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The Stud Farm

By Skylar Sinclair


Hell hath no fury like a young man taken advantage of by an older man. A man that knew all the right buttons to push and how to set his skin on fire with his hands, mouth and tongue, only to devastate him after using his body shamelessly, brutally. Then patting him on the ass afterwards, treating him as if he were no better than a piece of used meat--unfeeling and uncaring of the young man's feelings. Dale King was that young man, but no longer is he an inexperienced gay boy, but a big droolicious-tongue hanging out-cock teasing hunk. With a full mane of tawny hair down to his fine ass and muscles from head to toes, at over six foot four, he could stop traffic in the middle of rush hour. There was not a man (straight or gay) or woman alive that would not snap a joint to double take when he crossed their paths.

Dale is a cross between the Terminator gone Fabio on a grand scale. He is going back to the place and to the man that had ripped his heart out of his chest that day eight years ago. Dale King was going to become the ultimate male stripper at The Stud Farm and make Preston Hayman, its owner, wish he never laid his eyes, much less his hands on him when he gets through with his brand of sexual revenge!



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!