Going Walkabout

"Yes, it was fine. I didn't realize that was what I was writing about. Thank you for bringing that to life . . . and for reading and commenting on my short story. That was very helpful."

"You will be a fine writer, Jaime," he said, "but the sex. The fuck. Was that—?"

"That was great," I said.

"But I get the impression it might have been a bit tame for you. You were in the Falklands. In the Navy. Is that where you were initiated?"

"Yes."

"The sailors. Some of them were rough with you, weren't they?"

"Yes."

"But you were fine with being controlled and manhandled and taken hard."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"I think you would like to write directly about that—about rough sex that's been had on you. You want to get the experience down in stories, don't you?"

"Yes," I admitted. "But there isn't a market for that."

"Yes, there is. I will direct you to it." We walked in silence for a bit before he addressed me again. "The other day, when I saw you on Cleeve Hill. You were watching two young men fuck. They were doing it with abandon and vigor. It got a little rough, although that seemed fine with both of them. You lingered to watch and I could see that you were aroused. You were attracted to doing it outside and rough, weren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I was."

"Do you think I came to you and covered you last night just to give substance to what I was critiquing your short story about? Do you think it was just part of a lesson?"

"Well, I didn't know what to think about that." In truth I hadn't thought anything about it. It was all just so . . . so overpowering.

"I came on to you because I wanted to fuck you from seeing you at the book reading I'd done in Bishops Cleeve and even more so when finding out about you revealed you took cock from men. Your short story just told me how badly you wanted it. But I could see in what you wrote that you felt constrained. You're an excellent writer, Jaime. You need to write without constraint—with abandon and vigor."

He let that sinking is as we walked a bit further, before he spoke again. "See that tree over there, in the wheat field—the one rising up from just over that hillock?"

"Yes," I said.

"Walk over there, through the wheat field. Strip as you do so. Be naked and lying under the tree over the rise when I reach you."

"You want me to—?"

"I want you to do what I tell you to do. You are a submissive. You want to be told what to do. Do it. I will take you hard this time. It's what you want. It's what you want to write about."

I did as he demanded. The wheat was at its tallest, nearly four-feet tall, not far from the summer harvest. I pulled my T-shirt over my head, slipping the rucksack off my shoulders and dangled it from a wrist as I walked. I unbuckled and unzipped my shorts and had pulled them off my legs by the time, naked, I reached the tree. Lying down in the shadow of the tree, protected from sight of the Roman road by the dip in the hillock, I lay on my back between the roots of the tree, spreading and bending my legs, digging the pads of my feet into the moist soil and lifting my pelvis up.

I was grasping my cock with one hand, panting, and raising my other arm, holding onto the trunk of the tree with the other when Adams appeared, naked, and carrying his clothes and rucksack in his hand. He was fisting his engorging shaft in the other.

"Yes, yes, fuck me," I called out as he sank down on his knees between my spread thighs and hovered over me. He slapped me across the face, one way and then back the other, snapping my head from one side to the other.

"Fuck! Shit!" I cried out and then was gurgling as he gripped my throat with his hand and started controlling my breathing. The fingers of the other hand penetrate my ass and he immediately started opening me up as I gurgled, clutched ineffectively at the wrist the hand he was choking me with my hands, and worked his fingers in my anal channel.

"Stop resisting," he said, taking his hand on my throat long enough to slap me again. He reached into his bag and came up with wrist restraints on a cord. He bound me with my arms raised above my head and the cord around the base of the tree, imprisoning and immobilizing my arms. He popped a ball gag in my mouth and I became completely his to do what he wanted with me.

The hand went back to gripping my throat and the fingers of the other penetrating my ass passage again. They found and stroked my prostate, sending me to heaven. I relaxed, found a rhythm in taking breaths in the pattern of his gripping and release on my throat, and rocked against the hand at my ass.

When I came for him, he pulled his hand out of my ass, snaked his arm under my waist, raising my pelvis to him, penetrated with his cock, and fucked me. He positioned my ankles on his shoulders and he fucked me in this position for several minutes. After a while, though, he withdrew, turned me, gasping and groaning, on my belly, raised me to my knees.

I lurched and jerked as he struck me repeatedly, hard on my buttocks. I screamed into my ball gag when he took his belt, folded it over, and struck me several times on the back, buttocks, and thighs with one hand while reaching under my belly with the other and squeezing my balls and milking my cock.

He mounted me high on top and from behind and thrust up inside me. This time he concentrated on working my prostate, slamming on it again and again with the head of his cock, making me jerk and bite into the ball gag with each hit as I writhed under him. I came a second time from his working my prostate with his dick and stroking of my cock with his hand. He relentless fucked me to his own tensing, jerking, and spurting climax.

It was a glorious fuck. To his, "I think that's the way you like it best" statement, I had nothing in opposition to say. A tumble of words that would express on paper what I was feeling—alive and totally taken—raced through my mind as he fucked me.

* * * *

We stopped for lunch at the Whistling Hen pub in Broadway. We took our plowman's sandwiches and mugs of ale out into the pub's garden. It was a beautiful late summer's day. I was on top of the world. I hadn't thought about my circumstance—what had brought me on this walkabout—for over a day, having become obsessed with both the mystery of a man following me and then with what he did with and to me when he had captured me.

I kept looking around at other people in the garden, thinking, Don't you know that this is the man who owns me, the man who beat and totally fucked me, the man who is my master and I his sex slave? But, of course, they knew no such thing about us.

"You left Bishop Cleeve abruptly," Adams said, as we sat under the sun and ate our lunch. The sex had given me quite an appetite. It also had made me feel tingly all over, sensitive to the touch of the sun and of Adams and had me blushing as well when a stout man sitting at another table gave me a lascivious look and popped his tongue in his mouth. Did he know what I'd just been doing with Adams—what I'd let the man do to me and had reveled in it? Adams noticed the man ogling me. He laughed, cupped the back of my head with a hand and brought our faces together for a deep kiss. When he pulled away, I saw the man's eyes bugging out. He hadn't turned away; he obviously was aroused. Adams's touching and kissing had told him what I would do for an older man. And he was interested.

"If you went with that man, a stranger, and did for him whatever he wanted without knowing more than that he's showing he wants you, you could write a smashing story," Adams said.

"He's not much to look at," I said, skeptically.

"That's the major point," Adams said. "It's easy enough to write about going under a handsome man, but consider the thought that has to go into seeing an obsession that is needed for a handsome young man like you to willingly put himself into the controlling hands of a cruel, ogrish fellow and give him all he demands. And this man here isn't exactly an ogre. He just isn't in your league. He shouldn't expect to be able to use you like you could let him do. Look at him. Imagine him binding you and whipping you and then fucking you."

"Yes, I see that now," I answered. I gave the man a smile and he almost dropped his teeth. He wasn't an ugly man; he was just a bit squat and carrying too much poundage.

"I had come out to the farm you're living at to make contact with you," Adams then said. "And I saw you leave and go up to the hill and then observe those two young men having sex. You seem to be in some sort of crisis. I also saw you go with the two men at the pub in Bishop Cleeve the day before. I'd tracked you down there to return your manuscript and talk to you about it. And now you abruptly are going on a long walkabout. You seem to be in some sort of sexual turmoil."

"I guess I am," I answered.

"Perhaps I could help you with that."

"You already have—you are," I answered.

"By having sex with you? By taking my pleasure on you?"

"Yes."

"So, it's not just having the sex with another man—even an older stranger—that is giving you pause?"

We both looked at the man at the other table. He had turned sideways toward us and dropped his hand to in front of his crotch. I almost laughed. In the Navy that had been a sure come-on sign. I wondered if this man had once been a sailor.

"No. I guess would has my life paused is in having the whole village know I am like this and what I will do—what I seem to need to do. And, I guess, the situation at the farm—with Clyde. I don't see that going much of anywhere."

"And the village just knows that you take cock, not that you crave to take it roughly," Adams said.

"Yes, I guess that's so."

"You are just in Bishop Cleeve to settle on your father, aren't you? And now he's gone. You aren't wedded to that village in any way. You could go wherever you like. You were pulled out of Oxford to go the Navy and the Falklands, weren't you? You could return there and resume your studies. You have writing talent. You may have other interests too."

"I learned engine maintenance in the Navy," I said. "But I worry that that—"

"There's nothing demeaning in being an auto engine mechanic, Jaime. And you have the writing interest to go with that. All you need is to gather experiences to write about."

"I've certainly been gathering those in the last few days," I said, with a laugh.

"Yes, you have. And they are valuable experiences for writing. You could use more casual and impromptu experiences. Like that man over there."

We both smiled at him again and he smiled back.

"I was going walkabout to decide what to do now," I said. "My father's estate isn't settled. I have no means of support until it is. I don't think I can live off Clyde much longer, and I've lost my job—and the whole village is opposing me."

"Not the whole village," Adams said. "I heard the barman at the Dove and Fox tell you that there is a big enough trade in Bishop Cleeve—men who don't censure what you'll do for them—to keep you in business. You could do that until your father's estate comes in. Or you have another option."

"What is that?"

"I live near Oxford. You could go back to the village and settle out there for now. You have your father's house to live in. You could leave Clyde. But you could just gather your things up and come live with me in Oxford until you gain your father's estate. Then you could do as you please. You could even work in an auto garage in Oxford as you wish. And you could return to your studies. Living with me, I could mentor you in your writing."

"Would that really do me any good?" I asked. "You have shown how easily I go under a man's control. Would going with you be any different than staying with Clyde?"

"What is your fear with staying with Clyde when there are other men in the village after you and getting you too? It's that he will find out and just chuck you out, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"And you are afraid that I would jealously control and monopolize you too?"

"Yes, I guess."

"Going with men for money isn't your problem, is it? Encounters with strangers? Cruel and demanding strangers. That actually excites and arouses you?"

"Yes, I suppose that's true."

"Just a minute then," Adams said. He rose from the table and went to the man who had been ogling me and spoke with him. The man smiled and pulled out his wallet and produced a wad of pound notes. Adams came back to our table. "If you came with me to Oxford, I would cover you regularly, yes, but I would not stand in the way of who else you wanted to lie under. I wouldn't be jealous. I like to watch. This man will take you upstairs and you will be his paid whore. And I will be happy to watch. If you come to Oxford with me, and you have an itch to go with a stranger for pay, I will help you hook up with strangers who will pay you for sex."

And that's what happened. The man already had rented a room at the Whistling Hen. We went to it and I lay on my back, naked, and I opened my legs to him as he ran his hands up my inner thighs. And I turned my face to the man sitting in a chair with his cock out, stroking it and smiling at me—the man I would go to Oxford with and who would mentor me in my writing. And while I watched Forrest Adams and Forrest Adams watched me, the stocky man, a stranger I didn't even know the name of but who was paying me for my body, nudged in between my thighs, mounted, penetrated, and fucked me. I was being a male whore for a stranger for pay—and that was quite fine with me.

And it was all good. I hadn't really had to use this walkabout to come up with a solution to my future—the solution had come to me.

"Were you in the Navy?" I asked him as he was preparing to mount me.

"Why, yes, yes I was," he said.

"Can you be as cruel as a sailor? Do you know the Flying Dutchman position?"

He smiled. He was cruel, and he did know that demanding position.