The Farm Ch. 10

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"Stop shoving at me, Farnham." Gordy pushed back. He was shaken. He felt horror slide up his back. His brain seared white. This was artless and cruel. It wasn't animal. It was human. Human at its basest. For one horrid moment Gordy felt he might vomit. He managed control. Farnham kept pushing. He heard the mob behind him give a groan and shout and laugh and sigh. "We have to stop it." He turned to see the bloodied young man lifted by many hands above the heads of the men. He hung still, supported for all to see.

Gordy and Farnham turned and fled. They didn't look at each other. Gordy stunned for his gentlemen's club. Farnham shamefaced for his. They didn't speak.

Brandy didn't calm him. Brandy didn't wash the taste of that place from his mouth. Death. The blood. The reality of it. Gordy sat in his favorite chair near the fire surrounded by the quiet voices and aristocratic accents. The stench of the warehouse clung to his clothes. Gordy looked around the room. No one seemed to notice the miasma that clung to him. One or two acquaintances approached, but they turned aside when pinned with a black look. He was carried to his room up the polished stairs by discrete club employees. Past oils of distinguished former members. Laid on his bed. His shoes removed. A coverlet drawn over him. The door softly closed. Looks exchanged. Silence kept.

And the visions, visitors, visages came. Visions of the whipped man rented at Ganymede; the young man at the fight, the light in his eyes extinguished; the boys from school, cruel and fearful; and Prize the light flickering in his eyes. Gordy sweated in his clothes. He watched the faces and scenes slide in from the gloom. He tossed on the bed. He reached for the faces. He pushed them away. He drew them close. He called out to them. He begged them to leave him and to love him. He woke exhausted with a crushing headache and the taste of vomit in his mouth. He woke with a growing doubt. He woke with a crawling feeling of regret. He wanted a bath. He wanted fresh air. He wanted. . . .

***

Tom and the Greys exchanged guarded looks until the dust from the Growler settled on the road.

"Bad piece of work, that one." Nanny turned to her husband. "He's hunting for Daniel."

William put the stem of his pipe to his lips and nodded. "Nice touch, the pig."

Tom looked at them both. He turned and headed back to where he'd last seen Danny. He ran. Danny stood with chickens strutting and pecking around his feet the feed pan lying on the ground where he dropped it. He faced the barn looking at something in the small wood. He didn't see Tom, he felt a hand on his arm. "No." He swung and connected. Tom staggered back.

"Danny, it's me."

"No." Prize struck him in the jaw and Tom went down legs sprawled. He was on him, fists fell. Tom didn't strike back.

"Stop. Danny." He saw a rock in his hand and rolled away.

Prize slammed the rock into the dirt. Tom felt it pass his ear. "God, Danny stop." And as fast as it started, it stopped.

Prize stood above him chest heaving, the rock in his hands. He looked at Tom in the dirt. The blood. The scattered chickens. Voices behind him. His knees shook. His muscles turned to tallow. He fell and lifted his arms over his head. He released the rock. Hands on him lifting him.

"What the devil, Danny." Tom looked up at him. "What the devil?"

Prize closed his eyes to the blood. He heard other voices, Nanny and William. He heard Tom say he wasn't hurt. He waited for it to happen. He extended his wrists to them. He said, "Please." The tears came.

Tom cleaned up quickly. Nanny clucked and dabbed at the cuts. Prize bundled off to the hearth and given cool water. He looked for his shackle pushing the quilt around, feeling along the hearth with quick fingers. Hunting, hunting. William brought him a second cup of water. He couldn't find it. 'They came to take him. Cruel and Brutal.' Tom poured whisky into the water and pushed it at his lips and told him to drink. He couldn't find the shackle and they would take him. He drank. Tom held the cup to his lips again. He didn't look at them. He didn't look at Tom. Tom who laughed. Tom who kissed him. Tom who bled. He grew still and waited for what was sure to come. It didn't. He didn't know why they waited, standing there looking down at him. Tom sat down next to him and Prize turned his head away from him in shame. "Tell me what happened, Danny." His voice quiet.

Prize laced his fingers together to stop the shaking. He didn't know how to tell him about Cruel standing at the side of the barn. He didn't know how to tell him that that was who he thought Tom was when he touched him. He didn't know how to explain the then of his life. He didn't want Tom to know what he was, what he still was, a stupid whore.

"What frightened ye so?" Prize shook his head. "Did ye see the man driving the Growler?" Prize rhymes with lies and Prize lied. He lied with his silence. He didn't tell Tom about Cruel with his broken mouth and his promise to return. A fatal lie.

A letter written to Gordy at his club. A dinner left uneaten by the hearth. A discussion in the kitchen about what to do until Gordy responded. A request for Tom to sleep in the cottage against the carriage's return. Use the room meant for Daniel. The falling light. The growing quiet. Nanny's retreat with William to their room. The silence of the country night.

Prize listened to the silence. He tried to draw that silence into his body with every breath. With every breath he failed and the storm within grew. He pulled himself up on unsteady legs and crossed the sitting room. He stopped at the doorway and looked at the clean kitchen. He was cold. Cold from within. He planned to go to Tom and have it happen. He didn't want to wait for his punishment, pulled from the hearth and punished. He'd struck out. He'd broken the rule. Heavy brown socks soft on the kitchen floor. The door to the sleeping room shut. A soft tapping on the wood. Silence. A deep breath of silence. A tap tap again. The door opened. Tom in his shirtsleeves holding the lamp, his jaw scraped and bluing with a bruise.

"Danny?" Tom gave him a neutral look. "What do ye need?"

He knew what he needed. He needed to bring the waiting to an end. He couldn't wait to be dragged out. To be punished. Now. Too pick the moment.

"Will ye step in?" The door opened wider.

Prize crossed the threshold. He stood in his too short pants. He picked at the mended spot near the top bone button of the old shirt. He smelled his own fear, acrid. He bent his head and stood quietly as Tom eased the door shut.

Tom placed the lamp on the small table. "Sit down, Danny." He meant the chair or the bed, but Danny went to a spot by the chair and squatted flat footed on the floor. "Nay, Danny, sit on the chair and talk to me." Prize looked up and didn't move. "If ye wish."

"Tom, please." That was all.

"Please? Danny, what is it ye want?" Tom felt the fear on him. He wanted to lay a reassuring hand on the black hair to comfort him. He dared not. Sweet Danny with his stories of Sultans and chicks. Danny who kissed him back with trembling lips. Danny with cold murder in his eyes. He waited.

Danny undid the top button on his shirt, the one he picked at as he stood at the door, and pulled his shirt over his head. On his back a single scar, new and pink. Down his side a long old scar white as bone. He covered his head with laced fingers and leaned forward between his knees, bending his back. Ready.

"Now, please." Prize drew in a breath. "Now."

"I'm going to put my hand on ye. Don't move. Don't be afraid." He touched the pink scar. Tom felt the muscles jump. The skin slick with sweat. Fear. The laced fingers on the head tightened.

"What do ye want?" Tom knew it was the wrong question the moment it left his lips. "Oh, Danny, I forgive ye. Ye weren't yerself. I'm not hurt. Caught off guard, that's all."

"Please, Tom." The voice soft and hollow.

"I forgave you, Danny. There's nothing more. It's over." A hand on the scar. "What happened here?"

No answer.

"Stand up. I'll take you back to your hearth."

And Prize stood, his arms at his side. Tom took his arm to lead him. He felt unnerved. He wanted to hold him, to comfort him, but each touch caused Danny to shudder. He tugged at Danny's arm to get him to step forward. Just to get him moving. "Danny, come along." And Danny looked up at him.

"That's not me."

"What do ye mean?"

He shivered. He turned his head. He started to talk, to tell him. The words died on his lips. He pulled his arm free. He extended his arms. "Whore." He whispered it. "I'm a whore."

"No."

Prize turned to face him. Tom looked away. "Look at me, Tom. I've done this all my life. Can't you understand?" Tom shook his head in as much to say no, to display his disbelief, to clear his head. Arms extended. "Look."

And the tears started and his resolve melted and his knees buckled and he was back on the floor. He'd done it. He'd said it. He knew it would come now. It would come now. It had to come now.

He felt the heat from Tom's body as he moved close and knelt next to him. He pulled him close to wrap him in his arms. To rock him as he cried.

"Yer Danny to me." Tom's voice broke. "Who did this to you?"

"My mother sold me to this."

Tom pressed his lips to the back of Danny's neck just below the soft black hair. He whispered, "Yer Danny. Yer Danny."

And Prize clung to him. To Tom big and strong as an oak. Tom who called him Danny and made him feel less a thing. The kisses moved down his neck. A hand on his back with the mark from the crop. A fast beating heart. His breath grew short and he felt the heat rising. He retreated from his arms and clenched his hands.

"No need for that, Danny." Tom ran his hands down his arms from shoulders to wrists, softly. Softly he held his wrists and leaned down and kissed his neck, collar bone, the soft hollow between.

Prize waited when his wrists were released. He waited for what Tom wanted from him. He looked up under his lashes to read the face. And the hands moved to stroke his sides, to travel up his ribs and slide inward. A thumb stroked his nipple and a small sound escaped his lips. He raised his chin and exposed his neck. The kisses again. The quick touch of a tongue and the circle, circle of the thumb. Prize parted his lips and lips moved to his and Tom caught his sigh in his mouth and moved a hand to the trouser buttons. He slid his hand below the band and eased the pants down. The hand moved across his hip to the rise of his buttock and stroked the top of the crease. Each down stroke moving deeper, lower. The kisses moving slower up his neck and the circle, circle of the thumb.

Prize reached for the buttons of Tom's shirt. His hands jerked and the button popped free from the cloth and fell to the floor and rolled in a shrinking concentric pattern. His fingers moved quickly and Prize pulled the shirttails free of Tom's trousers and pushed the shirt open. His chest broad, covered with thick dark-blond curls. The first touch tentative brushing the hair tips.

The kisses stopped. Tom stood and looked down at the black hair. He wanted to spread him on the bed and kiss every part of him. Kiss him and taste him until Danny shuddered under his lips. Prize moved his hand to the front of Tom's breeches and stroked the stiffening cock through the rough cloth. He felt the response and the growing size of it. He kissed the trail of hair down to where it disappeared into the trousers. The buttons undone. The penis pushing its way free and Prize took it between his lips and drew it in to his mouth. He cupped his tongue. He reached for the balls and supported them with four fingers and rubbed his thumb across them. Tom gasped. His hips snapped pushing his penis deeper in to Prize's mouth. It touched the back of his throat. Prize suppressed a gag. It was to be this. Breathing slowly through his nose, he began to swallow. A huge hand on the back of his head and the pushing and a stop. Tom pulled back. His reluctance at the end of the movement. Precum slicking Prize's lips. He tried to pull Tom back into his mouth.

"No, Danny, stand up."

He stood and his trousers fell.

Tom stood back a step to take in his form. A smooth hairless body. The cut penis. "Yer as bald as an egg." He reached for Prize's shrinking cock. "What's here?"

"I'm worth more this way." His head turned. Voice flat.

Tom had no words for this. He did know that from the moment he saw him still pale and illness clinging to him as he waited on the hearth that he wanted him, and now this. He knew if he kissed him, touched him there would be no stopping this time. He ran his finger down Danny's penis. He watched for the response. He moved his hand up and grasped it at the base and began to stroke. He watched Danny's face. He tried to read his eyes. The strokes came long and slow. He accepted his touch. There was no turning back. A step in, the penis released. The embrace and kiss. His hands moving to his buttocks and gently pulling them apart. A soft touch on the anus and a gasp. Prize let him. He clung to him. He kissed along the curling hair and found his nipple and licked and sucked and let the finger circle and push and circle. He stopped thinking. He surrendered. He wanted this. He feared it. It was happening now. He here with Tom who didn't beat him after he struck him. Not Tom.

"I'll never hurt ye. Leave now if ye want. I'll never hurt ye."

The finger, rough and callused slick with precum pushed in. Prize rolled to his belly and lifted his rear. He presented himself to Tom. He lowered his head to his forearm to let it happen. To be now. To be here on the floor. To be what Tom wanted.

Tom kissed and licked around the rim. He sent shivers up Danny's back. He sent the heat of molten metal flashing through him, hot as Billy Easter's forge. Up through his balls and penis. Down from his nipples. Dancing along his spine. Lightning across his brain. His knees spread and move up toward his chest. And it stopped. And Danny groaned and pushed up and back. Hands lifted and turned him. Pulled to Tom's penis. He touched it with his lips. He kissed along its length. He drew his tongue from base to tip and around and around. He pulled it in deep. It touched the back of his throat. And that wasn't enough. Not deep enough. The taste of Tom like the ocean. The push like the tide. In and in. Then the pulling back. The feral sound of need deigned. A desperate attempt to recapture it. His mouth watered for it. He fell back on his heels and ran his hands over the hair on Tom's thighs. He clutched at him. Pushed his cheek to the inner thigh and lips to sack. His tongue licking and pushing. A hand on the back of his head. Fingers wrapped in his hair. And pulled away.

"The bed," Tom barely managed to talk. He pulled at Danny to get him from the hard, cold floor. Muscles bunched. Fear sharp in blue eyes. Resignation replaced need.

Tom saw the eyebrows pull inward. The flush left the face before him. Lips pulled together. It wouldn't be the bed. He reached behind him and drew the covers to the floor. Prize watched as a hasty pallet was arranged. Hands hard and rough, large and strong pushed him down on his back on the nest. Warm lips on his. Soft sounds, light touches.

Tom moved between his legs and pushed them up. "Like this, Danny. I'll see yer face." The soft tongue again around the anus and up to the tender area behind his hairless balls. The lightning returned. The need. The want. Spit startling and warm. The finger of horn touching and pushing. A stretch. Surrender. Opening. A second finger. His arms hooked behind the knees and pulling back and out to let the fingers go deeper. Cold air on his chest. A chest lowered to warm him. The tongue pushed past his lips. His leg lifted to a shoulder. The fingers gone. Silk and iron in their place. Tom looking down at him. A stretch and thrust and impossible fullness. Good pain with the promise of pleasure. Deeper, to touch and caress him and reach a spot that caused Prize's stomach muscles to contract, nipples to harden, and hips to roll. His penis grew harder up his stomach. He ached for more contact. The in and out. The touch of hair along the underside and along the head and the need for more. Tom above him. Pushing, pushing. A warm flood inside. The hand to stroke him. Lips to kiss him. His own release.

Prize slept with Tom still in him, with Tom curled around him. There on the floor pulled back against Tom's chest, the hair soft on his skin.

Chanticleer called from the fence post. Tom shook him from his dreamless sleep. Pushed awake and pulled awake. Clothes thrust into his arms. The cold kitchen floor. His hearth and alone to wait for what came next. Prize fell back into an uneasy doze and woke to the sounds of voices in the kitchen. Nanny held out his cup of tea. She searched his face. She put her hand to his forehead to feel for fever.

"Are you well?"

Prize didn't know. He didn't answer.

Then the laughter and a voice behind her. "Danny, come. Time to feed the chickens. Dress yerself."

Nanny stood and left the room.

Tom smiled down at him. "Ye'll be wanting this." He tossed a heavy wool sock to Prize.

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6 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 10 years ago
Masterful

I believe eveything you say.I will go wherever you take me.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago

Oh, the humanity! And the lack of it...

This story is bitter and sweet and addictive. I eagerly waiting more.

LaVieErotiqueLaVieErotiquealmost 11 years ago
Heartbreaking.....

What can I say? You're a courageous writer; the characters are weaving their own stories, despite how we the readers may wish things to be. The different strands of this series are perfectly pitched, they're fluid and inter-connected;cleverly subtle, we are the ones who have to be alert to the clues in your narrative. This is writing that requires participation, investment and authentic emotion. Take no note of what is popular....quality can sometimes be less than obvious. I have waited for this latest chapter and I am not disappointed. Every line is dripping with atmosphere and the tragedy of Prize -- 'my mother sold me to this' -- the simplicity enough to move me beyond measure. Beautiful. A sonnet in prose. Thank you for sharing.

chesthairslavechesthairslavealmost 11 years ago
Poisonous SUMAC AND IVY

Poor Prize. Our victim of whips, shackles, manacles, collars and a cacaphony of corrupting tension of terrors, is not finished with his nightmares of venomous visions. Despite the tenderness of Tom, now tainted by his own sexual desires, Prize remains an empty shell of sadness, sorrow, cold skin, and a cold soul. I believe many of us had some hope for a redemption of Gordy. I was disurbed that Gordy dashed from the fight to his club because of the human cruelty he witnessed. Yet he had no issues or problems with the soulless cruelty he befell on Prize. Our beloved author, SumacandIvy is not finished with his depraved tale. Prize must still wear his garland of poisonous sumac green-white berries and leaves in order to achieve his freedom. The entire poison sumac shrub/tree is more virulent to touch, taste than poison ivy or oak. One can die quite quickly from the smoke of burning poison sumac. Mrs. Featherwink, Halden, obsessed March, and decision time Mr. Clever Author... (Gordy or no longer Gordy) are the ivy that detects nearby objects and creeps with its touch sensors to adhere and climb all over and possess. Now a favor please, let Crippled Doris know the location of the remaining Featherwink treasure and have it all. Repulsive Rupert has been murdered. There must be justice. Halden and March aren't exactly innocent of depraved acts. Let them all die from suffocation of burning poisonous sumac smoke. Cannd and LaVieErotique I hope you approve.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 11 years ago
Have been waiting.

Thank you so much,I have been waiting for this. I knew that it was no where near over and was waiting, now I am waiting for more . Thank you for this update.

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