The right way to deal with inferior faggots. Last part of five.

I enjoyed having it as a toy at home for myself and my guests and employees for some years. The slut fag had the vocation and perfect temper to be a domestic animal.

It was the perfect bitch, the most submissive and trained I ever saw.

It obeyed all orders and accepted all beatings, rapes, and violence without complaining or moaning excessively.

Its blowjobs were perfect; it knew how to make any man come and drink all the cum without letting a single drop drip onto the rug. The bitch knew how to lick assholes and pussy very competently.

Even with its asshole, having been sored many times, the fag managed to squeeze it and pleasure any cock that penetrated it.

In all these years, the house servants nor I heard him speak a single word; we think it even unlearned how to speak.

Despite the abuse and eating only scraps of food, the fag had a bull's health; it never got sick.

However, for me, it was losing grace and interest. Even whipping and torturing its body didn't turn me on anymore. I called a cousin who had a vast place near Goiânia and asked if she could take the animal there. She frequented my house and knew my slut bitch, and she did me the favor of taking the animal away.

She had no interest in the slut animal; she took it to the farm and handed it to her employees, asking them to use it as they liked.

Employees loved winning that worm and used it in many ways. They soon discovered its sexual talents and regularly used its holes. They also used it as a draft animal, pulling plows and carts.

It fulfilled all his duties and obligations for years, being the farm's pack animal during the days and the sex animal at night.

The fag worked so hard with such commitment that it rarely had to be punished; it was seldom whipped to work.

One day, the fag knelt in front of the employees and, to everyone's astonishment, asked: "please whip me hard every day. I need to be whipped".

The employees liked him and treated him well, but they had never heard him say anything. They thought he didn't even know how to speak, that he was dumb or speechless.

At his request, from that day on, whipping him with violence and cruelty became a habit and routine for all the employees of the farm.

Years passed, and always working naked under the sun and regular and violent beatings, the animal, grew old and ruined down quickly. It looked like a wrinkled older man in ten years, and the tasks were getting lighter, and like any old horse, the fag was spared the heaviest burdens.

Only the whippings continued to be regular,  violent, and heavy for his joy.

When the children of the farm or the city wanted to go out in a chariot, they asked to hitch the old horse to the tilbury and asked the coachman to whip him hard.

I've been told that even children liked to see their backs bruised and bleeding.

My nephews were very grateful that I had given that beast to my cousin's farm. They told me that they loved to whip that stinky little bug throughout their childhood and adolescence.

One day my nephew sent me the steel collar and handcuffs; I got the message that the weird fag was happy until the last of his days.