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Stupid runt. Sick, stupid child. He’s old enough to know better, he’s old enough to be working— old enough to be kicked out of this house.
Logan was whining excuses, voice desperate and hiccupy as he got dragged through the fields. Noah didn’t listen to one word.
If he had learned a trade, he’d be making money by now, he’d be pulling his weight around the house instead of— lazing around the shop and jerking off in socks. At this point, he’d even like to see him chasing girls. He felt better when he thought his nephew wasted his days hand in his pants, hidden between bales of hay, as he dreamed of women who’d never give him the time of the day— better when he didn’t know he was doing just that but dreaming instead of mule boys and forest rangers and God knows what else.
They arrived at the old stable, empty as always. He threw Logan inside much more violently than required; the boy stumbled, barely avoiding falling on his face. Noah slammed the gate behind him, then spit on the ground.
“Well,” it was almost darkly amusing. “Well, what a spectacle, lad.”
The boy’s eyes were wide, his fringe plastered to his sweaty forehead. He was trying to pull up his trousers, slow and careful, hoping for his movements to stay unnoticed— but already cowering, knowing it was pointless. Nothing escapes Noah’s eye.
“Drop that,” and Logan let his clothes fall back to his feet.
The boy had lost his erection, his sad, shameful— thing— now barely poking out from under his shirt. It had been a while since he last saw him naked; the new developments only filled him with more disgust. Anyone with hair on his God-damned balls was too old for boarding school games.
If at least… if at least he hadn’t taken it like a girl. His nephew had never been much of anything, but if he had found him bending a boy over, fucking some nancy for fun, well— this, at least, he’d understand, and it wouldn’t have been Christian, no, but— anything except this burning humiliation.
There was a vague taste of vomit in the back of his mouth. The image of his nephew’s cock was seared into his brain— wet and pink, bobbing up and down, rhythmically slapping against his stomach as he— as he got fucked on his property— by his farmhand— so engrossed he didn’t even notice him as he stormed in the barn, following the sounds. Maybe he should have strangled him right there.
He sat down on a pile of pellets and beckoned Logan, who walked up to him, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt. The lad wasn’t much taller than him, even when sitting down. At eighteen— or was it seventeen?— he wasn’t likely to grow more than that. How inadequately short.
The boy hesitantly bent over his uncle’s lap; Noah brusquely threw him over the knee. He yanked his shirt up, baring his buttocks.
In this, too, he was inadequate. An arse wholly unmanly with plumpness. (This is where he stores all that we feed him, Vee would say). He moved his hips like a woman, despite Noah’s corrections; no wonder the other lads had taken notice.
His nephew was already trembling. This was, for some reason, infuriating.
“I haven’t touched you yet,” he got out from between gritted teeth. “But—”
His hand made contact with a resounding slap. Logan yelped, straining against Noah’s iron grip, but he easily forced his head back down.
“Quiet, boy.”
This flesh was firm but malleable, excellent for a spanking— a proportionate punishment. And yet, there was something obscene about his nephew’s naked form. How many farmhands had known it? How many times had he bunched up his robes and let the other altar boys finger him? Without thinking, he grabbed what he could grip; he dug in his fingers in a sudden bout of rage, perhaps, or a strange frustration, almost like he wished to tear this maidenly fucking arse apart. He released his claws before the boy even had the time to scream in pain— which he did— and slapped his buttocks harder than before.
Logan choked out a sob, thighs trembling. Noah’s sharp fingers had left marks on his nephew’s flesh; the sight of it tickled his innards. He slapped hard once again, relishing the sound of palm against buttock— and his nephew’s yelp, and the wobbling of his flesh. Duty was often pleasurable to carry out, if duty meant putting a young man back on the right track. There was a familiar tightness in his crotch; he struck another blow, his muscles tensing eagerly.
“Dirty boy,” His voice was low; he knew Logan would still hear it well. “Did you enjoy soiling the Roy name? My name?”
A cry— half whimper. Barely intelligible: no, uncle. Not good enough. Noah brought down his hand with all his might, hitting dead center. Logan cried out again, his back arched. Another hit; the lad bucked under his grip, his hips grinding against Noah’s knees, whimpering miserably. His tears were falling on the ground; Noah could hear the faintest dripping sound.
The lad’s buttocks were growing pink and raw, more sensitive every blow. Noah hit high, then low, then left, or right, it didn’t matter; the sound was the same, and the message passed either way: try doing this again, boy. The boy in question was groaning between sobs, trying— failing— to wiggle out of his grip, humping his uncle’s legs.
He was growing breathless from the effort: “Is that why you do these things— to embarrass us?”
No, sir; no, sir. Logan’s cries were rising above the noise, growing more and more similar to those his uncle heard coming from the bale house, not long ago, as he lay splayed before his boyfriend, begging for more and deeper and harder. Noah forced himself to keep going, breath rasping almost as much as the boy. He put the last of his fury into the final blows.
“Do—” An unusually strong blow; Logan hit an unbecoming high note, “you—” another blow, “understand?”
Uncle, yes— yes; Logan’s body spasmed, his buttocks clenching and unclenching. His voice wobbled as the last waves of pain traveled through his flesh. He let out a whine, then slumped on Noah’s lap.
Noah himself had to catch his breath. He felt strangely relaxed.
His nephew was much heavier than he looked. It wasn’t easy, spanking overgrown grown children. He placed his hand flat on Logan’s bare bottom, softly, knowing the reddened flesh must be burning. The boy exhaled— he sounded exhausted.
A sigh. Then: “Logan, why did you do it?”
“I’m sorry, Unc-” sniveling as always, swallowing phlegm and tears, “Uncle, I really am.”
His nephew was still trembling. Hopefully he hadn’t gone too hard on him— sometimes he forgot how fragile the boy’s health really was, with his weak constitution, made even weaker after the— illness.
He patted Logan’s buttocks in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.
Another sigh: “What am I going to do with you?”
The boy’s body followed the contact, pressing his arse against his uncle’s palm. Poor strange lad. A pang of guilt— maybe his nephew wouldn’t be so lost if he taught him better. He needs something to do, more things to do at the shop.
He half-heartedly backhanded him on the thighs, much lighter this time. “Get up.”
Logan stumbled to his feet, immediately pulling up his shorts and trousers, hurriedly fastening the buttons. He didn’t stop him this time— he had done his due.
“Who knows about—” how to even call it? “—this?”
The boy couldn’t look at him as he sheepishly tucked in his shirt. “No one, sir, no one except me and Jeannot, and,” he swallowed, “and Father Mathieu.”
The fucking town priest? “Bloody hell, son.”
Logan’s shoulders tightened. “It’s because— it’s only because I have to tell him.”
“Huh?” Did that creep ask about it? “Why?”
“For… confession?”
“Ah.” Of course.
Noah sighed, then moved to get up. He stopped halfway— there was something sticky on his thigh. He dipped his fingers in the white, disgusting liquid seeping into the fabric of his trouser leg, right where he had thrown Logan over the knee. His eyes traveled from his now-wet hand to his nephew, deathly pale and frozen on the spot, looking up at him in horror.
He took out the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his hand, then his trousers, as best as he could. He buried this discovery in the back of his mind. He had spent all of his anger for today; he had no strength left to address whatever this might be.
“Lad, we need to get you a girl.”