Copyright 2015 by the author. For personal use only. Not for distribution.
garystayton@yahoo.com
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Author's note: Thanks to those who have emailed. At the end of this chapter, the story faces its first little crossroads. If you want to see the story move in a certain direction, feel free to let me know. Comments and suggestions most welcome.
Disclaimer: The story should not be read by minors. If you are under the legal age, do not read any further. If you will be offended by gay bondage porn, read no further.
The characters and events exist in a fantasy setting and are obviously not representative of any realist narrative.
CAPTURED STUDS of GNOR
***Chapter 4.
Men did inspect us as our day on the blocks approached, and there was some interest shown to me, for one of the things being looked-for was a suitable dancer for the harlot-clubs.
"This one is the slenderest and has the most narrow, lively hips," one did say, pointing to me. "He will shimmy and jive most energetically and well on a bar-room plinth. What do you say, boy? Don't be shy! Ye hath a fine little rump for a-moving and a-shaking, and ye will learn to be an excellent hippity-hop boogie-dancer for the tavern crowds."
Whatever the merits of boogie-dancing may be, and whatever skills and talents are involved therein, I had no such wish for this occupation. Not that I have reasons against the practice, excepting whereupon singing and dancing and jigging is a profession for girls and not any self-respecting man who should otherwise be hunting for his tribe. Nay, the obvious reason for my reluctance to become a warbling harlot-dancer was the significant alteration made by knife to my male-parts which would precede the commencement of this undignified profession. As it turned out, I was spared this fate, but it meant that another of my comrades must undergo the transformation, and this was Ptetor.
"Withhold!" said one of the men. "He is far better suited for training in harness. Let us not sell him to a cheap house. Take that other one."
Thusly, Ptetor was chosen, and we did hear him sing most high after he was taken into a shed, and from this we did presume him to become a trilling vocalist and hip-hop dancer for the stripping-clubs. The others of us – eight now in number – were washed and shaved and slathered in hot chicken-fat so that our muscles may gleam and shine for display on the block.
Again in the bustling street. Truly, this constant commotion and hubbub of Methane City did make me somewhat out of my mind. This time, we eight studs did stand naked and yoked in a bamboo cage on a wagon. Pulled by a donkey, we were thusly drawn through the thoroughfares to the big market-place.
Market-day in Methane City is no small affair, and it was hard to believe that this city could conjure more people than we had already seen. The crowds were most numerous and I did gasp at the sight of so many. Clowns and jesters did perform. Small children did dance and skip along behind our wagon which rolled and bumped on stone streets. The people were prettily dressed and they did laugh and chat and point at us. I did see very strange sights from my place in the wagon, and amongst these was what I first believed to be an incredibly gigantic mouse, who was popular with swarms of children, and then I did discern that this exraordinary rodent was in fact a man in a large, furry suit, and that this artefact did in some way represent a cultural product of Methane City.
There were ladies and gentlemen sitting drinking tea, which they had bought from vendors under striped tents. A jolly orchestra did make much cacophonic noise with blowing horns and jangling brass and banging drums.
"Eight studs from the Wild-Plains tribes!" a man did shout through a hooter as we entered the fray high in our donkey-vehicle. This man did stand on a fenced dais, and he wore red and white stripes and a round hat, and he was much given to the talking professions.
"The stars of today's show! Look at them, ladies and gentlemen! Hath thee not seen such fine bucks? Who will buy which? Whomsoever doth bid must be willing to shell great prices for this high-quality flesh!"
There were eight solid wooden blocks spaced widely in line, so that there may be room for many interested persons to circulate about. These blocks were three-feet high, and did each stand next to a thick, tall post. We were stamped with strange inscriptions upon our breasts and butts, and the chicken-fat on our bodies was refreshed so that we did shine with fine lustre in the sun. I did mount the block and feel its hard, oily surface under my bare toes as my yoke was affixed to the post with a black-iron chain. Thusly did I stand, and I did feel strongly the many eyes upon me as I presented oiled, naked, and yoked neck-and-wrist.
Indeed, a great many people did inspect me thus, and made learned comments to each other. Their eyes did scan me and their mouths did mutter. The men did nod knowingly. The women behaved with more modesty, glancing and blushing and lowering their eyes. Young people did grin, and small children did stand goggle-eyed, licking on stick-candy and wondering at the curious spectacle of the big studs on the blocks.
Justin Kylon Waynor the Third did make an appearance, the famous punker-boy who hath appeared in earlier episodes, and this did prompt me to shout;
"Mr. Waynor the Third," I did boom menacingly. "Boy. Ye see me for the last time, so feed thine eyes on this rare manliness which stands before ye naked and yoked like an animal!"
"If I were a rich man," sayeth the punk. "I would buy thee and make a sturdy kennel for thine keep, and verily ye would be tamed and be my buck."
"Do ye think a scrawny Methane City stripling can tame this potent stud? Behold, punker-boy. I am yoked hard and chained on the block, and if it were not for my heavy bonds, ye could not catch me or stop me, and I would sooner be flayed, skinned, and boiled in a pot than be domesticated by the likes of ye!"
"Jing jing," said the boy. "It is a shame. The methane-pits may be better for thee. Some men doth buy their live natives for work, and some doth buy them for their beauty, and some for fun. Dagger Direcaster – the skin trader – doth make costly pelts, and he chooses the most suitable hides for tanning. He is here somewhere, and he will pick a buck for skinning alive."
At this juncture, buyers began to put their hands on me, and there were many sliding fingers which checked my flesh and tested my muscle. My balls were weighed in a succession of cupped hands, and my rear-crack did grip hard upon those fingers which were pushed there.
"Gods and Gargoyles!" sayeth one lady. "Didst thou wish me to feel his ass? It is small and very hard. Mary, Madeline, Masie! It is warm and smooth and most strong!"
"I will leave thee to thine cultured inspectors, and wish thee bought by a farmer who will know the value of his stock, and have you fed well, healthy, and harnessed to the plough," said Justin Kylon Waynor the Third. "Jing jing."
The lad dropt his wheeled skating-board to the stone with a clunk and trundled off into the throng with a rattle. And hereby, serious buyers did now approach and demand to see my teeth. My rump was firmly slapped. My penis was flicked and my nips tweaked. An oily finger did slip hard into my rearward crevice and enter my hole, and it did probe most boldly, for it manipulated my inner bulb and caused me to make high-pitched, bird-like calls.
My schlong did fold hard and upright into my gut, and I did feel a warm rush deep in my belly and balls as the nudging finger did play my quavering tune.
"...Aaah!...Aaah!... Aaah!..." I did sing, swivelling on the block and clanking against my chain.
A man did smile at me, and this man did wear leather breeches and a beard, and his face did show me an amused look as he listened to my distressed trills. I met his eye and saw a fixed, steel glint there which showed to me something of his determined character.
"Ye warble high and sweet like a choirboy, pretty native younker. Show me your spirit!" he said cheerfully, and I did reply thusly;
"Sir, ye see here an untamed, unbroken man of the Wild-Plains, and whether ye may buy him and skin him or dangle him from his balls, he will remain proud and worthy of his tribe!"
And I spake with some measure of anger and ferocity. The bearded man with sharp flint-eyes did seem to enjoy my pronouncement, for he grinned most widely with white teeth.
"Excellent!" said he. "There is strong conviction in thy breast, and hard, graceful muscle in thy sleek frame. And your cock doth present your vigour with rigid meat. My name is Kerek Kurk, and I am the Chief-Trainer at Captain Jedsire's Harness Stud Farm."
"Sir," I did say. "If Captain Jedsire and his Harness Stud Farm were anything to me, I would be sure to curse him, his farm, and all his Chief-Trainers and servants. As it is, I cannot be inconvenienced by thinking about such things, for I am to be sold-off as merchandise."
"Lad," he did continue merrily. "Captain Jedsire and I are in search of fine cuts of stud-muscle for the betting-races, and ye will look and perform most well under harness and whip. The fine ladies and gentlemen often wager generously on a handsome buck, and in ye they will find a most appealing specimen for their stake. Ha! Ha! Ha! That is if you break hard on the track in leash and buckle! My eyes tell me that you will make a fine pulling colt on the outside of a four-man team, where the lightest and speediest are placed in the chariot-rig!"
Thus; I found that I may be harnessed for sport. Other men did discuss me as a mining-mule, and did say that I might carry stones. Agents of the sewers considered sending me underground where I may be yoked to a methane-churn and live my days toiling in a dark tunnel. A sharp-nosed man – whom I had seen earlier in Chapter 2 – scrutinised me most close.
"I am a purveyor of fine things," he did day to the bidding-yard men. "And this buck will go well as an ornament for my garden-terrace in the Superior District – There is much heavy work, and when he is not lifting and building, he may clean my pool-for-swimming."
Indeed, there was a general confusion of people and clamour. There was earnest talk by men, giggling by girls, and sharp spit-darts shot by boys. My cock did strain hard at my loin, fearful and agitated as I was by the possibilities of my fate. I did sweat great beads in the sun, and this did make a bright sheen on me. A group of hirsute men in boots and animal skins did wish to pool their money and buy one of us.
"A big, strong buck will carry our boxes and equipment for our next expedition to the methane-deposits," they did say.
"A big, strong buck will surely escape once on the desert-plain," was a counter reply.
"Not if we ring his cock and tether him thus."
And presently, the auctioneer did begin his work. He did stand on a stool by the first yoked stud on the block, and this was Nzenzor.
Nzenzor did begin to yell and entreat the crowd to buy him and take him from his wretched pillory which enclosed his neck and wrists, and I did not know whether Nzenzor did adopt a wise course of action in deciding to make these applications. He was an impulsive lad who was known in our tribe for his japery and silly jokes. Now, on the block, he did make no more jokes. The first bidders were from the methane-pits, but they dropt-off early and Nzenzor was knocked-down to an agent of Hellstone Quarry. Jest and Jape no more, energetic Nzenzor, for thy strength will be needed for the eighteen hours per day heeding the overseer's whip. He was broken from his chain and stunned with a rawhide tawse. I last saw him with his yoke roped to the rear of a gig, his leather-burned rump running hard for the quarry.
Hsyor did go to Mr. Dagger Direcaster for his skin. And then it was my turn for the auctioneer's crop.
Who doth think I should be sold to Captain Jedsire's Harness Stud Farm? That I may be trained to prance and trot smartly and most diligently?
And who among thee believeth I should be sent to the methane-pits? Where I may be strapped to a great wheel and made to labor most hard at the churning of dung?
What about ownership by the Purveyor of Fine Things? In his garden I may clean his pool-for-swimming, which would seem a very odd thing to do.
Perhaps this stud should attend the quarries and be assigned rocks to break, and there may be those who think he should be skinned alive by Dagger Direcaster. Or maybe there are other very good ideas which I should be told about and which may be interesting to others. In any case, it should all be decided and told in the next chapter.
garystayton@yahoo.com