Clayton spat in the washbasin. Four brushings of his teeth, three rinses of mouth wash, two rinses with Coke, and he could still taste horseshit. He cupped his hands below his mouth and blew, directing his breath to his nostrils. His breath still smelled of rotting hay and horse piss. He retrieved his clothes from the drier and inspected them. At least they had come out clean. His mother had been furious when she'd seen them, wanted to know how he could have gotten them so filthy. He couldn't very well tell her he'd had his pants pulled down and his ass had been fucked while he'd been shoved face-first in a pile of horse stall muck.

Returning to his room with his clean clothes, he flung himself across his bed. Damn the bugger, the cocky, show-off, perverted, cow-punching bugger. A fucking hick hayseed. It had all happened so fast. One moment they were squaring off and the next he was upside down in the horse stall, with his trousers and underwear about his ankles. In front of Melissa Fremont, and the guys from his hockey team. Damn the skinny son of a bitch. Raping him. Like he was some helpless cunt. He could still feel his fucking cock in his ass.

His asshole felt raw. He could feel blood trickling down the back of his thigh. He reached around behind him and felt, and brought his fingers back in front of him for inspection for the hundredth time. There was no blood. There never had been. He had to be leaking the guy's slime then. He'd felt it leaking out of his ass all the way home. He reached around behind him and felt again, but his fingers came away dry, just like the previous hundred times. He sniffed his fingertips. They didn't smell of cum. They smelled of asshole.

He was stiff and aching to get one off. No, not from smelling his ass! He was no fucking pervert. He was horny from the memory of being fucked. Not that he had liked it. Not a chance. Not for a moment. It was from the fact he'd had sex, with another person, for the first time in his life. In front of Melissa. And his teammates. God, just picturing what had happened and remembering how it had felt made his cock ache, how it felt having sex, being fucked, the humiliation, the embarrassment, the filth, it was all so hot. Before he could grab a Kleenex, he was spurting! From the memory of that evening. Fucking damn.

Clayton Doyle did not sleep well that night. He didn't sleep at all. He could not get what had happened to him out of his mind. They had gone to the rodeo and taken in some of the events before going to the midway. The rodeo didn't interest him much though he did enjoy the bull riding. They all did. Some of the guys preferred the barrel racing. Actually, they were more interested in the cowgirls, their tight outfits, and their bouncing boobs. Of course, the girls were more interested in the cowboys in their tight jeans, and what was in those jeans. Melissa was no exception. Like the bull rider they'd watched earlier, Cody West. He'd seen the look in her eyes as the guy rode the bull, a big, mean-looking bugger, and then later when they'd spotted him in the midway. His girl, ogling another guy, ogling the bulge in his jeans. He couldn't ignore that. Not in front of the team. He had a rep to maintain. Besides no woman going out with him looked at another man.

So, he'd made an issue out of it. Accused the guy of checking out his girl though it was the other way around. Shoved the guy around a bit, to show him who was the boss. He was skinny. No muscle at all. And, he discovered a faggot. By then it was too late. He'd challenged the guy to a fight. To impress Melissa. And the guys. That was when the son of a bitch said he wasn't interested in Melissa. He was more interested in his ass. Damn him. A skinny weakling, but wiry, and fast. Tripped him in the barnyard muck back of the rodeo, yanked down his trousers and underwear, and fucked him. There in front of Melissa. And his teammates.

The guy had been lucky. He would pay him back. The rodeo was in town two days. He'd confront the son of a bitch tomorrow night. He'd meet him face to face, man to man. He won't trick him this time, not with his dancing around in circles, no tripping him in the barnyard muck. He was bigger, stronger, more of a man than the skinny hayseed. Every hockey player who ever came up against him feared him. Even those who hadn't played against him feared him. He had a reputation. He was tough. He was a man. He'd show him. In front of Melissa. In front of the guys.

He thought about their confrontation all day. By evening, he was pumped up. Ready to fight. The reaction of Melissa and his teammates had been a surprise. It had been embarrassing. Melissa hesitated going out with him. Really hesitated. Until yesterday, she was hot to be seen with him. Every girl in school was. He was the star player on the Beaumont High Bull Dogs, the leading U18 team in the league, center forward. She finally agreed though. He was still a catch despite yesterday. And he'd show her yesterday was a fluke. Today he was going to clean the guy's clock. The meeting with the guys was embarrassing too. They couldn't look him in the eye. Embarrassed for him. Until he told them his plan. That was different. They backed him all the way. No skinny farm boy was going to be better than any hockey player, even the weakest never mind their hero. Besides, the farm boy was a faggot. He needed to be put in his place. Clay Doyle, Beaumont High Bull Dogs Center Forward, was the one to do it.

They, he, Melissa, Dirk and Liam and their dates, skipped the rodeo, tried their skill (unsuccessfully) at a few toss-game booths in the midway, bought some candy floss, corndogs and Cokes, and bought ride bracelets. All the while Clay kept an eye out for his victim, teen bull rider Cody West. He knew he'd show up, strutting his stuff, showing off for all the ladies, just like he had yesterday, but this time would be different. Very different. He was tense with excitement, with anticipation, like before a hockey game, or the beginning of a hot date with Melissa. He was on a sugar high and feeling horny, even had a partial hard-on. He often had one during a hockey game, or a date. He was fifteen after all, a typical boy. Being partially erect was a normal state for him. In a game, he was hoping to score a goal, on a date hoping to score, tonight, to settle a score. All the same. His cock throbbed and the head itched. All part of the high. He focused on it, enjoyed it.

He finally spotted the son of a bitch. Darkly handsome, jet black hair, rich, dark-brown eyes the colour of burnt almond with a natural narrowness that gave one the impression he was harbouring some dirty thought, a blue-black six-o'clock shadow darkening his upper lip and his jaw, and skin darkly tanned by the sun, everything teenage girls (and a few older ones) had dreams about. He was slight, five-foot-six [1.65 m], with a narrow waist, but make no question about it, that slim frame was compact and all muscle. His tooled, black leather boots, silver-trimmed black shirt and Stetson, and tight black jeans accenting his compact butt and his package added to his dark sultriness. Cody West dressed and acted the part right down to his silver 2009 championship buckle and took just as much delight in the appreciative appraisal by the fair sex and the blatant envy of his lessors as he did in the cheers of the crowd in the rodeo stands.

A gaggle of teenage girls, even a few bitches in their twenties, ogled him as he walked by, bug-eyed, their tongues hanging out. Well, we'll see if they still ogle him when he's flat on his back with a bloody nose and black eye. Clay headed to cut him off.

"Well, if it isn't the perv bull lover from yesterday," he said as if surprised to run into him.

"And if it isn't the drugstore cowboy. Where are your fancy duds? Afraid you might get them dirty again?" Clay had come for a fight. He had worn his Beaumont Bull Dogs hockey jacket, his uniform. It said who and what he was. It also attracted the girls and turned them on.

"Up yours."

"If I remember right I think it was up yours. You come back for more?" Clayton turned red.

"Go on Clay, show him what you came back for."

"Yeah. Clean the pervert's clock and let's split. We still got lots of ride tickets to use up."

"Maybe Clay here is looking for a different type of ride," observed the bull rider, cocky and undaunted. "Bet you laid away all night thinking about last night's ride, about how great it felt."

Clay flushed redder. He had lain awake all night thinking about it alright. He swung hard. A sucker punch. To the gut. To his surprise the guy just stood there. Didn't double over or nothing. And his hand hurt. It was like slamming your fist against a wall.

Cody smiled. You developed hard abdominal muscles riding bulls. Clay swung again, straight to the chin. Cody expected it. He grabbed his assailant's arm and spun him around. Although a year younger, Clay was taller by several inches and heavier, by at least fifty pounds[22.5 kg]. He was used to a push and shove fight, on the ice or off. That was his style, his advantage, and it intimidated other guys. This guy wasn't intimidated, and he was wiry.

Someone passing by shouted at them angrily. Someone said something about taking it elsewhere. The older boy danced out of Clay's reach.

"Chicken shit?" Clay asked. He figured he would be. They all are. He stepped forward.

"Someone's going to call security," Cody replied, looking around. "I don't want no trouble. I got shows to attend, a circuit to follow." He glanced around again. "Over there." Between the rollercoaster and con booths was a barricade blocking off the midway generator truck and tangle of cables to the rides and midway lights. Perfect.

"Com'on Clay. Forget him. You proved your point." Liam, trying to make peace and avoid confrontation, just like in a game. Well, fuck him.

"Take his advice hockey boy, unless you want more of what you got yesterday."

That was waving a red flag before an already angry bull. Cody knew that. He didn't know Clayton Doyle, but he knew the type. Clay and his support group followed him behind the barricade and the generator, out of sight of the crowd and authorities. Clay attacked, got in some good punches. The hayseed jumped on his back and rode him like he was a bull, getting him angrier as he twisted around and tried to get at the show-off. And then he was on his knees, arm twisted behind his back. He immediately stopped struggling. Once a hockey player broke an arm, it was game over. He never got the strength back. He knew better than to resist. He'd just wait for an opening.

The opening never came. Next thing he knew his nose was in the dirt, arse in the air. At least he wasn't face first in horseshit this time. He felt his pants and boxers being pulled down to his ankles again, tangling them. The guy's hands were grasping his butt. No! Something hard, hot and two fingers wide was pressing against his arsehole. Not again! He couldn't see Melissa or the rest of the gang. At least that was good. The thing pressing against his hole began to enter him, to ease up his rectum. Like yesterday. In front of Melissa and the guys and their girls. Again.

His asshole was burning, the guy's cock throbbing, his rectum throbbing in time with it. His cock was swelling. No! He was being fucked, before Melissa, before the guys and their squeezes. They could see his cock, see he was getting hard. The thought got him swelling faster. The guy was panting, his cock now ramming in and out of his ass, throbbing. Clay flexed his legs, pushing back and raising his butt, trying to toss the guy off.

"That's it, buck just like a bull, boy!" Clay bucked harder, grunting, snorting. Like a bull. His asshole was burning, like his dickhead, same feeling, his rectum throbbing, like his prick, like the guy's prick. The boy fucking him would be coming soon, filling his ass, like last night. He'd be coming soon too, in front of Melissa, in front of the guys, in front of their dates. Damn the son-of-a-bitch.

Damn all cowboys. Hick farm boys. He thrust his hips harder, driving the guy's cock deeper up his ass. Damn him! It was embarrassing getting beaten by him, being used. What they were doing was filthy, perverted. It was disgusting, sinful. His dickhead burned. He was aching to come.

The bugger reached under him, grabbed his now fully-erect cock. Clay thrust his hips to and fro harder, hoping to knock his assailant off balance, trying to dislodge the boy, to buck him off, riding the boy's cock, pumping his own in and out of the boy's fist. Hot, throbbing, erotic.

"What the fuck? … I'll be damned. You want it. By sweet Jesus, you actually want it! You're enjoying this! By sweet mother Mary, you're a fucking buckle bunny!"

Buckle bunny? Clay had never heard the phrase before. But he had heard something similar. Some of the older guys, those in the U20 teams, talked about puck bunnies, hockey team hos, teenage girls, women in their twenties, who went to hockey games and hung around the team, who knew nothing about hockey and cared squat, just turned on by the idea of having sex with a hockey player. He had thought they were just a fantasy, wishful thinking. Sort of like Melissa and the guy's dates, but taking it a step further, a step more serious.

Cody pulled his cock out and stepped around in front of him. "So, you hot for cowboy cock? You want it bunny boy?" He wagged his erect prick in Clay's face. "Well today's your lucky day ho, I'm going to let you suck me off."

The guy was a year older but skinny and shorter, and his arms and legs were muscular. Solid biceps, thick, sturdy thighs. The arms and legs of a bull rider. He had a nice size cock too. Not as thick as Clay's and a bit shorter, cut, with a dark, mushroom-shaped knob. Reaching out, he grabbed Clay's head and drew him toward his crotch. Clay's neck muscles were no match for the bull rider's biceps. They certainly were not as strong as a bull's. Cody pushed his hips forward, pressing the tip of his erect, shit-streaked cock against Clay's lips.

Fuck. The bugger had just had it up his ass. Now he was pushing it against his lips. The thought of taking it in his mouth was disgusting, never mind where it had just been. Telling a guy to suck your cock was an ultimate insult. The idea of sucking cock was perverted, doubly so if the one sucking was another guy. Clay inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of dick, and of his shit. Cody pressed forward, entering his mouth.

So there he was, on his knees, pants and boxers about his ankles, the bugger's dick in his mouth, his own dick stiff and sticking up in the air. In front of Melissa and the guys and their dates. He didn't know which was more humiliating, having a guy's dick in his mouth or the others seeing his, seeing he was hard, seeing he was turned on, horny. But he wasn't. Turned on that is. He was horny. He was also embarrassed, embarrassed as fuck, humiliated like he never had been before. What he was doing was filthy, perverted. He'd seen a video once of two girls getting it on, kissing, sucking each other's tits, one playing with herself, and then muff-diving the other. That had been hot as hell. It had given him an instant hard on, and Dirk and Liam too.

Two guys? In real life? Was it turning the girls on? Certainly not the guys. They had to be embarrassed for him. Seeing him on his knees. Seeing he was stiff. His cock jerked with the thought. That was dirty, and hot. And exposed before the three girls, the three of them seeing his stuff, seeing it erect. That was embarrassing. And hot too. His cock jerked harder. What they were doing was vulgar, being exposed, humiliating. And being hard. That was hot, the girls seeing his hard-on. He sucked deeply on the hard dick in his mouth. He bobbed his head, sliding his lips up and down the guy's shaft like he'd seen a broad do to a guy in a porn video. The guy was panting. He had to be hot. He'd be coming soon. In his mouth. With the girls and his teammates watching. That was sick. Vulgar. Humiliating. Hot. He'd be coming soon too. With the girls watching, and the guys. That would be embarrassing. Perverted. His dick ached, his knob burning. He'd never felt so horny, so hot. He'd never needed to cum so bad. He sucked harder, bobbed faster, eager to get off, eager to bring the guy off. He was throbbing. So was Cody West's cock. Between his lips. Any second now.

"Go ahead. Jack yourself off cocksucker."

Jack himself off? In front of everyone? That was the ultimate humiliation. Everyone wanked but nobody admitted it. They did it alone. Under the sheets. In the can. In private. Not … not in front of girls, certainly not in front of guys. He found himself wrapping his fist about his swollen dick. The knob had never itched so badly in all his life and he was a teenage boy. His knob was always itching. He began pumping his fist. He had to. Humiliated, embarrassed, dominated….

Yes, dominated. He knew about dominating, about being the dominant, the alpha male. He knew the sense of power that gave a guy, the rush, as powerful as an orgasm. Yes, he knew. That was why he had confronted the guy. Not to get even, not to redeem himself, not to fight him. He had confronted him in the hope he'd be taken again, that the guy would use him, would humiliate him again. The bull rider was right, he wanted it, he had come back for more. Last night had been hot. This night was hotter.

The guy had delivered, and then some. The guy had shown him to be a faggot, a boy-lover, a cocksucker, a filthy degenerate. He had shown he wanted to be dominated, humiliated. The guy had shown he was a masochist. Cody basked in his guilt, in his perversion, in his acceptance what he was, his cock throbbing with arousal, with pleasure, throbbing, aching. Kneeling there jacking himself off, humiliated, shamed, used, he'd never felt so hot.

The guy began cumming and he began swallowing his filthy slime, his thick, creamy gunk oozing down his throat like raw egg white, oozing out of the corners of his mouth and around his chin like a drooling idiot. He felt his own cum race up the core of his numb, throbbing cock and he began spurting, thick, juicy wads of jizz, before the guys, before the girls. Cumming had never been so powerful, so delightful. It had never felt so good.

They left him there. In the dirt, on his knees, jeans and underwear about his ankles, a pendant of another guy's cum hanging from his chin, his mouth tasting of dick and cum, the air thick with the odour, the odour of sex, of cock and splooge, the odour of boy sweat and of hot balls, his pecker still hard and in his hand, a pendant of his cum hanging from the tip, his fingers sticky with his own gunk. He'd never felt so spent, so sated, so satisfied, so filthy, so perverted, so degenerate, so good. So ravished. He began to cry. Tears of shame. Tears of humiliation. A fifteen-year-old boy's tears of joy.'d'dHeHHHH

The End