The Celtic Sonata of Life

I was sitting outside the cottage door, just in my shorts, wondering if the farmer who had rented the rustic Cotswold cottage with the thatched roof and the rose trellis beside the door to me for two weeks had misinterpreted my offer. It hadn't been in so many words, but I think I had been clear enough in my nonverbal delivery. But maybe not. Maybe signaling here in England was much different from how it was in the States.

I had been antsy with my writing, not being able to make much progress. Back in New York, I would have known what I needed to break the blockage: attention from one of the muscle men in the gym down on the first floor of my building. I would go downstairs and stand in the doorway. They would see and understand what I needed, and one of the hunks would put his bar bells down, climb the stairs with me, and fuck the stuffing out of me. Then I would give him the proverbial pat on the head and send him back to the gym. After that I could and would write all night. I never had a problem finding someone down there who wanted me. I always was in control.

The Gloucestershire farmer had reminded me of the men in the gym, but more honestly built, less malleable perhaps, and a man of determination. A bit of danger for someone like me, who wanted to call all of the shots. He was a man of the fields, big and bulky, but built like a bodybuilder. His muscles were, I'm sure, the result of hard work on the land rather than the artifice of the gym. His cottage had been listed on a gay-friendly Web site, and it had rather explicitly indicated that single, young, gay men were preferred. So I had hope that there would be something to be had from him while I hid away in the Cotswolds and tried to make progress on my book. A bit of dalliance when it pleased me. When I saw him, standing by the cottage door this morning, when I drove up, I almost melted. He was big and beautiful in a brutish, stubbornly arrogant way. I had occasion to hope there would be something from him for me, and even more reason to hope that when he told me that he was single, that he lived alone, and that he worked the farm himself.

I told him I was gay and a writer, and that I had come to write, not to sightsee. I asked him if he was a reader, but he said he was more of a music listener—and a dancer. I had visions of him clogging away at a village fair and regretted that he wasn't a reader. If he had read my books, he would have known what I wanted from a man like him, what I expected from a man who wanted to go with me. I told him, still hopeful, that I worked mainly at night at the computer and that my mornings, such as they were, were spent spinning the stories in my mind. But the evenings, I said, I usually liked to be away from the writing. I often read in the evening, or talked with someone, if someone was there to talk to.

"I dance in the evenings," he said, simply. From the first moment, he was direct, straightforward, with me, not the least anxious to fit in with my plans.

I thought then that he hadn't taken the hint—or, worse, had caught the invitation and had rejected it. I was a bit miffed. I wasn't used to being rejected. But then, this was England, not the United States. I recognized that tastes could be different by differing location. He looked like he probably fancied someone rougher, less complex, less sophisticated than I was. I had visions that while I was reading in the evening, he would be in the village dancing, probably clogging. I don't know why I thought they clogged in this region, but it seemed to go with the atmospherics here. Everything was rural. Beautiful, but rural. The farmer seemed rural too. Very basic, probably his whole life devoted to his farm. Rural but beautiful. But seeing him in my mind dancing some silly village dance lessened his appeal to me. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have given up earlier in the day before he set off for his fields; I'd have been at his door asking for a cup of whiskey or something—with the emphasis on the "something."

The twilight was so inviting that I was sitting at the cottage door next to the rose trellis, using the light streaming through the doorway of the essentially one-room cottage to light my page. I had only read a few pages when I saw him approaching.

He was all cleaned up, a bottle of some liquor—probably a local brew—in his hand. He was stripped to the waist, wearing baggy farmer's trousers below, which only accentuated the hard, barrel chest and tapering down the torso to flat abs telling the tale of what a serious six pack meant. I gasped at the sight of him, not only the massive musculature of his torso, magnificently cut, but because he had tattooing of roses running down his chest—roses that matched the color of those on the rose trellis next to where I sat.

"I thought you danced in the evenings," I said in a low, wanting voice as he approached me.

"I do. I think you should dance tonight rather than read. I have come to dance."

He had also brought CDs. They surprised me. No clogging music here—whatever that was. Not even any fast music. All slow, sensuous, strangely unfamiliar music to me. Sounds of haunting instruments I could not identify and what were either other instrumental sounds or voices in the background, I could not tell which, as well blended in the rest of the music as it was. Behind it all, a good beat. Not a beat that I heard from the beginning, but a beat that became stronger as the evening unraveled.

"The music. Very strange," I said. "Almost primeval."

"It's Celtic music. It's what I dance to. It is music we use to make love to, out here on the farms."

Visions of fertility dances in the fields zipped through my brain. How could I use this image in my novels?

We were inside at that point, him standing by the CD player and me sitting on the edge of the bed. There were straight chairs in the room, and a small table near the kitchen bar, but not room for much else. Just a square of space in the center of the room. While standing at the CD player, he undid his belt buckle, unbuttoned his fly, and let his farmer's wide-legged trousers sink to the floor.

Just like that. Straightforward, direct. Sure of himself. Knowing that what he had gave him entry where he wanted to go. Arrogance unbounded.

I moaned. He was in half erection, already magnificent. His thighs were beefy, but all muscle, strong as oaks. The vining from the rose trellis tattoo continued down across his smooth-shaved groin, and wrapped around the base of his cock. He had taken a handful of small packets and a tube of something out of the pocket of his trousers before they fell to the floor, and as I watched, he placed the tube and some of the packets on the table, opened the packet he still was holding, and rolled the condom on his cock. There was no question what he wanted—or that he had plans to get it more than once, if he fancied doing so. For the first time I felt that decisions, control were not mine here. We clearly were on his turf.

No courting here. This was the farm. Do your business and get back to work. I was the business that he would do this evening. Lonely on the farm? Invite a young man to use your cottage and get your rocks off covering him, again and again, if you wanted to. Leave him moaning on his back, unable to close his legs, and go back to the fields whistling.

I shuddered, conflicted by both desire and fear.

He walked to the center of the room. "Come, dance with me." He was holding an arm out, in invitation.

"I don't dance. Well, not well," I answered, my voice more of a croak than as I would have him hear it.

"You can dance with me. I will lead. I will control."

I bet you will was my thought. I was trembling. I barely could make it up to my feet. I took one step.

"No, take the shorts off first. I want to see you." and when I had fumbled my way out of the shorts, "Ah, you are a right sexy piece, you are. Turn around. Nice arse that. Plump. Should hole straight and true, and something to grab onto during the slide. I am glad you have booked for two weeks. And you are showing me that you want to dance with me. We will be good dance partners together."

Just a sexy piece with a nice, plump "arse" to slide into. Just verbal running of the farmer's hands down the flanks of the livestock. Good breeding stock. The dance crap just so much subterfuge. Not that that mattered, he was such a prime example of manhood. But that cock . . . the size of that.

"I admit I want to . . . but I am frightened. You are so large . . . I'm not accustomed . . ."

"You will love the dance. Come. You answered the advert. We both know what you wanted when you came here. We will both be happy, I'm sure. This is why I make the effort to have this cottage to rent. I make it sound like I prefer single-tenant gay men. If I like the look of them, I cock them. They never complain that I have."

"That's rather forward. I—"

"You want me to put you on the cock, don't you? You nearly ate me up showing that want earlier today."

I shimmered with uncontrollable arousal at the image of that—made more graphically fascinating by the size of him. It was the writer in me. Too much imagination. "Yes," I answered in a small voice. I couldn't lie. And I was already naked before him, my need and want obvious.

"We dance the Dance of the Fuck, then. Now."

I shuddered when he took me into his arms. He was taller, bulkier, more powerfully built than I was. I had to stand on my tiptoes as, in a close embrace, we moved, back and forth, and against each other. His cock pressed into the center of my chest, into the base of my rib cage. He was gripping my wrists and moved my arms behind me, holding them together at the base of the small of my back. I felt the index finger of one of his hands move down into the upper crack of my buttocks.

The finger was not reaching the rim of my hole, but I found myself wanting it to, rising as much as I could to give it access. It was rubbing inside my cleft, though, and I was opening just at the sensation of him being so close to the quick of me.

I knew I was going to be fucked. I wanted it. He was making me ache for it. All self-assurance, no doubt he knew that. He had made clear he had caught my signaling from that morning. We both knew what he was here to do, what I was here to give him, to take from him.

His lips went to the hollow of my throat. We had moved close to the table where the CD player was resting in the undulation of our bodies in the slow, sensuous dance. I realized only now that this table had been a goal of his. He released my hands, and I sensed him handling something on the table top. As we moved away from the table again, toward the center of the room, I realized what it was he was doing. His hands were wet and slick now.

We stood, in the center of the room, just rocking back and forth with, against each other. His cock was rock hard against my rib cage. I knew mine was too. It was throbbing.

"Yes, yes, yesss," I murmured as I felt his large hands spanning my buttocks cheeks, squeezing and separating them.

"Oh, god, yesss," I whimpered, as I felt a finger from each hand, wet and slippery, circling my rim. And then slowly entering me, and pressing on my rim, opening me up.

"Loose. Used. But not loose enough yet for the likes of me."

Do you have to say every thought out loud? I screamed in my mind. Must you be so casual and coldblooded about it? But then I realized that his language, his actions, the matter-of-fact way he was going about it was much of what was making me melt to him, what was putting me under his power.

Standing and rocking against each other. Aware more now of the music. We were moving to the beat of the music. Or rather, the beautiful farmer was moving us to the rhythm of the music. Controlling, just as he had said he would. And the beat. Becoming more aware that there was a beat at the base of the music, coming more to the foreground.

More fingers, deeper, Spreading me open. I had never felt so open, so slack. I buried my face in his shoulder and panted hard. Roses. My eyes were fixated on the roses, curving with the curve of his hard pecs. A nipple in the center of one rose. This. I would write about this.

"A nice arse. A good hole for it. Tight enough to give me a good feel of it, but open enough for the deep slide and the working of it."

To me, the beating of my heart, more aware to me now too, was matching the beat of the music.

I couldn't help it. I couldn't wait. I ejaculated between his thighs. I was mortified, and buried my face harder into his shoulder, voicing a shuddered, "Sorry."

He gave a low laugh. "No worry. I will make you come again . . . and again. A good hole for it, for a good poke, time and again."

I moaned in anticipation. His lips found mine, and a third finger on each hand invaded my ass, pressing at the rim, coaxing me more open. Pushing my butt cheeks apart with the broad, calloused palms of his hands.

His lips disengaged from mine and went to my ear. "I am putting you to the cock now. You are open enough, I think. If not, I have something that will stretch you to fit soon enough. Maybe not the first time, but afterwards. The dick is wanting its hole something fierce."

"Yes, oh, god, yes," I moaned. Such bald language, arousing now that I was being worked—like the matter-of-fact way he had declared he was going to fuck me. Probably straightforward because of the nearness of a farmer to the basic functions and realities of life. Also because he was fully aware of who he was, what he had, what men like me wanted from him, whether we ourselves fully understood that or not. Intoxicating. Enough so that I didn't consider the ominous "I have something that will stretch you."

"Raise your right leg to my hip," he whispered. "You'll ride the cock with me standing the first time, I think. You'll enjoy it; it gives a good angle. Not a full slide, but we can get to that in time. A right good ass; I'll want to use it more."

Shaking almost uncontrollably, I raised my calf to his hip. Still clutching, spreading, my buttocks with his hands, fingers still inside my entrance, rubbing and coaxing the rim to expand, he lifted me and crouched a bit, with a thigh pressing into me under the leg I had lifted.

I felt the bulb of his cock at my entrance. It was massive. I whimpered. "You are too big."

"We will manage. You are used regular, I can get the feel of that. You will take it. Your body will open right up to it. It wants the cock. The gut knows what it wants and will do what is needed. We were meant to dance this dance."

His fingers were still stretching me open as much as they could as, grunting, he moved his bulb inside me. I was panting heavily, and groaning and close to tears. It had been nothing like this with the men in the gym. None of them were built like this English farmer. None of them were as forceful or determined. None of them had the gall to tell me what I wanted. I had told him he was too big. He hadn't seen it as a problem.

But, he was right. I wanted it so much. "Ahhhhhhhhh."

"Arch back from me," he commanded. His voice was demanding, like he was trying to override my approach toward hyperventilating. "Don't worry; I will hold you."

He was so powerful and his rough hands were so broad and strong, that I believed him.

"It will roll your pelvis up to me. The angle will be better, the channel straighter for the cock." He crouched a bit again, ready to maintain our balance by offsetting the arching of my torso. Again, the straightforward, confident, bald talk of the rudimentary elements of the fuck. Again, too, the understanding of the basic mechanics of it. Almost clinical. He just wanted to get deep inside me, to come inside me. Get his rocks off and get back to the fields. A barnyard breeding. The farm stud.

But he was a stud.

I wanted him inside me as much as he wanted to be there. I was crazy to be doing this. I couldn't take a cock this big—and wouldn't enjoy it if I did. But, god, I wanted him deep inside me. None of what I wanted mattered now, though, he was going to fuck me. He was exuding no doubt. To him it was all mechanics; just a day on the farm, studding the livestock. A bit of pleasure in the process. His pleasure.

I arched back, afraid that I might fall back, but he smoothly counterbalanced with his crouch and I managed to grip his upper arms—massively muscular, making me melt to him even in the heat of trying to sheath his cock, and he was still holding my lower body close to his with the strength of his hands gripping my buttocks.

"I can support you. The cock wants this angle."

"Please, please, pleaseplease," I chanted in a faraway voice as, my prayer being answered, I felt his cock sliding slowly inside me, stretching and filling me. Knowing every inch of me inside as it sank into me; knowing too that the channel would expand to accommodate, to welcome the long slide. Making me pant and groan and moan. He was inside me. He was inside me! I wanted to shout for joy. I was taking him. It was throbbing inside me. Waiting, poised.

"There, the gut knows what it will take. A good angle and straight channel. Fully saddled. We can dance the fuck now." Like he was talking to some vet inseminating his prize brood mare.

I felt the fingers sliding out of me, their work finished. His hands went to my waist.

"Lift the other leg. Lock your ankles behind my back."

"Please. Please."

"What?"

"Please be patient with me. Please don't ruin me. It . . . is . .. so . . .big."

It was idiotic. I didn't know what I wanted by saying this at this point. I already was holed. But, yes, yes, I did. I wanted some sign from him before he started what came next that this was lovemaking, not just breeding, not just the primeval need to ejaculate. That he wanted me because he was attracted to me, not just because I had a channel and he wanted his huge cock sheathed tonight, just wanted a vessel to spill his seed in, had to get his rocks off. Throwing in my face that I had come onto him. Leaving me no shred of belief that I controlled . . . anything.

But then, what if he did? What if he only wanted his pleasure? The offer of the cottage had been clear enough. He was being completely honest. And I couldn't deny that he was giving me what I hoped to find here.

Thoughts of my own behavior, back in New York, floated through my brain. Isn't the way he was treating me no more impersonal than I treated those men in the gym? Letting them fuck me just to help push me beyond a blockage in my writing. I told them what they could do, how they could do it. Using them just like this self-confident farmer was going to use me, was already using me. Was I any more thoughtful of their needs than he was of mine?

"You came to me for the hard cocking. I see nothing innocent in you. Your gut speaks for what you want. The looseness of the gut tells me what you'll take."

No mercy to be had. What could I say to that? He was absolutely right.

He laughed a low laugh. "We will dance well together. Before the night is through, we will fit perfectly. Raise your other leg, or I will raise it for you. The cock wants it."

I let out a low sob and raised my leg. I also started to raise my torso to him.

"No, stay arched back. The angle is good. The angle is good for you, is it not? I am in deep, no? You feel me deep inside? It will be a long, straight stroke. The cock wants a long stroke."

The cock wants this; the cock wants that. What about what I want? But I knew what I wanted. I wanted the cock.

"You're so big, so deep," I murmured. It came out with another low sob, but also with a sense that he was concerned for my pleasure after all, if only a little. I needed more from him. "No man has ever been that deep. You are magnificent."

Pimping for some sign of passion for me.