Breaking the Stallion Ch. 01

This story contains graphic content and potential trauma cues for sensitive readers. This is purely a work of fiction, by and for consenting adults. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintended and purely coincidental.

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Chapter 1: Gain the Horse's Trust.

The rope slipped from my hand as the horse reeled on its hind legs.

"Mom!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, "Why are we bothering with this? Why can't we just pay someone to help?"

My father had died in the prior year, leaving my mother and I without any help to manage our small Kentucky stable. Our family was known for raising some of the best racehorses in the country. But since my father's passing just a year prior, and with a mountain of medical and funeral bills, we couldn't afford to hire any help. It was up to my mother and I to raise and train these powerful, magnificent animals.

My mother, who was teaching me to lead the horses, didn't answer immediately. I could tell when she was angry based on how she called me. She used my full name, 'Oliver Lynn Anderson,' when I was in trouble. But when she adopted her more usual, caring persona, it was just 'Olly.'

"Olly," she began, "You're right that it's just you and I now. And the next few years are going to be extremely tough. But you don't need muscle to get these horses to obey you. Your father went over this before he passed. Tell me, Son, how do we break a horse?"

I sighed. My father had made me memorize the process of breaking an animal's spirit, domesticating it to use for humans' goals. It was a hard thing to do to an animal, and I understood why animal rights activists were against it. But I was raised in that culture, and too young (and too stupid) to question it.

I recited the list to my mother. That list that my father drilled into me since boyhood.

(1) Gain the trust of your horse.

(2) Use unrelenting pressure to stop bad behavior.

(3) Reward good behavior.

(4) Create habits.

(5) Teach in small, incremental steps.

"Good!" My mother looked elated at my recitation. I later realized that she was exercising the third tenet of horse breaking when she looked so elated for me, and the fourth tenat when she made me recite them.

My mother continued, "Now take the reins again. Use gentle, but unrelenting pressure. You don't have to be big and strong to control a big and strong animal. Just follow those tenets."

For the next several years, I became more than proficient at breaking and training horses. So much so, that our horses boasted a string of successes. Eventually, my father's residual medical and funeral costs were paid off, we were able to rehire employees, and business started booming.

I skillfully applied the tenets of breaking horses. Any one of these animals could have launched my wiry frame into the air with an effortless kick. But I was firm. I was confident. I was clear about what behaviors would be rewarded. I was patient. Thus, I learned to control animals much larger and much more powerful than myself.

When I put my will toward mastering an animal, it often became an obsession. In a way that I didn't understand until later in life, I would latch onto the beast emotionally until I bent it to my will. Strangely, it became a power trip to dominate something larger and more powerful than myself. Later, this obsession toward dominance would seep into my sex and romantic life.

When I graduated from high school, I decided to attend a local university to earn a business degree. My mother was sad to see me go. But I planned to come back to our growing ranch after I graduated and continue running the family business. I hoped that, eventually, we could afford for my mother to retire and for me to manage the business affairs full time. She had worked herself to the bone supporting the business while raising me, and I felt that she needed the break.

I also knew that, physically, I wasn't built for continued manual labor. Despite years of stable work, I was covered in thin, wiry muscles at best. At 5'9", my scrawny frame weighed 135 lbs. at most. I was not built to carry massive bails of hay for my entire life.

To complicate matters, my mother dreamed that I would find a wife in college that I would take home to support and to grow a family with. And she wasn't shy about this dream. Whenever I hung out with a girl with whom I developed a friendship (most of my friends seemed to be women), my mother would drop conspicuous hints about someone to settle down with her 'handsome boy.'

I didn't know how to tell her that I wasn't interested in women.

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During my first week of university, I became friends with Cindy, a girl from my Intro to Business course. Cindy was a boring, basic cheerleader type. At first, I had little interest in her vapid life story. But she had an unintentional skill of making me laugh with her ridiculous remarks.

I was surprised that she never caught on to the fact that I mainly hung out with her to privately laugh at her and because I was interested in the boys who chased her. When a twink like me tells you that "Oh my god, I'm obsessed with you," it's not a compliment.

Shortly into the school year, Cindy brought me to a party at her sorority. Did I judge her for her involvement in that circle, along with its ridiculous obsession with arbitrary arrangements of Greek letters and chants? Yes. Was I disgusted by the vapid frat bros who were only admitted to the university based on their sports prowess or familial connections? Yes. But did I desperately want to fuck most of those boys? Also, yes.

I was standing with Cindy and her friends, holding a cheap, fizzy drink when he approached. He was a stallion if I'd ever seen one. He was easily 6'3" tall, maybe taller. He was built like a linebacker; I could see his chest and abdominal muscles rippling through his much-too-tight shirt. His jeans were ill-fitted, but I could see an impressive bulge undercutting his fly. His dishwater-blond hair was tastefully disheveled. And I felt like I could get lost in his hazel eyes.

He approached Cindy with the confident swagger of a stud horse. I could almost visualize his massive member swinging in his pants as he sauntered through the crowd.

"Hi there!" He reached his hand toward Cindy for a handshake. "I'm Brock. Are you new here?"

Of course his name is Brock. What other name should I have expected from a blockheaded jock like this? 'Sebastian'? 'William the Third'?

Cindy looked at him dumbfoundedly, so I stepped forward and shook his hand. "Hi there! I'm Oliver, but you can call me Olly. This is Cindy." I blithely motioned at the stupefied doe-in-the-headlights who stood next to me. "We just started. Tell me, what class are you? And what's your major?"

I didn't know what came over me. I was typically the reserved, introverted party attendee who would only speak with the people I came with. But something about this boy made me want him. But beyond just wanting to fuck him—I was a hornier-than-average gay college student, so wanting to fuck a guy was nothing exceptional—something about Brock made me want to possess him. I wanted to make him mine. Perhaps this indicated something fucked up from my childhood, or something that I should examine. But I saw something in Brock that I saw in a prized stallion. I saw potential. I saw something that should be mine.

I later realized that Brock had become an object of obsession for me, much like the stallions I would tame in my younger years. Until now, my obsession toward dominating creatures more powerful than myself had never intersected with sex. I never wanted to fuck the horses I broke. But I wanted to fuck Brock. I would do anything to fuck Brock. I was going to fuck Brock. From that moment, breaking Brock to my will had become my singular purpose. This fixation anchored itself into my mind.

Brock was taken aback by my confident approach. I'm used to masculine guys being offput by an articulate, confident twink like me. But I came at Brock with a fire in my gaze that surprised even myself. I used Brock's discomfort to lead the conversation.

"Uh," Brock hesitated. He probably hadn't noticed me in his pursuit of Cindy, but he blinked several times at my enthusiastic questioning, "I'm a freshman too. I'm studying business as well."

"Well, that's strange, Brock," I kept my hand on his. Not shaking it, but not letting it out of my grasp just yet. I never broke my gaze. "I haven't seen you in our Intro to Business course. Or the required finance courses. Or even around campus. Are you in a different school?"

Brock was taken aback by my questions. "Uh . . . I-Uh . . . I don't make it to class just that often."

This was perfect. This would be the in that I needed. Brock (assumedly) didn't want to fail out during his first semester. By contrast, I expected to get no less than straight-As in any of my courses. I had something that Brock would need.

"Sounds like you have some catching up to do!" I released Brock's hand and put my hand on his shoulder. The first tenet of breaking a horse is to develop a trusting relationship. And constant physical contact is an effective way to make those large, skittish animals comfortable with your presence.

I continued. "Let me know if you want to study together. It sounds like you'll need it before the semester is out," I laughed nonchalantly, "but the offer is on the table."

I didn't have to apply pressure here. Brock's grades would apply pressure for me.

"Y-yeah," Brock stuttered. I was clearly leading this conversation. "T-that would be great if you want to get together and exchange notes sometime."

I was slightly offended by Brock's use of the word 'exchange.' As if he would have any notes to offer me. But I ignored that and made concrete plans. Best to set something up for him so that cancelling on me would require action. Firm, unrelenting pressure.

I pulled Brock slightly closer to me. With my hand on his shoulder, I subtly brought him down closer to my level. "What are you doing tomorrow after six? Don't tell me 'Studying,' because I'll know that you're lying." I laughed again.

I hate the concept of 'negging.' It's a gross and manipulative tool, and anyone with a social IQ higher than an infant will immediately know what you're doing. Luckily for me, Brock had a very low social IQ.

"Y-yeah. That sounds great."

"Great! I'll see you then! And bring beers." I told him where to find my dormitory, then politely excused Cindy, and myself. As I had hoped, Cindy hadn't had the opportunity to get a word in. Further, I had controlled the point at which the conversation ended. By being the one to walk away—and to walk away with Cindy, the object of Brock's desire—left Brock wanted more. This gave me power in the interaction.

The next day, and right on cue, Brock arrived at my dorm. As instructed, he carried a sixpack of (albeit cheap) beer. He seemed nervous at first, but the first couple of beers put him right at ease.

Brock was less than subtle when he brought up my friend Cindy. Keeping a firm hand on the conversation, I made it clear that Cindy trusted my opinion on guys before she slept with them. Of course, this was a lie. Cindy was a complete whore. But I wanted as much perceived leverage over Brock as possible as I entangled him.

During our study time, I made it very clear when Brock misunderstood a concept. And, even in these introductory courses, Brock frequently missed the mark. I wanted to make it clear to him that he needed my guidance to get through college. I wanted him to trust me—after all, I was just a 'bro' helping a 'bro'—but I also wanted him dependent upon me. This is the first tenet of breaking a stallion.

Thus, I was able to get Brock over to my dorm at least once or twice per week for the rest of the semester. That I often dropped hints about him meeting up with Cindy probably helped. That Brock scarcely showed up to class and couldn't be bothered to read a textbook helped even more. Brock was probably used to the nerdy kid going out of his way to help. But Brock had no idea that I was subtly manipulating his behavior.

It started small. When Brock would make a misogynistic comment (of which he made many, at first), I ignored him. When Brock spoke highly of an attractive girl he met, I ignored those comments as well. But when he complained about dating, I emphatically validated him. When Brock was emotionally vulnerable (rare at first) about his childhood or his inner thoughts, I went out of my way to validate him. Slowly, Brock changed interpersonally to talk about women less, and about his feelings more.

This was how I breached the topic of porn. It started with questions about his frequency and preferences, which I validated. Reward good behavior. Eventually, and after several beers one night, Brock admitted that he enjoyed 'femdom' (female domination) porn. Specifically, Brock enjoyed videos of face sitting and verbal humiliation.

I knew it. Brock was a sub. I could practically smell it on him, burning white hot under his paper thin, cocky jock persona. And I made a point to bring it up subsequently.

Eventually, I got it out of him that he enjoyed light BDSM, cuckolding, and chastity play. Specifically, he enjoyed captioned images of women who had locked their male partners in chastity devices (thereby preventing erections or ejaculation), and who fucked other men while their male partners were 'locked up.'

I reinforced that as much and often as possible. I frequently brought it up with, "It's a shame that most women aren't into that kind of thing. Have you ever tried just locking yourself up? As an experiment?" Brock would always change the subject.

I learned that Brock prioritized porn, which frequently caused him to miss so many classes. Further, part of the reason that Brock was a terrible study was that, when set his mind to be productive, he would instead give into temptation and find himself spending the hour in front of his phone with his cock in his hand. Apparently, Brock once spent a weekend without underwear because he ran out of 'cum rags' on a porn bender and couldn't bring himself to visit the laundromat.

Brock's disordered behavior made me think of him like an unruly animal. Brock was a beast, but not just in the sense of his massive, muscled form. Brock was an animal that needed to be tamed. At least, as I convinced myself, Brock needed to a firm hand to get his behavior under control. And I would give him that firm hand.

Near the end of the semester, I sprung my trap.

"So, Brock," I spoke slowly so that Brock would understand what I was offering him, "Cindy and I are going to a party on Thursday. You should come."

His face lit up. "Really? That sounds great. Thanks Man!"

I would eventually train him out of words like 'Man,' 'Dude,' or 'Bro.' But I didn't forget Tenet 5 of breaking a stallion. Baby steps.

I smiled and leaned back in my chair. "Of course! But there will be a lot of drunk girls there. And Cindy will lose interest if she thinks you're a fuckboy. Think you can control yourself?"

"Yeah, I think so. I mean, but if a girl is really interested then I wouldn't want to tell her 'No' though, right? I wouldn't want to be rude."

Brock's lack of self-control was pathetic. As was his rationalization for fucking drunk girls at parties.

"Brock," I spoke slowly, as if I was lulling a horse into a stable, "Do you trust me?"

"Well, yeah."

"Okay. This is a bit unorthodox so you need to hear me out, but you should wear a chastity cage to the party. Let's get one and put it on you before we go out. I'll hold onto the key." I spoke gently, but firmly. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a suggestion. It was just how it was going to be.

Brock reacted predictably. "Wait, what? Are you fucking crazy? I'm not fucking doing that."

I knew that I needed to be firm without activating him any further. "Well, I understand your concern. Maybe it's better if we hold off until you have a better sense of self-control."

"Wait, come on, Man. I can go. I just don't think we need to go that far." I noticed Brock's hesitation. His use of the word, 'think,' and his use of 'go that far' was conspicuous.

I met his indecision with decisiveness.

"Look, Bud," I placed my hand on his shoulder, subtly lowering him until his eyes were level with mine, "When you and I go to parties, what do I tell you to do with your car keys?"

"Well, I give them to you."

"That's right," I still spoke slowly but firmly, "And why is that?"

"Okay, I see your point. Because when I get drunk, I make bad decisions. So, I trust you to make the driving decisions for me."

"Good boy," I patted the side of his face condescendingly, "Think of this like giving car keys to a trusted friend before you hang out with a chick and get 'drunk,' so to speak."

Eventually, Brock came around. We drove to a local sex shop and perused the chastity cages. Much to Brock's chagrin, a sales associate came and asked us if she could help us find anything.

"Oh, we're just looking for a chastity cage that would fit this big fella," I motioned at Brock. His chagrined glare shot daggers in my direction. I went on, ignoring him. "Do you have anything good, and with a lock and key, for starters?"

The sales associate was a short, chubby woman with purple hair. Which was on brand for a store like that. She suggested a particular model, for which I thanked her.

"This will work well, right Brock?" I turned to Brock, hoping for a response. I was intentionally breaking the ice and making this as public as possible without sending him over the edge. And it was important that he outwardly validate the decision—in front of another person—to put him in chastity. My stallion had no idea that his spirit was being crushed, little by little.

"Y-yeah that works I guess." Brock's face was bright red. He couldn't look the saleswoman in the eye.

After the saleswoman rung us up, I elbowed brock. "Don't be rude, Brock." I used his real name to add to the humiliation. If the saleswoman ever spotted us in a bar or on the street, all the better. "Thank the nice lady for helping us!"

Brock stood there dumbfoundedly before muttering, "T-thanks for your help. B-bye!" He practically ran out of the store.

The moment of truth came when we returned to my dorm. As soon as we entered, I faced Brock and shut the door. The act was reminiscent of shutting the stable door on a stud horse.

"How about a beer to celebrate?" I had to fight to keep my tone light and uneven. I felt like a hunter, trapping his prey. I was almost there. I almost had this beast of a man securely in my control.

We played video games and chatted for a couple of hours. Brock sat on the edge of my dorm room bed while I took a seat next to him. I did this intentionally to get him (consciously or otherwise) used to being on a bed with me.

After about four beers, Brock was slightly buzzed. This was the point in his inebriation in which Brock would admit the most vulnerable parts of himself. The Goldilocks sweet spot where he was lucid enough to understand what was happening with just lowered inhibitions. I moved in for the kill.

"Alright Stud, time to put this on!" I picked up the bag from earlier and pulled out the chastity device.

Brock protested, "The party's not for a few hours, right? Why do I need to put this on now?"

I spoke in my firm, gentle voice. When I went into this 'dom' mode, I probably sounded like a late-night radio host. "You want to make sure it's comfortable beforehand, right? This gives us time to troubleshoot any issues."

"Okay, yeah, makes sense. I'll go to the bathroom and put it on." Brock reached his hand out to me to take the package.