Not the best time to be looking for a campground at this time of the year, I thought. It was the first weekend in December; I touring on my motorcycle. Somewhere along the border of Kentucky and Tennessee. It was four in the afternoon, and the sun was already very low. Another half hour, and it would be dark. And cold.

I had been driving on these gravel roads for half an hour, and could not find the campground. The sign on the highway had said it's only eight miles. But I've been going at least twelve. Damn. I was lost.

There was a young man, and his gun, and his pick-up truck. I stopped, and asked for the campground.

"It's that way", he said, pointing to the direction where I was coming from,

The southern accent could not be missed. "But you can't get there, the bridge is out." He opened a can of Coors, drank, belched.

I calculated, how long it would take me to get the next town that had a motel; at least 45 minutes. By then it would be very cold. Even though last December was very mild, the nights were pretty cold, and not at all pleasurable for motorcycling.

"You can camp at my farm," he said. "Just follow me." He emptied the can, and tossed it into the bed of his truck. I followed him, for about five miles along that gravel road. We turned, passed a sign that said "Posted: No Trespassing", and continued for another mile or so.

Here was his farm. A stable, the most solid structure of all, several ramshackle huts, and a trailer, standing at the slope of a hill, one end being at the hillside, the other end high up in the air, supported by a 6-ft high pile of concrete blocks.

A muddy corral, obviously this man was raising horses. Several other pickup trucks in various stages of decay, and the Tennessee-lawn-ornaments: Two old refrigerators, and an old stove.

He got off his truck, another Coors in his hand. This man just fit into this place, I thought. Just the typical redneck man. He might be in his mid-twenties. Dark blond hair, short on the top, long in the rear. Unshaved. He wore a army coat, jeans, and old worn western boots. The heels were worn down half way on the outside, while the inside was still the original height. Dirt was dried to the shafts, the bottom was muddy.

"It's a a bit muddy outa here," he said. "You can sleep in the hay in the stable, if you like."

No question. It would be warm there, and I would be near those horses. He pushed open the door to the stable, turned on the light, pointed to the stack of hay cubes.

"Just make yourself comfortable". I nodded, went back to my bike, and untied my bag.

I was eight at night. I had unrolled my sleeping bag, had eaten that dry piece of bread, and a can of tuna. I had changed from my heavy leather biker-outfit to a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Lacking another pair of shoes, I still wore my boots.

There was nothing to be done except getting tired, and go to sleep. I was not tired yet, so I explored the stable. There were the horses in their boxes. I could hear them breathe. On the far end of the stable was a room, the door was just ajar. I pushed it open: The tack room. All those interesting things that horsemen need for their horses: Riding crops, bridles, saddles, spurs.

I went into that room, touched the saddles, felt the smooth leather, and whish ed they would make them in smaller sizes, so they could fit on the back of a man. I imagined what it might feel like, to have that large piece of leather tied around my back, have a piece metal in my mouth, a man, sitting on my back, controlling me with his spurs, his pointed western boots kicking into my side, the pressure of the bridle in my mouth directing me, the crop making me go faster.

I could not resist the temptation to take one of the bridles off the hook, and put it over my head. Of course, it was way too large. Why do horses have so large heads? Why can't there be any bridles that fit over a man's head?

My dick was already hard like a rock; I started working it while I inserted the metal piece of the bridle into my mouth. The cold metal on my tongue, the pint, when I pulled the bridle to the back. The difficulty swallowing with my tongue trapped below the metal.

I took the spurs, inspected the pointy spikes, held it to my thighs, and made a scratch in my skin. I just love that pain.

"That's where you are. I was wondering." Damn. I did not hear him coming. He was standing in the door, I had turned, and was now facing him, the bridle still in my mouth, the spurs in my hand, and a raging hardon. There was no way pretending that I had done anything else but jacking off over his tack.

"Just wanted to let you know that I'll be going to the city tomorrow morning, visiting my daughter. Just leave whenever you want to."

He came closer. "Like those things, eh?" I nodded. What else should I have done? He took the bridle out of my mouth. "Too big for a man", he said, put it back on the hook. "Give me the spurs", I handed them back to him.

He was standing right in front of me. Not quite as tall as I am. Hazel eyes, unshaved, tanned face. Dark blond hair, short on the top, long in the neck. A black T-Shirt with a white eagle. Blue jeans. Western boots. The heels were worn down half way on the outside, while the inside was still the original height. Dirt was dried to the shafts, the bottom was muddy.

I just loved these boots. He must have worn them for a long time. Worn them to hunt, to ride, to work. Good sturdy leather boots, pointed toe, heels worn down on the outside.

Staring at those boots, I could not control my erection. I felt his hands on my shoulders, pushing me down. Rough hands. A man's hands. I went on my knees, and he pushed my head into his crotch. And then I noticed, that I was not the only one with a hard on.

He tore off my T-Shirt while I was sucking his cock. It was a nice size dick, maybe 7 inches long. Just the right size and shape that I could fit all the way into my throat. My hands were fingering for his boots. Old western boots. Heels worn down on the outside. Pointed toe. Dirt dried to the shafts. Mud on the soles.

I felt the cold leather of a riding crop on my back. He first just touched me with that whip, gently, stroking it over my back. Then he gave me the first lash. This was a rather gentle one. But I could feel it. A line of pain across my back. Then another one. An yet another one. Harder and harder. More lines of pain, criss-crossing my back. Then the lines of pain want out of focus, lost their precise borders, one mixing with the other, until finally, they was but one burning area of pain.

"Take your shorts off". Boxer shorts. I took them off without having to get out of my boots.

"Down" I went back on my knees, but he pushed me down further, so that I was on all four. He put one foot onto my shoulder. Old western boots. The soles still muddy. I also could smell the horse shit that he must have stepped into. He strapped the spur around his boot, then held the boot in front of my face. The pointed toe in front of my eyes, I smelled the mud, the horse shit, the wet leather. He rubbed the toe on my chin. Then put his foot back on the floor, and strapped the other spur on the other boot.

"Stay there". I did not move. He walked around me, to the other end of the room. Came back. Stood behind me. I felt his boot on my butt. He kicked it, gently. Worked his way between my buttocks. Made me spread my legs a bit. Then his boot was on my balls. First rubbing against them, then gently pounding them. Then harder. I moaned. I felt the pain in my stomach. One more kick, and another one. More pain, pain, but pleasurable.

I was catching my breath. Still the pain in my stomach. My dick hard like a rock. I was still on my hands and knees. He sat on my back. Just as you would sit on a horse. Only that his feet were on the floor.

He put a bridle over my head, a piece of metal in my mouth. Later I wondered whether that was a bridle for a pony, or whether he had specifically made it for another man. It fit my head, he closed the straps, I felt the pressure of the metal against my cheeks and tongue.

He gave me a lash on my bare ass, and said "Go". So I went. It was harder than I had thought. He gave me more lashes on the butt. With the bridle he directed past the horses boxes. I could hear them breathe, some would come and look what was going on.

Out of the stable into the corral. I felt the mud squeezing through my fingers. He got off my back, took the reigns, and pulled me. This was even more painful. More squeezing on my tongue. But this was good pain. I felt like a horse. Having to obey my master's every wish. Go right, go left. He did not say anything. He expressed his wishes by directing me through the pain.

More mud, more dirt, he was walking faster. It was not easy to keep up with him. Just the noise of his boots, walking through the mud, and my hands and feet. We stopped. There was horseshit, I could see it. He put his boot between my shoulders, "Down". I hesitated. He put more weight on my back. And I gave up the resistance. I felt the wet dirt on my chest, my head I kept up to avoid the pile of horseshit.

His spurs scratching over my back. The crop slashing over my ass. "Your face down!"

A kick in my side. "Your face down".

More lashes. More scratches from spurs. "Your face down".

His boots on the back of my head pushed my face down. It was soft, smelled like horse. I could not close my mouth with the bridle in it. I tasted a bittersweet taste.

Then he turned me on my back, held his boot over my face, rubbed it against my mouth. Western boots with a pointed toe. The heels were worn down half way on the outside, while the inside was still the original height. Dirt was dried to the shafts, the bottom was muddy.

"Clean them". I started licking the dirt from the soles, as well as the metal piece in my mouth allowed me to lick. He jacked off and told me to do the same. It did not take long for either of us. He came first, shooting his load on my chest. I came a few moments later.

He gave me his hand to help me get up, took the bridle off my head. We walked back to the stable.

"You can wash yourself over there", he said, pointing to a faucet. He watched me clean myself, gave me a towel, brought me my shorts. When I was done, he wished me a good night. "Good that you came here", he said. "'Had a lot of fun".

The next morning when I woke up, he had already left. I spent the day riding back to Illinois, thinking of old worn western boots. The heels worn down on the outside. Old worn western boots with a pointed toe. Dirt dried to the shafts, the bottom still muddy.