The farmhouse kitchen glowed with midday warmth, the scent of fresh mielie bread and coffee filling the air, a stark contrast to the storm raging in Spencer’s chest. He sat at the worn oak table, blonde hair still matted, eyes red-rimmed from tears shed in the vineyard. Piet’s confrontation had stripped him bare, his confessions—Kyle, Liam, Doug, Henk, Sarah—hanging heavy, the betrayals he couldn’t outrun. Across from him, Jo leaned against the counter, eyes wide with hurt. Piet stood by the stove, his faded blue cap resting on the table, a silent anchor.
Jo broke the silence, voice low, laced with betrayal. “Spense, fok, is this all true? Kyle, Liam, Doug, all of ‘em? You used them like that?” His hands gripped the counter, knuckles white, the warmth that had welcomed Spencer to the farm five days ago replaced by a raw edge. “I thought you were messed up, needed a mate, but this… this is next-level kak.”
Spencer’s throat tightened, the kitchen’s warmth suffocating, Jo’s hurt a mirror to his own shame. He wanted to run, to hide behind charm or whisky, but Piet’s steady gaze held him, and Jo’s pain demanded truth. “Ja, Jo,” he whispered, voice hoarse, hands trembling on the table. “It’s true—all of it. I fucked up, worse than you know.”
Jo’s green eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt, letting Spencer spill. The words came slow at first, then faster, a flood he couldn’t stop. “I used Kyle and Liam in my pusrsuit for power, my lust clouding my judgement.” Spencer’s voice cracked, tears pricking again. “Coach Van Rensburg, flip, that is the one I regret the most, he’s a married man for gods sake! What was I thinking? But he saw straight through me. He… he fucked me, then threw me out, said I wasn’t captain material.”
Jo’s face twisted, freckles stark against his flush, but Spencer pressed on, the kitchen now confessional. “Doug, innocent Doug, I used him as a pawn for 15% equity, made it a deal, not a choice. I thought he’d push Rachel and JP my way, but they sent my plan to you, to Jacques, and it fell apart. Henk and Sarah, I’m so embarressed, I tried to pull them in, offered a threesome, thought it’d make them mine. They laughed, walked away, left me standing there like an idiot.”
He buried his face in his hands, his eyes blurring through tears. “I wanted to be the guy, Jo, like you were, leading the gang, no effort. Thought I could charm my way to captain, to equity, to their loyalty. Used my body, my ass, like a fucking currency. But it’s all gone, the gang, the team, wine shed. I’m nothing now, just a fuck-up who hurt everyone.”
Jo pushed off the counter, pacing, hands raking his blonde hair. “Fok, Spense,” he muttered, voice thick, stopping to face him. “You didn’t just hurt them, you broke trust. Kyle, Liam, Doug, they’re mates, not deals. And me? You came here, flirted, pushed, even after I said I’m with Piet. What the hell were you thinking?”
Spencer’s head snapped up, eyes pleading. “I thought… I thought you’d see me, Jo, like first year, when we were wild, unstoppable. I wasn’t trying to take you from Piet, I just wanted something real, something to hold onto. I’m sorry, bru, I fucked it all up, didn’t know how to stop.”
Piet stepped forward, his eyes softening, his voice a quiet bridge. “He’s telling the truth now, Jo, raw, no games. He’s lost, but he’s here, owning it. We gotta help him sort this, together.” He pulled a chair beside Spencer, sitting close, a steady presence. “Spense, you hurt people ‘cause you thought power’s all that matters. It ain’t. Trust, mates, that’s what holds this farm, this life. You gotta face the gang, tell ‘em everything, like you told us.”
Jo exhaled, face still tight but softening, his loyalty to Piet grounding him. He sank into a chair across from Spencer. “Piet’s right. You’re better than this, Spense, always were, even in first year, before all this kak. But you can’t run from it. Go back to Stellenbosch, stand in front of Kyle, Liam, Doug, all of ‘em, and say what you said here. Be real, no charm, no deals. It’s the only way.”
Spencer nodded, tears drying, blue eyes steady despite the dread pooling in his gut. The kitchen’s warmth felt less suffocating now, Jo’s words a faint spark, Piet’s presence a tether. “I’ll do it,” he said, voice low, resolute. “I’ll tell ‘em… everything. Don’t know if they’ll listen, but I’ll try.” He looked at Jo, then Piet, gratitude mixing with shame. “Thanks, okes, both of you. Didn’t expect this, not after… everything.”
Piet clapped his shoulder, firm but kind. “You’re not done, Spense—just starting. Head back to Stellenbosch tomorrow and face everyone, everything. We’ll be here, but this is your fight now.” Jo’s grin flickered, a ghost of first-year chaos. “Don’t fuck it up again, City Shark—be the guy I knew.” The mielie bread sat forgotten, the coffee cold, but the kitchen held them, a fragile truce forged in truth.
Later that night the farmhouse guest room was a spartan refuge, its single bed creaking under Spencer weight as he sat. The moon slanted through a small window, the faint bleat of sheep drifting from the hills. His blonde hair hung limp, eyes staring at the cracked floorboards, Jo and Piet’s words—be real, face the gang—sinking like stones into his gut. The vineyard confession, raw and jagged, had left him hollow, his manipulations—Kyle, Liam, Coach, Doug, Henk, Sarah—laid bare. Stellenbosch loomed, a battlefield of judgment, but the farm’s quiet pressed harder, forcing him to sit with his shame.
He leaned back, hands raking his face, Jo’s hurt, Piet’s steel, their trust despite his betrayal it baffled him. First year, he’d chased Jo’s chaos, envied Piet’s calm, but never understood their bond, their roots. He’d built an empire on deals, not trust, and it had crumbled. The thought of facing the gang, Kyle’s smirk, Doug’s pain, Sarah’s sharp eyes, twisted his stomach, but Jo’s faint grin, City Shark, sparked a flicker of resolve. He could run, hide in whisky or new cities, but the farm had shown him something else: truth, however brutal, was a start.
Spencer stood, needing to pee, he slipped into the hall, bare feet soft on the worn floorboards, the farmhouse still, the bustle of the farm settled for the night . Jo and Piet’s bedroom door was half-open, a sliver of light spilling out, and muffled voices drew him closer, curiosity overriding his bladder.
Inside their bedroom, Jo and Piet collapsed onto their bed, the adrenaline of the day’s confrontation still coursing. The room was a clutter of farm life, boots by the door, a pile of rugby jerseys, a cracked window letting in the river’s breeze. Jo’s face beamed, green eyes bright as he propped himself on an elbow. “Fok, Piet, you were a beast out there,” he said, voice warm with pride. “Called Spense’s bluff, made him spill, I’ve never seen you like that.”
Piet’s face cracked a rare grin eyes soft, sprawled beside Jo. “Ja, well, you held your own, Jo, shut his flirting down, stayed loyal. Made me proud, always do.” He reached out, hand cupping Jo’s cheek, thumb tracing freckles. “Reckon we earned this, hey?”
Jo laughed, leaning in, lips meeting Piet’s in a slow, hungry kiss, tongues tangling with a heat born of shared victory. Hands roamed, Jo tugging Piet’s faded tee off, revealing a broad, hairy chest, sweat and sun etched into his skin. Piet pulled Jo’s rugby jersey free, their kisses deepening, urgent now. Jeans hit the floor, Jo’s briefs tight with his hardening cock, Piet’s boxers tenting, the air thick with desire.
Jo broke the kiss, grinning, and slid down, hands gripping Piet’s hips. He tugged the boxers off, Piet’s thick, uncut cock springing free. Jo’s lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling, sucking slow and deep, Piet’s groan rumbling through the room. “Fok, Jo,” Piet rasped, fingers in Jo’s hair, hips twitching as Jo worked him, sloppy and relentless, spit dripping.
Spencer froze outside the door, the need to pee forgotten, his eyes locked on the half-open gap. Jo’s back, Piet’s hairy chest, the sight rooted him, a forbidden pull he couldn’t shake. He should’ve walked away, but his cock stirred, straining against his shorts, the farm’s lessons battling his old hunger. He pushed his shorts down, freeing his cock, hard and leaking, his hand slick with spit, he stroked slow, muffled breaths as he watched.
Jo and Piet shifted, moving into a side-by-side 69, bodies aligned on the bed. Jo’s lips slid over Piet’s cock, Piet’s mouth taking Jo’s, their moans syncing, a rhythm of trust and heat. Spencer’s strokes quickened, his free hand gripping the doorframe, the sight of their intimacy; raw, uncalculated, a knife to his loneliness. Jo’s hand cupped Piet’s balls, Piet’s tongue teasing Jo’s head, their bodies a dance Spencer could never join.
Jo pulled back, grinning, and positioned himself behind Piet, lube grabbed from the nightstand, slicking his cock. He pressed against Piet’s tight, hairy ass, sliding in slow, Piet’s groan deep and guttural, hands gripping the sheets. Jo fucked him steady, hips rolling, chest flushed, eyes locked on Piet’s pleasure. Spencer’s hand moved faster, precum slicking his palm, dying to join but chained by restraint, Jo’s rebuff, Piet’s threat, the truth he’d promised.
Piet’s moans peaked, his cock untouched, shooting thick ropes onto the bed, body shaking as Jo thrust harder. Jo pulled out, groaning, and unloaded over Piet’s back, cum streaking his olive skin, a primal mark. The sight tipped Spencer over, a muffled grunt escaping as he came into his hand, hot spurts spilling, legs trembling. He caught his breath, heart pounding, the intimacy he’d witnessed a mirror to his isolation.
Jo and Piet collapsed, tangled and panting, Jo’s arm draped over Piet’s chest, their laughter soft, private. Spencer yanked his shorts up, cum sticky on his hand, and hurried back to his room, the need to pee gone, the farmhouse’s hum a distant echo. He sank onto the bed, Jo and Piet’s bond a searing reminder: he’d chased power, not love, and Stellenbosch was his last chance to change.
Jo broke the silence, voice low, laced with betrayal. “Spense, fok, is this all true? Kyle, Liam, Doug, all of ‘em? You used them like that?” His hands gripped the counter, knuckles white, the warmth that had welcomed Spencer to the farm five days ago replaced by a raw edge. “I thought you were messed up, needed a mate, but this… this is next-level kak.”
Spencer’s throat tightened, the kitchen’s warmth suffocating, Jo’s hurt a mirror to his own shame. He wanted to run, to hide behind charm or whisky, but Piet’s steady gaze held him, and Jo’s pain demanded truth. “Ja, Jo,” he whispered, voice hoarse, hands trembling on the table. “It’s true—all of it. I fucked up, worse than you know.”
Jo’s green eyes narrowed, but he didn’t interrupt, letting Spencer spill. The words came slow at first, then faster, a flood he couldn’t stop. “I used Kyle and Liam in my pusrsuit for power, my lust clouding my judgement.” Spencer’s voice cracked, tears pricking again. “Coach Van Rensburg, flip, that is the one I regret the most, he’s a married man for gods sake! What was I thinking? But he saw straight through me. He… he fucked me, then threw me out, said I wasn’t captain material.”
Jo’s face twisted, freckles stark against his flush, but Spencer pressed on, the kitchen now confessional. “Doug, innocent Doug, I used him as a pawn for 15% equity, made it a deal, not a choice. I thought he’d push Rachel and JP my way, but they sent my plan to you, to Jacques, and it fell apart. Henk and Sarah, I’m so embarressed, I tried to pull them in, offered a threesome, thought it’d make them mine. They laughed, walked away, left me standing there like an idiot.”
He buried his face in his hands, his eyes blurring through tears. “I wanted to be the guy, Jo, like you were, leading the gang, no effort. Thought I could charm my way to captain, to equity, to their loyalty. Used my body, my ass, like a fucking currency. But it’s all gone, the gang, the team, wine shed. I’m nothing now, just a fuck-up who hurt everyone.”
Jo pushed off the counter, pacing, hands raking his blonde hair. “Fok, Spense,” he muttered, voice thick, stopping to face him. “You didn’t just hurt them, you broke trust. Kyle, Liam, Doug, they’re mates, not deals. And me? You came here, flirted, pushed, even after I said I’m with Piet. What the hell were you thinking?”
Spencer’s head snapped up, eyes pleading. “I thought… I thought you’d see me, Jo, like first year, when we were wild, unstoppable. I wasn’t trying to take you from Piet, I just wanted something real, something to hold onto. I’m sorry, bru, I fucked it all up, didn’t know how to stop.”
Piet stepped forward, his eyes softening, his voice a quiet bridge. “He’s telling the truth now, Jo, raw, no games. He’s lost, but he’s here, owning it. We gotta help him sort this, together.” He pulled a chair beside Spencer, sitting close, a steady presence. “Spense, you hurt people ‘cause you thought power’s all that matters. It ain’t. Trust, mates, that’s what holds this farm, this life. You gotta face the gang, tell ‘em everything, like you told us.”
Jo exhaled, face still tight but softening, his loyalty to Piet grounding him. He sank into a chair across from Spencer. “Piet’s right. You’re better than this, Spense, always were, even in first year, before all this kak. But you can’t run from it. Go back to Stellenbosch, stand in front of Kyle, Liam, Doug, all of ‘em, and say what you said here. Be real, no charm, no deals. It’s the only way.”
Spencer nodded, tears drying, blue eyes steady despite the dread pooling in his gut. The kitchen’s warmth felt less suffocating now, Jo’s words a faint spark, Piet’s presence a tether. “I’ll do it,” he said, voice low, resolute. “I’ll tell ‘em… everything. Don’t know if they’ll listen, but I’ll try.” He looked at Jo, then Piet, gratitude mixing with shame. “Thanks, okes, both of you. Didn’t expect this, not after… everything.”
Piet clapped his shoulder, firm but kind. “You’re not done, Spense—just starting. Head back to Stellenbosch tomorrow and face everyone, everything. We’ll be here, but this is your fight now.” Jo’s grin flickered, a ghost of first-year chaos. “Don’t fuck it up again, City Shark—be the guy I knew.” The mielie bread sat forgotten, the coffee cold, but the kitchen held them, a fragile truce forged in truth.
Later that night the farmhouse guest room was a spartan refuge, its single bed creaking under Spencer weight as he sat. The moon slanted through a small window, the faint bleat of sheep drifting from the hills. His blonde hair hung limp, eyes staring at the cracked floorboards, Jo and Piet’s words—be real, face the gang—sinking like stones into his gut. The vineyard confession, raw and jagged, had left him hollow, his manipulations—Kyle, Liam, Coach, Doug, Henk, Sarah—laid bare. Stellenbosch loomed, a battlefield of judgment, but the farm’s quiet pressed harder, forcing him to sit with his shame.
He leaned back, hands raking his face, Jo’s hurt, Piet’s steel, their trust despite his betrayal it baffled him. First year, he’d chased Jo’s chaos, envied Piet’s calm, but never understood their bond, their roots. He’d built an empire on deals, not trust, and it had crumbled. The thought of facing the gang, Kyle’s smirk, Doug’s pain, Sarah’s sharp eyes, twisted his stomach, but Jo’s faint grin, City Shark, sparked a flicker of resolve. He could run, hide in whisky or new cities, but the farm had shown him something else: truth, however brutal, was a start.
Spencer stood, needing to pee, he slipped into the hall, bare feet soft on the worn floorboards, the farmhouse still, the bustle of the farm settled for the night . Jo and Piet’s bedroom door was half-open, a sliver of light spilling out, and muffled voices drew him closer, curiosity overriding his bladder.
Inside their bedroom, Jo and Piet collapsed onto their bed, the adrenaline of the day’s confrontation still coursing. The room was a clutter of farm life, boots by the door, a pile of rugby jerseys, a cracked window letting in the river’s breeze. Jo’s face beamed, green eyes bright as he propped himself on an elbow. “Fok, Piet, you were a beast out there,” he said, voice warm with pride. “Called Spense’s bluff, made him spill, I’ve never seen you like that.”
Piet’s face cracked a rare grin eyes soft, sprawled beside Jo. “Ja, well, you held your own, Jo, shut his flirting down, stayed loyal. Made me proud, always do.” He reached out, hand cupping Jo’s cheek, thumb tracing freckles. “Reckon we earned this, hey?”
Jo laughed, leaning in, lips meeting Piet’s in a slow, hungry kiss, tongues tangling with a heat born of shared victory. Hands roamed, Jo tugging Piet’s faded tee off, revealing a broad, hairy chest, sweat and sun etched into his skin. Piet pulled Jo’s rugby jersey free, their kisses deepening, urgent now. Jeans hit the floor, Jo’s briefs tight with his hardening cock, Piet’s boxers tenting, the air thick with desire.
Jo broke the kiss, grinning, and slid down, hands gripping Piet’s hips. He tugged the boxers off, Piet’s thick, uncut cock springing free. Jo’s lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling, sucking slow and deep, Piet’s groan rumbling through the room. “Fok, Jo,” Piet rasped, fingers in Jo’s hair, hips twitching as Jo worked him, sloppy and relentless, spit dripping.
Spencer froze outside the door, the need to pee forgotten, his eyes locked on the half-open gap. Jo’s back, Piet’s hairy chest, the sight rooted him, a forbidden pull he couldn’t shake. He should’ve walked away, but his cock stirred, straining against his shorts, the farm’s lessons battling his old hunger. He pushed his shorts down, freeing his cock, hard and leaking, his hand slick with spit, he stroked slow, muffled breaths as he watched.
Jo and Piet shifted, moving into a side-by-side 69, bodies aligned on the bed. Jo’s lips slid over Piet’s cock, Piet’s mouth taking Jo’s, their moans syncing, a rhythm of trust and heat. Spencer’s strokes quickened, his free hand gripping the doorframe, the sight of their intimacy; raw, uncalculated, a knife to his loneliness. Jo’s hand cupped Piet’s balls, Piet’s tongue teasing Jo’s head, their bodies a dance Spencer could never join.
Jo pulled back, grinning, and positioned himself behind Piet, lube grabbed from the nightstand, slicking his cock. He pressed against Piet’s tight, hairy ass, sliding in slow, Piet’s groan deep and guttural, hands gripping the sheets. Jo fucked him steady, hips rolling, chest flushed, eyes locked on Piet’s pleasure. Spencer’s hand moved faster, precum slicking his palm, dying to join but chained by restraint, Jo’s rebuff, Piet’s threat, the truth he’d promised.
Piet’s moans peaked, his cock untouched, shooting thick ropes onto the bed, body shaking as Jo thrust harder. Jo pulled out, groaning, and unloaded over Piet’s back, cum streaking his olive skin, a primal mark. The sight tipped Spencer over, a muffled grunt escaping as he came into his hand, hot spurts spilling, legs trembling. He caught his breath, heart pounding, the intimacy he’d witnessed a mirror to his isolation.
Jo and Piet collapsed, tangled and panting, Jo’s arm draped over Piet’s chest, their laughter soft, private. Spencer yanked his shorts up, cum sticky on his hand, and hurried back to his room, the need to pee gone, the farmhouse’s hum a distant echo. He sank onto the bed, Jo and Piet’s bond a searing reminder: he’d chased power, not love, and Stellenbosch was his last chance to change.
that’s what I meant 
