Man Across the River

". . . and I'll need to be at the Santiago de Compostela airport by eleven in the . . . are you getting this, Sean? Your thoughts seem so far away."

"Umm, yes, Phil. You'll need to be at the airport by eleven tomorrow morning for the flight back to New York, so you'll have to leave here at . . ."

"No later than eight. I know you aren't a morning person, so you needn't . . . but what are you staring at so intently? Do you even know I'm sitting here with an arm around you and feeling you up?"

"Yes, of course I know that, Phil. You're making me hard. Do you want to go in now?"

"No, not yet. I want to get you off out here first. It's nice out here. My last night with you for a while in Veiga. I want it to be special. But you seem so distant. I don't want you to worry about Chet. He isn't going to find out that you're tucked away here in Galicia. He doesn't know I have this house in Spain."

"Thank you, Phil. You've been a lifesaver," I murmured, as I cupped his neck with one hand to bring his face to mine in a kiss and unzipped my shorts with the other to signal my surrender to his attentions. My singer/song writer agent, Phil Hendricks, had been wanting to get into my pants for a couple of years now. My psychotic boyfriend in New York, Chet Clayton, had been dulling my creative juices for several months with his antics. When Chet beat me up, Phil whisked me away to this hideaway in Spain. I had given myself to him for the last week in gratitude. He was going back to New York tomorrow and I was staying here, attempting to reestablish my song-writing groove without the drama that Chet had brought into my life.

While we were kissing and with one arm around my shoulders holding me close to him out on the stone terrace overlooking the Rio Neira, a tributary of the Minho River, Phil fished my cock out of my shorts, pressed a thumb into my piss slit, and started to stroke me off.

He was an expert in this, I'd discovered. Although I'd known he wanted me, I hadn't been giving him much thought. He was more than twenty years older than I was. He was a handsome devil and tall and muscular enough, but he was thickish around the middle and old in my eyes, with salt and pepper hair that extended into his mustache and goatee. I just hadn't considered a man his age. I hadn't considered that age would have given him an expertise in technique that a man nearer my age, like Chet, didn't have. I guess what had really turned me off about Phil previously was his New York accent and cockiness. He'd always said he'd have me one day, and that always had irritated me.

But I guess he was right.

Chet would stroke me off, but he wouldn't have that sensual technique of making love to my piss slit with his fingers while he did it. Phil could make me come before he did every time, and he wasn't a long-distance endurance runner in that department. He was a quick reloader, though.

"I wasn't thinking about Chet," I said, speaking in a low, hoarse voice as Phil's stroking of my cock had me purring. I was just noticing the light on in the villa across the river from here. That's the first time I've seen any sign of habitation, although the stone villa looked like it was in good condition and the grape vines covering the property down to the water's edge looked tended well.

Phil looked over toward the river. "Ah, he must have a few days off. I haven't looked at the football schedule. All I've had eyes for this week have been for you."

He was acting like he was smitten with me. I was, of course, very grateful that he'd pulled me out of that mess with Chet and hidden me away with the hope I'd return to churning out songs we both could profit from. So, I'd let him fuck me for a week—with the result that each taking had boosted my creative juices and I already had the makings of three songs. But I had no intention of being with Phil forever. It was just a "thanks" interlude.

"Football schedule? What does that have to do with the house over there?"

"Xavier Vicario owns the house and that vineyard. The vineyard pays for itself. He comes up here from Madrid when he can. He's the center-forward for Atético Madrid, of the Spanish Primera Division football league. They were runners up in the Europe Cup the year before last—1974—largely through his effort. He's still a hero in Spain."

"Ah, I'll have to look him up . . . oh, god, Phil. Shit!"

Phil was kneeling between my thighs, fisting the root of my cock. His mouth was covering the bulb of my cock and he was flicking the piss slit with his tongue and making little stabs with the tip of his tongue into the entrance to my urethra canal.

"Oh, fuck, Phil. Take me inside. Take me to bed. Fuck me!"

He did.

* * * *

He was lying on his back on the bed, on top of the sheets, when I came out of the bathroom. His body wasn't bad, I thought, especially in this lighting. Moonlight from across the river was filtering into the bedroom through the open French doors out onto the terrace.

His body was mature, certainly—thick in the waist, but not exactly fat. His pecs didn't sag, and his legs were muscular. The salt and pepper hair swirled around his pecs and descended his sternum down across his belly and into an unruly bush. He wasn't hung, but his erection stood straight up from his bush and did protrude beyond the fist that was encasing it. He had a leather cock ring tight around the root. His age gave him a bit of trouble keeping an erection very long otherwise.

I padded over and sat on the side of the bed beside him. He turned to me and encased me with his arms around my waist. He sat up and moved behind me, his lips going to the back of my neck. I groaned as one of his hands encased my cock and I discovered that he had turned one of the rings he was wearing around. The ring had a gold bead in it.

"Oh shit. Oh fuck," I whimpered, as he pressed the bead into my piss slit, his hand gripping my shaft, holding it prisoner, while he moved the bead in and out of the piss slit, fucking my cock with it.

"It's my last night with you for now," he whispered into my ear. "I'm going to make you come five times. Something for you to remember when you think of me."

Moaning, I lay back in his arms and surrendered to him.

"One," he murmured when, at length, I brought up an orgasm from his bead-fucking of my cock slit.

He nudged me to one side, toward his feet, and reclined in the other direction. I went down on the surface of the bed on my shoulder with his now half-hard shaft at eye level. Understanding what he wanted, I took the root of his cock in my hand, opened my mouth over the shaft, and started sucking him off. His mouth took my cock in, cleaning it and alternating between sucking it and tonguing and swallowing and rolling my balls.

We worked each other until each had come. I moved my mouth to his balls as he nudged me to move over him and to rise on my knees. He half sat up, pulling my butt cheeks apart and sticking his tongue in my ass. I moaned and lay my cheek on his thigh, losing contact with all else other than him eating my ass out, lubricating and opening me, while he milked my cock again with his hand.

Separate notes and then chords, and finally harmonies and runs began forming in my brain and connecting with other chords and harmonies as Phil ate my ass out and milked my cock. I was exhilarated. My brain was creating music again. The blockage that had been caused by the drama of Chet was being put aside by the insistent sexual loving of Phil. He was being gentle, if relentless—controlling and using me expertly. Most important, I was being freed to compose again. The music going through my brain was that of a ballad. I specialized in pop tunes, but the slow, sure way in which he was working me, preparing me, evoked a ballad.

When I came again for him, I pulled away and rose from the bed.

"Piss break?" he asked. "That was just three."

"No, I have something I have to get down in the computer," I said, walking over to where my laptop was sitting on a desk and taking it out onto the terrace.

"I understand. Good," he said. "But come back before I sleep."

I sat, naked and in erection, on the terrace, overlooking the river as I entered the notes of the tune that had exploded into my mind as Phil had worked my ass and shaft. I was erect as I often was when I was composing but also because I wasn't any more finished with Phil that night than he was done with me. When I'd gotten the basic tune into the computer, I turned it off. Refinement could come later—and would be light. I tried not to mess much with my initial creations. I wanted to get back to the bed and ride Phil's cock.

Before I rose from the chair on the terrace, I looked across the river. Lights were still on on the second floor of the villa, and I thought I discerned a figure walking around inside and crossing behind the curtainless windows. The house was too far away to be sure. I made a mental note of digging out the binoculars Phil said were somewhere in the house.

Phil was still on his back, dozing, when I returned. I climbed on top of him, astride his pelvis. He smiled up at me in a half daze and held our cocks together, frotting them to full erections.

"You've written something?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so. A ballad."

"Good."

I sucked my breath in as he docked our cocks, bringing the tips of them together in a kiss and pulling the uncut foreskin of his down to cover the bulb of my shaft. I moaned as he stroked the two cocks together. He worked them slowly but without letup until I arched my back and shot my load inside his capturing foreskin.

"Four," he whispered.

His cockhead lathered in my cum, he moved his hands to my waist, lifted me, brought my channel down on his shaft, and, arching back and grabbing his knees with my hands, I rode his cock in deep-penetrating undulating movements until, with a series of gentle flows, he creamed me at the core.

There was a flurry of jerks and pressure from his hands at my waist at the point of the rolling ejaculation, but he had otherwise been holding steady as I had, both of us concentrating on the shaft moving inside me. With a sigh, he relaxed back onto the bed and into the first tendrils of sleep, as, with no objection from him, I rose again and went out onto the terrace.

The music that had run through my brain as I was riding his cock wasn't as obvious to me as it had been the first time, but there were hints of note combinations and rhythms of another ballad. I sat on the terrace for a couple of hours, capturing those in the computer as best I could and doing some polishing and enhancing of the first ballad tune.

I kept looking over at the villa on the other side of the river as the sky began to lighten up, but there were no lights shining then.

I plugged the term "Xavier Vicario photos" into the search engine and photos of a luscious stud, dark and sensuous and well-muscled as so many Spanish men I'd see were came back at me, gripping my libido and making me hard again. He obviously had a propensity of tearing his shirt off and running across the field when he'd made a particularly good play—and the cameras obviously enjoyed capturing those moments. He was one sexy man. The music in my brain became more of a rock tune and with the bite of castanets to it, but the tune was fleeting. What was there had a beat to it—an obvious accelerating beat like Ravel's "Bolero," the international anthem of fucking.

Feeling the danger of what I was seeing—I had wanted him to be just a man a river away from me, not a character in a wet dream—I snapped shut the lid of the laptop, visited the bathroom, and then returned to the bed, pulling the sheets over both Phil and me. Phil was lightly snoring, a beatific smile in his face.

Good, I thought. He indeed had pulled me out of a bad situation. I knew my well-being and productivity were important to his own bottom line, but he had gone beyond any expectation I could have. I had never intended to let him fuck me—it had started as a New Yorker thing and then festered—but I owed him that, and was pleased that he seemed to be happy with it. I just didn't want to make it more than casual and occasional sex.

I closed my eyes and the next thing I knew it was later in the morning, surely after 6:30 a.m., when the housekeeper, Isabella, came to work. I could hear her singing in the kitchen. It was a catchy tune—obviously a Spanish ballad. And it seemed to go so well with the first tune I started composing the night before. My mind started to meld chords from what she was singing into my tune.

Phil snorted and came half awake. He turned to me, throwing an arm across my chest and a heavy thigh across my pelvis. He didn't seem to be awake, but his thigh was moving, rubbing my cock, and certainly bringing my shaft alive.

The cock shriveled a bit out of embarrassment, though, when a humming Isabella came into the bedroom, all smiles and carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee on it with a pitcher of cream and packets of artificial sugar. She put the tray down on the nightstand, looked down at the two of us in bed together, obviously naked, as the sheets had been pulled down to our waists, and Phil's arm across my chest. She looked on benignly for a couple of seconds like there was nothing unusual in encountering two men in the bed—and indeed she'd found us here every morning for more than a week—and then turned and waddled out of the room, closing the door behind her, as if it wasn't too late to hide what was going on in the room.

More awake now, Phil moved his body over mine, pinning me to the bed with his greater weight. His lips went to mine, and I opened to him. He nudged my thighs apart with a hand, the palm of his other hand pressing my forehead back into the surface of the bed as we kissed.

"Raise your ass to me. Give me a good angle, I want to take you deep," he whispered, and bending my knees and raising my pelvis with the leverage of my feet flat on the bed, I responded.

I groaned and he grunted as he slid deep inside me and started a slow pump. He wasn't gigantic but he was big enough to strain at taking without preparation. I willed my passage walls to open to him, and they did so as if a series of gates, opening in progression down into my soft, spongy core. I moaned when his bulb reached me there, and I clutched at his shoulder blades, rhythmically pressing my nails into his flesh to the tune of his slow pumping of me at my most vulnerable core. Several minutes later, we both gave a low exclamation and jerked, as we came together, me by stroking myself off as he slow pumped my ass.

"Five," he murmured and immediately went back to sleep on top of and still inside me.

When I woke, he was gone. I hoped he'd made his plane to the States, but I had refinements of the tunes I had written exploding in my brain, so I didn't give him much thought. I did laugh when I saw he'd left me a note on the bureau: the name "Carlos Guerrero," a phone number, and the note that he had a farm on the right near the junction with the main road, that he would take good care of me on demand, and that he was on a retainer at Phil's expense.

* * * *

The man had the physique of a young god, I told myself, with a sigh, as I lowered the binoculars. I'd spent as much time as I could over the past several days out here on the terrace. Little work was being done on music composition. I'd polished what I'd drafted out the night before Phil left to death, but little new had risen. There was the folk song—well, two, after lying under Carlos, but not the production I'd hoped for.

I'd gone three days without sex after Phil left, which was no big deal, except that I'd been hard and wanted sex at least twice a day. Those were times when I'd caught glimpses of the Spanish footballer Xavier Vicario working in his vineyard across the river. He was out there almost constantly, and he liked to work stripped down to the waist. And at the end of his work day—a time I always tried to be out on the terrace and looking across the river—he'd use an open, outdoor shower by a door into his villa to sluice off his body.

After the first few days I saw this, I saw that he was stripping down entirely to do it. That's when I dug out the binoculars. The man was hung—a thick, uncut sausage of a cock hanging down between his legs, seemingly meatier at the middle than at either end—and his body was absolutely magnificent. I found myself unzipping and working myself while he was showering.

It was frustrating in sexual terms. On the fourth day, I picked up the note that Phil had left on the bureau with the name of Carlos Guerrero. I wondered what he looked like. I really wanted to know that before I called him. But I really, really needed to be taken care of.

I took a walk on the road toward the junction with the main highway. The note had said he farmed to the right almost to the road. There was a man out there on a tractor when I approached the junction. He was smallish and had a wiry body. He also was somewhere past his mid forties and had a grizzled appearance. He certainly was no beauty. I wondered if Carlos was his son. I had brought my mobile phone with me and rang the number. There was ringing sound coming from the tractor and the man stopped the machine, pulled a mobile phone from somewhere in the tractor, answered it, and looked in my direction.

Carlos fucked me on the mossy ground under a tree in a stand of trees at the side of the field he was plowing. And he plowed me good too. He was a bantam rooster of a guy, but he was strong as an ox, he had the dick of an ox, and he had the manners of an ox. He mounted me like a dog and banged away on me for a good twenty minutes. He was humming some sort of Celtic-type song—the Celtic influence was strong in Galicia—and muttering in some dialect that wasn't Spanish as he pounded away on my ass. It was all I could do to hold in place.

I had moaned when he'd pulled my leather belt out of my trousers when I'd stripped them off. He doubled the belt over and snapped it on the palm of his hand. I flinched and groaned, looking at the belt in fear but also experiencing some other sensation running through my body—something arousing. He hadn't missed the spark in my eyes.

When Chet had beaten me, it had been pain, but mixed in that had been some pleasure too. Chet had seen something in my reaction too. He knew he could abuse me and I'd still come for him—sometimes more explosively then. When Chet slapped me around, I'd go straight to the floor, open my legs to him, and take him deep, meeting his thrust with counterthrusts of my own. He had exploited that, thinking that even more pain would trigger sexier reactions. What I grew to fear was that he may have been right. I had the same urge to present my ass with just the snap of the belt.

I think Phil saw it too. He didn't take advantage of it himself, but it gave him impetus to pull me out of Chet's clutches.

When Carlos had mounted my ass and was riding my channel, he flicked my biceps and flanks with the belt. He laughed at the feel of my reaction to that. My passage opened more to him, pulling him deeper inside me; my moan was lower, more guttural in the throat. He reached under my belly and grasped my cock. Snap, snap against my flanks and my cock stiffened further in his hand. Wham, wham, wham, the strike on my buttocks were harder. I spouted for him, moaning hard. I came for him three times with the kiss of the belt as he seeded me twice in quick succession and left me panting and groaning on the ground under the tree.

I lay there and watched him finish plowing his field, after which he drove the tractor back over to the tree line, climbed down, approached me, gripped my ankles, split my legs, and plowed me as well in a vigorous missionary fuck, almost splitting my ass channel.