I lay all akimbo on the crushed and worn blue velvet of the old chaise lounge in the corner of the Little Dean rental cottage on the hill above the Severn. I was on my back, or nearly so, turned a bit out into the room, my right arm raised over my head, clutching the top of the divan, my left dangling off the side, my right leg bent and raised, foot flat on the divan surface, and my left leg over the side toward the room, my toes pushed into the Oriental carpet underneath.
Jack, having risen from me, slipped the condom off, and gone to the other side of the room to toss it in a trashcan next to the bureau there and to take a cigarette out of the pack on the bureau top, looked back at me and laughed.
"You look well tossed," he said, "just like one of those photo cards down at Doswell's." He moved over to the window looking out toward the field where I had watched him working on and off for the past two weeks. He had noticed me watching him.
"That's because I
am
well tossed," I said, the tiredness in my voice reflective of how vigorously he had fucked me.
I was on a summer's sabbatical from Columbia University, escaping New York to England's Forest of Dean to put the finishing touches on my second novel, hoping it would do as well as the first. At twenty-four, I'd done very well. I'd done well enough that the demands for my public-contact time in New York had gotten in the way of finishing my second novel.
Jack must have been a good ten years older than I was. He was rough—a farmer, of course, since that's what I'd been watching him do in the field next to the stone cottage I'd rented in Little Dean, stripped to the waist and working with an ancient, small tractor, doing whatever small-hold English farmers do in their fields of unknown crops. He was a solidly built man, bordering on stout, but with a well-worked body, barrel-chested and with short but strongly muscled legs. He was what they call a ginger and was hirsute, covered with a matting of curly hair. And he was hung. What had drawn me to him was how capable and self-assured he'd seemed as he worked his fields. That impression had borne out in sex.
"Photo card? Doswell's?" I asked. He had taken his cellphone from the top of the bureau and was moving around the divan, clicking off photos of me in the nude and in skewed recline on the divan. He turned the cellphone to where I could see myself. It indeed looked artistic—and erotic. I photographed well in the nude, if I do say so myself.
"Doswell's is a photo shop down in the village on the river," Jack said. "He's a real pervert, he is. He makes photo cards of naked men like you're showing now and sells them on the sly in his shop. You'd be a real stunner for him."
"Would I?" I asked, stretching out, checking the various muscle groups I'd just been using to keep up with Jack's demands. He was a strong and highly capable man. Virile, vigorous, big cocked. He'd given me quite a workout.
For the previous two weeks, since I'd arrived in the Forest of Dean, I'd taken breaks from the writing to go out into the cottage yard. It wasn't long before I had seen Jack, stripped down to just his corduroy pants and boots working the field next door. I stood there for some time each day watching him work, admiring the movement of his muscles as he set himself to the task.
It wasn't long before he noticed me watching him and he started posing for me. It was then that I found the little wrought-iron café table and two chairs and began sitting and watching him. I added a wine bottle and glass and, eventually, a second glass eventually appeared on the table.
One day he came off the tractor, unbuttoned himself, and took a leak right there where I could see him. The size of his cock took my breath away. He looked at me while he was hold his shaft in his hand and pissing into the mud of the field. I continued looking at him too, and when he was finished pissing, he gave me a little smile and wagged the cock at me before putting it back in his pants. My gaze never wavered. I was gay and didn't care who knew it. Afterward he strode over, took the second glass, filled it with wine, tossed that off, and went back to work. We both knew he was asserting himself as dominant and that I was acquiescing in that.
That had been just a few days ago. Today, on a Saturday afternoon, I had gone down to a pub, the White Hart Inn, on the Severn, near Broadoak, for a pint and he came in. Seeing me, he came over to my table.
"And so, the fine-looking young man wets his whistle in the White Hart," he said.
"Yes, I do sometimes," I answered.
"Fancy buying me a pint?"
"That would be my pleasure," I answered and went and got one for him and another for me. I was a little excited. Could this be the start of a hookup?
Yes, it was. When I returned and handed him his glass, he said, "And you get pleasure out of watching a man work and piss?"
"If the man is good-looking enough," I answered, "and shows that he takes command."
"And has a very nice piece," he added for me.
"Yes, that too."
"Fancy a toss then?"
"A toss?" I asked.
"Cock in hole, lad. Let's not beat around the bush. I know what a man wants when he looks at me like you do. I've got the cock if you've got a hole needing filled. I'm Jack."
"I'm David," I answered. "I live up above Newham on Dean Road."
"I know where you live, mate." Of course he did.
Back to the present—after he'd followed me up into the forest, to my cottage, and fucked me the first time. He put his cellphone back down on the bureau and picked up and split another condom packet. I could see that he was in erection again.
"What are you doing," I asked—nonsensically. I could clearly see what he was doing.
"We're going to go for a ride again, mate. I'm going to do you again. Show me that nice hole of yours. Christ-a-mighty, I stretched you wide, didn't I?" It of course was with a tone of pride that he said that. I shimmered at the feeling his matter-of-fact naturalism about the casual lay gave me.
And that he did—stretched me wide—coming up onto the chaise lounge on his knees, using them and his hands to spread my legs again. His beefy left arm went under my waist, raising my pelvis a good foot off the surface of the divan. I pressed my feet into the blue velvet on either side of his thighs. My shoulder blades and cheek were pressed into the divan, and he clutched my throat with his right hand, holding me down.
I gasped and groaned as he thrust up inside me again, deep, and began to plow me with vigor. Thrust, thrust, thrust. I dug my fingernails into his biceps and held on for dear life. I started to rock my pelvis, going with him, melding to the rhythm of the fuck.
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck! Fuck, he did me good.
