Making an Old Farmer Happy

Here's a double sized post to make up for missing Friday. Hope you enjoy! This is an older story I don't think I ever got around to posting anywhere.

Fall

Despite the odds, Ray was doing it--he was actually going to college. It hadn’t been easy, growing up in a small town, living with a single mom who was drunk most of the time, with no father in the picture since he’d up and left when Ray was five or so. But Ray was smart, and he knew that the only way he was going to be able to get out of that place was by going to college. He worked his ass off through high school, and got into several of the schools he’d applied for--the only problem was the money. His family didn’t exactly have a lot of cash on hand, and even with loans, there was no way he’d be able to attend any of the fancier private universities he’d set his eyes on. In the end, he settled for the state school a few hours away in a small college town. Most of the folks in town worked or supported the students at the college in one way or another, though on the outskirts, it was still a farming community, with plenty of small scale farms growing everything from wine to livestock in the hills and valleys. Between grants and loans, Ray’s tuition was covered--the only struggle was going to be room and board. Staying on campus was recommended, but incredibly expensive. He’d heard that some students had luck staying off campus instead. He figured he’d investigate the possibility, and that was how he found himself connected with Tim, one of the farmers outside of town.

Tim was looking for someone to help out on the farm with some basic, menial labor, and while he couldn’t pay a lot of money, he had something else to offer--his guest room and free meals. It seemed like the perfect deal for Ray. He had room and board taken care of, and a little spending money. All he’d have to do is a little farmwork, something he’d been doing as a teenager anyway in his own community, since he couldn’t count on his deadbeat mom to help him out financially. He sent Tim a response to his ad, and got a reply back quickly--Tim needed someone to start pretty much immediately before the harvest season got going in a couple of weeks. Ray didn’t object--it would give him a couple of weeks to get settled before starting school proper. He packed up his things, told his mom he wouldn’t be coming back if he could help it, and the next day he was pulling into the driveway of Tim’s farm.

Tim was in his mid fifties, a bit shorter than Ray was, who was not particularly tall himself. Ray had always been a bit small and scrawny for his age, and when he got out of the car, Tim sized him up a bit, and looked a bit disappointed. If he’d been hoping for someone a bit heftier, he didn’t say so, he came out, shook Ray’s hand, and helped him carry his luggage up to his room, telling him he’d cook him up a little something, since he must be hungry.

A little something turned out to be a massive dinner. Tim turned out to be a rather charming fellow, with a bright, infectious laugh and a constant twinkle in his eye, like he always had a little secret he wasn’t planning on sharing--unless you asked real nice. Ray, who had never had much of a father figure in his life, found himself drawn in immediately, listening to Tim’s stories and tangents. It was late when they finally went upstairs, and before he went in, Tim clapped him on his shoulder. “You seem like a good kid, Ray, I think you’ll make this old farmer real happy.” It gave Ray a little flutter, that approval. He climbed into the twin bed, grinning from ear to ear. It seemed almost too good to be true. Maybe, finally, things were going to start going right for him.

The next day, a different sort of Tim stormed into Ray’s room at five in the morning, telling him to get his ass up and get dressed--there was work to be done. He chucked a pair of blue coveralls and rubber waders next to the bed. “Put those on--that’ll be your work uniform. Might as well wreck some of my old clothes instead of yours.”

Despite Tim being shorter than Ray was, the coveralls were at least a size too large for him. He had to roll up the sleeves and tuck the pant legs into the waders, which were also a bit big on him. He went downstairs, ready to ask for some other clothes, only to be served breakfast, another substantial meal like the night before. Tim didn’t give him time to bring up the ill-fitting gear, they ate and went right out into the dawn light to get to work. Tim had expected some work to do with harvesting, but instead, Tim brought him to a big pile of rocks behind the barn. “What I need is a new stone fence around the property--that’s what I want ya to work on. There’s the wheelbarrow, the fence is started over yonder,” he pointed across at least a quarter mile, to where a chest high stone fence stopped. “It don’t have to be perfect, just get it built. That’ll make me real happy, if ya’d do that for me.”

“I have helped with plenty of harvests before, you know,” Ray said.

“I need this fence built boy, I don’t have the bones for that kind of liftin’ no more.”

It was boring work, but it was work. He’d load up the wheelbarrow, cart the rocks over, build up the fence, and repeat the process while Tim worked around the rest of the small farm. Tim would check on him on occasion, tell him he was real happy with the work he’d done, and that same little flutter would hit him, making Ray feel warm in a way that was unfamiliar, but rather thrilling all the same. He worked harder, finding himself excited for Tim’s approval, until the afternoon, when Tim told him it was time for dinner. Another massive meal, another evening spent chatting, and Ray went back to bed, his first day finished.

He hurt the next day, but not as much as he expected. He kept working on the fence every day getting a little further, settling into a routine. He was surprised when the first day of college orientation came, and he felt a little uncomfortable in his regular clothes, after wearing those coveralls so much. College was difficult to adjust to. His classes were harder than he was expecting, and with the work on the farm still needing to be done, he struggled to balance them effectively. When he fell behind on the fence, he could sense the disappointment in Tim’s voice, and he’d work harder, even into the dark, to catch up, just so he’d be happy and praise him. It was a bit of a drug--and after a month, he noticed something else.

The coveralls were fitting him better. He didn’t need to roll up the sleeves, his feet fit the waders, and he’d added quite a bit of mass. Tim told him he was looking rather handsome after packing on some size, and Ray found himself agreeing. Class was getting harder and harder, and Ray struggled to focus on his studies. He found himself looking forward to the menial labor of the farm more than school. Tim didn’t miss an opportunity to rib him when he was studying, either, telling him that he’d never seen the point of college, or school in general. After all, he hadn’t even graduated high school, and he’d turned out just fine. If Ray disagreed, that disappointment would rise again, and he’d change course, trying to keep Tim happy. He would even skip classes on some days to catch up with the stone fence.

It was around October that Ray noticed how often Tim would touch him. Rubbing his shoulders, gripping his arm, scruffing his hair. It always seemed a little too familiar, a little too intimate. Ray would talk about girls at school he was talking too, and Tim would always ridicule them, tear them down, and Ray found himself agreeing with the farmer’s assessment each time. “The only people who really understand men are other men,” Tim said one evening after a bit too much whiskey.

“Yeah, I can see that, I guess,” Ray said, still in his coveralls.

“You can, can you?” Tim said and got up. He came around behind Ray and started rubbing his shoulders, then ran his hands down to his chest and gave him a squeeze. “Gettin’ big, boy, real handsome.”

“Tim, I’m straight.”

“Ya don’t gotta remind me. I can’t help it that you’re sexy as hell. Just make this old farmer happy, would ya? Been a long time since a handsome young stud like you was in my house. I just want us both tah feel good.”

A few more drinks, and they ended up in Tim’s bedroom, the farmer bent over the side of the bed, and Ray fucking his fat ass. Ray didn’t really enjoy it--if anything, he felt a bit forced into it, but afterwards, while Tim was lying on him, he told him how happy he’d made him, living here with him, and Ray felt that same tingle of pleasure he always felt when Tim praised him. He told himself it would just be a one time thing, but from that night on, it seemed that Ray would always end up in the same compromising position, fucking Tim’s ass.

This was wrong, he told himself one night, falling asleep, still in his coveralls in waders. He’d gotten in too deep somehow. He’d quit the next day, find another room, something else that wasn’t this, but the next morning, his resolve would fail him. What harm was there really, in making the farmer happy? After all, when Tim was happy, wasn’t Ray happy too?

*

Winter

When Winter break arrived, it was a relief. Ray’s first semester of college had been a complete disaster by the end of it. He just couldn’t focus, he couldn’t get his homework done, and more than once he’d shown up to class still in his coveralls from the farm, only for everyone else to chuckle and whisper under their breath about him. Once, he even had a professor pull him aside and mention that his hygiene needed to be addressed better. It was true, he hadn’t been showering much, mostly because Tim loved the way Ray’s pit’s smelled, and everytime he showered, he always got mad at him. Ray hated it when Tim was mad, it was so much easier when he was happy, and so he showered as little as possible through the fall and early winter. He finished the fence around November, and moved on to chopping and stacking wood for the winter months instead. Finals rolled around, and Ray didn’t even bother studying for them--he knew it was hopeless. He failed every class, and ended up on academic probation. It was humiliating, and Tim reminded him of it relentlessly.

But on the first day of break, Tim surprised him with something--a different set of coveralls to wear. The blue one’s he’d worn all Fall were quite tight at this point, and hadn’t been washed more than a couple of times. His new set was red and insulated, to help with the winter chill. Within a few days, snow started to fall. Once the wood was all cut and stacked, there wasn’t much else to do outside, so Tim found ways to keep Ray busy inside the house instead.

Mostly, this turned out to be keeping the old farmer’s hole well fucked. Ray had managed to keep his strange, sexual obligation to Tim classified as a chore in his mind through the fall, as just another job to do around the farm. Now though, Tim seemed determined to make sure that Ray liked it. That he wanted to fuck him, as much as Tim wanted to be fucked. He’d make Ray eat out his hole before fucking it, telling him how good his bushy beard felt on his crack, make him ask permission to fuck him, or even beg for the privilege. It was humiliating, but slowly Ray felt himself being worn down by the old farmer, found himself enjoying the taste of the old man’s hole, his taint, his cock and balls in his mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you know. I could tell you were from the moment you stepped out. It just takes some guys longer to figure it out, and we both know you’re pretty slow on the draw,” Tim told him one day. Maybe he was gay. Maybe he’d just gotten so addicted to Tim’s approval that it didn’t matter what he was.

Tim had a few other friends on the farms around town, and since things slowed down a lot during the winter, they would often come over for whiskey and cigars in the living room. Ray was obligated to join them of course, and would find himself pressured to indulge as well. He’d never wanted to pick up smoking, but before long, he was smoking cigars with the rest of them, and when Tim told him how sexy he looked with a stick in his mouth, he started smoking them when it was just the two of them as well. He was drinking more as well, and without the hard physical labor of the fall, he was bulking up a bit, packing on a bit more weight than he would have liked.

The rest of the guys would tease him about it. They teased him about a lot of things, about how bad he smelled, about how hairy he was when he stripped off the top half of the coveralls around the house because Tim kept the house so warm. When they found out about his academic failings, they ribbed him about that too. Always with a laugh though, and Ray found himself laughing along with them. They were happy, Tim was happy, so he was happy too, of course.

One afternoon before Christmas, the topic came around to sex, and Tim announced to his friends that he was happy to finally have a proper stud living with him. Ray was horrified to have their relationship outed like that, but Tim zipped down the coveralls, showing off Ray’s now much hairier chest and belly, pulled out his substantial cock, and stroked it hard for all of them to see. “See, look at this fucker, feels fuckin’ great in my ass. Boy eats me out too, he fuckin’ loves eatin’ ass, don’t you?”

“Yes Sir,” Ray said. He’d started calling Tim Sir around his friends, at the farmer’s request.

“Damn, how’s his ass?” Dylan, another farmer asked.

“I’m not much of a fucker these days, you know that,” Tim said.

“Well I am. You don’t mind if I give it a try and tell you how it is?”

Ray found his face buried in Tim’s crotch, while Dylan lubed up his cock and slid it inside him. No one asked him if he wanted to be fucked, but Dylan thought it was a great hole, a nice fuck, if a bit musky. Tim invited his two other friends to fuck him as well, Ray’s consent assumed, and he didn’t want to object. He didn’t want to disappoint Tim and his friend’s after all. He wanted them all to be happy.

From that day on, it was assumed that Ray would satisfy any of the farmers’ sexual needs without question. At first it was simple blowjobs and fucks, but the demands got meaner, and more humiliating. Dylan trained him to eat his cigar ash one night, made him beg for it. They would make him stand in front of the fire, his coveralls fully zipped up, until he was soaked with sweat, then make him strip down to nothing. They’d order him to sniff and lick his pits, run his hands through his crotch and ass before licking them clean, his cock always rock hard the entire time. The second time they made him do it, much to their surprise, including Ray, he came spontaneously while he licked at his rank pits, spraying the floor with cum while the guys all laughed. They made him keep sniffing until he did it again, and then he had to get down and lick up all the cum he’d spilled too.

Another night, a farmer spotted an old dog collar hanging on the wall, and suggested they put it on Ray for fun. It was from an old dog of Tim’s named Spike, and they spent all evening making Ray pretend to be a dog for them, doing tricks, begging for their bones, and as humiliating as it was, Ray loved it. Loved hearing them all laugh, loved seeing how happy it made Tim in particular. The next day, he still had the collar on, and Tim told him to leave it on--it looked good on him. “I’m gonna call ya Spike too, from now on. It suits you better, don’t you think?”

He agreed. It was always easier to agree.

The end of January rolled around, and Ray realized he needed to start getting ready for the Spring semester. He discovered, however, that without him knowing, Tim had taken all of his old clothes, all of his books and school supplies, and thrown them away weeks before. It was the first time Ray really allowed himself to get angry, but Tim told him he was being stupid, and dragged him in front of a mirror.

That couldn’t be his reflection, it couldn’t. Over six feet tall, covered in a pelt of hair, a massive nine inch cock, but most striking was how old he looked. He no longer had the fresh face of the early twenties. His beard was graying, his hairline receding. His winter of stuffing himself had given him a solid gut straining the front of his coveralls, when he tried to zip them up. He looked to be at least thirty now. Tim ridiculed him for his ridiculous fantasy, and reminded him of the truth. Spike hadn’t graduated from high school. Spike was just a stupid, dumb, stinking brute, only good for fucking and manual labor. Tim pulled a book off the shelf, told Spike to read something from it. If he could read a whole page, he’d buy him all new school supplies, and let him go back. The words danced in front of him, he had no idea what any of them were. He was forced to admit that, yet again, Tim was right. Tim was always right. That night, Spike chided himself for being so stupid, for his strange, impossible fantasy. Within a week, he’d forgotten all about college, all about the man he’d been, all about Ray. It was a relief to forget, really. Spring would come soon, and more work to be done. That would make Tim happy, and as long as Tim was happy, Spike would be happy too.

*

Spring

It was a couple days after he received a new pair of coveralls from Tim--yellow this time, dirtier than the last couple pairs had been, and surprisingly a little large, even for his substantial frame--that the dreams started. Spike wouldn’t remember them very well, beyond the fact that they were highly sexually charged. He would wake up, grunting and humping the mattress below him, the sheets soaked with sweat, musk, and who knew how much cum he’d pumped out in the night. It was mortifying, and yet the scent of it drove him wild. He kept humping, rougher and rougher until Tim stormed in, turned on the lights and hollered at him for waking him up with the racket. Spike was embarrassed, but since they were both up, Tim told the big lug that he might as well give him another fucking. Spike was more than happy to oblige, unloading two more times into the farmer’s hole before he felt the least bit calm again.

The dreams continued, however, and by the end of the week, Tim made Spike’s haul his well-soiled mattress down into the basement and throw it in the corner there. He’d be able to make all the noise he wanted without disturbing him now. Spike spent his nights in a kind of half sleep, never entirely sure if he was waking or dreaming, only that he was achingly, impossibly horny. Whenever he tried to string a thought together, the intrusive neediness of his dick would derail it. It felt like every time he came, he was somehow growing even dumber, his brain rewiring itself so that it was consumed with sexual desire to the exclusion of almost everything else.

Work helped, at first. His Spring task was to dig new irrigation ditches through all of Tim’s fields. He would smoke his cigars, focus on the shovel and the dirt below him, and he’d be able to keep the horniness at bay. It was rough going at first, after a comparatively lazy winter, but the fat he’d built up seemed to convert to muscle almost overnight, and the coveralls, which had started out a little loose on him, soon fit like a second skin. It wasn’t long before his horniness started distracting him even in the fields. He’d realize he’d be stoking off instead of digging, huffing his stinking pits for minutes at a time, thinking about Tim, or Dylan, or any of the other farmers using him, humiliating him, thinking how happy he could make them. Tim caught him like that multiple times, and while he before, he would have chided him, the disappointment enough to correct Spike, now Tim took a different tack. He would drag Spike back to the house, down into the basement, make him bend over an old sawhorse while Tim got down a big wooden paddle, and he’d spank him, telling Spike that what he needed was some good, painful discipline to help set him on the right path again.

Tim began finding any excuse to punish Spike after all, even for the smallest indiscretions. Tim always seemed so happy after a paddling, that Spike found himself enjoying them too. His increased horniness and the pain seemed to be tangling up in his mind, until one day, in the middle of a session, Spike game a grunt, and shot a massive load of cum all over the basement floor. “Looks like someone is enjoying their punishment,” Tim said, coming around and looking Spike in the eye, “Good, that makes me very happy.”

One morning, not too long after that, Spike woke up in the basement, and felt something was off. He peeled off his filthy coveralls, and saw that seamless, thick metal rings had pierced his thick nipples, the head of his cock, both his ears and his septum. There were also heavy metal rings around his nuts, weighing them down several inches lower than usual. He went up and asked Tim what had happened, and the farmer just treated him like he was an idiot. “You’ve always had those piercings Spike. Now let’s get you locked up, and see if you can get some work done today.”

Without ceremony, Tim pulled out a padlock, and used it to secure the head of Spike’s cock to a ring he hadn’t noticed, pierced through his taint. It was a tight fit, with his nuts thrust to one side a bit painfully, but it worked. “Yeah, that’s a good brute--no playing with yourself now. Go get digging.”

Spike worked harder that day than he could ever recall. Between the constant pull of the heavy metal on his body, and his aching, needy cock, focusing mindlessly on digging ditches was all he could do to not go insane with lust. He lost track of time, and only stopped himself when he realized he couldn’t see anymore, because the sun had fully set. Shaking with exertion, his pelt matted and soaked in sweat, he lumbered back to the house, only to find Tim, Dylan and a few other farmers on the porch smoking cigars. “Damn Spike, good to know locking that cock of yours up worked wonders. You’re fuckin’ filthy though--gonna need a shower before we let you back inside, right guys?” Tim said.

Tim ordered Spike onto his knees, the farmer’s circled up around him, took out their cocks and pissed on him, soaking him and his coveralls down from head to toe, laughing and chuckling the entire time, happy as can be, and Spike, as humiliated as he was, found himself enjoying it too. The smell, the heat of it. Then again, he was so horny, he’d enjoy just about anything. Tim ordered Spike to crawl down into the basement using the outside entrance. He was too much of a filthy animal to go back into the house proper anymore. He did as ordered, the other farmer’s stripping down and following him. They spent the rest of the night teasing and beating Spike’s body, weighing down his metal rings, beating him with paddles and whips, toying with his locked, straining cock until Spike was begging for them to use him, abuse him, anything they wanted. They fucked his holes, showered him with even more piss, and once the other farmers had left, Tim shackled Spike’s arms to his thick, metal collar, and ordered him to lay on his back. He unlocked Spike’s cock, and proceeded to ride him, slowly, teasingly, milking the big brute with his hole good and slow.

“Stupid fuckin’ brute, I fuckin’ own you, you fuckin’ understand that, right?” Tim said as he sat on Spike’s massive cock, making the massive beast squirm under him. “Fuck, that makes me so fuckin’ happy.”

“Fuck, yes Sir, you own me Sir, please...please, so fuckin’ horny...” Spike moaned under him.

“This body is mine, I can do whatever the fuck I want to it, anything that makes me happy, and you’ll say yes. You’ll always say yes because my happiness is all that fucking matters to you. Now I’m gonna milk three loads out of your big cock, and I’m gonna take my time, because I’m sick of how fuckin’ fast you are. Lay back and enjoy it, Spike, just focus on making your Master happy.”

Tim rode him for an hour, past midnight, before he finally hauled himself up, sweating profusely, and unlocked the manacles from his Spike’s collar. “That’s a good brute, you made Master and his friends real happy tonight, you did a real good job. You deserve a treat, don’t you?” Tim aimed his cock down at him, and unloaded another stream of piss, soaking Spike from head to toe. “That’s it, rub it in, you love stinking like your Master’s piss, love it when I mark you.”

With that, Tim left the basement, and Spike was alone. Exhausted, trembling, hornier than he could fathom, he dragged himself over to the mattress and collapsed. Too late, he realized he needed to piss himself, and couldn’t stop from relieving his bladder into the mattress underneath him, snorting and grunting from the smell of his rank piss mixing with his Master’s, humping harder until he came yet again. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, overtaken by his dreams of being used and teased and humiliated, body still humping and cumming all night long. He was lucky, really. Lucky to have found a man who wanted to own a disgusting beast like he was, who could appreciate him. Spike made his Master happy, and that, in the end, was the most important task he could accomplish with his body, and with his life.

*

Summer

Spike knew he was losing something important. Had lost something important. A future, a past, a body, a life that could have been lived well. There had to be more to life than this. He would wake up, Master would lock up his cock so he could focus on his work around the farm. The weather was heating up, and Master had tasked him with tearing down a stone fence around some of the fields and piling all of the rocks back behind the barn in a big pile. He would have deja vu on occasion, feeling like he had done this before. Not quite this task exactly, but something similar, almost in reverse. It felt pointless, but it made Master happy, and anything that made Master happy was worth doing.

He’d outgrown his yellow coveralls, and now the only set that fit his monstrous, seven foot tall frame were some brown ones, heavily soiled, stinking and tattered, but they fit somewhat. There were no boots that could fit his massive, twenty inch feet, but that was alright. The soles had grown rough and calloused, and he didn’t have a problem going barefoot all day and night. He had developed a couple of other problems, the biggest one being that he couldn’t seem to control his piss anymore. It had started with just wetting his mattress at night, in between his constant wet dreams. The stench of it, coating himself in it, he didn’t mind reeking of piss any more than he cared about reeking of cum, or sweat or anything else. But soon, he was pissing himself out in the fields, almost without noticing until he felt the stream running down the inside of his thighs, from where his cock was secured between his legs.

He spoke less and less these days as well. Master and his friends had taken to ridiculing any words that came out of his mouth. If he tried to say something to add to a conversation, they would point out how dumb he was, how idiotic his ideas were, laugh at him for even thinking he was as smart as they were. As he spoke less and less, he found that his words were becoming mumbled and garbled, almost like he was forgetting how to say them. Master would make him repeat things, over and over, laughing at how silly he sounded when he finally managed to get out what he meant, and eventually, he found that anything actually important that he needed to say could generally be communicated with grunts, nods, and some basic hand signals.

His treatment at the hands of his Master grew rougher as well. The metal rings in his body kept growing larger and multiplying, though Spike couldn’t recall Master ever removing the previous set to put new ones in. The metal rings around his massive nuts were the worst, or the best, depending on how you thought about it. The tug was constant. When working and walking his nuts would swing, bouncing off his thighs, making Spike grunt with every step. The constant stimulation made his loads massive though, and Master had trained him to the point where he could only cum on command, when he was unlocked. They would tease him relentlessly for hours before finally allowing him release, when cum would fountain from his monstrous cock. One evening, shackled to the basement wall, he managed to shoot so hard that his cum struck the opposite wall, twelve feet away. That made Master so happy, he praised him, told him what a good little cum factory was, what a hot beast, what a stupid brute, and Spike just grinned like the idiot he was.

When Master and his friends weren’t using him, all of them smoking cigars out on the porch,
Spike would try to follow their conversations, but found it harder and harder to remember what the sounds coming out of their mouths meant. He knew some of the words, his name, basic commands, and they would occasionally look at him, say something about him, and laugh, and Spike would just grin back, which just made them laugh harder. They were all so happy, and Spike was so happy too. He cared less and less about what he’d lost. It was really important, certainly he would have taken better care of it. He’d had a Master, and he had a purpose, to make him happy.

But one day, something different happened. Master told him not to worry about hauling rocks today. He stood out in the yard in front of the house while Master took a hose of cold water and sprayed him down, washing out most of the dust, dried cum and filth from Spike’s hairy body. Even under the summer sun, he was cold after that, shivered and shook, water flying in every direction from his impromptu cleaning. Master went inside and returned with two cigars. Usually, Spike smoked the cheapest, roughest cigars Master could order in bulk online. He wasn’t going to waste good tobacco on a beast. But this one came from his special stash. Spike sniffed it, wondering if there was a catch. “Smoke it, Spike. I like to give my beasts one good stick on their last day.”

Spike didn’t know what any of that meant, but figured it was ok to light up. He spent the next hour or so drying off on the porch, smoking Master’s very nice cigar, and cleaning and massaging Tim’s feet. A little after noon, a large black van rolled up the drive and parked in front of the house. A man got out that Spike didn’t recognize. Master told Spike to stay, and he went down to talk to the man.

Tim reached out and shook the man’s hand. He looked over Tim’s shoulder at Spike on the porch. “Looks like another fine beast you’ve made this year,” he said.

“Oh yes, wasn’t quite what I was hoping for when he showed up. A bit too timid, very submissive. I know the fighting circuit has been needing more, but he won’t be suitable for that I don’t think.”

“Too bad. I have plenty of other clients willing to pay. One in particular has been hounding me about your next creation for months now, wants him for a special menagerie he’s putting together. Real freak. Willing to pay through the nose.”

“I’m sure that he’ll be very happy with Spike over there. High pain tolerance, cums on command, bit on the dirty side, but that’s how I make them.”

“Trust me, this guy doesn’t mind dirty,” the man sighed, “I still can’t convince you to up production, can I? I mean, Maron is making four a year, high quality. Just making two would double your money.”

“As good of quality as mine?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I don’t see the issue.”

“The issue is you could double your money.”

Tim just laughed. “Ah, but I don’t do it for the money. I enjoy taking my time with my beasts. Maron can do what he wants. I have my methods, and my methods take time.”

Tim went up to the porch, attached a leash to Spike’s metal collar, and walked him to the back of the van. Spike was confused as he was loaded inside, and pissed himself in the process, much to the driver’s annoyance, but he was soon secured in the back, and knocked out with a strong dose of tranquilizer. Tim shook the man’s hand, and he drove off, ready to deliver Spike to his new home.

Tim heaved a sigh. It was always hard, saying goodbye to a good project. He went inside, checked his email, and saw that his job posting had gotten a bite. Another college freshman needing a place to live and work--excellent. Tim got his name, and did a little stalking. A good foundation, played several sports, a real jock type. Now there was a fighter if Tim ever saw one. He smiled, and replied, telling him he’d be happy to have him, but he needed him to start as soon as he could. The harvest was coming, after all, and Tim had lots of work to be done. The young man jumped at the offer, and said he’d arrive by the end of the week. Just enough time to get the place cleaned up, and ready for his next project.