It was a good thing that Mr. Stevens wanted to lie on his back with eighteen-year-old pub lad, Mark, straddling and riding him in the little room above the Exeter, England, pub, the Black Fist. Stevens was of such heavy weight that he'd crush the young man from on top. Conscious of his weight and the rolls of fat regardless of the vegetable seller's otherwise good musculature, Stevens liked to remain fully clothed other than the baring of his prodigious-sized cock, but he liked Mark to be naked as the man fondled and tested him with his hands and bounced him up and down on his cock.
Stevens was a regular in the New North Road pub near Exeter Cathedral that Mark's uncle, Henry, who had given Mark a home and a job after the youth's parents had died, owned and managed. And he was nearly as regular a customer of Mark's upstairs from the pub room, where Mark did as bid by his uncle to earn his keep. Mark was a comely and small-for-his age young man, with a mop of blond hair, fetching blue eyes, and a smiling disposition. He had become a favorite of men with a certain fetish and was content with the lot life had dealt him. And it was a certain type of pairing that the Black Fist pub was known to cater to.
Mr. Stevens owned and operated the vegetable shop several doors away from the flower shop Mark's aunt, Agatha, operated on West Street. Mark helped out in the shop by day. That was where he had attracted the attention and interest of the vegetable seller, who had listened to gossip about the young man and had tracked him down to the Black Fist pub.
Having complete his half hour riding Mr. Stevens and seeing the satisfied man off, cleaned up with the bowl of water and towel at the dresser in the small room, and dressed, Mark descended to the pub to fulfill his duties of cleaning up after the patrons and helping to deliver the ale.
When he set a tankard of ale down in front of a single patron, sitting by the fireplace at the table reserved for the gentry, which was known as the lord's table, a black-leather-gloved hand, the material silky and the fingers elegantly long, gripped the young man's wrist and held Mark there ever so briefly at the table before releasing the hand.
Surprised, Mark looked down into the eyes of the well-formed foxy-looking man in midlife. His attention focused on the man's dark, flashing eyes for the first time. The man was handsome in a way, although the intensity of his look and a certain mix of sensuality and cruelty in his aspect made Mark shudder. The man was dark, his hair—and his eyes—jet black and, beyond the black-leather gloves, he was dressed all in black, the material expensive and silky looking, and a black cape flowed down from his shoulders. He quite clearly was a man of the dark and the night. He had snuffed out the candles on the walls near where he sat, which had put him into the shadows.
The man didn't say anything before releasing Mark, but the young man trembled at the feeling of being stripped bare and possessed. As he moved about the room, cleaning tables and serving patrons, Mark couldn't help feeling he was being possessed, and, indeed, whenever he took a glance at the lord's table, the man in black's eyes were locked on him, watching and assessing his every move. If the man in black could have been said to have been smiling, it wasn't a friendly one—and it didn't rise all of the way to his eyes.
Mark's reaction was contradictory. He felt both attracted to and repelled by the attention. He thus was relieved when his uncle called him forth to go fetch something from the family cottage on West Street over near his aunt's flower shop.
* * * *
Long elegant fingers in soft black-leather gloves, gliding over my body, stroking and fondling. Everywhere. I'm cold, so cold, lying on my back on rough marble. Naked. I know not how or why I am unclothed and lying under a man—other than that, at eighteen, I do lie with men when they wish it and have the money to pay for it. A man—or something manlike—hovering over me. Me naked, he covered in black, rich, silky black. The branches of trees in the night above the lustfully leering face. The face of a fox, of a man fox. Familiar, but I don't know in what way—my head is in a swirl. Too much ale or something.
Long, elegant fingers in soft black-leather gloves, gliding over my naked body, stroking and fondling. Testing and squeezing. Most men covering me will do it and have done. This one is taking his time, his pleasure showing to be more than cock in hole, release, and leave.
"Yes, yes," I murmur, my body betraying my desire, as I raise my pelvis to his centering fingers, stroking, pressing in, my rocking pelvis going with the rhythm of his penetration. He is just testing, teasing at this point, withdrawing the fingers and gliding them over the muscles and other crevices of my trembling body. He knows that I will yield to him, that he can have me. He knows I want him inside me.
How have I become naked in the woods—no, not the woods, a cemetery? Cold, but from the marble under my back, not from the wind through the trees in the cemetery. The man's black cloak, billowing, moving rhythmically with the breeze and with the movement of his body on mine, covering us both, blocking out the stronger wind. Saint Bartholomew's Cemetery. That's where I am, where I was walking beside before . . . this.
Head in a muddle. So weak, so weak. I try to move my hands, but find they are bound at the wrist by leather, my arms over my head. He is kissing my lips and cheeks and throat, moving down to my chest, my belly, licking and nipping. This is far more attention to my body than the men I go with upstairs in the pub give. They have me for a half hour. It is as if this man will have me forever. Humming in low tones. A gloved hand between my thighs, gliding up.
Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. The gloved hands coaxing my thighs apart, bending my spread legs, placing my felt-booted feet flat on the marble. This is it. He is preparing me to be inside me. I yield to him in everything.
The soft-leather gloved hands squeezing and separating my mounds, coaxing me to push up with my feet and elevate my pelvis to his desire. Experienced in the positions of approach of men preparing to penetrate, I comply. I am not a virgin to penetration, at eighteen. There is nothing in that that is making this strange and exotic—fearfully and yet compelling. Men do fuck me. I do take their cocks inside me and ride them to a seeding.
Do it and get it over with. It's cold and creepy out here.
Gloved fingers at my hole. Not his cock, not yet his cock. Soft leather gloved fingers in my hole. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Kissing and nipping back up my body. Foxy face pressed into my throat. I feel the sting of the bite, the low whooshing sensation of the suck, the slow onset of lethargy and lightheadedness. Writhing, but as if I were underwater, struggling ineffectually against the hand at my hole. Howling into night as the black-leather-gloved hand penetrates, violates, stretches, fills, possesses, flexes, starts to move inside me. His whole fist inside me, moving in and out, in and out. Slight pain at the throat where I am bitten and being sucked. Greater pain inside, below as I am fucked by the gloved hand.
