Bryan had gone blank and had no recollection how he’d gotten into this position, but he was here now, he was inside the boy, and there was no use stopping, no going back. He couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to. His urge would carry to the end. There would be an ejaculation, and it would be in the boy’s warm, tight channel. The boy was undone in any event. And he’d been more than willing.

The boy, Thomas, young son of Lord Chartwell, lay quietly in Bryan’s embrace, under him, in the soft ground between the roots of a large oak tree on the edge of a meadow on Chartwell’s country estate. Bryan had no idea how they had both lost their riding breeches or what had brought them off their horses here. Their horses both were standing and grazing in the meadow, their reins hanging down from their muzzles. They hadn’t shown a bit of shock of seeing a grown man covering a fourteen-year-old boy and sticking his cock in the boy’s bum. The boy’s legs were raised and spread, the heels of his riding boots digging into the bare mounds if Bryan’s rump.

Thomas’s torso was arched back into the depression between the tree roots. His head, with its golden mop of curly hair, was turned cheek to ground. He was slightly grimacing, but he also slightly smiling. He hadn’t just wanted this; he’d egged it on. He was both whimpering and purring. His eyes wouldn’t turn to look at Bryan’s face hovering over him, but the orbs were blazing. His hands were on Bryan’s shoulder, but not to try pushing the twenty-six-year-old novelist away. The boy had his claws buried in Bryan’s shoulders, holding the man in place. His hips were moving with the thrusts of the man up into his passage, deep. He wasn’t being fucked as much as they were fucking.

Bryan had the presence of mind to think that he needed to pull out—that he was about to come. But Thomas, sensing the coming ejaculation and having already released his own seed, moved his hands, raising his small, fourteen-year-old boy’s chest into Bryan’s fully developed one and reaching down and clutching Bryan’s bare buttocks. He held the man’s buttocks in place and thus Bryan’s cock remained buried inside him while Bryan tensed, jerked three times, and flooded the boy’s channel with cum.

There was no question—Bryan had fucked a fourteen-year-old boy and taken him to a breeding ejaculation. And he wasn’t disgusted with himself; he felt a surge of exhilaration, suddenly knowing this is what he had wanted for some time, without being fully conscious that he did.

Bryan went up on his knees, still saddled, not pulling out because the boy still clutched at his buttocks. There was no grimace in the boy’s smile now, and he was looking Bryan directly in the face. The smile was one of satisfaction.

Uncertainty and guilt raised it’s ugly, prejudicial head.

Bryan began to apologize, to say he didn’t know what had come over him. But, recovering now from the heat of the fuck, he had inklings of the boy having teased him, played him. Had the boy asked for it, or was Bryan just rationalizing having lost control of himself? He was forever challenged in the presence of an angelic-looking fourteen-year-old boy.

Thomas had brushed away the apology, saying he hadn’t lost his virginity under this oak. That had already been taken from him by an older man who worked in the estate’s stables. In fact, the boy thought ... and Bryan felt it too that this fuck was exactly what the two of them had needed.

Bryan felt himself rising again and he felt the muscles of the boy’s passage rippling over his cock, enticing him ... and he fucked the boy again, this time with no clouded memory and with more enthusiastic and yielding response from the boy. Thomas lay there so quietly, tranquil, open, and seemingly innocent in Bryan’s arms the second time, while, in delicious contrast, the lad’s channel walls virtually clutched, caressed, and milked Bryan’s cock as Bryan covered him, groaning his pleasure, and stroking the boy’s smooth-skinned flanks—and released and released again and yet again.

Bryan had never cum as prodigiously like this with a woman—or another man. His was considered an avant-garde novelist, so of course he had experience with both.

They had made it through dinner that evening at the lord’s table, despite awkwardness that hadn’t been there between the man and boy before. Lord Chartwell had rambled on with his own pet topics, trying to impress the visiting novelist he was sponsoring in a literary program in Gloucester. It appeared only to be his wife who looked from Thomas to Bryan and back with a sense that the two had changed since their ride in the woods earlier in the day. Bryan Bancroft had been an honored guest of the country estate, fresh in the glow of his third novel set in Elizabethan England, very complex and deep and, to those in the know, laced with double meanings some would call progressive, others a bit racy, but that Bryan’s set knew were hedonistically homosexual.

Bryan’s novels became increasingly notorious when what was meant to be a favorable review of the latest one was published in a bold, controversial literary journal of this, the first decade of the twentieth century, in which the nuances in the relationship between the protagonist and a fourteen-year-old choir boy were examined and compared and contrasted with similar relationships in his earlier novels. The reviewer had pulled out nuances of unusual sexual attractions that Bryan himself had not seen in his work when he wrote it.

Bryan regularly fucked young men. Thomas was his first fourteen-year-old, though. Bryan was surprised how much he enjoyed fucking a fourteen-year-old boy, on the cusp of manhood, but still fresh, smooth skinned, flexible, soft at the core, and yielding, trembling and shuddering and mewing under him as, deep inside the velvet glove of the boy’s passage, Bryan released his flow. The sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds Bryan was accustomed to coax and bed only retained a hint of these enticements. And, in Thomas’s case, there was no emotion turmoil. The lad had been quite willing, eager even, to be fucked.

He never knew how much was discovered or suspected—or even that the impish and conniving Thomas might have told—but the boy was no longer in residence the next morning, reason surfaced for Bryan needing to be back in London, and, once there, Bryan was informed by his publishers that people were beginning to reread and more deeply consider his latest novel and perhaps this would be a good time for him to vacation for an undetermined time on the Mediterranean coast. They did not want to withdraw the novel, though. It was selling very well.

Bryan had first gone to Paris and become embroiled with a set of racy and raunchy—and well-heeled—young men whose parents were quite content to support them on perpetual foreign tour. The group had moved south from Paris and then across the Mediterranean Sea.

Bryan stood, naked, at an arch-topped French window on the seaside façade of the Morocco House Hotel on the Tangier waterfront, contemplating his journey here, reviewing in his mind once again what must have happened to lead to him covering the delicious fourteen-year-old Thomas under the oak that day, and smoking a cigarette.

Was fourteen really the different from sixteen or seventeen? Apparently in England in the first decade of the twentieth century, it was—at least publicly. All of his friends said that anything and everything was tolerated in London as long as you didn’t do it in public. Nothing new about that, Bryan thought. He had lost his virginity to a man at fifteen.

A voice softly implored him from inside the room, from the pillow-strewn bed that dominated the room, “Bryan, effendi, come back to me. I am getting lonely. Most of your friends have deserted me.”

Bryan turned and viewed the berry-brown lithe body of the Arab flute player the group had picked up at the club they had cruised the previous evening. Ahmed was a beautiful, dark seventeen-year-old beauty with doe eyes, slim hips, and a sensual smile. There had been six young men in the clubbing excursion. They had brought the boy back to this hotel, this room, and this bed, and had each fucked him in succession. He’d been a sweet and willing lay, taking each of the party as if he were Ahmed’s only love. He also had been no innocent, expertly giving head and riding cock, sometimes more than one shaft at a time.

Beside Ahmed, on the bed, was Reggie, sleeping and snoring quietly in a drunken stupor. There was plenty of room on the bed, though. Bryan flicked his cigarette out of the window, aiming for the sea, but falling far short, onto the shoulders of a street vendor, yet another beautiful Arab boy, who looked up to the window in anger, but whose expression changed when he saw the fine, naked body of the muscular Englishman who people were talking about—the man who wrote the brave and racy English novels, the man with money to spare for beautiful Arab boys. His attention went to Bryan’s cock, of which the novelist could take great pride, and the street vendor smiled and gave Bryan a provocative look.

Bryan smiled back, but he turned and walked into the room, taking his cock in hand and stroking it. It was sufficiently hard when he got back to the bed that, in one smooth movement, he was on the bed while Ahmed laughed and went on his back, spreading and bending his knees and raising his pelvis, sliding his knees under the slim Arab’s buttocks, gliding his cock inside a passage that had not closed from having entertained six young men earlier, and began to pump. Reggie snorted but did not wake as Bryan fucked and fucked and fucked the hospitable Arab flutist.

It was an enjoyable fuck, but Bryan’s mind kept going back to the sweet, if conniving, fourteen-year-old Thomas. It had been so much sweeter with a fourteen-year-old boy. And it surely would be even sweeter with a truly innocent fourteen-year-old. Having had the leisure in recent months to reread his own previous works in light of the controversial literary journal’s review of it to inform the manuscript he now was working on, Bryan was increasingly coming into touch with his interest in boys on the threshold of turning into men and to understand his previously unconscious arousal by those who were fourteen. At seventeen, someone like Ahmed, as releasing as he was in the fuck, was not quite the worshipful experience that Thomas had been.

A month later Bryan’s world shrank. It had happened earlier, but news didn’t travel fast from England to Morocco in the early twentieth century. Thomas had let one too many prominent men fuck him. He had lain under a bishop, who had been caught in the act. Thomas’s somewhat gleeful confession afterward had produced quite a mixed list, from stable hand to tutor to novelist to MP to bishop, of men who had had the boy—or been had by him, it was becoming apparent. The novelist of record was Bryan. When the public connected this with the scandalous review of the underpinnings of Bryan’s last novel, he was informed that he would be arrested if he stepped foot on English soil anytime in the near future.

The group of hedonist and promiscuously gay and wealthy young men Bryan had been cavorting with in the nightclubs and hotel rooms of Tangier swarmed back to Paris. But Bryan couldn’t go with them. France wasn’t anymore welcoming to him this month than England was.

Bryan wasn’t left entirely alone, and sufficient funds arrived regularly enough for that not to be a worry. Publicly the British declaimed him; privately, they bought his books in high volume. The seventeen-year-old Arab flutist Ahmed still warmed his bed and didn’t make many financial, or even emotional, demands. But Ahmed was maturing into a man and the more Bryan thought about Thomas and about his own writing, which wasn’t going particularly well in these days, the more he pined for someone closer to a boy than a man.

The idea popped into his mind that perhaps he needed to go in another direction altogether. Ahmed was yielding, but he was passive. There was no surprise or passion in their sex coupling. Bryan couldn’t call it lovemaking and he certainly couldn’t call it passionate or even all that energetic. Perhaps what he needed was an older partner, one who was energetic—and aggressive. Maybe he needed vigorous, sweaty, aggressive sex.

As chance would have it the daytime doorman of the Morocco House Hotel was a strapping big twenty-eight-year-old black Nubian from the upper Nile by the name of Axios. Axios was a randy player who swung both ways and who Bryan’s social group had used as both top and bottom in their sex games. Bryan hadn’t lain with him during these games, but Axios had let him know in no uncertain terms that he would love to ride Bryan’s shaft and for Bryan to ride his in turn. He was a magnificent specimen of mankind, was as strong as a bull, and liked to wrestle to the point of either overpowering his partner to either give cock or give in to cock.