Review #113

Pleasure Pain

Story by Tark Mwain

Review by Ray




 

Oh, hello, I didn't see you there. I was just reading Animal Farm, and by reading, I mean being a lazy fuck and listening to somebody else read it. And I thought, "This is pretty good; it's a well crafted commentary on the various flaws in society and the shortcomings of revolutions. But you know what would make it even better? Bestiality, of course! And if it could be written by somebody named Tark Mwain, even better."

Beastiality, count me in!

 

Manor Farm was a peaceful type of farm.

When was it ever a peaceful type of farm? I promise to stop bitching about disloyalty to the canon after this, but I don't remember any point in the book when Manor Farm was peaceful. Spoiler alert; every time it was remotely pleasant, it was called Animal Farm. It was only ever called Manor Farm at the beginning and at the end; the two times when the farm was at its worst. Anyways, continue.

Except for the farmer, Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones was a harsh, cruel taskmaster of about 55. He worked the animals from 4 in the morning until 9 at night, when he came in and demanded dinner from his hag of a housewife.

Well would you blame a guy for being a little harsh with a hag of a wife.

His most prized animal was Boxer, a cart-horse of almost 11 years. Boxer was a very hard worker and the work he did was overachieving. Mr. Jones had always had a soft spot for him, but he would never let Boxer, or any of the other animals know about it. He whipped the horse time and time again to make a point to the other animals.

Most prized animal my ass.

I just enjoy that he has to make a point to the other animals; I can't tell at all if it's a clever way of showing Mr. Jones' character, or if the author just doesn't know what she's doing. Honestly, it could be either of the two.

What Jones didn't know what that every time he whipped Boxer,

What I don't know what typo.

Boxer got so horny he could hardly stand it.

 

Predictable, but still nasty.

The only way that he could deal with this was to work harder, and make Jones proud of him.

Ah yes, Boxer's montra, "I will work harder." Many readers fail to read between the lines and realize that what he actually means by that is, "Whip me. Just, just whip me. Neigh."

Neigh = fuck me. You learn something new everyday.

That's what I told the farmer anyways. And the officer. And the judge. The point is, it was convincing eventually.

About one day out of every week, Mr. Jones would relieve Boxer of his duties and take him out riding.

Now, after everything you’ve just said just now, you have to admit you were running straight into this joke -

 

Oh, just wait.

 

Jones knew the animals would continue their routine, because they hated be whipped or having their rations reduced.

Except for one BDSM-loving horse for some reason.

These days were Boxers favorites. Jones would ride Boxer bare-back so he could feel the taskmasters manhood on his back.

I've never been a horse, but I just have a hard time believing that a horse can feel that much of a difference. Unless of course Mr. Jones is hung like, well, like a horse.

 

This made Boxer even more hot than the whippings he would receive. He would run just a certain way so that Jones would bounce a little on top of him. He especially love when the man would stroke his mane.

"Mr. Jones whipped Boxer to prove a point. He also stroked Boxer's mane, but mostly he whipped the horse."

One day while the two were out riding, Jones halted Boxer so he could relieve himself in the nearby brush. Jones had been so erect on top of Boxer that the horse couldn't, and wouldn't stand it anymore.

So the farmer is also in love with the horse. I don’t even know anymore at this point. Just get to the sex scene already!

Jones was doing his business when Boxer trotted up behind his back, and nudged him with his nose.

 

Jones turned around in shock with his large, hard penis stood out in the open and Boxers knees buckled. He feel to the ground and looked into his masters eyes.

Spell check and apostrophes. I don't mean to question Tark Mwain's brilliant command of the English language, but still, just a suggestion.

He couldn't read the look on his face, so he wrapped his lips around Jones' hot, succulent cock.

Of course, the solution to everything in Erotica.

In our line of work, isn’t it always?

Jones recoiled for a moment, but then relaxed. He began to praise his favorite cart-horse and the horse whinnied with pleasure at his masters praise. There they were, in the middle of the woods just the two of them.

Jones reached into his back pocket and brought out the whip that Boxer had a love/hate relationship with. Jones removed his manhood from the horse's mouth and went around to Boxer's rear. He began the whip the animal hard and fast.

Do I want to know what he was whipping him with?

Let's just assume it's both and move on.

Boxer whinnied out in a mix of pain and pleasure, but did not object the abuse he was receiving.

And at no point during this whipping did Boxer reflexively chomp down on the smaller of Mr. Jones' whips?

 

After about a half an hour of pleasure, Boxer kicked Jones' legs out from under him, crippling him on the ground. Jones lay on the ground in pain, naked and his leg broken.

All those years of using the whip coming straight back to him, in more ways than one.

Boxer seized this opportunity for pleasure pain. He ground his hoof into Jones' crippled leg and Jones cried out and cursed at the horse. Although he was suffering this great pain, his erection was also great.

 

Boxer rolled Jones onto his stomach and make him stand on all fours.

I’m suddenly reminded of this little scene

 

Everything’s starting to make sense.

Jones could barely keep his right leg on the ground and continued cursing and the cart-horse.

…and the cart-horse what? I feel like there should have been more to that clause. Seriously, a subject and a verb; it's all you need, and half of it seems to be missing.

Then Boxer impaled the masters anus with his large…horse-hood.

  1. I don't actually hate the term horse-hood as much as I might have in earlier reviews. Silly names for genitalia have grown on me.
  2. The position they're in is one of my two main grievances with this story. The first is the complete debauchery of the canon, but really, I didn't expect that to go well in the first place. Back to this scene though, I can't help but question what the hell kind of position they're in. How can a horse mount a man who is lying crippled on the ground? Tark Mwain will have to draw me a picture, because I just don't see it.

A. Ridiculous animal genitalia names have always been humours to me

B. I can give you a gif instead.

 

Yeah, but…

 sigh animated GIF

dammit you're right. That completely works.

Family Guy always works in the end.

His cock was a whopping 15 inches long, you know, being a horse and all and he shoved all of it into Jones and let out a scream that could make ears bleed.

Something something something Mr. Hands.

But Boxer didn't care and kept thrusting himself into his now weak, crippled taskmaster.

Is this considered elder abuse?

Keyboard abuse, if nothing else.

Can we sue? I think we can sue.

About an hour later, Boxer had had his fill and Jones was unconscious. Boxer rolled Jones onto his back once again and licked from the man's penis all the way to his thin white lips. Boxer trotted off toward Manor Farm and left Jones naked, in the woods to die.

He pretty much did the same thing to the plot as well; now that Mr. Jones is gone, who's gonna drive the animals to revolt?

I’m sure one of those rabbits will rise up. Those little bastards always look suspicious.

When Boxer returned he went straight for the Jones' house and found the late masters wife. He knocked her unconscious and ripped her esophagus from her neck and whipped her small white rump with it.

Come on story, you only have two sentences left; don't start a plot thread you won't be able to finish properly.

He let the other animals in to feast on her naked body.

E-I-E-I-O….

 Boxer and the other animals ended up burning the remains of what they would not eat, in the fire place while they sat on the hearth and listened to the wind howl.

The end. Apparently. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to pretend this story didn't happen.

 

Pass me a piece of pizza, my fellow Fluffwright.