The Naked Cubbby

150 years later...

Vick was unspeakably tired, aching, and could hardly move. He was good as dead, bleeding out on the ground one moment, and now he was waking up in a tiny room with wooden walls, a hay floor, and a faucet with a strange flared nozzle stuck in a wall. The handle-less door was right there, feet away, and as he groggily struggled to his feet to try to open it, he found it was locked or barred. Fuck. He was naked, trapped in this tiny closet-like room, and probably drugged up given how dizzy he felt. Examining himself, he wasn't wounded, but fresh scars marked where the battlefield had nearly killed him. For half an hour he just laid down on his back, eyes closed as tried to focus.

He had been hard since he woke, and figuring it wasn't helping, Vick gripped his cock to slowly massage it, distracting himself from his surroundings and off-putting situation. He struggled to get anywhere in his state, but indulged the rhythmic waves of pleasure while fantasizing about a few of his comrades. Those other conscripts who weren't shy about stripping and strutting naked in the showers at camp. It was his shame that he thought of his brothers in arms like that, but he knew just as well one or two might have thought the same of him. Vick was tan, fit, well endowed, and knew he was more than capable of drawing a few pairs of eyes to his raven hair and stubble coated face. As he was just starting to pick up steam thinking of one particularly pretty soldier he remembered with blonde hair and huge pecs, he opened his eyes, and found the door open, with the doorway filled by an unfamiliar figure.

Victor let out a shocked shout, and scrambled to cover himself at least a bit with his hands. The stranger smirked at that,

"Sorry to interrupt, I'm just here to make sure you get set up with everything you'll need."

Vick, who was beet red and trying not to meet this intruder's eyes replied,

"Where the fuck am I? Who are you? And what do you mean set up, this place is like a goddamn barn!"

The man hauled in a gallon jug of water that he put in the corner, and tossed a blanket along with a pair of briefs at Vick. He was at least six feet tall, blonde, with ruddy skin and freckles across his face. This stranger's frame was broad and fit, built like an ox. He wore a pair of dusty denim overalls, and seemingly nothing else.

"It's because you are in a barn, were good as dead until they found you out in no man's land and dragged you here. You're lucky to be alive, Mr."

Having regained his composure and recovered at least a shred of dignity as he covered himself in the blanket, Vick looked at the admittedly handsome stranger to push for more information,

"That doesn't really answer my questions though. Who are you."

"Name's Sawyer, I'm a farmhand here."

"... Am I being treated like a fucking horse here?"

"Eh, more like a cow or a pig than a horse."

"That sounds a lot worse, you know that right?"

"You'll get used to it. Not like we're letting you out to burn more towns and shoot up our soldiers."

"Shit, you're a fucking Gyran?"

"Sure am. Not part of the war effort really, besides the whole keeping war prisoners like you locked up part."

"I'm a conscript who didn't have a choice but to march out to your miserable country, why bother locking me up? Besides, you're doing a piss poor job if all you've got is some flimsy wooden barn. That door doesn't even have a lock, does it? Just a latch?"

"Because you're in great condition to escape right? Fine with getting lost in the woods for a few days to get to the nearest town?"

Vick was admittedly, not. He was exhausted, sore, and absolutely fucking starving. He leaned back against the wall,

"What are you going to do to me."

"Nothing too bad, really. You get to lay back, enjoy free food, water, shelter, and pack on weight for us."

Vick blushed harder as he fumed,

"You're not gonna make me into a goddamn pig!"

Sawyer rolled his eyes.

"If you resist, you'll just end up strapped to a table with a tube down your throat until someone buys you on the cheap. If you comply, you get more amenities for each milestone you reach. And if you really want to be a hardass about it, I'll take you over to the pump station and get this over with."

Vick hesitated, this Sawyer sounded pretty serious,

"Amenities? Like what amenities, better hay?"

"A bigger stall. Furniture, tv, homemade meals, you name it. If you do good enough and the farmers like you well, then you might even live a long happy life. Like I said, it's that, or in one week we waddle your poor, distended gut out to the butcher. You're lucky you're cute, or I'd have gone and done it already."

Vick felt humiliated, maybe especially by that little flirt Sawyer threw in at the end. This "farmhand" was talking like he was nothing but a piece of meat. In his eyes that might be true, but Vick was full of fire.

"Make me. Maybe getting this over with will be better anyways!"

Sawyer scoffed and shook his head,

"You'll change your tune after you get a good look around the place."

Sawyer eyed Victor over, as if searching for something in the guy's features, making the poor guy cover up more with his newfound blanket. He looked deep in Vicks eyes and drew closer,

"Heres some advice; Don't be so shy. You've got few assets here, and your body is the biggest, most important one you've got."

As Sawyer turned to leave, he said over his shoulder with a wink,

"You'll cave soon enough, and when you do, I'll be back to tell you more. Faucets there if you get hungry."

Vick was alone again, as Sawyer closed the door, and gave a look over to the faucet. The mechanism had an extendable hose that ended in a complex looking nozzle, with interlocking peices covered in soft plastic. There was a bite block set an inch or two away from the tip, with a set of pressure pads along its indents, and the lever for the faucet had a dial backing it with an unlit display screen. After some trying, the lever wouldn't budge, and Victor realized he probably had to use the bite block in order to operate the thing at all.

Declining to try right away, he pulled on the simple black briefs Sawyer had left and laid out his blanket over a decent pile of straw. There were no windows or clocks, or any light besides the single yellow bulb high above his head. That gallon of water Sawyer brought at least would give Victor some reprieve from the hole he felt in his gut, and he drank until his thirst was slaked. Even then, he knew it wasn't enough, still feeling weak and tired... He looked again at the faucet, and sighed. Victor stuck the nozzle in his mouth, and bit down on the pressure pads. As he did, there was a mechanical *click*, and before he could react, the mechanism near the tip of the nozzle had expanded, leaving it firmly stuck in his mouth.

He tried to open his mouth wider to pass the nozzle back out, but wasn't met with much success, even as he pulled and pried. The small screen now had a small set of numbers: 0/3000. Victor huffed, if he didn't at least try, he'd be stuck like this until someone found him. With trepidation, he turned the lever, causing some rumbling or clattering on the other side of the stalls wall. Suddenly, a pressure of some kind started to build through the hose, and a warm slurry shot into his mouth. The quick start nearly saw him choke on it, but quickly before he could, Victor began to swallow. Whatever this was, it was rich, sat heavy, and tasted both extremely sugary and strangely chemical. A subtle thrill ran through his nerves as he gulped, and gulped, and gulped...

The number on the dial was rising: 500/3000. He realized in short order it must be some way of measuring the amount of junk he was swallowing, and tried to shut the valve. No dice. It stubbornly refused to move as the numbers climbed higher, and Victor started to feel himself growing full and heavy. 1500/3000. He struggled to try and pry the hose free, but it was fastened tight, he tried to use the pressure pads on the bite block to trigger the mechanism to spring back into a state he could pull it out in, but they seemed to have no effect, and he was starting to notice his gut growing taught, his head swimming as he felt warm all over. 2500/3000. He once again tried to shut the valve, pushing with all his might and making a muffled yell, and as he felt half like he was going to burst, it suddenly released, letting him shut it off. 3000/3000. He spat out the nozzle, it having retracted, and moved away from the damned faucet. A bit of the slurry ran down his chin as Victor rubbed his sore, swollen belly.

"We're not courting trouble. Flirting with it, at most."

Caden Farthing said to the assembly, with a dismissive wave of his hand. The particular investment was, by all means, one that both intrigued and worried the board. War weighed heavy on the minds of all attendants as the doctor laid out his proposal, starting with a lesson on anthropology. In war one takes lives, but the people of the nation of Gyr in times long past had quite a literal take on the term. You may end a life easily and it is a heavy weight on the soul, but taking one was at once more difficult, honored, and prized. Etiquette and law alike demanded the spared party serve their former opponent, till their death or release. Normally, hard service or labor results in fast release, but easy tasks extend the time (possibly until natural death) unless even more mercy is expressed, and prestige thrown aside to free the captive.

Long ago, during those savage years when no borders were drawn but combat was a fact of life, war flesh was taken in and kept as cheap labor by the upper classes, keeping the house and eating leftovers from the family. It was fashionable, in a way, to have a mercy-servant. Yet in the end, it was just a very polite word for a slave… or livestock. In lean years and dark winters, it was said mercy earned debt could come due for any collared warriors who had grown fat off the scraps of the nobility.

War again with the Loran Republic was looming on the horizon as the proposal was laid out, and the proposition of farming captured soldiers was risky. Yet it could be oh so rewarding in profit, which we all know, is the very spark of life in the dull hearts of men with nothing else in the world to gain but more. After much deliberation by the lords council it was decided that Dr Cayden Farthing, minister of agriculture, would be welcome to begin an operation on his family's property. If the results were deemed satisfactory, more would be established as needed.

"We're not courting trouble. Flirting with it, at most."

Caden Farthing said to the assembly, with a dismissive wave of a hand. The particular investment was, by all means, one that both intrigued and worried the board. Demands among the elite for rarer tastes had risen, and recent conflict had sparked the possibility of returning to a time faded practice. In war one takes lives, but the people of the nation of Gyr have a literal take on the term. You may end a life easily and it is a heavy weight on the soul, but taking one is both more difficult, honored and prized. Etiquette and law alike demanded the spared party serve their former opponent, till their death or release. Normally, hard service or labor results in fast release, but easy tasks extend the time possibly until natural death unless even more mercy is expressed, and prestige thrown aside to free the capitve. Long ago, war flesh was taken in and kept as light labor, keeping the house and eating leftovers from the family. In lean years and dark winters, mercy earned debt could come due.

War with the Loran Republic was looming on the horizon as the proposal was laid out, and proposition of directly farming captured soldiers for meat was risky. But it would be oh so rewarding in profit, which we all know, is the very spark of life in the dull heart of men with nothing else in the world to gain but more.

150 years later...

Vick was unspeakably tired, aching, and could hardly move. He was good as dead, bleeding out in a foxhole one moment, and now he was waking up in a tiny room with wooden walls, a hay floor, and a faucet with a strange flared nozzle stuck in a wall. The door was right there, feet away, and as he grogily struggled to his feet and tried to open it, found it was locked. Fuck. He was naked, trapped in this tiny stall, and probably drugged up with how dizzy he felt. Examining himself, he wasn't wounded, but fresh scars marked where the battlefield had nearly killed him. For half an hour he just laid back down on his back, eyes closed as tried to focus. He had been hard since he woke, and figuring it wasn't helping, gripped his cock to slowly massage it, distracting himself from his surroundings and offputting situation. He struggled to get anywhere in his state, but indulged the rhythmic waves of pleasure while fantasizing about a few of his comrades. Those conscripts who weren't shy about stripping and strutting naked in the showers at camp. As he was just starting to pick up steam, he opened his eyes, and found the door open, with the doorway filled by an unfamiliar figure.

Dominic had been born and raised on the farming homestead. But almost as long as he'd lived he wasn't allowed on the farmland proper. That changed when he was 18, old enough to really get experience in the family buisness. Their stock was hardy, well attended to, and they only kept steers that could produce offspring with similar genetic qualities. They thinned out any new flock with a series of tests, only keeping the cream of the crop. If the man was able to build muscle fast, or fattened up in an appealing way, they kept him to breed and feed until his late 30's. The others were hooked up, tied down, forcefed to order, and sold off to those who could afford to subsidize the farm's daily expenses. Especially wealthy donors could get a breeding stud, enhanced or modified with any number of 'extras' they wanted.

Working on the farm, meanwhile, was hard work. Managing time to get everything done right, feed vats filled, stalls cleaned, shots and medications given for a slew of reasons. The free ass was a bonus, studs were usually horny out of their minds and broken in within the first year. Whether breaking them was a task, or a relief, depended from farmhand to farmhand. Dominic was soon to realize it was more than just a relief, to him, it was his raison d'etre.

The fit, well muscled man on the floor masturbating let out a shocked shout and scrambled to cover himself at least a bit with his hands. Dominic smirked at that,

"Sorry to interrupt, I'm just here to make sure you get set up with everything you'll need."

Vick, who was beet red and trying not to meet Dominic's eyes replied,

"Where the fuck am I? Who are you? And what do you mean set up, this place is like a goddamn barn!"

Dominic hauled in a gallon jug of water that he put in the corner, and tossed a blanket along with a pair of briefs at Vick.

"It's because you are in a barn, were good as dead until they found you out in no man's land and dragged you here. You're lucky to be alive, mr."

Having gained his composure and recovered at least a shred of dignity, Vick looked at Dominic to push for more information,

"That doesn't answer my questions though. Who are you."

"Name's Dominic, I'm a farmhand here."

"... Why am I being treated like a fucking horse here?"

"Eh, more like a cow or a pig than a horse."

"That sounds a worse, you know that right?"

"You'll get used to it. Not like we're letting you out to burn more towns and shoot up our soldiers."

"You're a fucking Gyran?"

"Sure am. Not part of the war effort really, besides the whole keeping war criminals like you locked up part."

"I'm not a general, or even an officer, I'm a conscript who didnt have a choice. Besides, youre doing a piss poor job if all you've got is some flimsy wooden barn. That door doesn't even have a lock, just a latch."

"Because you're in great condition to escape right? Fine with getting lost in the woods for a few days to get to the nearest town?"

Vick was admittedly, not. He was exhausted, sore, and absolutely fucking starving.

"What are you going to do to me."

"Nothing too bad. You get to lay back, enjoy free food, water and shelter, and pack on weight for us."

Vick blushed harder (if that was possible) as he fumed,

"You're not gonna make me into a goddamn pig!"

Dominic rolled his eyes.

"If you resist, you'll just end up strapped to a table with a tube down your throat until someone buys you on the cheap. If you comply, you get more amenities for each milestone you reach. If you really want to be a hardass about it, then I'll take you over to the pump station and get this over with."

Vick hesitated, this Dominic sounded pretty serious.

"Amenitues? Like what amenities, better hay?"

"A bigger stall. Furniture, tv, homemade meals, you name it. If you do good enough and the farmers like you well, then you might even live a long happy life. Like I said, it's that, or in one week we waddle your poor, distended gut out to the butcher. You're lucky you're cute, or I'd have just gone and done it already."

Vick felt humiliated. This "farmhand" was talking like he was a peice of meat. In his eyes that might be true, but Vick was full of fire.

"Make me. Maybe getting this over with will be better anyways!"

"You'll change your tune after you get a good look around the place."

Dominic eyed Vick over, as if searching for something in the guy's features, making the poor guy cover up more with his newfound blanket. He looked deep in Vicks eyes and drew closer,

"Heres some advice; Don't be so shy. You've got few assets here, and your body is the biggest, most important one you've got."

As Dominic turned to leave, he said over his shoulder,

"You'll cave soon enough, and when you do, I'll be back to tell you more. Faucets there if you get hungry."

Vick was alone again, as Dominic closed the door, and gave a look over to the faucet. The mechanism had an extendable hose that ended in a complex looking nozzle, with interlocking peices covered in soft plastic. There was a bite block set an inch or two away from the tip, with a set of pressure pads along its indents, and the lever for the faucet had a dial backing it with an unlit display screen. After some trying, the lever wouldn't budge, and Victor realized he probably had to use the bite block in order to operate the thing at all.

Declining to try right away, he pulled on the simple black briefs Dominic had left and laid out his blanket over a decent pile of straw. The gallon of water at least would give Victor some reprieve from the hole he felt in his gut, and he drank until his thirst was slaked. Even then, he knew it wasn't enough, still feeling weak and tired... He looked again at the faucet, and sighed.