The Master's Farm — Episode 7: Solovino

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The Master dragged him crawling down the hallway, but this time they did not go to the stable. They turned right into a corridor Miguel had not seen before. Longer, with adobe walls and a low ceiling. At the end, a metal door that the Master opened with a thick key.

The light of dawn hit him in the face.

It was outside. For the first time, Miguel saw the ranch.

A huge stretch of land extending in every direction. Mountains in the distance, the orange dawn sky, the smell of wet earth and grass. Wooden pens scattered around the property, a large stable in the back, what looked like a horse barn, and beyond that, structures he could not make out. Everything surrounded by a tall wire perimeter fence.

But Miguel had no time to admire the view. The Master guided him crawling to a small circular pen, like a miniature arena, with wooden walls a meter high and a floor of packed dirt. In the center was a metal structure: two parallel bars at hip height, with leather straps at the ends. A mounting stand.

“Up,” the Master ordered.

Miguel climbed onto the structure. The bars supported his torso, leaving his arms hanging in front and his legs spread behind. The Master tied his wrists with the leather straps to the front bars. Then he spread his legs and tied his ankles to the rear bars. Miguel was completely immobilized, torso horizontal, knees bent, and his ass... his ass in the air. Exposed. Those two enormous buttocks, freshly washed, shining in the dawn light, spread by the position of his legs, his asshole visible between them like a pink eye staring at the sky.

The Master walked around the structure, inspecting. He ran his hand over Miguel’s right buttock, over the “4,” squeezing the flesh, weighing it.

“César,” he called.

From behind the stable appeared a man Miguel had not seen before. Dark-skinned, in his thirties, sturdy, wearing a straw hat, a rough cotton shirt rolled up to the elbows, and work boots. He had huge hands, a serious face, and black eyes that assessed Miguel in a second. The cowboy.

“I need you to stay with Number Four while Solovino works,” said the Master. “They just told me the supplies arrived in town and I have to go pick them up. You watch him. You already know how this works. Solovino does his thing, ties up, stays inside until the knot goes down. When he’s done, untie him and take him back to the pen.”

César nodded without saying anything.

The Master took a bottle out of his pants pocket. Thick, dense veterinary lubricant. He poured a generous amount onto his fingers and smeared Miguel’s asshole with it without ceremony, shoving two fingers in at once to spread the lubricant inside. Miguel gasped. The Master’s fingers were thick and rough and brushed his prostate in passing, provoking a lash of pleasure that ran up his spine and made him instinctively clench his buttocks.