Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

The man had the physique of a young god, I told myself, with a sigh, as I lowered the binoculars. I'd spent as much time as I could over the past several days out here on the terrace. Little work was being done on music composition. I'd polished what I'd drafted out the night before Phil left to death, but little new had risen. There was the folk song—well, two, after lying under Carlos, but not the production I'd hoped for.

I'd gone three days without sex after Phil left, which was no big deal, except that I'd been hard and wanted sex at least twice a day. Those were times when I'd caught glimpses of the Spanish footballer Xavier Vicario working in his vineyard across the river. He was out there almost constantly, and he liked to work stripped down to the waist. And at the end of his work day—a time I always tried to be out on the terrace and looking across the river—he'd use an open, outdoor shower by a door into his villa to sluice off his body.

After the first few days I saw this, I saw that he was stripping down entirely to do it. That's when I dug out the binoculars. The man was hung—a thick, uncut sausage of a cock hanging down between his legs, seemingly meatier at the middle than at either end—and his body was absolutely magnificent. I found myself unzipping and working myself while he was showering.

It was frustrating in sexual terms. On the fourth day, I picked up the note that Phil had left on the bureau with the name of Carlos Guerrero. I wondered what he looked like. I really wanted to know that before I called him. But I really, really needed to be taken care of.

I took a walk on the road toward the junction with the main highway. The note had said he farmed to the right almost to the road. There was a man out there on a tractor when I approached the junction. He was smallish and had a wiry body. He also was somewhere past his mid forties and had a grizzled appearance. He certainly was no beauty. I wondered if Carlos was his son. I had brought my mobile phone with me and rang the number. There was ringing sound coming from the tractor and the man stopped the machine, pulled a mobile phone from somewhere in the tractor, answered it, and looked in my direction.

Carlos fucked me on the mossy ground under a tree in a stand of trees at the side of the field he was plowing. And he plowed me good too. He was a bantam rooster of a guy, but he was strong as an ox, he had the dick of an ox, and he had the manners of an ox. He mounted me like a dog and banged away on me for a good twenty minutes. He was humming some sort of Celtic-type song—the Celtic influence was strong in Galicia—and muttering in some dialect that wasn't Spanish as he pounded away on my ass. It was all I could do to hold in place.

I had moaned when he'd pulled my leather belt out of my trousers when I'd stripped them off. He doubled the belt over and snapped it on the palm of his hand. I flinched and groaned, looking at the belt in fear but also experiencing some other sensation running through my body—something arousing. He hadn't missed the spark in my eyes.

When Chet had beaten me, it had been pain, but mixed in that had been some pleasure too. Chet had seen something in my reaction too. He knew he could abuse me and I'd still come for him—sometimes more explosively then. When Chet slapped me around, I'd go straight to the floor, open my legs to him, and take him deep, meeting his thrust with counterthrusts of my own. He had exploited that, thinking that even more pain would trigger sexier reactions. What I grew to fear was that he may have been right. I had the same urge to present my ass with just the snap of the belt.

I think Phil saw it too. He didn't take advantage of it himself, but it gave him impetus to pull me out of Chet's clutches.

When Carlos had mounted my ass and was riding my channel, he flicked my biceps and flanks with the belt. He laughed at the feel of my reaction to that. My passage opened more to him, pulling him deeper inside me; my moan was lower, more guttural in the throat. He reached under my belly and grasped my cock. Snap, snap against my flanks and my cock stiffened further in his hand. Wham, wham, wham, the strike on my buttocks were harder. I spouted for him, moaning hard. I came for him three times with the kiss of the belt as he seeded me twice in quick succession and left me panting and groaning on the ground under the tree.

I lay there and watched him finish plowing his field, after which he drove the tractor back over to the tree line, climbed down, approached me, gripped my ankles, split my legs, and plowed me as well in a vigorous missionary fuck, almost splitting my ass channel.

He rose, smiling, declared me a "good lay," said he'd be in this field every day that week and that we should go for a drink in a couple of bars he knew in Veiga. Then he mounted his tractor again and drove off.

As I watched him go, my mind was filled with a cacophony of sound—primitive Celtic runs, with a Spanish folk song edge to them. He had been rough, but I was completely satiated sexually. I went back to the house and wrote out what I could remember of the tunes he had fucked into my mind.

To refine them, I went to the field again three days later, and, knowing I'd come back and presumably could manage him, Carlos pounded my ass even harder that time. I decided I couldn't go to him very often, but I knew that if I needed it, he would provide it and I'd stagger away moaning in satisfaction but not needing it again for a while.

Shortly after I had used the binoculars to watch Vicario working and showering, the footballer caught on to me. I nearly swallowed my tongue one afternoon—and my tongue had almost literally been hanging out watching him soap up his shaft and balls—when I realized that he had a pair of binoculars and was watching me as well.

When he was sure I was still watching him, he did a full frontal for me, and, holding the binoculars to his face, he jerked his cock off. I, of course, stood, dropped my shorts, and joined him in stroking my cock off. The two of us were having sex with each other, even though we were separated by a river.

On succeeding days, he toyed with me—pulling me into the mutual ejaculation thing again the next day. The day after that, he had a young man working in the field with him—and showering, under the pipe outside the villa door, with him. There was a wine barrel on its side by the door, and the hunky footballer put the young man on his back on the barrel, split his legs wide, and missionary fucked him. After getting off, he lifted the binoculars to make sure I was watching. Of course I was.

The next afternoon, bondage and toys were introduced. The young man was put on the barrel on his belly, with his wrists and ankles tied together, and after he'd writhed under the torture of being reamed with a dildo, Vicario doggie fucked him. The next day, the naked young man was bound to a tree and Vicario whipped him lightly as the young man tried, unsuccessfully to writhe away from him. The lashes rained a little harder, with the body of the young man sagging from the tree. The footballer dropped the whip, stepped up to the young man, jutted the man's buttocks back, and fucked from behind. I fancied I had been able to hear the snap of the whip from across the river, and I reacted to each one, giving a little moan and feeling my cock lurch. When he'd finished, he checked to assure himself that I'd kept with him. Of course I had. I couldn't blame him for assuming I was interested in that level of sex myself.

That was overwhelming for me—both fearful and arousing—especially since, although there was a river separating us, I still felt that it was I who had been lashed and fucked. I didn't go out on the terrace for the next two days. To be truthful, it was raining for much of the time, but I felt justified in denying myself what had become both a pleasure and a frustration.

The evening after that Carlos took me into town in an old Peugeot, to an outside café and bar, where he said it was easy to hook up with men. For most men, seeing that I was with Carlos, other men kept their distance. I saw after a few minutes, though, that Xavier Vicario was there, at another table. There were a couple of young men at his table too, including the one Vicario had been spiking for—I thought—my benefit. The young man was wearing a low-cut muscle T-shirt, and I could see the evidence of faintly red welts here and there on his arms and neck. I barely was able to resist the urge to go over there, run my fingers along the welts, and ask him if the pain and overridden the pleasure, even though, from experience, I knew this could be so. Whatever the level of pain, he was mooning over Vicario, so he couldn't have felt too violated.

I wasn't sure, though, that the feeling of being violated wasn't part of the arousal with me. That may have been why I hadn't left Chet sooner.

Vicario saw Carlos and me, and his attention obviously shifted from the young men he was with to me. My attention was drawn to him too. If an understanding could be arrived at and a deal struck just by the exchange of looks across a bricked square, that's what we accomplished. He even started to rise to come over to me, but just then football fans realized that he was there, and he was swamped with young men who wanted to talk with him, get advice from him, touch him—and, I could see in most, lie under him. He left with four young men—two in addition to the ones he'd been with, and I ran fantasies in my mind of how he was going to plow them all in his villa that night. Interestingly enough, I never questioned to myself that he would be able to do it.

For my part, Carlos came home with me and plowed me all night. He was still on top of me, banging me in a missionary, when Isabella came in with two mugs of coffee on a tray. As always, she just gave us a benign look, muttered a "Good morning, Carlos," and turned and waddled out of the room. Carlos didn't waver in the rhythm of his thrusts. This obviously wasn't the first time Carlos had been in this bed, and it dawned on me how Phil would have known to contract Carlos to fuck me. I managed to recall that Phil had told me he swung both ways, although he hadn't done so with me.

During the night, while Carlos was mounted on my ass and keeping me from sleep, I had looked out of the open French doors onto the terrace and out across the river. Xavier's villa was lit up like a torch. Figures were flitting across the windows and I fancied that I saw some coupling, one bent over and another bent over his back. Quite definitely someone was being fucked over the barrel outside the villa door, as the door was open and light was cascading out, putting the two undulating figures in a spotlight. Flashes of the reflection coming off the raised and downward flicked strands of a hand whip made me moan. My response was to start thrusting my hips back at Carlos and straining to open totally to him and to take him deeper than he'd ever mined before.

The next morning I finished off the three Celtic-style folks songs I had been writing.