck. I composed myself quickly and extended a hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Davis. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited to check out your farm!"
He grinned, revealing a full set of immaculate teeth. I suspect I may have been overeager, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to the man, so I kept trying to temper my enthusiasm.
"What should we do first?" he asked. "The interview? Or do you wanna see the stable?"
I could tell some color hit my cheeks at the mere thought of examining his...'stable.' It was a bit much, even for me. I was a professional, damn it. "The interview first, I think."
I had a tote bag around my shoulders and hauled out a notepad and a pen. Mr. Davis motioned inside and let me go first. I was immediately met with the sound of loud barking.
"Oh, shut up, Wolf," he yelled. Not a moment later, a large black Labrador appeared from around a corner. It snarled at me, but stayed in place. Mr. Davis laid an arm on my shoulder. "Don't worry about him. He's harmless," he said, and lead me to a small kitchen towards the rear of the house.
"Not my first time dealing with territorial dogs," I said, a small smile on my face.
"Oh, he's very territorial," Mr. Davis said. "So," he sat down in one chair, gesturing to the other for me to sit, "you have some questions?"
I sat down. "Yes. I'd like to just ask some general questions to allow readers to get a sense of who you are, why you were interested in starting the slave farm, how slaves are recruited, and how it's functioning today, if that's alright?"
He nodded. "Sure, sounds fine."
"Perfect! Let's start with you. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?"
He seemed a bit put on the spot, but rolled with it. "Well, I'm 38, worked on this farm since I was 12—my father taught me at a young age how to plant and harvest crops, as well as how to milk and take care of cows—"
I interrupted him. "So your farm isn't just for slaves? It's an agricultural and dairy farm?"
"Agricultural, yes. Dairy, no. There are cows, but they're merely used for their milk for the slaves and myself—any excess milk is sent to locals or the farmer's market."
"I see. So you inherited the farm, and...?" I prodded.
"Well, my dad passed away about nine years ago. He was a single father—never knew my mother. It made work on the farm tough, but, well, you can see I'm built for it." I nodded approvingly. "Being a gay man in this shithole meant almost no romantic life, especially with the way others treat you once they know what you do behind closed doors. And I hated being alone. So, I did up a profile looking for guys who were interested in working on my farm as a slave."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. I mean, I've had kink profiles for a long time, but never thought to do something so outrageous. But I was tired. And I was alone. And I have an extremely dominant personality. What better way to combine the difficulties of being a gay man and a dominant man than to order subservient men around in an isolated environment, away from the prying eyes of others?"
"And the slaves? They just messaged you?"
"Pretty much." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, his biceps bulging. "I originally had pictures of myself up, but once I got a few slaves, I didn't want people to be able to track me down. I let the profile do the talking."
"It's extremely direct," I joked.
"Hey, it got you here, didn't it?" he said with a smug grin.
"I, uhh..." I stammered before recovering, "for this piece, I need someone who is comfortable with being overbearing. When I read your profile, especially after learning you were in my neck of the woods, it was the obvious choice."
"Sure thing," he winked, then continued, "but yeah, guys were messaging me often—and still do—asking to join the farm. But I weed out the ones just looking to jack off or get a taste of some fantasy before they skedaddle. They have to want it. They have to come here, sign a contract, and then they're mine."
"They're...yours?"
"Yeah, my property. Don't get me wrong, it's not a your entire life is over' type of deal. I offer them a lot in exchange: free meals, a place to stay, medical, dental, sex. All they have to do is give their bodies—I want the labor in exchange. They do the work, they get their reward. Plus, a lot of these guys were scrawny little things, all skin and bones. I muscled em up. I also got a trainer who lives with me. His name's Josef. I pay him to whip em into shape and keep em honest."
"Do the slaves do all of the farm work?" I asked.
"Yep, all of it." He leaned forward, strong, tanned forearms on the table. "Slaves do all the labor, I work the business side of things. Josef trains them, keeps `em fed, clean, all that sort o' thing. If either of us gets sick, the other takes over."
"Sounds like you've got it all planned out," I said, capping the pen.
He grinned again. "Hey man, it's a good life. There's no judgment out here. No one to tell me what I can and can't do."
"Haha, sounds great, Mr. Davis." I realized then that I hadn't caught his first name.
"Hey, I got a question for you," he said. "You ever think of becoming a slave?"
I nearly fell out of my chair. That was incredibly direct, but, then again, I shouldn't have been surprised, knowing the man's character. "Uh, that's more of a kink thing for me, not a life thing."
"Oh yeah? What kind of master-slave stuff have you done?"
My brow began to sweat. This is not the kind of interview I was expecting. I needed to shut this down. "That's a bit personal, Mr. Davis."
He nodded his head slowly, as if admonished. "You're right, you're right..." he trailed off. "It's just, I wouldn't expect a journalist—even one involved in the kink field—to explore this kinda topic unless he's got his own interests, you know what I'm sayin'?" He hit me with a knowing look, a serious demeanor upon his face.
"It's just something I dabbled in," I said.
"Like...bondage? Or BDSM?" he inquired.
"A bit of both, and some, you know..." my hands flailed a bit, "some pup and leather stuff."
"Ah, child's play," he said, standing up from his seat. "Well, you ever wanna try a test run on some harder stuff, you let me know," he said, winking again. "Shall we go check out the stable?"
I hadn't noticed it until now, but my cock was hard and pressing against the fabric of my jeans. It wasn't too hot, so jeans weren't a moronic choice for clothing, but the shape would be noticeable if I stood up now.
"What about Josef?" I asked, wondering where the other man was.
"Josef's gone into town for some groceries and the farmer's market. I told him you were coming over, just so he'd be aware for when he got home. Now, come on, let's go. I gotta feed and water `em now anyway."
I hesitated. "Feed and water them now? Isn't it..." I checked my watch. Almost ten in the morning. "...a bit late for that? On a farm, anyway?"
Mr. Davis took a look outside at the sun. "Nah, this day's a bit of a rest for `em. Too much other work for me and Josef to be doin'."
"Oh," I said.
He grew impatient with me. "You gonna get off your ass or what?" he barked. I immediately jumped into action, pocketing my pad and pen.
"Sorry, sir."
He stopped and gave me a curious glance. "What did you say to me?"
I looked up at his face. Shit. "Uh, I said sorry?"
He smiled. "You called me `sir,' boy. I think you got a bit of a sub streak in you yet."
"It's a term of respect," I said, "and you're showing me your place. That's all."
"Nah, I don't think so," he said, opening the screen door towards the barn. I followed closely behind him, feeling extremely uneasy at his ability to read people. "I think you're falling into old habits. Plus, you think I can't see that hard-on?"
I blushed, but his back was turned to me as I trailed behind him. "It's nothing."
"It's fine, boy," he said. The term `boy' was getting under my skin. I was a journalist here for a story—I was not here to be belittled. "I know I'm hot and I know this experience, being yelled at and the whole domination aspect of kink, I know that's a huge turn-on for subs like you."
"It's not about that—"
"Plus, check out these muscles." I had forgotten to mention that he was wearing a plain T-shirt and shorts. He flexed his muscles while turning to look at me. "We're both gay, boy. Just accept that fact and enjoy your time here. You'll be home soon. No need to be weirded out."
I rolled my eyes at his bravado and kept my thoughts to myself. We trampled through small weeds and gravel until we reached the barn.
"Here it is," he grinned, hauling the door open. "Home, sweet home."