Randoms:

Cruising, drugged and fucked 6

The lay-by was tucked deep in the Yorkshire Dales, a forgotten strip of cracked tarmac swallowed by gorse and drystone walls. Moon hid behind thick cloud; the only light came from the faint silver bleed at the horizon. He stepped from the shadows like he owned the night itself, tall, weathered, mid-forties, battered Barbour waxed dark with years, flat cap pulled low, gamekeeper’s whistle dangling on a leather cord around his thick neck. Voice carried the burr of old money gone feral, rough-edged and commanding.

“Out poaching on my land again, are we?” he growled, one gloved hand shooting out to seize my coat collar before I could speak. He yanked me close. The kiss was possessive, punishing, teeth sinking into my lower lip until I tasted iron, tongue forcing past my teeth like he was rooting out contraband. His other hand clamped around my throat, fingers pressing just tight enough to make my pulse hammer and my cock jump hard against the fly of my jeans.

Mid-kiss the needle slid under my jaw, swift, professional. Blackness swallowed everything.

I came to on cold stone flags in the game larder, air thick with the metallic scent of old blood and damp stone. Wrists shackled above my head to an overhead beam with heavy iron manacles, the kind that had once held poachers or livestock. Ankles spread wide, chained to floor rings set deep in the flags. Naked. Skin pebbled from the chill seeping through the walls. Cock already leaking steadily onto my thigh, swollen and aching from whatever they’d dosed me with.

Four men entered, lanterns swinging, throwing long shadows across the hooks and game boards.

The gamekeeper led, still in his waxed jacket, cap removed now, revealing close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He smiled thinly, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Caught red-handed,” he said. “Poachers get the full penalty on my estate.”

Beside him: two rough-handed beaters in thick tweed, faces wind-burned and stubbled, hands scarred from years of beating cover and dragging carcasses. And a younger under-keeper, barely twenty, lean and eager, eyes bright with the thrill of his first proper “catch.”

“Strip the evidence,” the gamekeeper ordered.

I was already bare. They circled anyway, prodding, inspecting like I was quarry to be catalogued. Rough fingers traced ribs, pinched nipples until they stood tight, slapped the curve of my arse to watch it jiggle. The younger one dropped to his knees first, gaze fixed on my leaking cock like it was stolen game he’d finally cornered. He took me into his mouth, greedy, no hesitation, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling the head as though tasting forbidden meat. I bucked against the chains; he moaned around me, vibrations travelling straight to my balls.

The gamekeeper stepped forward. Belt buckle clinked. Zip rasped. He pulled out his thick, uncut length, veined, heavy, foreskin already retracted, and fed it past my lips.

“Confess,” he said, rocking slowly, letting me taste the salt and musk of him. “Tell me you’ve been taking what isn’t yours.”

I moaned around the girth filling my mouth, words garbled.

He fisted my hair, pulled back just enough. “Louder.”

“I’ve… been poaching… sir.”

The beaters laughed, low, rough sounds that echoed off the stone. One of them shoved two thick fingers into me without warning, callused pads curling hard against my prostate until my hips jerked and pre-cum welled faster. The other stood to the side, stroking himself with slow, deliberate pulls, fat cock weeping as he watched.

The younger under-keeper moved behind me. He spat once, wet, warm, then lined up and sank in slow at first, letting me feel every inch stretch me open. Then brutal: hips snapping forward, claiming territory with punishing thrusts that slapped skin against skin. I cried out around the gamekeeper’s cock; he held my head still, fucking my throat in measured strokes.

They took turns “punishing” me methodically. One beater replaced the younger in my arse, thicker, slower, grinding deep while he growled filth about teaching trespassers their place. The other took my mouth, forcing me to gag around his girth while the under-keeper knelt again and sucked me with renewed hunger. The gamekeeper supervised, pacing a slow circle, occasionally reaching out to slap my balls lightly, sharp stings that made me clench and whimper, keeping me teetering on the edge without letting me fall.

When the pressure finally broke I came hard, spasming against the chains, arse gripping the cock buried inside me, throat working around another as I screamed muffled curses. Cum arced across my stomach in thick ropes. The gamekeeper pulled free of my mouth, fisted himself twice, and shot down my throat, hot, heavy pulses I swallowed reflexively while he held my head in place.

“Good lad,” he murmured, thumb brushing my swollen lip. “Sentence served… for tonight.”

They withdrew one by one. The younger one lingered longest, licking a stripe up my spent cock before standing. The beaters adjusted belts, wiped hands on trousers. The gamekeeper paused at the door, lantern raised, shadows carving his face into hard planes.

“Dawn patrol will continue the interrogation,” he said, voice low and certain. “Rest while you can, poacher.”

The heavy door thudded shut. Lantern light faded down the corridor. I hung there, wrists numb, arse throbbing and slick with their combined loads, cum cooling on my skin, the taste of the gamekeeper thick on my tongue.

Outside, wind moaned through the Dales. Dawn was hours away. The chains clinked softly with every shallow breath.

They’d be back.