The men don’t waste time. Black boy barely has a chance to play coy before those thick, sunburned arms have him spun around, bent over the low split-rail fence. Three rough hands—big, calloused, strong from years of farm work—press him down, pinning him by the small of his back, fingers digging into the meat of his hips.

He’s bratty at first, wriggling, tossing a last little smirk over his shoulder, but the first spank lands and all the attitude flees his face. It’s loud, hard, echoing off the barn wall. His skirt rides up, panties stretched tight across his bubble butt, dark skin gleaming under the setting sun. The next slap is even rougher—open-palmed, greedy, claiming.

The men take turns, each one landing blow after blow, sometimes two hands at once, their laughter low and dirty. They grunt, mutter, praise and taunt him in the same breath:
“Look at that ass, boy. Made for this, ain’t it?”
“You dress like a slut, you get treated like one.”
“Moan for us, pretty. Let the whole county know who’s got you.”

The melanin-rich boy moans, loud and shameless, every sound rolling out of him without a shred of self-control. He bucks with every smack, legs shaking, skirt hiked so high it’s nothing but bare brown cheeks and needy, trembling muscle. Every blow sends shockwaves up his spine, stings fading into electric heat, making his cock throb and his head swim.

They keep going, the rhythm of the spanking getting rougher, more possessive, their voices filthier as they push him to the edge—
“You like that, nigger boy? Take it. Louder. Make us proud.”