Travis The Goat Fucker

Story Excerpt

The barn smelled of damp hay and animal musk, a heavy scent that clung to Travis’s skin as he knelt in the dim corner, his breath shallow and ragged. His left hand trembled as it rested on Daisy’s flank, feeling the coarse brown-and-white fur under his calloused fingers. The goat stood still, her small frame unresisting, her head tilted slightly as if curious about the touch. A low bleat escaped her, soft and questioning, and it sent a jolt through Travis—half shame, half something darker, hotter, pooling in his gut.
His right hand was lower, hesitant but persistent, fingers brushing against the warmth between Daisy’s hind legs. The texture was foreign, slick and unfamiliar, nothing like the grainy daydreams he’d spun late at night in his cot. His heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough he swore it echoed in the creaky barn. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the late evening chill seeping through the slats, and the faint buzz of crickets outside felt like a mocking chorus to his unraveling.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath, voice barely a whisper, as his index finger probed a little deeper, testing.
Daisy shifted, a small movement, but didn’t pull away. Her passivity unnerved him—was it trust, or just dumb animal indifference? He didn’t know which was worse. His mind screamed to stop, to yank his hand back and scrub it raw under the pump outside, but his body buzzed with a need he hadn’t felt before, a raw ache that drowned out the preacher’s voice echoing in his head about sin and filth.
The barn lantern flickered above, casting jagged shadows over the straw-strewn floor. He glanced at Daisy’s dark, unblinking eyes, searching for something—judgment, understanding, anything—but there was nothing there, just blank animal stillness. His finger moved again, slower now, and a shudder ran through him as he felt the warmth tighten slightly. His throat went dry, and he licked his lips, tasting the salt of his own sweat. Was this it? Was he really gonna cross that line, right here in his uncle’s barn, with the whole damn world asleep outside?
He’d stolen a swig of whiskey from the old man’s stash before sneaking out here, the burn still lingering in his chest. Maybe that’s what pushed him—liquid courage or just stupidity. Or maybe it was the months of nothing, no one, just the endless grind of the farm and the snickers of the other hands, their crude jokes about “farm boys getting lonely” burrowing into his skull until curiosity turned to something uglier.