Riding the backroads between Exeter and the manor at Crowley on Aries, with Kaspar on the lead behind me, I glimpsed a disturbance off in a vine-choked pumpkin field at the side of the road—an undulating furry pelt peeking out over the top of the vines, giving the impression that some poor animal was caught in something and struggling to free itself. Not knowing if danger was on offer but not wanting a creature to suffer if it was caught in the vines, I guided Aries and Kaspar off the road and into a stand of trees running beside the field in which I could advance to near the spot unseen.

It was with a certain sadness and feeling of loss that I was returning from taking erstwhile stable boy, Charles, to Exeter to hand him over as apprentice to a tavern and brothel keeper there. Charles had given good service but was past being of the age now to be moving to a position that would afford him a more lucrative income. I was happy to do this favor for him—he had done me well for neigh unto two years—but he had grown older than I liked having in the stable. Now, however, I was minus a stable boy who would fulfill the duty Charles did, but there were men in the stable well enough to do the work until I could find a replacement. We paid well at the manor and I and my needs were well known in the neighborhood, so I trusted it would not be long before there was a new Charles in place.

I tied the reins of the two horses to a tree just inside the copse and proceeded, as silently as I could, to a position of dense thicket just opposite of where I had seen the movement of the animal. Gaining a purchase that I thought concealed me sufficiently, I gasped to find that it was no animal at all, but rather a man with a jacket on his back made of animal fur. He was a large, coarse, florid, strong-looking man of middle years, quite possibly the farmer of this field. The undulating movement that had caught my eye on the road was the result of the farmer holding a comely naked boy under him, the boy’s knees hooked on the man’s hips, and fucking him.

In contrast to the milky-white flesh of the slim boy’s nakedness, the man fucking him was fully clothed, the laces of his breeches codpiece undone and flared to free his cock, which was inside the boy, who must have been fourteen, and was pumping him in long slides. This vigorous taking had been what caused the aspect of undulation I’d seen from the road. The man was on his knees, between the boy’s thighs, with one arm under the boy’s waist, pulling the lad’s pelvis off the soft ground between the pumpkin vine rows so that the boy’s perfectly formed torso streamed back onto the earth, with his golden curls fanned out from his head. His arms were stretched out straight from his body in a sacrificial cruciform position, and his head was lolled to one side, his slit eyes staring into the thicket where I was—or thought I was—hidden. The expression on the boy’s face was such that it seemed like he could see me. The other hand of the man fucking him was palmed on the boy’s sternum, holding the boy to the ground, captive, while the man punished the boy’s passage. But that seemed unnecessary. The boy was putting up no resistance, possibly having done so to no avail and now totally cowed.

I was not sure whether this be assault or seduction. The boy could not help but feel the power of the shaft moving inside him, and yet he gave no struggle against it. Was this master and slave, I wondered. Whatever the case, it got my juices going and I settled down on my haunches to further examine this mystery unfolding before me.

I was stirred to the core of me not only from the act I was observing or the beauty of the boy, but by his helplessness in the taking and in the searching, teasing stare he was directing me, evidently able to see me in the thicket. I gasped as the man moved his hand from the boy’s sternum and, with a flick of his wrist slapped the boy across the face, first in one direction and then in the other, which snapped the boys head back and forth in surprise and made his eyes flash.

I was about to gather myself to rush out of hiding and pull the brute off the boy, but just as I was steeling my muscles to pounce forward, the boy cried out a “Yes, make me feel it!” and raised his arms and his torso, his assaulter taking his hand away to encircle the boy’s cock, which I could now see and could discern that it was in erection, cupped the back of the man’s head with both his hands. The boy brought their faces together in a kiss.

The older farmer wasn’t assaulting the boy at all. The boy was acquiescing to, participating in, the fuck, and he liked it a little rough—it had brought him to life and fully into the fuck. I was holding my riding crop in my hand, and, with a low moan, I flicked it against the leather of my riding boots. As if to emphasize that the bit of cruelty had heightened the boy’s arousal, his hips began to rock against the man’s crotch; his fingernails dug into the shoulder tips of the fur jacket, scrabbling to pull the man deeper inside him; and when they came out of the kiss, the boy arched his back toward the soil, his pelvis still held in place with the man’s strong arm encircling in, and started babbling, “Yes, yes. There, like that. Give it to me good.” He went back into the arms-stretched fully open pose that made me ache to possess him as well.

Even when the man slapped the boy’s bare buttocks hard with his hand, the boy merely laughed and called out a “Yes! Again!” The acceptance of the boy was making me throb.

Settling back down on my haunches in the thicket, I unlaced my codpiece, released myself, and stroked, matching my stroking to the rhythm of the man’s buttocks rocking against the boy and the boy giving little gasps marking the bottoming of the shaft inside him.

At length, the boy took control, making the understanding of his complicity in the act complete. He showed, with the movement of his arms and body, that he wanted to change positions, and the man gave him his way, lowering himself on his back in the space between the rows. Throughout the man was facing away from me and the boy wasn’t—the boy from time to time glancing my way and smiling, knowing I was there, watching, masturbating. It was almost as if he was performing for me, showing me what he could do, what he could do for me as well as he was doing it for the farmer.

With the farmer prone on the ground, his hard cock—and a very nice one in size, almost as thick and long as mine was, standing up from his unruly bush as it protruded out of the flare of his trousers, the lacings cascading down the man’s sides—the boy climbed on top, straddling his shaft. Slowly, deliberately, the boy looking into my eyes all the time, he descended his passage on the shaft, taking his time to sheath it in its entirety, as the man under him shuddered and grasped the boy’s waist tight. Once well saddled, the man raised his torso to that of the boy, who tugged at the furred jacket, pulling it off the man and then pulling the man’s white, but graying cotton shirt over his head. The man’s chest was tanned, hirsute, and muscular, the physique of a virile man not afraid of performing grueling manual labor.

The boy reached around and freed the man’s black, shoulder-length hair, letting it cascade. The man no longer was just a middle-aged, crude farmer. His body was as beautiful in its maturity and power as the boy’s was in its fresh delicateness. The man leaned back on his hands, fists planted in the soil behind him, and he moaned as the boy kissed down his cheeks and throat and his mouth went to the man’s nipples. At the same time the boy started to move his hips, rising and falling on the hard shaft inside him.

With a sigh, the man lowered his torso again, fully prone on the ground, his arms going out from his body, he showing the position of the cruciform now, as the boy leaned back, placed his palms on the man’s knees, and rose and fell on the cock.

He was displaying to me the point of the fusion of the two, the very center of the act that both obviously were taking full pleasure from, rising full to where I could see the rim of the glans on the huge, thick cock nearly surface before he descended again, tickling the surface of his tender inner thighs with the curly black hair of the man’s bush. Up, down. Up, down, until, in a frenzy, the man couldn’t take it anymore and, with a roar, pulled himself up and rolled over taking the boy to the ground, folded under him, completely covering him. He was growling and grunting, swinging his hips in a long, fast back and forth movement, fucking the boy hard. The boy was crying out his passion in the frenzied taking.

I watched as the farmer tensed, jerked, and released, tensed, jerked, and released. I released my seed on the ground at the same time.

Immediately having released his cum, the man rose off the boy’s body, stood over him as he folded his now-spent cock back into his breeches, and laced up the codpiece. The boy lay below him on his back, his legs spread and bent, one hand playing with his still erect cock, the other rubbing one of his nipples, ready to go again. I ached to be the one. He had a beatific smile on his face and the dribble of cum dripping out of his gaping hole, which had just taken what seemed to be an impossible ram rod to handle.

Without a word, the farmer marched away, down the path separating the rows of pumpkin veins.

The lad’s eyes went to me, taking in that I was crouched down on my haunches, my cock out, magnificently long and thick even in repose, and dripping my seed on the ground.

I watched as the cheeky lad stroked himself to an ejaculation, all the time capturing my eyes with his. He was on his back, legs inviting open, inviting me, I was sure, to take up the position the farmer had been in, fucking him.

But I had spent my load and, in my pride as lord of the manor, I could not countenance following behind a farmer of the field no matter how enticing the boy. That the farmer was walking away from the opportunity to fuck the willing boy again and leaving him to me, the boy’s passage leaking the man’s cum, was an affront to my pride, even though the farmer probably had no idea I was there. With a sigh of both satisfaction and regret, I stood, readjusted myself, turned and returned to the horses, and rode on to my manor at Crowley. The more distance I put between me and the boy, though, the more regret I had that I hadn’t remained and made sport with him.

The regret remained with me through the day, accentuated by arriving at the stable with no Charles to greet me and lie under me. It was there the next day when I rode out on the Stoke Road for exercise and to calm my urges, my mind racing through images of the beautiful, golden-haired boy in the field, lying there, his legs open—open to me for the taking.