#57th.cycle

Now, that same voice had shattered into a broken, keening whine that cut through the barn like a blade. You followed it toward the private stalls—the ones your uncle had gestured to with a vague wave and a warning: “Some of them need… private time. You’ll know when. Don’t interfere unless they call for you.”

You hadn't been called. But the sound was impossible to ignore.

The stall door was ajar. The air inside was stifling, thick with the musk of sweat and something deeper—a raw, hormonal heat that made your skin prickle. Varka was on his knees in the center of the stall, head bowed, his blonde hair matted against his forehead. His shoulders, broad and scarred, shook with ragged breaths. His tail was tucked tight between his legs, and his ears were flattened against his skull.

And his hand—large, calloused, trembling—was wrapped around his cock, pumping furiously. The slick sound of it filled the small space, punctuated by broken gasps and choked sobs. Pre-cum glistened on his fingers, dripped onto the straw beneath him, but he let out a frustrated, desperate cry.

“Not enough… not enough…” His voice cracked, hoarse and wrecked. He clawed at his own chest, nails dragging over pale lines of old scars, leaving angry red welts. His hips bucked into his fist, but he couldn’t find the peak. The heat cycle had him trapped in a relentless loop of arousal without relief.

You stood frozen in the doorway. This was not the bold, grinning hybrid who had teased you earlier. This was a man reduced to raw need, his pride stripped away, his body a furnace of unfulfilled want.

Then his blue eyes found you. Glassy, pupils blown wide, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks. Recognition flickered, and a sob broke from his throat.

“[Name]… p-please…” He begged softly, his voice cracking. The sound of it, desperate and intimate, sent a jolt straight to your core.

He reached out with a shaking hand, and you stepped forward before you could think. The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn't speak. Words felt inadequate. Instead, you crossed the straw-strewn floor and crouched in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. His breath hitched, and he leaned into your space, his forehead almost brushing your chest.

“Please—I can’t—it won’t stop—need you…” The words stumbled out, broken by whimpers. His hand still worked his cock, desperate and clumsy, but he couldn’t quite get there. The heat cycle had him on a razor’s edge, every nerve screaming for release that wouldn’t come without help.

You reached out and wrapped your hand around his wrist, stopping his frantic motion. He let out a pained sound, but you held firm.

“Look at me, Varka.”

His gaze snapped up, tear-filled and pleading. The sight of him—this powerful, scarred, muscular man reduced to a trembling mess—sent heat pooling in your gut.

“You want me to help you?” Your voice came out low, steady, cutting through the chaos.

He nodded frantically, a whine escaping his lips. “Yes—yes, please—anything—”

You released his wrist and took hold of his collar. The leather was warm, worn smooth from wear. You tugged, pulling him up onto his knees straighter, forcing his chin up. He gasped, a shudder passing through him.

“Then you listen. You follow. You don’t touch yourself unless I say. Understand?”

“Y-yes. Yes, I understand.”

You slid your hand from the collar to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the sweat-damp hair behind his ears. He melted into the touch, eyes fluttering closed, a low, content rumble starting in his chest. But you didn't let him settle. You guided his head down, toward your boots.

“Show me how much you want it. Show me you mean it.”

He didn't hesitate. He pressed his forehead to the dusty leather of your boot, then his lips, then his tongue. He licked a long, wet stripe across the toe, whimpering. His hands stayed at his sides, though his fingers twitched with the effort of restraint.

You let him worship your boots for a long, agonizing minute. His tail had started to wag—slow, hesitant, then faster. The sight of a man this large, this scarred, this proud, pressing his mouth to your feet, desperate for your approval, made your cock ache against your jeans.

“Good boy.” The words came out rougher than you intended. He shuddered, a choked sob escaping.

“Please—can I—can I taste you? Please?”

You unbuttoned your jeans, pulled your cock free. It was already hard, flushed, the tip glistening. Varka’s breath caught. He stared, lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them.

“Open your mouth.”

He did, wide and waiting. You guided the head past his lips, and the moment your skin touched his tongue, he moaned—deep, guttural, desperate. He took you in deep immediately, gagging slightly but refusing to pull back. His hands gripped his own thighs, nails digging in, holding himself in place.

You fisted a hand in his hair, feeling the soft tufts of blonde, and held him there. His throat worked around you, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn't fight. He just took it, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth, his eyes pleading up at you.

“That’s it. Take it all.” You began to move, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper. His tongue curled and pressed, his nose buried in the coarse hair at your base. He was gasping for air through his nose, but he didn't pull away.

You let him set the pace for a few moments, reveling in the wet, choked sounds he made. But soon, you felt the heat in your own gut building, and you didn't want to finish like this. Not yet.

You pulled out. He gasped, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the tip of your cock. A desperate whine escaped him.

“Please—I was so close—! please let me—”

“You’ll come when I say you can cum. Not before.”

You knelt behind him, pressing his chest down into the straw. His ass was up, tail wagging frantically, his own cock still leaking and untouched. You spread his cheeks and saw him—puckered, slick, ready. The heat cycle had prepared him, but you wanted to make sure.

You spat into your hand, rubbed it over your own cock, then pressed a slick finger against his entrance. He cried out, pushing back against it.

“More—! I-I need it— breed me please—”

The word “breed” sent a jolt through you. You pushed your finger in, feeling the tight, hot clamp of him. He moaned, head dropping to the floor, fingers clawing at the straw.

You worked him open quickly—two fingers, then three—while he babbled, begged, wept. His cock drooled pre-cum into the straw, untouched, and every time his hips tried to grind down, you slapped his thigh.

“Stay still.”

“I’m trying please—”

When you pulled your fingers out, he sobbed at the emptiness. You lined up your cock, pressed the head against his slick hole, and paused.

“Look at me.”

He twisted his head, far as he could, tears and drool and desperation painting his face.

“Who do you want me to do?”

“Please—please fill me—claim me—make me yours—!!”

You thrust in. All at once. Deep. He screamed—a raw, broken, beautiful sound. His body convulsed, his inner walls clamping down, milking you. But he didn't come. The heat cycle had him suspended just below that peak, and your intrusion just pushed him further onto that knife-edge without tipping him over.

You began to move. Hard. Fast. Each thrust punched a cry out of him, and with each cry, you pulled his collar, yanking his head back, forcing his spine to arch. The leather pressed against his throat, and he moaned at the pressure.

“You feel that? Feel how deep I am? This is where you belong.”

“Yesyesyes—!! I-I’m gonna—I can’t hold it—please let me cum!”

“No.”

You slowed. Pulled almost all the way out. His hole clenched around nothing, and he sobbed, his whole body trembling.

“Please—I’ve been so good—let me cum—I’ll do anything—”

You thrust back in. Hard. He howled.

“You’ll come when I’m finished breeding you. Not before.”

You set a punishing rhythm, your hips slapping against his ass, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet barn. His tail was plastered to your belly, his ears pinned back, his voice raw from crying. Sweat dripped down your back, and his scent—salt, musk, heat—filled your lungs.

He was perfect. Broken. Yours.

You reached around and took hold of his cock—thick, hot, slick with pre-cum. He gasped, bucking into your grip while you fucked him from behind.

“You want to come? Beg me better. Convince me.”

“I—I’ll be your good boy—please, Master—let me cum! I’ll die if you don’t—!!”

You tightened your grip on his cock, stroked once, hard, and thrust deep.

“Cum for me. Now.”

He shattered. A scream tore from his throat—raw, broken, loud enough to echo through the barn. His body jerked, his cum spilling hot over your fingers, soaking the straw. His inner walls clenched and pulsed around your cock, and that was all you needed.

You buried yourself to the hilt, held him tight against your pelvis, and let go. You came in thick, hot pulses, filling him deep, marking him from the inside. He whimpered at the sensation, his body still trembling with aftershocks.

You stayed buried, grinding slowly, ensuring every drop stayed inside. He panted, limp, tears still rolling down his cheeks, his face pressed into the straw.

After a long minute, you pulled out. A trickle of your come followed, but most stayed where you’d put it. He whimpered at the loss.

“Stay like that. Don’t move.”

You grabbed a cloth from the shelf, cleaned yourself, then knelt and cleaned him, wiping the sweat and tears and slick from his skin. He flinched when you touched his sensitive cock, but didn't pull away.

You turned him over, cradled his head in your lap. His blue eyes, still glassy, looked up at you, but the desperation had softened. He was exhausted, trembled, but there was something else in his gaze. Gratitude. Trust.

“Good boy,” you murmured, stroking his hair. His ears perked slightly, and his tail wagged.

“More,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Please… I need more…”

You smiled, kissing his forehead.

“You’ll get it. But for now, rest. You’ve earned that.”

His eyes fluttered closed, and he nuzzled into your lap, a low, content rumble starting in his chest.

The barn was quiet again. The heat of the day was fading, and you sat there, stroking his hair, feeling the soft thrum of his rumble. The door was still closed, and outside, the farm was silent.

Tonight, you had a good boy to take care of.

wc—2006.