The Wild Dominion Boy
Copyright© 2026 by Publandlady
Chapter 2
Romance Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Uprooted from rural Dorset as a child, Jack Barnesfield is given a second chance when he is taken in by a farming family in Ontario. As he grows to manhood, war, love and old grievances shape his life. From the trenches of the Great War to the quiet fields of Canada, Jack journeys in search of justice, only to learn that the things of the past are sometimes best left in the past.
Caution: This Romance Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Farming Historical Military War Cheating Cuckold Pregnancy Voyeurism
‘About 20 Years Before All of That’.
John Barnesfield’s life had not been easy. When he was seven, his mother ran off with a soldier who John had no reason to believe was his father. John was left in the care of his widowed grandmother just at a time when she didn’t need to be saddled with a young grandson. The poor woman did her best.
John’s father was probably still in Lytchett Matravers but nobody was certain who he was. His mother may have been able to draw up a shortlist but it wouldn’t have been a very short shortlist. Consequently, everybody knew that John was a bastard and hardly a week went by without someone reminding him of this fact.
The boy was clever, he could read and write, was passable at arithmetic and could remember facts. What he wasn’t was worldly wise and tended to see the best in people without questioning their motivation.
From all this, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought that John was unhappy. But you would be incorrect, because he had two consolations in his life. Or three if you count his Grandmother.
Firstly, there was the Dorset countryside around Lytchett. At every opportunity, he would wander the footpaths and bridleways. Most of all John loved staring into the little streams and brooks to watch the way that they teemed with life. Stickleback, pondskaters and newts all delighted him.
The second was his school teacher, Mrs Hurley. She had been Miss Woodhall but, shortly after John started school, she married the schoolmaster Mr Hurley.
If you had asked him to describe an angel, 95% of it would have been Miss Woodhall. She had grace and kindness, intelligence and humour. Her blonde hair and radiant smile entranced young John. He loved to go to school simply for the joy of seeing her.
At the age of ten his world inverted. That was when he moved to ‘Upper Standard’ and the dictatorship of Mr Hurley. Less like his wife he couldn’t have been.
Where she had taught by kindness and understanding, he taught by brutality. The cane replaced the smile. John hated him and he hated John. Mr Hurley knew his history and there was something in it that upset the man intensely. Now school was a torment. The boy only dragged himself there each day because he got the occasional glimpse of Mrs Hurley.
The school day consisted of two sessions punctuated by lunch. Each day Johnny ran home where Gramm’er had bread and dripping waiting for him with a glass of milk. Both morning and afternoon sessions had a fifteen-minute break in them, universally called ‘playtime’. The children were turned out into the school playground regardless of the weather. There they were allowed to play, fight and bully to their hearts’ content until the watching teacher clanged a handbell to recall them.
John loved morning playtime because that was always supervised by Mrs Hurley. Usually, he would just sit with his back to a small tree and watch her.
“You loves ‘er, don’t ‘e?” came a voice from behind as he sat there one morning.
“E do, ‘e really do!” said another. John’s heart sank, it was Edward and Saul Gibbons, older twin boys. John remained silent.
“You Bastard, we’re goana make you tell ‘er,” said Edward.
Saul laughed, “That’s right, if you don’t we’re goana tell Mr Hurley that it was you that pissed on the coke stove last winter and made the classroom stink.
“Go on up to her and say ‘I’m goana fuck you one day’, go on!”
“What does that mean?” asked John, confused.
Edward kept a straight face as he said, “It’s just an ole fashioned way of saying that you will really like someone forever. Knights used to say it to fine ladies. ‘Er was always banging on about Knights and Shivering and all that, so er’ll like it.
“Go on! If you don’t, Ole Hurley will beat the skin off you. He hates you ‘cause you’re a bastard; as do we all.”
The two bullies dragged John to his feet and pushed him towards the school house.
“Go on,” hissed Saul, “you knows what you’m has to say.”
Very reluctantly John walked forward. He knew that Mr Hurley would welcome any opportunity to beat him. And he was certain that the Gibbons boys would carry out their threat.
He looked back. The twins urged him on with clenched fists.
When he reached Mrs Hurley, she bent forward to say, “Hello John, it’s nice to see you. What do you want?”
John mumbled, “Please Miss. I’m going to fuck you one day.”
“Sorry, you will have to speak up. Don’t be shy”
He raised his voice slightly, “I’m going to fuck you one day, Miss.”
“Oh, You disgusting obnoxious boy!” cried the female teacher.
She went bright red before adding, “Get out of my sight, I never want to see you again, ever.”
John turned and ran to the far side of the playground. He could see the Gibbons twins clutching the tree in fits of laughter. And then, to his horror, Mr Hurley emerged from the school building and approached his wife.
“Why are you so flushed, my dear?”
“Oh, it’s nothing really.”
“But it is something, you wouldn’t be that colour over nothing. I must insist that you tell me. You are too soft on bad behaviour,” he said sternly.
“It was just something that John Barnesfield said to me.”
“Barnesfield, what did that b ... lighter say?”
“I couldn’t say it out loud,” she said, her colour increasing.
Annoyed now, her husband said, “Well whisper it to me! Enough of this shilly shallying.”
John saw the schoolmaster stoop. He saw the schoolmistress put her mouth to his ear. By the time that Mr Hurley’s face went black with rage, John was clambering over the school gate. He was far up the Huntick Road, where the village meets the fields, before he stopped running.
At some point we all have to face the inevitable. John went home. He never thought that Mr Hurley would be there. Once John came face to face with him, he expected the man to be wild. He wasn’t, he was calm, very calm. Almost too calm.
“Oh Johnny, Mr Hurley says that you have been very wicked,” said Gramm’er Barnesfield.
John tried to explain, “But I didn’t know...”
“That’s alright, I understand that you didn’t act alone,” said Hurley, cutting him short.
“I have caned the Gibbons but I won’t punish you,” he added.
Gramm’er joined in the explanation, “Mr Hurley says that it’s not fair to expect an old woman like me to bring you up alone so he has kindly arranged for you to go somewhere to learn a trade. Isn’t that lovely?”
John wasn’t sure it was lovely. “I’m not sure that I want...”
“It’s that or prison for you if you don’t,” explained Mr Hurley, retaining his calm demeanour.
John knew that people went to prison but he wasn’t sure how minor an offence demanded it. He said nothing.
“So, we are in agreement, then? You just have to sign the papers, Mrs Barnesfield.” concluded Mr Hurley.
The label pinned to his coat read ‘Church of England Waifs and Strays Society - Southampton Docks’.
John had seen steam trains hissing and puffing across the Dorset countryside before. He even hoped that one day he would get to ride on one. Now, as he sat in a Third Class carriage his apprehension was mixed with excitement. The greenness flashed past interspersed with stops at towns and villages he’d never heard of.
Eventually, the train could go no further. The engine slowed, stopped and released a great cloud of steam.
“Southampton Town and Docks”, shouted a very loud man as he walked past each carriage, flinging open the doors.
An elderly lady, who was holding a small cage which contained a live chicken, rose from the seat opposite John, and said, “You have to get off here, boy!”
As he alighted there was hustle and bustle everywhere. John had never seen so many people in one place before. He stood trying to make some sense of it when a chubby young woman rushed at the boy.
“Dorchester?” she barked at him.
John looked puzzled.
She barked again, “Dorchester! Have you come from Dorchester?”
“Yes,” answered John.
“You shouldn’t be here. You should be over there. See that lady holding an umbrella aloft? Go and stand with that group.”
There was a gaggle of children, mostly boys but some girls, surrounding a matronly woman dressed in black. Every one of them had a label pinned to their coat. I say ‘their coat’ but some of the garments didn’t look as if they would fully belong to the occupants for some years.
Dodging the scurrying people, John made his way to the old lady.
“Lady!” he called to her.
She frowned at him and asked, “Name?”
“John Barnesfield.”
She studied the paper which was clipped to a board. “Right,” she said, “don’t you try any of your evil ways with me. I know all about you.” She ripped off his label and then used the pin to attach a new one.
“Don’t move. We are only waiting for two more,” she commanded, as she raised her umbrella once more. It was then that John realised that some of the other patient waiters were sobbing.
It wasn’t long before all of the children were ushered into a single file with both hands on the shoulders of the one in front. With the umbrella lady at the front and the chubby one bringing up the rear, they were marched out of the station, across the road and through the Dock Gate. They were allowed to hold the handrails as the children made their way up the gangplank of a waiting ship.
The dormitory was large with mattresses arranged along each painted metal wall. These walls had small round windows which were open allowing salty fresh air to flood the room with freshness.
Between the mattresses, a row of tables and chairs stood. On the tables were enamel dishes. These were filled with hot beef stew.
“Eat! Don’t gobble!” shouted the matronly woman.
Some children rushed, some approached slowly, unsure what was happening. They all ate in silence.
John thought the stew wasn’t bad. Almost as good as Gramm’er’s. It was obvious that for most of the young people this was the best thing that they’d ever eaten. The mugs of hot milk were a novelty for many too.
Once the meal was over small conversations broke out. “You may speak but not too loudly!” announced the younger woman.
John was astounded to find that all of the children were foreigners. They were talking a sort of English but in accents that were strange.
“Where you from?” he asked a boy opposite him.
“Befnal Green.”
What country is that in?” said John.
The boy alongside him roared with laughter, before saying, “London, you dummy. I’m from Camb’well.”
“Keep the noise down!” shouted the young woman.
“What haystack did you crawl from?” enquired the first boy.
John laughed, “Lytchett Matravers, it’s in Dorset.”
“Jez, that’s a gobfull. It sounds like the arse end of the world.”
The second boy joined in the good natured banter, “No it’s not, but you can smell it from there.”
“I’ve never been to London,” said John, deciding not to try to defend Lytchett.
“And I’ve never seen a haystack so we’re even,” said the first boy. “I goes by the moniker of Grub.”
“And you can call me Nipper,” offered the other boy.
“I’m John,” said John.
Nipper spluttered, “Never give your real name, you turnip!”
Grub contributed, “I don’t ‘spose it matters much anymore, not now we’re being shipped off to that Canada. Wherever that is.”
“I know where it is,” said John, rather pleased with himself, “there’s a huge map on our classroom wall. It has all the bits that England owns printed in red. Canada is a really big place.”
“Blimey, we’ve got ourselves a scholar. I went to school for haf a day but they couldn’t tell me nuffin. What else do you know about Canada, Professor?” laughed Grub.
John smiled, he was beginning to understand how London boys acted. If you are interested, don’t let anyone know. “Well, I saw a book once, they have red Indians and polar bears, they are big and white. Oh, and they have policemen who wear red coats and ride horses.”
“Rats,” said Nipper, “there was me hoping that they didn’t have no coppers. It’s easy to shake off a Bobby on a nag, I just nips down a narrow alley.”
That was the beginning of the friendship between Grub, Nipper and the Prof.
As the ship left Southampton, it appeared to pass down a wide river as banks could be seen from the round windows on either side. Then one bank disappeared as they rounded a big island. As they turned the ship shuddered a bit, which frightened some of the children but the ladies reassured them that it was perfectly normal. The sea was rougher now and a few people needed the galvanised buckets.
Nearly everyone got their own mattress to sleep on. A couple of the younger ones had to sleep ‘top and tail’ but they didn’t mind. The beds were clean and warm. This was a new experience for most. Even so, some sobbing could be heard during the night.
They woke the next day to warm porridge. This was followed by a brisk walk around the deck. There was bread at lunch time and another good meal that evening. For those that could face it, that was.
By the third day nobody ate. Not even the adults. The ship rose and fell violently. Some of the portholes had to be left open because of the smell.
“How many days does it take to get to bloody Canada?” asked Nipper, his face green.
Grub shook his head as an indication that he didn’t know.
“Clara says about seven days. Mrs Weddle is convinced that the bad weather will pass in a day or so,” said John.
Mrs Weddle was right. Clara was right too. The ship finally docked at somewhere called Halifax, Nova Scotia.
The party was met by a clergyman and his wife. They attached a new label to each child. Suddenly, the two English ladies just faded away. No kisses, no fond farewells.
Like a gaggle of geese the ecclesiastical couple shepherded everyone on to a waiting train. There a coloured girl passed out sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper with the entreaty, “Don’t eat um until you are starving. You could be on this train for a few days. There may be more but don’t bank on it.
“Who wants tea?”
Grub, Nipper and the Prof managed to find a seat together. Nipper asked the others what their label said.
“How the fig should I know,” replied Grub.
John lifted his own label and tilted his head to one side, before saying, “It has my name on it. Under that is written ‘Waterloo Ont’.”
“Blimey, you’re on one hell of a round trip, Prof, if you’re bound for Waterloo,” laughed Nipper.
John read their labels to Nipper, “Grub’s says Brockville Ont and yours says Cornwall Ont. They must have run out of new names so they’ve used some old ones again. That’s probably what the Ont means.” He purposely did not mention their real names.
“Does that mean that we’re not all going to the same place?” asked Grub, his mood dropping a little.
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