The two, fourteen-year-old German boy, Lyo, and his forty-five-year-old German industrialist protector, Heinrich Holtzman, had taken the wrong path near the northern Spanish village of Bolorado, as they were approaching Burgos. The two were taking the Camino Frances, or French, route on the Camino de Santiago, known as the Way of St. Francis. This pilgrimage led to the shrine of the apostle Saint James the Great in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain. The long, five-hundred-mile hike, had been Holtzman’s idea to bond the boy, Lyo, closer to him—intimately. Lyo’s parents had both worked for Holtzman in his factory in Stuttgart.

Lyo’s parents had died in a car crash, leaving the handsome, blond, blue-eyed Lyo an orphan. Holtzman had magnanimously stepped in to take the boy under his wing and into his mansion, where the German industrialist lived alone, although with servants. The industrialist, whose tastes had run to boys and that could to so in Germany, with its age of consent at fourteen, had had his eye on the perfectly formed Lyo for some time before the lad’s parents had died. His motives for taking Lyo into his sponsorship were not nearly as magnanimous as the people of Stuttgart thought. It wasn’t just that the boy was fourteen. Holtzman did have a fetish for fourteen-year-old boys. But he had known, desired, Lyo for years. This interest included, but went further than the sexual. He felt that, in Lyo, he could have a companion for the rest of his life and be content.

Although the boy wasn’t opposed to the affection Holtzman accorded him, which had developed to kissing and fondling and, even, occasionally a session of mutual masturbation, Lyo had, thus far, balked at consummated anal sex. But Holtzman wanted it all. It had been his idea for a summer hike on the popular pilgrimage trail in northern Spain, during which Holtzman had hopes of achieving the “getting it all” intimacy with his young ward.

And, here they were, well into the hike, but, if only briefly, on the wrong trail. They weren’t far off the trail, near the village of Bolorado, when they came to where they could see an old, stone farm cottage set in an opening in the woods amongst moss-covered large boulders. The house looked like it had risen out of the ground centuries ago along with the rocks surrounding it. It wasn’t the house that had drawn the attention of Heinrich and Lyo, though, it was the sound of taking they could hear. They drew closer and took in the scene in the house’s front yard from the cover of the foliage near the wrong path taken.

A magnificently muscular, young Spaniard could be seen hovering over a crudely built wooden table in the yard. The young man, no older than his late twenties, was dark, immensely handsome, sultry, slightly hirsute, with wavy black hair and a closely cropped beard. He had been wearing just loose shorts that now were bunched at his feet. His body was gorgeously muscular and tanned—and in motion. That was where the sound was coming from—from what was happening on the table in the farmyard.

Looking more closely, Heinrich and Lyo could see that the man wasn’t alone. Under him, lying belly to wood on the table, was a young boy, about the same age as Lyo. The boy was naked, his shorts and T-shirt mingling on the ground by the table with the bunched shorts of the man who was bent over him, his hands gripping the boy’s upper arms. The boy’s legs were dangling off the end of the table and his arms off the sides of the table. His cheek was pressed to the table and his face, showing an expression of pain-passion, was turned toward where Heinrich and Lyo were observing the tableau from the cover of the forest. The boy’s mouth was yawning open, and it was he who was making most of the noise, in the form of cries at how well—and terribly and deeply and totally—the man’s cock was using the boy’s channel. The grunts of exertion in the taking were coming from the man who was covering and fucking the boy.

Heinrich and Lyo stood there, watching, transfixed. The surprise and shock of finding a magnificent young Spanish farmer fucking a boy Lyo’s age in his farmyard had arrested the German man and boy’s attention. Heinrich had an arm around Lyo’s shoulders and could feel the lad trembling in his embrace.

There was no thought of intervening. There was no doubt that the boy was receiving the attention from the sensuous Spaniard that he wanted.

Heinrich recovered faster than Lyo did in seeing how this tableau being played out in the farmyard matched his own wishes and intentions with Lyo, and his embrace of Lyo became more intimate. This intimacy snapped Lyo into awareness of the here and now, and he turned and started back to retrace their steps to the main trail. The hikers had realized they must be on the wrong path just as they came upon the scene of the Spaniards coupling.

The older German followed. He caught up with Lyo after several minutes, pulled the boy to the side of the trail, and took him into an embrace, fully intending to mimic what they had just seen. This, after all, was where he had hoped to take his young ward to by going on this pilgrimage and encouraging intimacy outside of their world in Stuttgart. Once he’d covered and fucked the lad, Heinrich was sure he would have established a lasting relationship between them. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, and he was in reasonable shape for a man his age—he certainly had the money to keep Lyo in comfort. And if it was sexual satisfaction the boy wanted, Heinrich’s body wasn’t the best, perhaps, but in cock size and what he could do with it in a fourteen-year-old boy had always been more than enough to satisfy the other boys he had fucked.

Heinrich just needed to get Lyo beyond the surface looks level. He knew that if he could get his cock inside the boy and take the lad for a vigorous ride, Lyo would be his.

Lyo was letting the man embrace and kiss and fondle him on the trail—watching the young Spanish god at work on the boy back at that stone farmhouse had had its effect on Lyo—but when Heinrich was bent over the boy and had run a hand under Lyo’s waistband at the back, into his crack, and had found and penetrated Lyo’s anus with his fingers, Lyo became overwhelmed and apprehensive.

He broke away from the man and walked, at a fast pace, back toward the main trail.

Despondent, but with some flicker of hope that what they had seen had moved the dial a bit on their relationship, Heinrich spent a few minutes completing what he’d tried to start with Lyo just now. He’d gotten his cock out, which he always liked to do with Lyo to show the boy how big he was, and, taking himself in hand, he stroked himself off, spilling his seed on ferns at the base of a tree, taking care of himself at least for now. Then he adjusted his clothes and followed his boy.

Meanwhile, back in the farmyard, the young, hunky Spanish farmer, Anxo, had turned the fourteen-year-old boy, Peni, onto his back on the crude table in the farmyard. Anxo was gripping the boy’s ankles, spreading and raising his legs, and was nestled between the boy’s thighs, fucking him in long, slow strokes. The boy, panting and whimpering, had flung his arms out wide from his body in a “take me” sacrificial pose, his back and head arched, his eyes wildly racing from one view of the tree cover above to another.

“Mierda, eres grande. Ya voy. ¡Ya voy!—Shit, you’re big. I’m coming. I’m coming!” the boy cried out to the treetops. And then he did.

Anxo fucked on for several minutes, then he too, tensed and came, jerked and came again. He was young and virile. The boy jerked and moaned, clutching at the muscular man’s biceps of steel, as Anxo topped him up with cum. Helping the boy off the table, he patted the lad on the rump, said, “Muy bien. Conseguiste lo que querías. Ahora vete a casa—Very good. You got what you wanted. Now go home,” helped the boy dress, and sent him on his way.

An hour later, Heinrich and Lyo were back, Lyo hobbling, hopping on one leg, and being supported by Heinrich. Anxo was back in his shorts, although they were so loose that they rode him low on his hips and it was only by a miracle that they stayed up. The exposed seams Ving into his groin under his flat, armor-like belly and over his thigh lines accentuated the sexy hard-bodied cut of his torso. The well-fucked boy, Peni, was long gone and, wearing combat boots with loose lacings, Anxo was chopping wood on a tree stump in his farmyard, his bulging muscles flexing very arousingly.

He looked up as the hobbling pair came out of the tree line and into the clearing in front of the stone cottage.

“Entonces, ¿has vuelto para echar otro vistazo?” he said, putting the ax down and turning fully to face them.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” Heinrich said, trying English, as more likely to be understood than his German. “We’re Germans, my boy and I. We’re doing the Camino de Santiago. On our way to Santiago de Compostela. We got off the trail, and, once back on it, the boy fell and sprained his ankle. Can you tell me if there’s some place I can take him nearby for medical attention? Do you speak any English?”

“Yes,” Anxo said. “I’ll lived in London.” His English was excellent, as a result. “Come, bring him inside. Such injuries aren’t uncommon on the trail here and I live close enough to the pilgrimage trail that I keep medical supplies and have some experience in sprains.”

What Anxo didn’t say as he ushered Heinrich and Lyo into his stone cottage was to repeat what he’d first said in Spanish when they’d appeared, which was to ask if they’d come back to watch him fucking Peni. He’d been aware that they had been there before, observing through the foliage. He’d seen Heinrich with his shaft out, stroking it.

“Here, put him in this chair and take his boot and sock off. I’ll fetch my medical bag.”

Anxo didn’t leave the room, because there was only one room in the cottage—and that included there being no separate bedroom, kitchen, or bath. The room was quite large, though, and well furnished in a basic, rustic peasant sort of way. To the right of where they entered, in the front quadrant, was the living area, facing a large rough-stone fireplace. In the back corner there was a double-bed brass frame bedstead with a high mattress and a patchwork quilt on it. At the left back kitchen cupboards and appliances curved around the corner. In the front to the left was a rough-wood dining table with six straight chairs around it. There too was a large rough-stone fireplace. The stacks of wood by both fireplaces indicated that was the heating system here.

On the back wall between the bed and a door off the back was a toilet, a sink, and a shower, with a square tin pan and drain. The bathroom facilities were not enclosed. There probably were external toilet facilities as well, but this was what would be used in the winter. The door at the back of the room was open and clearly led into a barn area, as a stall with a horse in it could be seen. There was a hound dog as well, curled up on an oval braided rug at the foot of the bed, but he did no more than raise his muzzle to gauge the danger of two strangers entering his realm and, deciding they weren’t a threat, lowered his head and closed his eyes again.

Anxo gestured toward the living area while he went back to the kitchen cabinets, and Heinrich lowered Lyo into a carved wooden armchair with a rush seat. All of the furniture in the cottage might have been handmade and carved from pine. If so, the carpenter was an artist. Everything in the cottage was clean and neat. Everything was functional, though. There were no frills.

“There, that doesn’t look too bad,” the nearly naked, young muscular god said, as he knelt before Lyo, sitting in the chair, and wrapped the boy’s ankle after spreading an unidentified salve on the sprain. Lyo was trembling being this close to a hunk he’d last seen fucking a boy no older than Lyo was. Heinrich hovered around, closely watching everything the young Spaniard was doing.

“I don’t think this boy should be putting weight on this for a couple of days,” Anxo said, looking up at Heinrich. He continued holding Lyo’s calf between his hands, seemingly not be aware that the boy was trembling. “If he stays immobile and doesn’t try to walk on it for two days, I think it will be OK for him to go ahead on the pilgrimage. The boots seem to offer good support for the ankles. You’ve come most of the way already. It isn’t a bad sprain. It just doesn’t need to be made worse.”