Hercules, worn and tired from his year-long labor, returns to the court of King Eurystheus of Tiryns with his prize, the Golden Hind. He'd chased it over hill and dale, and through snow and desert lands for a year and a day before tiring it out and capturing it alive. He thunders at the gate until he is admitted, and storms into the throne room. As usual, the King, forewarned, cowers in his specially built brazen urn half buried beneath the floor of the chamber. Hercules hammers on the brass lid with his oaken club until it rings like a bell, and a deafened Eurystheus is forced to tremulously emerge. Hercules demands to hear what his next and final labor will be, as he is weary of them and wishes to be free of the labors imposed on him by the gods in expiation of his drunken slaying of an innocent man. The King, who is deathly frightened of the volatile demigod, is equally weary of the burden of coming up with yet another seemingly impossible task, but can think of nothing at the moment.

Earlier, watching nervously for Hercules' expected return from his palace window, he had watched a farmer from his castle window, idly sitting by his unplowed field, and had envied his careless repose and ease. It never crossed his mind the peasant was only idle because his tax collectors had taken his team of oxen when his crops had failed the previous season due to drought. Pressed, he orders Hercules to go instead to the farmer he points out from his window, and to do whatever he orders. When he does, the young farmer is struck as much by the demigod's unworldly beauty and powerfully muscled physique as his fearsome temper. Years of hard labor had molded the farm lad's own physique, but Hercules made even Olympic athletes and princely warriors look as delicate and willowy as Egyptian dancing girls. Except for a golden breastplate fashioned by the smith-god Hephaestus himself that showed off his massive and finely molded chest to great effect, he wore only a pelt made from the carcass of one of his previous labors, the slaying of the Nemean Lion. No mere trophy, the hide was said to be invulnerable, and he noted Hercules wore leather sandals apparently made from the self-same hide. Otherwise he was naked, and his muscular buttocks peeked out from behind the hem of the pelt behind, while his legendarily gigantic prick - huge as a second club - hung low beneath the front.

Recovering quickly from his awe at the sudden presence of the demigod, he listened to the king's order. Craftily, he ordered him to yoke himself to his plow and work his field of fifty furrows width. But Hercules, no fool, answers he will have to take the farmer's word for that, as he can see it is unfurrowed, despite the lateness of the plowing season.

"Nice try, sodbuster, but I won't be tricked into doing some lowly work for a mere peasant. My labors are the doing of the Gods themselves, and should be great works to befit them." "Very well," answered the crafty farm lad, "so be it." He leaves and returns with three implements he sets before the muscular hero. First, a rusty sword he inherited from his father, a retired soldier who was granted the worthless plot of land after his service by the stingy Eurystheus. Then a pail of glowing coals from the hearth, and lastly a jug of water from his well. "I consecrate these to the great gods, Ares, Hephaestus, and Poseidon, and command you to plow furrows in each of their sacred fields. Hercules smiles, thinking this no great feat, and an easy way to fulfill his expiation and please the gods as well.

The sacred temenos surrounding the god's temples were always chosen from choice, level and stoneless land. But the farmer leads him not to the land surrounding any temple, but to an ancient battlefield. "This blood-soaked land is surely sacred to Ares, now plow, strongman!" he orders sternly. With a self-satisfied smirk, Hercules yokes the heavy iron plow to his shoulders and begins. But his progress is immediately slowed when he hits a series of obstacles. Hidden just beneath the turf, every inch of soil is thickly strewn with bones, shields, armor, and swords, all bound tightly together with a tough network of thick stumps and rootwork. Once, this had been an ancient battlefield, since grown over with trees that were themselves long ago felled by Eurystheus' greedy forebears to build their warfleets. Hercules struggles to tear through the unyielding turf. Finally he plows the entire field, sweating and groaning every inch of the way.

The farmer then takes him to the nearby seashore. "Truly this spot must sacred to Poseidon, the God of the Sea, so plow the seashore!" Hercules again straps on the yoke, and manfully plows the sand. Except for the shells and a horde of crabs that nip at his heels, it is relatively easy going in the soft sand. But halfway through his task the tide washes in, filling in the recently plowed furrows. He retraces his steps, but the rising waters eventually force him to swim, dragging the heavy plow like an anchor through the seabed. All through the night he toils like Sisyphus, the furrows filling in faster than he can plow them. Finally, at dawn the retreating waters allow him to finish the task. He staggers, exhausted and waterlogged, back to dry land.

"Wet work, eh, muscleboy? Well we'll soon dry you off. Hephaestus' plot of land is last," the farmer says. He leads him up the mountain towering over the center of the fields on the outskirts of the city of Tiryns. It is an old, cratered volcano whose rich black soil had first attracted the founders of Tiryns to this spot. He takes Hercules to the summit. There, the still smoking crater sits like a hellish lake of fire. Here and there the crust of solid black stone is broken and cracked, and glowing lava seethes like a blood pudding on the boil. "Now for your final labor, and if you fail, you must swear by you father Zeus to serve me for a year and a day." The weary strongman, after first removing the golden breastplate that already glows red from the heat, seizes the yoke once more, and with timid steps makes his way gingerly to the smoking edge of the crater. He sets the plow, and begins to slowly drag it across the fiery bowl of the crater. His sandals, fashioned from the invulnerable hide of the Nemean Lion, whose pelt he wears, protects him from the flames. But it cannot protect him from the searing heat, or the choking fumes that issue from the broken lava crust. As he drags the plowshare through solid stone, gouts of flame issue out, lapping at his exposed buttocks.

The farmer, lounging on the edge of the crater, feasts on wine and food he'd brought along and enjoys the spectacle. He rolls about laughing as Hercules yelps with pain. "What's the matter, sweetcheeks, are your tender buns burning in the oven?" he taunts. Still, Hercules soldiers on, and after hours of tortuous toil is near to completing the seemingly impossible task. His heart near to bursting, dehydrated from the heat and stupefied from the poisonous fumes, he staggers to complete the last furrow. But just as he reaches the midpoint across the broken face of the crater field, it completely breaks apart. The leather reins catch fire and snap, and the heavy iron plow sinks into the roiling lava. Hercules barely escapes alive, staggering to the spot before the farmer's feet, and sinks to his knees, defeated.

"You have failed, son of Zeus, and now you will serve me. You will plow my field, now, as I first commanded. And I vow you will never forget how I yoke you to the task, Slave!" he boasts. "Villain, I will never serve you, peasant!" the exhausted hero thunders back defiantly.

"I'd hoped you would answer me thus. Perhaps the once invincible Hercules needs his second lesson in humility" The farmer retorts. He strips off his tunic, rubs olive oil on his body from the jug he'd brought with his picnic lunch. Then he strips the lion pelt from Hercules' back and rubs oil on his naked body as well. Then he leaps upon the totally spent Demigod. He manhandles the exhausted muscleman, wrestling him across the length and breadth of the sandy sward. "Is this the Olympic wrestling champion, the Champion of the Gods themselves, humbler of the fearsome Titans? A newborn kitten would put up a better tussle, and the runt of the litter as well!" he taunted him, as he twists his leaden limbs into painful holds, spanking his blistered buttocks and twisting his hard nipples till Hercules screams in frustration and pain. Finally, he pummels his muscular body with hard blows of his knees and fists, and even employs Hercules' own club to batter him senseless. He beats the weakened Godling unmercifully for hours, enjoying his humbling of the hapless hero. Finally, realizing the proud warrior refuses to submit no matter how terribly he is thrashed, he puts him in a chokehold, and Hercules is forced to yield or die. The farmer forces him to swear by Zeus he will obey him in every way for a year and a day before he will spare him.

The humiliated hero is forced to get down on his knees before the handsome young farmer, and suck his massive prick (nearly, he soon discovers, a match for his own). Then he marches the defeated hero down the mountain side to the edge of his cleared field, prodding him along with massive swats of the Godling's own stout club on his already blistered, exposed buttocks. "Now you will plow my field!" he orders.

"But…but…" Hercules stammers, searching for the proper reply…but, Master, I've lost the plow in the crater." "Nevertheless, you will plow mine as you did the others, and I will plow you!"

He seizes Hercules' thick thighs from behind, tackling him to the ground. As he tries to rise wearily on all fours the farm lad leaps on his back. Lifting his massive thighs and hooking Hercules' feet under the crooks of his elbows, he locks his legs into his arms. He lifts his body off the ground, forcing Hercules to support himself upon the palms of his outstreached hands. The farmer pushes Hercules' huge torso forward, like a child playing 'wheelbarrow' with his playmate. But the play he has in mind is not to Hercules' liking. But, still worn out, he can do nothing to prevent him from ramming his stiffened prick between his naked buttocks, and forcing a breech in his virgin asshole.

The farmer raped him mercilessly, driving him forward a step at a time with each savage, powerful thrust. Hercules strained his head up to search the sky, expecting peals of thunder from his outraged sire, and a swift thunderbolt to slay the impious peasant. But only an empty blue sky met his gaze. He'd been abandoned to his fate, still cursed for his crime and his prideful hubris. Abandoned to lose his maidenhood in a field like a peasant girl. Hercules groaned and cursed, but to his shame soon found his abused body responding to the strangely erotic onslaught, and to his amazement suddenly felt his swelling prick scrape the stony ground. He was as massively hard as he'd ever been! His huge dick not only scraped the hard soil, but began to leave a trail. As the lusty lad bucked and thrust into him Hercules too began to buck in rhythm. Soon his iron-hard dick was poking into the ground, breaking up the crusty top layer of soil. He was actually furrowing the sods of soil in neat rows. He was truly plowing the field with his dick, and the farmer, true to his word, was heroically plowing him as well!

At the end of the first furrow, just as they reached the edge of the field, the farmer came violently inside him. Hercules came as well, spraying his hot seed into the deep rut of the furrow's end. The farmer dropped him into the furrow and fell upon his back, and they lay in the moist earth, panting and resting. "So you will plow the entire field, fifty furrows wide as I first told you, before dawn breaks. Legends say you once lay with each of the fifty daughters of King Danaus in a single night, so you should have no trouble showering your seed as a godling's blessing at the end of each furrow, to fertilize my field. I alas, am only human. I will gladly fuck you for as long as I am able, but when I am weary I will have to resort to another cattle prod to stiffen your ploughshare." He smirked, brandishing an oiled fist.

Hercules groaned, wondering what it would be like to take that massive calloused fist and thick, muscular arm all the way up his tender butt while his tortured dick drove through the stony soil. He knew that field would never be planted that year. When they were done he would be forced to smooth the deep furrows flat and tamp the earth hard beneath his feet. Then he'd have to plow it anew again and again, and be plowed by the handsome young farmer again and again in turn. For a year and a day.

A hard slap woke him from his reverie. He sucked the horny farm lad hard again at his gruff command. The farmer moved behind him, lifted him up by the waist, parted his cheeks with his thumbs, and thrust into him again, and soon they were off again on the second row. A year and a day, Hercules thought, as his dick swelled and stiffened and dug into the thick earth, and his insides roiled with a strange, sweet passion. A year and a day. Not so bad a final labor.