Date: Wed, 30 Jun 2004 19:11:28 -0300
From: Ruthless <ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca>
Subject: "Farmer (3-4/6)"

The Neighbour  Part 3 of 6  By Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca   MM/m rape

DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of erotic gay fiction. It is about a man
getting sexually assaulted by other men. If you are underage or if you are
offended by stories like this, please do not read it. But if you read it
and have any comments, criticism, questions or are missing any of the parts
and would like me to send them to you, the author would be happy to hear
from you at Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca


	Nick intervened, "I wanta go back to the house."

	Harry looked over his shoulder at his friend.

	"We gotta tie him up again. I wanta go back to the house." Nick
repeated. "Gimme the gun and get him roped to that fence again."

	"You do it." Harry was sullen.

	"Alright." Nick reached down and grabbed me by the wrist. He hauled
me sideways onto my face. Straw prickled my cheeks and my mouth as he
picked at the rope behind me. He kicked me. He kicked the bale. I
cooperated. Nick pulled me sitting onto the bale again.

	"Pull my pants up." I said feebly.

	Nick paid no attention to me. I didn't get a chance to make a grab
for my clothes either.  He kept hold of the rope on my wrists and used it
to drag them to the railing. He pulled it taut, yanking and twisting.

	"Farm-boy, you are just meat to us now, you hear?" Nick told
me. "You are just a hole to be fucked, when we want to fuck you. You are
nothing, not even shit." He gave a savage yank on the rope as he tightened
the knot.

	The afternoon had been passing while I was tied there and it was
ten to five. I knew what time it was from habit and I knew what to expect,
but the men didn't. I never really registered the sounds just outside of
the barn because they were familiar and the two men didn't register the
sounds because they didn't mean anything to them. Then, suddenly there was
a great dark shape in the barn doorway and the clack of heavy feet on the
concrete sill. Harry whirled around with a yell and let loose with the
shotgun.

	The gun boomed. The cow bawled. I screamed. "Don't shoot my cows,
you bastards!" I tried to stand up and jerked up hard into the rope holding
my wrists against the rail.

	"Ahhh! Fuck!" Nick howled. "It's a cow, Harry. It's just a cow!"

	She had turned around and stamped back. I think it was Broad May. I
couldn't see.  There was a chorus of angry and indignant lowing. I heard
them milling about and thudding the ground. One of them bawled again. Grey
smoke, acrid curled down below the rafters.

	"That's my cow...!" I sobbed.

	"Keep those fucking things out of here!" Harry swore
viciously. "Keep them out!"

	"They've got to be milked." I groaned.

	"They got to be turned into hamburger." Harry exclaimed.

	I was pretty sure he had missed. I think he had squeezed the
trigger as he brought the gun around and the shot had gone into the
air. But I had a vision of him going out there and shooting the herd,
wantonly and viciously, of him pumping the slugs into them and the image
had my eyes wide in hopeless horror. Harry ran out. I heard him hitting the
cows with the shotgun stock.

	"Get out of here, you stupid animals!" Harry bawled. "Go on! Get
out!"

	I looked at Nick. He stood with his face twisted as if he couldn't
decide whether to be angry or amused.

	"Now you've got to go." I said. "Somebody will have heard that
shot. Somebody will be coming."

	"Man, we are not so fucking stupid." Nick said. "This is the
country. All you dumb farm boys got shotguns and go out shooting with
them. Nobody's going to come here because they heard a shot. There ain't
nobody friend to you close enough to have heard that gun go off. And if
there was, they wouldn't pay no attention." He walked in close until he
stood above me.

	He slugged me in the side of the face. My head rocked back. While I
was stunned he turned around again and followed Harry out of the door.

	"The stupid things keep trying to go around me!" I heard Harry
yell.

	"You gotta get them locked up behind a fence." Nick answered
him. "Shit, can you believe how stupid this farmer is, letting his cows
wander around loose like this? He didn't even have the sense to put them in
a field somewhere..."

	Their voices died away, but I still heard the protesting bawls of
the cattle. The sound of the heavy hooves and bovine voices stayed close. I
realised that I could hear them behind the barn now and knew that Nick and
Harry had driven them into the enclosed paddock behind the barn. But after
the cows were behind the barn instead of loose out front, the men didn't
come back. They had decided to leave me alone for a while.

	I was hurting so much I couldn't tell exactly where I hurt and
how. Pain seemed to be vibrating through me. I sat bare-assed and wet assed
and cursed the rope. Tied, I was helpless.  Tied, I had to hope and pray
that the two bastards who had invaded my farm, would turn merciful and go
to the trouble of letting me free. I didn't think there was any way they
would.

	I didn't want to think about the pain in my butt and in my arms and
the sick cowardly clutch of terror in my guts. I thought about my
neighbour.

	Peter Wilson had been living on his father's farm since May. Years
earlier we had played together as boys before he had gone away. It hadn't
been until his father died that he had come back. And he hadn't come
strolling over the fields that separated our two farms to drop in and see
me.

	I had been in town, climbing out of my truck when I had frozen, one
foot on the road and one foot on the floor of the truck. I had stared at
the wide shouldered man walking down the sidewalk. It was May eleventh. I
remember that; a warm day, but he had been wearing a red jacket.  I hardly
saw more than the back of him, but there was something about the set of the
sturdy man and the brief glimpse of his face that had screamed, Peter! in
my head. He looked quite a lot like a younger version of Kaspar, and of
course, I know everybody who lives within fifty miles around here by
sight. I knew instantly that it was someone that I hadn't seen for a long,
long time.

	I'd gone into the Rusty Spoon and sat down. Noel Stobbs was sitting
beside me. "I thought I just saw Petey Wilson." I said hesitantly.

	"Could have done." Noel had remarked. "You hadn't heard he's been
back?"

	"No, I hadn't." I shook my head, mesmerised.

	"Come a couple of weeks back. But he don't talk to no one. That
young fellow's turned out mighty big. But he's like his old man. Not
inclined toward company at all." Noel had looked at me curiously.

	"He's living along side you and never come over to say Hi? Didn't
the two of you used to play around lots when you were both small?" Noel
shook his head. "He's right into himself, that one. Couple of times folk
have stopped him to say Hi and ask him when he came back, but he won't stay
to talk. Just comes into town and does his shopping and slips out again."

	"I didn't know."

	"Not a good neighbour to have." Noel commented. "You need a man,
you can have an easy word with from time to time. Someone you can rely on
to keep an eye out for your back fields." He shook his head again and then
he changed the subject. "Want to drop over and see our June? She's been
asking after you."

	June was his daughter, six years older than me, with two kids and
no husband.

	"No, thanks." I slid off the stool. "I've got to be getting
back. But tell June I said Hi."

	Way back when, when Peter was a small boy and I was even smaller,
we had used to play together every day. He had been the only kid living
within fifteen miles of me, so we would most likely have played together,
even if we hadn't hit it off well, But the way I remember it we had been
firm friends together, despite the difference in ages. I had been his
little sidekick.

	It was a long time ago. It probably wasn't important to Peter
now. It probably had mattered more to me, than him, because I remember
moping and missing him for over a year after he was gone away. He'd gone to
the city and would have had all kinds of neighbours to play with, but I had
had to play alone after he was gone.

	The barn had been our playground in winter or when the weather was
bad. If I looked up, high into the dusty rafters, I could see a bit of rope
still dangling from one of the beams. We had swung on that rope, in the
tradition of farm kids, back and forth, a pendulum, squealing. Petey had
always been bold enough to swing higher than I had. Sometimes we had swung
each other, one clinging to the rope, the other racing underneath and
pushing. Sometimes we had jumped from the loft using the rope, a sickening
moment of free fall, an abrupt jerk and then the delicious sensation of
flying.

	Petey had liked animals. He had lain of the edge of the farrowing
pen, scratching the back of one of our brood sows with a stick. The sow had
grunted comfortably and Petey had flashed delighted eyes at me, while he
scratched patiently away. Old Kaspar seldom kept stock. He wasn't good with
animals. He had stopped keeping pigs after one day when he had lost his
temper and shot his own brood sow. So Petey had come over to play with our
animals.

	"You think I could ride your cow?"

	"You could try." I had been doubtful.

	"I can get up using the stall." I had watched Petey climbing
steadily up the side of the wooden partition. There had been only one
difficult moment, when he had had to transfer his weight over the gap
between the top of the partition and the cow's bony back. Like a monkey, he
had done it.

	The cow had jerked. I still remembered the explosive billowing of
her black and white side.  I had stepped back sharply. Then, slowly she had
ambled out with Petey clinging triumphantly to her back. "See! I can do
it!" He had hissed. The animals were used to us darting harmlessly about.
The cow had never been ridden before, but Petey was light and she had had
no objections to it.

	"Ow! Her back is uncomfortable." He had wriggled about.

	In the yard, she had stopped.

	"Giddiap, Cow." Petey nervously had prodded her flanks gently with
his sneakers. We both knew enough never to do anything that might really
hurt any of the animals. Being up on her back was going quite far
enough. Nothing had happened. Nothing whatsoever. The cow had stood there
in the paddock and stood there and stood there.

	"How are you going to get down?" I called up.

	"I dunno..." Petey had admitted. She was a long way up. He could
have slid off, but he was higher up than I was tall and the paddock was
both muddy and full of stones.

	I had walked around the cow a few times. "What do you want me to
do, Petey?"

	"Could you lead her back into the barn, Ian?"

	"I don't think so. I can't usually make her go." I had tried but I
had not been able to.

	It had been my father, forty-five minutes later who had rescued
Petey, lifting him down, concealing a smile in his moustache. "Better stick
to animals that are saddle broken, Boys." He had advised us.

	Probably Petey remembered those days differently. The last time we
had seen each other we had had a fight.

	I didn't usually get to go over to Petey's farm. His father didn't
want him having friends around. But Petey had not come over that day. I
guessed it was because his mother had gone away again, and so I had set out
by road to go and see him myself.

	I had carried two freezie-pops. They were white freezie-pops, cream
soda flavoured. One of them was for Petey and one of them was for me. They
had been frozen hard when I set out but liquid before I met him part way
along the way, coming to meet me on the shoulder of the road.

	I don't remember much of what was said. "Do you think your Mom will
ever come back again?" I'd asked. I don't remember what the fight was
about, but I do remember that Petey took my freezies and he knocked me
down. I remember being sprawled back crying on the gravel of the road, with
wet spots from the freezie that Petey had snatched out of my hand soaking
through the legs of my jeans, while he stood with a scowling face above me.

	The next day the RCMP had come and taken Petey away.

	My mother had explained it to me. Usually you don't explain things
like these to kids. But I had taken Petey's leaving very hard and I thought
it had had something to do with our fight. She had told me that it had been
the other way around.

	I've heard the story as an adult, of course. Everybody knows
everybody else's business eventually in these parts. I understand what
happened better now than I did then. Back then, you've got to remember, the
police didn't usually lay charges in domestic violence cases until the
victim was dead.

	The RCMP had been to see Mrs. Wilson while she lay in the hospital
and she had asked them to get her something for her from the Wilson
farm. She had told them what she wanted. So the day after Petey and I had
our fight an RCMP car had driven up to the Wilson farm and two officers had
told Kaspar Wilson that they had come to take his son away. Kaspar had told
them that they couldn't take his boy. And then Sgt. Duggan had said that
unless Kaspar gave them Petey they would arrest Kaspar and press charges of
assault, because when he had punched his wife so that she fell off the
stairs, she had broken her back. Either way, with Kaspar in jail or out of
it, they were going to take Petey to his mother.

	There had been other boys to play with at school. I saw them during
school hours. But Petey had been the only buddy in my life. Only now that
he was a man living on the farm next to mine again, he had forgotten or
didn't care that we had once been friends.

End of Part 3 of 6



The Neighbour Part 4 of 6 By Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca MM/m rape

DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of gay fiction. In it, a man is raped by
other men. If you are underage or if you do not like material of this
nature, please do not read this story. If you have any comments, criticism
or questions you would like to share with the author or if you are missing
an instalment and would like me to send them to you, you are welcome to
contact the author at Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca


	Nick and Harry came back before the barn grew dark. They didn't say
too much to start off with. Nick went around and climbed into the calf
pen. Harry grabbed my ankles and pushed them back. He pushed my knees into
my face. From behind me, Nick took a grip on my ankles and held them above
my face. Harry unzipped.

	"Fuck him with the shotgun, Harry!" Nick yelped.

	My arms felt like they were ripping. I grunted with pain. There was
no point asking for mercy. There was none. Harry clutched the back of my
thigh as he guided his prick into my exposed asshole. "Yaaah! Time to play
with the fuck toy!" He exclaimed. Then his prick was splitting me open and
I was gasping for breath as he pounded it dry into my torn opening.

	Punches slammed into my arms and my ribs. Nick caught me by the
hair and twisted my face back. "Want to suck my prick, Turd? Beg me to suck
my prick!"

	They had more stamina this time. It was their second go and they
had exhausted their interest in ransacking my farm. I was all they had to
amuse themselves with. It could have been worse, because I didn't catch too
many blows in the face and they didn't fist me, but they both fucked my ass
again and I got given their spent pricks to lick, sagging and bitter with
cum and mucus.

	"Beg to suck that prick, Faggot! Come on, Fish, you want it!"

	They broke the bale underneath me. They pulled a fistful of my hair
out, trying unsuccessfully to smack my head against the calf pen
railing. They left irregular purple bruises down the side of my body. My
cheeks were wet with cum and with saliva, spat out of Harry's twisted
sneering mouth.

	"You gonna cry, Faggot? How about it? Or do you like being our cum
bucket like this?"

	"He'll cry if I cut him." Nick said.

	"Yeah, do it! Do it! Use the razor!" Harry urged him.

	"You want the razor, Shitface?"

	"No." I said. "I don't want the razor."

	"Nah. He don't get the razor until we're finished fucking him. I
don't want to use it yet."  Nick said to Harry. "Wait." Nick smiled at me.

	They put a gag in my mouth, made out of part of a towel and tied in
my mouth with a piece of the nylon rope. It was an effective gag. I could
get a little air around it, if I didn't panic, but I couldn't make much
noise. They kicked me in the belly and I couldn't breath. Dark swam in my
eyes like sinking underwater.

	"See you in the morning, Fuckhole! We'll be ready to give your ass
another reaming then."  Harry said.

	"Remember my razor." Nick whispered. He switched off the lights.

	They left me for the night in the barn, with the sound of my
restless cattle behind the building. My breathing evened out again and the
pain from the punch in my belly became another ache to join the dull fires
of soreness in my body. My dry tongue stuck to the gag. I was bitterly
thirsty. I had gone since morning without food or drink. I had to kneel now
that the bale was broken. I waited on my knees, with numb hands, because
there was nothing I could do except wait and see what happened. I shivered
in the dark.


	The sky was pallid and the light still lingered with the deeper
colours of early morning, when I heard the sound of a vehicle engine on the
road below slow down and then pull into my driveway. I had been in a half
doze, almost dreaming, almost asleep despite being on my knees.  Now I
strained upward, pulling frantically and listening.

	Either someone's come to see me, I thought, or at some point during
the night I slept, and they took one of my trucks out. I was pretty certain
I hadn't slept and missed the sound of my truck leaving the yard. It had to
be someone else. My breathing began to race. I waited for the sound of a
shot.

	No sound came. It was only a few moments after I heard the distant
dull thud of a truck door slam, that he walked into the open doorway of the
barn and stopped short at the sight of me.

	It was Peter Wilson, come back to my farm at last. I strained
towards him with a frantic jerk. The gag muffled me totally. I screamed at
him to run, to get out of here and call the RCMP.  He understood none of
the faint muffled noise I made. His eyes set on me fixedly and I think he
blinked. A whole half-minute passed before he started to walk slowly across
the concrete gutters towards me. It was a long half minute, in which I knew
Nick and Harry could be piling out of the house.

	I was in the crucified kneeling position again, pants furled at my
ankles, arms wide.  There was no way I could communicate the danger to him,
by gesture or by sound. I jerked, attempting communication futilely.

	If I was a woman, I thought desperately, he'd see at once that
something was wrong. But the sight of a guy exposed and roped didn't seem
to clue him into the sinister aspects. He's thinking I'm here in some sort
of a kinky game!

	Peter came right beside me and squatted. Our eyes were meeting. His
were pale grey with arched brows and minute scars around them that had
never been there before. "Are you alright?" he asked calmly.

	I shook my head violently, NO.

	He reached up unhurriedly and with careful fingers found the knots
in the cloth. He pulled on them first, then finding that they would have to
be picked, began to work at the knots. I was desperate to warn him that
there was danger. I could do nothing.

	I had to wait until the gag was loose. My eyes darted from side to
side. He moved around to reach behind my head. I ducked it forward so that
he could reach more easily. In another second it was done, but by then it
was too late.

	Both Nick and Harry were standing in the barn doorway. Harry still
cradled the shotgun in his arms. The gag fell out of my mouth. I sucked a
huge lungful of air.

	Peter Wilson said it again, "Are you okay?"

	Nick said, "Hi, Pete."

                Peter Wilson stood before he turned around. "What the fuck
do you think you're doing?  I'm trying to live in this neighbourhood now,
you know." His voice held irritation. He looked back down at me.

	Nick laughed. "The little faggot here decided to offer us some down
home country hospitality, Pete. Wait 'til you see him giving head!"

	I vomited. My empty stomach clenched. A mouthful of bile rose up
and I let it drop. It rose up like the horror and anger and feeling of
betrayal, but when the bile left me the horror did not go.  The shudders
went through me. Nick and Harry were friends of Peter's. I had no hope of
getting help. Peter, who I had played with as a kid, was like them.

	"Don't he look an inviting picture?" Harry crowed.

	"Yeah," said Peter. "He does."

	"We've fucked him so many ways we don't have no juice, no more."
Nick grinned. "How about you, Pete?"


	 End of Part 4 of 6