The Stud Farm

by Sinclair, Skylar

  THE STUD FARM

  A Phaze Fury HeatSheet by

  Skylar Sinclair

  Phaze 6470A Glenway Avenue, #109 Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 1-59426-910-6

  The Stud Farm © 2006 by Skylar Sinclair

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover art © 2006 by Kathryn Lively

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  www.Phaze.com

  Chapter One

  A lone man stood next to his truck, still and tall in the quiet of a summer morning. "My lucky day is finally here," Dale spoke out loud. The place, though it looked the same, didn't create the sexual tingles he'd experienced the first and only time he'd been to The Stud Farm. "I have never been more ready for something in my life. Ready or not, Preston, here I come," he whispered under his breath.

  Dale King never thought he'd be standing outside The Stud Farm again, yet here he stood. Oh, he had thought about it for eight long years, but the opportunity to act out his plot of retribution hadn't presented itself until recently.

  The early morning Nevada sky still had pink tinges, slowly dissolving into feathery lines on the horizon. They gave way to a brilliant blue sky, with soft billowy clouds drifting aimlessly. The gravel-covered parking lot was empty except for one red-hot Corvette parked on the side by the back door. From the plates on the car, 1IDLOVER—one-eyed lover—it had to be Preston Hayman's ride. How apropos. The man was as flamboyant and flashy as he could get.

  The Stud Farm sat in the middle of nowhere. Nothing around it for a good mile or so, as if it was a lone sentinel to the bastion of hedonistic hell-raising that went on there nightly. A place where every male fantasy could easily come true. All one needed was money and the thirst for a hard man. He'd come back for one reason and one reason only—to fuck Preston over big time.

  Preston owned The Stud Farm. Its claim to fame: the hottest men on Earth worked there. It was the place for gay men to see and be seen. From what Dale remembered from eight years ago, the men that stripped, waited tables, and worked the bar were drop dead gorgeous hunks. It was a smorgasbord of crotch thrusting, high stepping, butt clenching, muscles bulging and take-it-all-off cock-loving men.

  The building looked pretty much as it had eight years ago, with its gaudy red and white barn-like exterior. There were murals painted on all four walls to look like stall doors with horses' heads gazing out. They were supposed to represent studs. A big glaring, gaudy neon sign took up much of the front of the building. When it was lit up at night you could see it down to the end of the road. It was a hip-thrusting, cowboy sitting atop another cowboy, down on all fours and just as tacky as the building, only brighter. But, The Stud Farm was the most popular and most photographed gay male strip club in the world. It made the old Mustang Ranch look like child's play. If it could be done between two consenting adult males or more, then you would find it right here at The Stud Farm. There was no other place like it in the world. It was a male den of iniquity. Nothing was taboo. Nothing!

  Dale couldn't open up a man's magazine, straight or gay, and not glimpse something written about The Stud Farm, or pictures of the men that stripped down nightly to butt-naked, displayed in all their sleek muscled glory. He flexed his shoulders and cracked his neck; it was time to get busy, as he had said on many occasions.

  He'd changed a lot in the last eight years since he'd last stepped foot in this place, to the point Preston wouldn't recognize him. That thought brought a sinful smile to his face and a deep chuckle. The taste for revenge was giving him a raging hard-on. The image of sticking it to the one man that had laughed at him when he was so vulnerable and young and newly out-of-the-closet was a heady rush; to finally find satisfaction and closure to something that had eaten away at him for far too long. He'd only been twenty-two years old then, but now he was a man. Nothing would be beneath him to exact his plan of revenge over Preston.

  Whatever it took to get Hayman lusting after him like a lap dog, he'd do it. He was a man on a mission and his revenge was going to be so fucking sweet. With Preston under his thrall—wham! The noose would tighten and Preston would know how it felt to have his heart ripped out of his chest and stomped on, just has he had.

  Dale could still remember it like it was yesterday, walking into The Stud Farm ready to proclaim his gayhood like a shiny suit of armor. He walked up to Preston and asked him for a job.

  "Hello, Mr. Hayman, I was told you were the man to speak to. I am ready, able, and have what it takes to be one of your strippers." He had been so proud of himself.

  Thank God he'd never mentioned his name, the fucker never even asked him as he drove his cock into his ass like a semi-truck heading into the yard late on its last run for the day. His ass stung for days afterwards. He was more humiliated than hurt, and the memory still had a nasty sting to it.

  Preston was about the same height, but much bulkier, with the whitest teeth Dale had ever seen. He was the epitome of perfection. His clothing was expensive and showed off every bundle of muscle that flowed down his large frame, and the biggest one was between his finely sculptured legs. Dark, arched eyebrows set off his big blue eyes. His hair was the same rich dark color, layered to fall tousled and sexy about his head. Chiseled features gave him a rugged, outdoors look. He also had the biggest hands Dale had ever seen. Long tapering fingers, with blunt fingertips and manicured nails that were pink and shiny. Rather elegant hands for such a large man.

  His condescending grin and the next words out of his mouth ground Dale's self-esteem to the dirt.

  "We eat youngsters like you for breakfast. You sure have a mighty sweet looking ass, which I love, but you're not good enough to be a busboy, here much less a stripper, for Christ's sake."

  Dale was speechless and heartbroken by his harsh words, but that was nothing compared to what would come later.

  "But, if you are really serious about a job here, why don't you follow me into my office and we'll…talk about it?" His voice was low and rough next to Dale's ear. Warning bells should have gone off loud and clear, nevertheless that old saying applied here: Young, dumb and full of cum—that's what he was.

  Preston laid his big warm hand on the cheek of Dale's ass, pushing him forward and down a hall toward a door with a gold engraved 'private entrance' placard adhered to it. Using a key he'd pulled out of the front pocket of his pants, Preston opened the door and turned on the light, pinching Dale's ass as he stepped over the threshold of the doorway. Preston shut and locked the door, putting the key back into his pants pocket.

  He crowded his larger-than-life body up against Dale's, pushing him until his ass bumped the edge of the desk that sat in the middle of the room.

  Leaning forward, Preston whispered sultry words against his lips, "Have you ever had a nice, hard cock up your ass, boy?"

  Dale blinked, dumbstruck by his coarse language. All he could do was shake his head to confirm that he hadn't. Then those lips swooped down and covered his in a demanding kiss. It wasn't a gentle kiss of a passionate lover. It was aggressive, all consuming, as Preston pressed down with more force and slipped his tongue between Dale's parted lips, groaning into his mouth. He worked his tongue in and out in mastered strokes. Dale had never been kissed by a man
before and it excited him, even if it was just this side of cruel.

  One meaty hand gripped his ass, grinding and swaying his hips into Dale's. He could feel the hard outline of Preston's cock rubbing and pushing against his own. His mind shut down and natural animal instincts took over, as he used both hands to wrap around the large man who was kissing him with such savage fervor. He held him tightly, chestto-chest, crotch-to-crotch, tongues sparring and tangling in an erotic dance. Mouths opened wide, devouring each other. Low male growls and groans heightened Dale's already soaring libido.

  The smell of expensive cologne and male heat seasoned the air, clouding the senses. The feel of a hand cupping his hard sex and squeezing his fullness almost made his knees buckle. Then the same hand started to work the zipper of his jeans down, letting his cock spring free through the opening of his boxers. A firm, warm grip slid sensuously up and down his cock, in a primal rhythm that had Dale rocking his hips to the beat.

  A warm puff of air blew by his ear as Preston spoke in low growls, "Damn you are built like a fucking bull. No one would have ever known you were sporting such a massive piece of lumber in your pants." His lips wandered down Dale's neck, as he nipped and sucked at the flesh of his neck and shoulders. "I need to see that piece of equipment up close and personal. This might even be a first for me, seeing a prick this size."

  Dropping down to his knees in front of Dale, he ran first his nose from the base to the large swelled mushroom head, taking in the fragrance only a man produced—pungent and spicy. Reminiscent of a man smelling a finely rolled cigar before putting it in his mouth to savor, he sucked on it with unconcealed pleasure.

  A wet, warm tongue rimmed the head and worked its way along the veined path to the base, then back up to swallow the bulbous head into the wet, warmth abyss of his mouth. Saliva ran down his cock and into his boxers as Preston bobbed his head up and down, deep-throating his sex until his nose disappeared into the golden pubic hair blanketing his groin. Dale couldn't have spoken a word if he'd tried. His throat closed off as his body heated up with each passing moment and deep swallow of his cock.

  This was his first blowjob. Without a shadow of a doubt this felt fucking fantastic. The thought of shooting his cum in this man's mouth almost pushed him over the edge. As if Preston could sense this, he stopped moving and released his cock with a resounding pop, with one last cheek-hallowing suck.

  Next thing Dale knew, he had his pants and boxers around his ankles, bent over the edge of the desk. The cool surface felt good against his cheek pressed firmly down by Preston's hand on the back of his neck. Both of his hands were palms down next to his head and yet he could not push his way up from the desk. Dale didn't have the strength that the other man had. He remembered hearing Preston say, "My turn now, boy. Did you know you have the prettiest asshole? All pink and frilly, and it calls to be filled."

  He couldn't recall the sensation of lubrication being inserted into his ass, his sexual euphoria was that intense and overwhelming. Nor could he remember when Preston had donned a rubber, but he sure fucking felt it when that cock split open his asshole, causing it to stretch beyond what was normal. Preston kept one hand on the back of Dale's neck, holding him down, while the other had a firm grip on his hip to maneuver and manipulate his thrusts in and out using Dale's hip as leverage. All Dale could do was whimper and pant as his opening was stretched and the pressure of being invaded built with each inch drilled into him. He had nowhere to go with the desk in front of him and Preston hard and hot behind him, feeding his length with each shallow thrust until his pubic hair brushed up against Dale's spread ass cheeks.

  Preston leaned his weight over his back and nipped at his earlobe. "Jesus, you have the tightest ass I have ever fucked. I feel like I am being scalded and squeezed to death. Hold on tight, 'cause I can't hold back any longer. You feel like fucking heaven with a touch of hell thrown in." In a heartbeat, a savage thrust drove Dale's hands right out from under him and shoved his upper body further up on the desk, until he had to grip the other side to keep from sliding all over the place. He had little control over his body or mind. A shrill cry slipped out from between his lips, and tears burned behind his eyes. As sick and painfully brutal as this sexual ravishment was, the line of pain and pleasure began to blur and blossom.

  His cock was a mass of nerve endings that screamed and pulsed with each in and out stroke to his clenching sheath. The burning subsided. Slowly the twinges of heat and pleasure started to take its place. His pants and squeals became moans and groans. He didn't even recognize them as his own. They were animalistic and strangled, passionate and scary at the same time. Dale had no control of his emotions or sexual responses to the taking of his body. The pressure built up inside of him and the constant rubbing of his gland with each pounding thrust and withdrawal, tipped him head over heels into the most explosive orgasm of his life. In seconds, the clenching muscles of his ass got too much for Preston to stave off his own impending release and his let loose, groaning loudly in Dale's ear.

  As the other man pulled out, Dale lifted his head off the desk to watch as Preston peeled the condom off and nonchalantly threw it in a small metal trashcan next to a file cabinet, then zipped up his pants. The bastard hadn't even bothered to take down his pants, just unzipping them for a quick, unencumbered fuck.

  With shaky hands, Dale pushed himself away from the desk and pulled up his boxers and jeans, leaving his shirt un-tucked and hanging loose. He didn't remember much as Preston literally pulled him through the crowd and straight out the front door, then slapped him hard on the ass. "Time for you to run home to mommy and daddy and finish growing up, pipsqueak."

  Dale was numb and embarrassed as hell. Thank God the club was dimly lit, he knew he had to be beet red and his nose was running. His clothing was in disarray and cum spots soaked his jeans. Everyone had to know what he and Preston had been doing.

  One queen in drag walking with a group of men into The Stud Farm yelled, "Hey kid, who rode you hard and put you up wet?" Roaring laughter ensued. Dale took off at a run to his beat up old Ford truck, wrenching open the door as tears ran unchecked down his hot cheeks. Sitting down gingerly behind the wheel, he started the truck and peeled out of the parking lot. He never looked back as he swiped at his wet face with the back of his hand, taking big gulping breaths to calm his raging heartbeat. He'd been such a damn fool thinking he was grown up enough to work in a place like The Stud Farm. Preston had shown him how out of his league he was, using and humiliating him. He'd taught him the lesson of a lifetime, and one he never forgot.

  After eight years his blood still boiled thinking about that day. Under his breath he expelled his sentiments about Preston Hayman, "That old man won't know what hit him when I get through with him."

  A year of secret dance lessons, three times a week, and hard manual labor building up his construction company, had honed him into a raw mass of muscle from head to toe. He was in the best shape of his life, and being over six foot four, he never failed to turn not only men's, but women's heads wherever he went. His confidence in himself and the years of hard work was now going to pay off in spades. Dale had redefined the term sexual predator and knew how to use his body, mouth, and hands to have a man screaming and withering under him. He'd handed over the company's reins for two weeks to his foreman, Daniel, and he couldn't wait to see the expression on Preston's face when he got a load of him. It gave him an immense jolt to think of that man salivating over him. The tables where going to be turned this time, and he'd be doing the fucking, mentally and physically. He would never be this man's pony boy again.

  He got into the character he'd rehearsed for the hundredth time, one of an arrogant, muscle bound Adonis that knew he was too good for anyone, even the God almighty Preston Hayman. He straightened and threw back his wide, commanding shoulders, lengthening his massive frame. Reaching back and pulling out the rubber band that held his hair back off his face, he shook out the tawny mane that hung past his ass, letting it fall in dis
arrayed strands that glimmered and shone like a golden mantle draped around his shoulders and face. He was the ultimate in maleness and sex appeal.

  He wore skintight jeans that hugged his bulked thighs and ass. The faded area near the zipper showcased his attributes, hung to the left, long and thick. No doubt what he was packing between his legs. Size fourteen black leather shitkickers peeked out beneath the cuff of his jeans. His white ribbed wife-beater tee looked painted on, showing off his ripped abs and bundled and layered pectoral muscles. He had forearms with large boned wrists, covered in short blond fur, and big meaty hands, callused from hard work that were capable of causing great pain, as well as immense pleasure. He could manipulate them as a musician would an instrument, depending on how much pressure he exerted or how softy he stroked, pinched, or pulled. With just the pads of his fingertips he could make a man tremble and moan for him.

  To top it all off, last year he'd had a single strand of barbwire tattooed on each bicep and a tramp-stamp of a colorful nude male angel with wings that spanned across his entire lower back. Ah…yeah…he was so ready! Reaching back into the opened window of his truck, he pulled out a plain black duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. Dale took a deep breath and got into character. With a smooth hip-swinging stride, he made his way to the front entrance of The Stud Farm, ready to pull off the best acting job of his life.

  Chapter Two

  Preston was in early every morning to go over the last night's receipts and make sure the bar was fully stocked and ready for the coming night. Money was everything to this man, and he ran The Stud Farm like a well-oiled money making machine. At forty-eight, he was still in excellent shape and worked out four times a week at the gym, watching what he ate and drank. His only vice: good looking men that looked first-rate draped over his arm and felt like hot molten liquid when he fucked them.