Man across the River

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.

* * * *

I stood there on the terrace, naked, my hand working my cock, and lifted the binoculars to my eyes. He was there, across the river, also standing, facing me—also naked and also with his binoculars trained on me. He was holding something with leather thongs hanging down from it in one of his hands. The whip from the other day, I wondered. I shuddered at the thought, almost dropping the binoculars. When I put them back up to my face, Xavier was gone from where he'd been standing outside the door into the villa. In panic, I moved the binoculars around, the view becoming wild, as even the slightest repositioning of them covered a great deal of ground in the focal point and blurred the whole effect.

I found him at the river's edge, going into the water. Swimming toward my bank of the river. I put the binoculars down and started walking down the slope toward the river.

We met near the river bank, as he stumbled up out of the water. A stand of trees was nearby. Included in what he brought across the river in his swim were wrist restraints connected with a leather lead and a multistrand hand whip. He bound me, naked, to a tree, my arms stretched up to the notch in two branches where I was bound. I nearly had to go up on my toes to remain standing, but before long my body was sagging down toward the ground, held fast by my up-stretched, bound arms, as I cried out in slight pain but great passion at the sting of the lash on my back, arms, buttocks, and thighs. The lashing was more symbolic—at least for most of the time—than torture, but I did feel the sting, increasing in intensity and quite biting before he was done, and the whip did raise slight welts. I hardened even while he was binding me to the tree and came the first time during the more stinging bite of the whip.

He tongued the welts, coming ever closer to the crease in my buttocks, until, at last—long after I wanted him there—his face was buried between my butt cheeks and he was eating my ass out. The tongue was followed by his huge cock being rubbed in my crack and over my increasingly open entrance. This was followed by him gripping my thighs and lifting me, pulling me away from the tree, my body parallel to the ground, slowly entering me with his throbbing cock, and fucking me to, first mine, and then his, ejaculation.

He let my body fall and lashed me again until he was hard again. Then he released my wrists—but only momentarily—rebound them, draped me on the front of his body, his arms trapping me in a full Nelson hold, my wrists bound behind his neck, and my thighs held over his, my ankles hooked on his calves. With his cock buried deep in my ass, he strutted around the grassy area between the terrace of my house and the river's edge, jostling me up and down on the cock—until he had seeded me again.

Beyond grunts and occasional murmurings of "Good," "Take it; Carlos says you can take it—that you want it rough," "Fuck, yes," "You want it," and "Nice," Xavier was running more or less silent.

I was screaming the top of my head off—mostly being contradictory: "Please, no, not the whip," "Fuckkkk!" "Oh, god, don't stop!" "Shit, it's too big; you'll split me," "Oh, Fuck yes," "I can't take it," "Nail me, spike me, split me!" "I'm going to commmme!" "YES!!"

Already totally exhausted, cowed, and conquered, I let him sling me over his shoulder and walk me up to the terrace and then through the French doors of the bedroom, and to slam me down on my back on the bed. He had taken up a belt from my slung trousers as he entered the room, and I cried out as he doubled it over and snapped me twice on the chest. Immediately, he was on top of me, slapping my thighs apart with the sting of the belt, grabbing and palming my buttocks, and pulling my pelvis up to his where he was kneeling between my thighs. He thrust inside me and began pounding hard and deep. The gates to my passage sprang open for his shaft as he relentless marched the cock deep, into my soft core and even further, deeper into my vulnerability than any man had sunk before. I continued hearing and feeling the snap of the belt but all of my attention had gone to the monster cock filling and churning in my passage.

Loud music was thundering through my brain. Trumpets and kettle drums. The twangy runs down the strings of an electric guitar. The whip-snapping sound of the slapstick clapper. The deafening, high-pitched screaming of a lead singer.

We were rock and rolling. And we both were definitely getting our rocks off.

In the morning, when Isabella came in with two coffee mugs on a tray, she still wasn't batting an eyelash at what she found. We were both on top of a tangle of sheeting that looked like a battle zone. Xavier was on his back, his muscular, vein-popping arms bent, his hands gripping the sides of my chest. I was pressing into the mattress at all four points—the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet—as I was suspended, as if levitated, above Xavier's magnificent body, in the crab position. His cock was thrusting up into my passage, and I was bearing down with my pelvis to meet him thrust for thrust.

Not even Xavier and I in high heat had given Isabella pause. Well, of course not. Xavier had known right where the bedroom was. He knew where he'd find the dildo. Phil knew that I wouldn't have just Carlos to keep me satisfied and churning out songs.

Afterward we slept until shadows were stealing into the room through the French door. I woke, on my back, beside the nightstand, holding the ten-inch dildo Xavier had pulled out of a drawer and used on me the previous night, me huffing and puffing, pushing up on my feet to raise my pelvis to him and palming and separating my butt cheeks as much as I could. Me crying out, "Yes, yes, all of it!" before collapsing under the strain of him giving me what I asked for.

Xavier was lying beside me, turned on his side, his head propped up on an elbow, watching me as I sleep.

"You're on my side of the bed," he said.

"What?" I asked, not being sure I was fully awake.

"If you want me in your bed from now on, you'll have to let me sleep on that side—when I'm not sleeping on top of you, of course."

"Oh, yeah. Well, sure, no problem." Of course he'd been in this bed before and knew which side he preferred. I moved to roll over his body to the other side, but, of course, never made it that far. He put me under him, belly down, and started doing one-handed pushups on my sore ass. He had pulled a short hand whip out from somewhere and flicked it with the other hand against my flanks, back, and arms as he fucked me, the snap of the leather strands making me flinch and groan. All I could think of was the "Hallelujah Chorus." I had a real man in my bed.

* * * *

"He's not here. He's not going to be here."

Chet Clayton gave Phil Hendricks a hard look, but then he pulled the chair out and sat down at the big, round table anyway. He looked around the table. No, Sean wasn't here. "He's going to be here; I know it. He sent me an invitation. He's coming back to me."

"Sean didn't send you an invitation; I did. And he's not coming to the Grammies. He's pinned down elsewhere." At least Phil thought his song writer client was still writhing under the Spanish footballer—and baller in other ways too—Xavier Vicario. Phil hadn't heard anything but good news from Isabella about how those two were getting along in the bed he'd provided for them in the Galician villa. And the great songs kept on coming out. Sean was taking this new song niche by storm.

"You sent it? Why would you send it?"

"To gloat, of course. To gloat when Sean's Grammy is announced."

"What is it with this bombastic Rock and Roll stuff from Sean now. And the other songs he's put out this year—ballads and folk songs. Pop is his niche."

"Sean is following new avenues now," Phil answered. In spades, he thought. Who would have known that Sean would take so well to bondage and a bit of sadism. It had been a bit too much for Phil, but he liked a taste of the hunky Spanish footballer occasionally.

"I denote a Spanish element through everything he's writing now," Chet said. "That's where you have him stashed, isn't it? South America. Argentina? Rio? You know I'll find him one of these days."

"You had him and lost him. You shouldn't have flogged and beaten him." But what am I saying now? Phil wondered. Xavier wasn't beating Sean, as far as Phil knew—well, not more than heightened his arousal. But he was fucking him rough. Isabella had said the noise had gotten too much for her from time to time—and that they spent most of their time fucking. "But it doesn't matter, Chet. Sean isn't here; he's not going to be here. I'll accept the award for him. And you won't find him."

"What makes you think he's going to get an award?" Chet asked, with a snort. "The title doesn't even go with the lyrics. Unless you have the fix in on the award." Chet gave Phil a hard look. "You do, don't you? You already know he's won."

Phil just gave him a sweet smile. "Shhh, they're announcing it now."

And with that, a voice wafted down from the stage. "And for best rock song of the year, 'Man Across the River,' by Sean Sinclair."