Chapter 2

Trevor enjoyed walking the dog so much his wife often accused him of loving their Irish Red Setter, Rusty, more than her. He assured her, as always, she was being ridiculous and she smiled to let him know she was only teasing him, kissed him fondly on the cheek, and waved him goodbye from the kitchen door.

The world glittered in the late afternoon sunshine, sunbeams danced on Rusty's coat, and Trevor breathed the air with pleasure, glad to be out in the open after a stuffy day at the office. He kept the dog on a short leash while they made their way through the leafy suburb where he'd spent thirty-two, mainly happy, years with his wife and twin daughters (although the girls were all grown up now), and nodded amiably to his neighbour, Mrs. Potts, who smiled in return, as he strolled the short distance to the Lane, turned right and carried on for about half a mile before coming to the old five-bar gate. He turned sideways and squeezed his middle-aged spread through the narrow stile beside the gate - long past the time where he might have leapt over it - then unclipped Rusty's lead and watched the dog sprint across the field with simple joy at the animal's wild, exuberant, 'woof!'

This was his favourite time of the day during spring, with enough light to give him all the time he needed for a leisurely stroll around the wood without having to cut short his perambulations before returning for dinner and his wife's exceptional cooking: tonight. Hotpot, with new potatoes. His stomach rumbled in anticipation and he set off along the well-trodden path, idly swishing the lead in front of him as though checking for mines - although he had to dodge the random cow-pat - keeping one eye on Rusty who capered with gay abandon, watched carefully by the cows who stood in a line beside the gate to the upper field, chewing stoically.

This was Trevor's idea of winding down after a long day: some people jogged; others rambled; his wife liked to sew but Trevor walked with a steady, purposeful stride on the same route, every morning and evening, come rain or shine. Here amidst the green grass, strewn with buttercup and daisy, he could clear his head of the dry statistics and numbers accrued at the bank and let his mind drift along, unencumbered by everyday worries and cares. He could walk the route in his sleep by now and hardly noticed any people who may pass him by, though that was a rare event in itself. His feet moved steadily up the gentle slope towards the small wood that crowned the top of the hill like an ill-fitting wig, inhaling the pollen-rich air and humming 'Garry Owen' quietly under each breath. At the fringe of the hills crown, he turned, urged Rusty to catch up, and laughed at the dog's boundless energy that brought him skidding towards its master in a helter-skelter dash. Trevor patted the dog's head and together, man and beast entered the shady gloom, slowing their pace to catch their breath and make sure their recreation lasted as long as possible; reluctant to hasten the end of his fleeting freedom from the daily drudgery of a nine-to-five job.

The natural sounds of the wind in the trees and birds singing soothed his soul and Trevor took several deep breaths and let the final one out in an explosive burst of relief: 'aaaahhhhhhhhhhh!' and beamed at nothing in particular. Many dog owners talked to their pets as though expecting them to reply in kind but Trevor rarely did this, unless it was to get Rusty's attention, and it suited Rusty down-to-the-ground, leaving them to enjoy each other's company without the need to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter which his wife always seemed to. A pet hate of his that he would never reveal: 'anything for a quiet life', was his watch-word.

"Rusty; come, boy." Trevor said and whistled softly between his teeth to reinforce the instruction to the dog who rummaged vigorously at the base of a sturdy Birchwood.

Rusty snuffled one final time and turned to hoover up the incline with a snort here and a sniff there; breathing in the rich plethora of scents with a connoisseurs delight, sweeping this way and that to discern the comings and goings of many friends: there, a frisky poodle and over there, an old terrier; each and every one as distinctive as a footprint in the springy turf. What was that noise? Rusty pricked up both ears and cocked his head towards a faint sound, coming from his left, deep in the wood. It sounded like something (someone?) in pain.

"Have they started, boy?" Trevor said, noticing the alert expression on the dog's face.

Rusty whined, unsure himself to the source, and looked back at his master with furrowed brow then took several hesitant steps off the path. Trevor followed, anxious to make-up the shortish distance to what he called The Spot'; a well concealed dip in the grassy bank, surrounded by thick gorse and trees, although there were gaps (if you knew where to look) that allowed a determined viewer to spy at the goings-on beyond in a shady clearing where butterflies cavorted through the drowsy summer months. It had been such a day, a long hot sleepy day in June, last year, when he'd happened upon the secret quite by chance, thanks to his dog's sharp hearing and his own curiosity.

Trevor had scrambled up the same slope, and followed Rusty several yards beside the thicket, instinctively keeping low to shield himself from what was behind there. He could easily have peered over to see for himself but some instinct warned him not to show his face and cautiously he crept along until he saw, through a gap in the hedge, a sight he would never, ever forget: two men, one kneeling in the thick grass and guiding the aroused manhood of his friend into his open mouth, who groaned encouragingly and pumped his hips back and forth, pushing the fat member deeper with short urgent strokes. They were far too engrossed in each other to glimpse Rusty, and Trevor managed to control his pet with a restraining hand - but couldn't manage to restrain himself from watching their embrace become more passionate with each passing moment. He hadn't meant to watch them feed on each other's lust and told himself several times to let them be but somehow his feet wouldn't obey him, and he remained rooted to the spot, breathing more rapidly through his wide open mouth that almost fell to the floor when the kneeling man obeyed his friends gentle urging to bend over (like a dog) onto his hands and knees and... oh, God! He only just managed to tear his button-fly open and pull out his penis before spurting a foamy reaction that took him completely by surprise, streaking across the grass and...

A loud groan drew Trevor from his reverie and he crept the final few yards to 'The Spot' on his hands and knees to avoid any chance discovery spoiling the voyeuristic thrill. And there they were. Just as he'd seen them that first memorable occasion, although their roles were reversed, one kneeling the other fellating his length with moans of pleasure drifting from both towards him. Trevor smiled with pleasure and stifled a sigh of relief - he thought he'd be too late after being kept behind by the manager and warned for miscalculating an important account - he'd had nothing but this moment on his mind all day. Well, this didn't happen every day - not even every week in bad weather - but when the sun was out here, they'd be to enjoy themselves. As did Trevor.

He looked at Rusty, placed a warning finger against his dry lips and smiled as the dog seem to grin in understanding and sit complicity beside him. Man and beast turned to regard the couple who remained blissfully unaware of their scrutiny, watching them indulge in a most pleasant (and highly illegal) act. If the Guardai found them there would be no excuse in the world to save them from utter humiliation and excommunication from the all-powerful church authority. The revolution of '16-21 may have given them freedom from the Brits but nothing else had changed in the decade since the Republic was formed from the ashes of that fierce conflict - the violence of which would pale into insignificance if his wife ever discovered what went on here. A secret which Trevor would never reveal regardless of any threat, however remote that may be from where he squatted, licking his lips, in mute observation of the double-taboo: homosexual lust and incest.

Everybody in Town knew Conal and Danny were as close as brothers should be but only Trevor understood exactly how close: eighteen and nineteen respectively, they may not have been aware of Trevor's presence but they were all to aware of their need to satisfy each other in deep, dark ways that, at first, Trevor had found profoundly shocking then, as he felt his own flesh stir with desire, with increasing desire to see more - which they had shown him with unknowing willingness.

Danny; tall, blonde and superbly muscled from long days in the fields around the farm where he worked from dawn to dusk, leaned back against a tree and twisted his callused fingers within the curly black locks of his brother's hair, pulling him harder onto the blunt, brute shaft jutting between his thick, hairy thighs. Conal, smaller, darker and equally well-built gulped his brother down hungrily without appearing to breathe, drawing sustenance from the hot meat in his mouth and transferring it to the proud erection between his own swarthy thighs, fisting it steadily in the same rhythm he used on Danny's fat cock. Trevor unbuttoned his fly with a quick, urgent twist of trembling fingers and knelt on the soft greensward, pulling his modest erection to its fullest height while Rusty lay panting in a pool of sunlight, taking his ease and inadvertently providing Trevor with a metronomic rhythm to pump his prick to.