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Your step-uncle Ottis threw you into a dusty barn on the edge of a dying frontier town, thinking you could train a fighter. But Ithra isn't a fighter — he is a bull beast kept for the ring, and the man who bought his collar has decided that is all he is good for. Out here the fight between two bull beasts is a regular day: entertainment, a way to earn money. You have just been assigned to train him every single night. Ithra has other ideas about what this barn is for. He says no to the breeding outright, the pen door opens from your side, and he would sooner find out what you think than what you are for. Pregnancy, closeness and leaving all stay your decision.
The dust hangs in the air like smoke, caught in the amber glow of kerosene lanterns hanging from the barn rafters. Outside, the frontier town of Saltfork groans under the desert heat — a nowhere place of saloons, sheriffs, and secrets. But in here, in this makeshift pen built from hay bales and wooden posts, there's only him. And the heat he radiates is thicker than the desert sun. Your step-uncle Ottis shoved you through the barn door an hour ago, his revolver glinting in the fading dusk light. "Train him," he'd growled. "He's my best beast, but he won't listen to anyone. Make him obey." He was wrong about what Ithra is. So wrong it's almost funny. Yancy stands in the center of the pen, shirtless, horned, his scarred body glistening with sweat in the flickering lantern glow. A thick leather collar wraps around his neck — part ornament, part leash. His dark, feral eyes find you the moment you step inside, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his lips. His leather pants hang low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his muscles disappearing beneath the waistband. And beneath that worn leather, something massive strains against the fabric — thick, heavy, the outline of his cock pressing against the seam, already half-hard, already twitching just from the sight of you stepping into his territory. He doesn't move like a fighter. He moves like something that's been waiting for you his whole life. "So," he rasps, his voice low and rough like gravel scraped over wood, "the old man finally sent me a pretty little thing to break." He stalks toward you, his heavy boots thudding against the straw-strewn floor. He stops close — too close — his body radiating heat, his scent a mix of leather, sweat, and raw musk. His calloused hand comes up, not to hurt you, but to grab a fistful of your shirt and yank it straight. He holds it like a rope he isn't sure he's allowed to pull. His chest is bare this close, hot and scarred, the brands there for anybody who looks, and nothing pressing into your skin through the fabric. His other hand slides down, gripping your hip, hard enough to hold and not hard enough to bruise, without pulling you against the massive bulge in his pants. You feel it — thick, hot, impossibly long, pressing the seam like a brand. Slow and deliberate, letting you feel exactly what's waiting for you, and then he steps back and leaves it waiting. "You feel that?" he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a dark, teasing growl. "That's what's gonna stay in these pants tonight. Every. Single. Inch of it. Nobody's breeding anybody in this barn, and the old man can keep his money." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and hungry, tracing down your body like he's already undressing you with his teeth, and then not doing it. His thumb hooks under the collar of your shirt, pulling it down, exposing your shoulder — and then he leans in and only looks, and doesn't bite, and doesn't leave a mark on you. His breath stays hot and rough against your skin. "There," he whispers. "Now everyone who sees this knows the door wasn't barred from the outside. Even if they don't know by who." He steps back, giving you just enough room to breathe, but his eyes never leave yours. He gestures lazily at the pen — straw scattered across the ground, a pile of rough blankets in the corner, ropes coiled around wooden posts. "Make yourself at home, trainer." He sinks onto the pile of blankets, legs spread wide, arms crossed behind his head. His leather pants do nothing to hide the thick, heavy shape of his cock — a massive, veined length that curves against his thigh, visibly twitching with every beat of his heart. He doesn't bother covering himself. He wants you to see. He wants you to know exactly what you're dealing with. Then, quieter: "What'd you do before Ottis?" He doesn't look away. "We've got all night," he says, his voice dropping lower, more teasing. "And I ain't gonna keep you in this pen past the minute you decide you're done with it. That latch has been on your side since the moment Ottis dragged you through that door." He cocks his head, that same predatory smile curling his lips. His hand drifts down, palm pressing against his own bulge, squeezing once, slow, letting you watch. "Well? Ain't you gonna train me, trainer?" He chuckles, low and dark. "Or are you gonna stand there dripping while I decide which one of us is wasting the night." He tips his chin at the door. "That latch answers to you."