The Unfortunate Boys of St. Bernard's Secondary Modern: Reorienting Ben

Ben, a lad out in the country orienteering with his college, takes a short cut across private land - afterall, what's the worst that can happen? Well for Ben, the worst happens, and he receives an education on the ways of the countryside, and hard-working country folk.

Prologue

The blond-haired boy absent-mindedly traipsed purposefully through the high grass which ran along the verge of the neatly tilled land. He was moving quickly: whilst it was all well and good to take a shortcut, he’d still lose if he didn’t keep good time.

And Ben liked to win.

He was swinging a single uprooted blade of long grass this way and that, felling the yellow stalks before him as he went. With the wind rolling across the desolate field, he was beginning to regret wearing a loose pair of white rugby shorts and a white-and-blue striped T-shirt, particularly with his heavy backpack now, after a few hours, slowing him down somewhat; but the sun was still shining, and Ben was a stocky, well-built lad who could maintain a brisk pace, even with the pack.

Evidently, Ben was lost in his own, little world.

Because he was quite unaware of five individuals, on the other side of the gently sloping field, watching him. Some were watching him more closely than others – two had high powered binoculars. Two others had rifles slung over their backs. Their dress was similar – dark green all-weather coats; thick jumpers; faded, grubby jeans.

But they were an odd assortment. The oldest was Philip, at 47 – a great hulking mountain of a man, over six feet tall and plated with slabs of muscle. He held a pair of binoculars to his emerald eyes, and would occasionally brush some of the unkempt, shaggy black hair out of his eyes.

Next was Jason; a 34 year old with brown hair cut short, and with the stocky build of a man who liked his fried breakfasts almost as much as he liked the hard, manual labour of his job. Oddly, he was the most inexperienced member of the group.

So inexperienced that he’d never done anything like this before.

He rubbed his bristly square jaw as he looked at Philip, waiting with nervous apprehension for his verdict, and idly wondering whether Pam believed the story he’d told her before abandoning the house and leaving her to deal with the screaming kids.

Next were Robbie and Danny – brothers, one 24 years old, the other 28, and very, very close. Indeed, friends would always remark how the brothers did everything together, meaning they were always described in unison – as I have done here.

But most would have no clue how true that was.

Both had mousey brown hair, and whilst Danny, with his wide shoulders, hairy chest and hairy rugby-players legs got way more girls than skinny little Robbie, Robbie was always proud of the fact that his eight and three quarter inch cock exceeded his brother’s own appendage by a good inch, and had done so since Robbie was 14.

As the brothers stood there, Danny watching as Robbie looked through his binoculars, Robbie gave more thought to his theory that his cock was the reason his brother became such a submissive little slut around the time Robbie entered adolescence.

Robbie, proud young man that he was, gave such thoughts a great deal of consideration.

And then there was John, the youngest at 19 with a skinny, hard frame; blond hair buzzed so short it appeared almost auburn. John had been home-schooled since he was 12, with his Uncle Phil having taken him under his wing and teaching him the facts of life, hands on, back when he was 15.

Despite his age, he was an old hand at this sport.

So, together, they watched the compact, finely built boy moving at pace across the deserted, fallow farmland.

“What’s he look like?!” asked John excitedly, with a broad, west-country lilt to his voice, sounding both happy and stupid, as is the way of that particular accent.

Nervously chomping on his sandwich, he was wishing that he too had a pair of fancy binoculars.

“He looks like a fuckin’ moron, to me, Young John.” The older man spoke with a guttural west-country accent, deep and rough, sounding as though he was gurgling a mouthful of gravel every time he spoke.

He continued, “wearin’ shorts and a bloody T-shirt. Just walkin’ along as though he’s on some bloody foreign beach, without a care in the world”

The man looked away from the binoculars for a moment. “what’s he gonna do when the rain comes? Text somebody? Fuckin’ moron.”

John laughed flatly; inanely. “Yeah, I bet. But come on Uncle Phil, you know what I’m gettin’ at…what’s he look like?”

Philip pulled the binoculars from his face, turned to his nephew, and smiled. “He looks like just your sort, John. He’s got a fine, floppy mop of dark blonde hair on his head. Who knows? Maybe he’s got the same golden curls around his cock, too. To look at his face, all angular an’ angelic like, I’d say he was 16. To look at his body, all muscly an’ hard, I’d say he was 18.”

“He’s got a good body, has he?” inquired Danny. “I don’t want no skinny runt who’ll break after the first fuck.”

Robbie put his arm around his brother, “My brother Danny, always thinking with his tiny cock,” to which everyone laughed.

“Don’t worry, Danny. He’s a moron for wearing shorts and aT-shirt, at no mistake, but it at least means he’s had the good grace to display his…assets fer me an’ me lads.”

As the men chuckled lowly, Philip fixed his binoculars on the moving lad’s right arm, watching as the delicate musculature rippled beneath the gently tanned, hairless skin. He then switched to glance at his legs, feet encased in heavy, brown-green walking boots which led to thick, well-worked hairy calves and up to thicker, harder thighs. The best bits were obscured by the lycra lining of his loose white rugby shorts, and whilst that would annoy most men of Philip’s persuasion, it only made Philip smile, and stiffen.

You see, Philip was a bit…particular. He was only interested in the modest ones; the ones who’d really rather not be fucked silly whilst out orienteering with their school.

He’d once snapped up a young fellow, couple of years back, who looked nice enough but when he opened his mouth, “ooooh, isth thish gang fshilled with big, nashty farmersthsh?” pitched at the same vocal tone as that of a nine year old, Philip’s cock wilted faster than corn after a hard frost.

After all, how fun would any hunt be if the fox surrendered to the hounds at the sounding of the first bugle? Not very fun at all.

No, the fox must do what is in its nature; what it was bred for – the fox must object to being ripped to shreds; the fox must run.

Only then does its inevitable submission have any value to those who have hunted it.

Philip noted the large pack slung over his shoulder, and the speed with which he was moving. “He looks like a strong little fucker, too. Keep the guns where he can see ‘em.”

“So he’ll do, then?” asked John, a hopeful, almost pleading tone in his voice…Philip was right; the boy was definitely his sort, and there wasn’t any point pretending otherwise.

If anyone should know John’s type, it should be his Uncle.

Philip heard his nephew speak, but he sounded further away; almost distant. For at that moment, Philip had focused his attentions on the front of the boy’s shorts. What with the loose, hard fabric of the shorts, it was a lot like turning up at Loch Ness and looking into the still water for the famed creature of the Loch. Nothing could directly be observed, but that nothingness was itself almost mesmerising.

And as he looked, a part of Philip knew that beneath the surface lurked a turgid snake, with a foul temperament and an angry, hissing, spitting head. And yes, whilst he was imaging, why not – a snake adorned with ripened, golden fur.

As his heart skipped a beat and his cock pulsed, his fanciful thought became fact in his mind, stiffening still further at the thought of mastering such a fabled beast.

Although John didn’t know it, he was Philip’s sort, too.

Afterall, when John was younger, he too had long, blond curls, a hard body and a big cock – a difficult combination for any man to resist; for Philip, it proved an impossible combination to resist.

He nervously licked his lips. “Yes, John. I’d say he’ll do.”

The men chuckled, some more nervously than others, but the murmur of approval was as subdued as it was unmistakable.

The hunt was on.

Chapter One

Ben, still walking through the desolate farmland, only became aware of the presence of others when a voice behind him screamed “STOP! STOP RIGHT THERE!”

Ben turned around defensively to see five men staring at him, two of them atop a pair of exquisite brown horses.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

The men stared on impassively without visibly reacting.

Unsurprisingly, it was Philip, one of the riders, who spoke for the rest.

“This land belongs to His Lordship, the Baron Frederick de Pelevier, and his sister the Lady Emily. I have the honour of serving as Warden of His Lordship’s land, as did my father did before me, and what with His Lordship’s recent incapacity, I have hired the men before you to serve as my Deputies. We keep the law here.

“Five of you? What, is it the fucking wild west country, now?”

Philip, still speaking calmly in a broad, but distinct accent, continued “it is land upon which you are now standing, in contravention of established law, both common and written.”

The smile steadily disappeared from Ben’s face as he realised he might be in some kind of serious trouble. “It’s just a field, man…”

The Warden raised his voice. “My name is ‘Warden’, not ‘man’. And this is a field which has been under the management of His Lordship’s family since the days of William the Conqueror, neary a thousand years ago. Now if you don’t mind me asking, who might you be, young man?”

“I-I’m just on a trip with my college, orienteering and stuff; I ain’t doin’ nothin’ bad – I just wanna get back to my group, ok? Our coach is just on the other side of this field…I think…”

“From the city, are you?”

Ben nodded.

“I see. And your name is?”

“Ben. My name’s Ben.”

The Warden nodded slowly. “Well, Ben. I’d be well within my rights to take you back to the house, and see what Constable Barnstable has to say about all this…but as it is, I think we’ll let it slide this time.” Philip smiled disarmingly. “But in future, when you come across an iron gate which has a sign reading ‘private property’, that means the land beyond is actually private property. Understand?”

Ben nodded. “Y-yeah. Of…course. I didn’t think, man. Sorry.”

Just then, John leant across to his Uncle, and whispered something in his ear, grinning from ear-to-ear as he did so. John was always such a terrible actor; he was too excited to perform this bit properly.

But he was the only one who’d do this part, so Philip laughed, looking at his Nephew in mock disbelief. “Now, John. I’ll grant you that even for a city boy, Ben is perhaps more retarded than most – but I don’t think even HE would be THAT stupid.”

At which point, Philip turned his gaze back to Ben, and replaced his smile with a stony expression of mild indifference. “My Nephew has just told me something rather disturbing, Ben. Something which, if true, changes everything. Ben. Open your clenched right fist for me, please.”

Ben sighed. “Man, it ain’t like that…”

“Do it.”

As Ben opened his fist, the juice seeped through his fingers, a few errant black seeds clinging to his palm, before the core of a rotting apple fell to the ground.

The Warden fluidly reached over his back, unslung the shot gun and brought the weapon to his hip.

Ben raised his hands defensively. “Whoa, man, calm the fuck down! I got it from fuckin’ Sainsburys!”

“His Lordship don’t take kindly to poachers, Ben. The law of the land is quite clear on how we deal with them.”

“I ain’t a poacher, and the law definitely doesn’t say you can bloody kill me!”

“Ben, on His Lordship’s land, I say what is legal and what isn’t, by right of precedent. Your airy-fairy lefty-liberal city law holds no water here.”

Danny, eager to get involved, unhelpfully added, “maybe he’s involved with the others. The other poachers, I mean. You know, like a network. A…um, criminal…poaching…network.”

Philip rolled his eyes in dismay as Robbie whispered in Danny’s ear, “shut up! You won’t get to fuck him if you talk bollocks, Danny. Leave the big boy stuff to the big boys.”

But having no choice other than to run with it, Philip remarked, “yes. Good point, Deputy. Quite possible.  Moving on…”

“This is insane. We ain’t in Medieval times; your lordship’s law means bugger all now. Listen, ok, you’ve got a gun, you’re pointing it at me, and I nearly pissed myself – lesson learned, ok? I’ll, I’ll go back, the way I came, and walk round? Ok? It won’t happen again.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Laws have been broken, Ben. Laws, plural – as in, more than one. As an officer of the law, invested by His Lordship, how could I possibly let a serial offender get away with their crimes, when they’ve been caught red-handed?”

Ben walked past the Warden, heading back in the direction he had come from. He wouldn’t win the race now, but at least he’d get out of this truly clusterfucked field.

“I suggest you stop, Ben.”

Ben shouted behind himself, “I’m going back, ok? Lesson learned. Nice meeting you. Bye.”

The Warden calmly retorted, “Benjamin, I have a clear line of fire. If you keep walking, I will shoot you in the leg. If you run, I will run you down. Now, you have been caught poaching on private land. That means, you forfeit your right to certain legal niceties. In short, Ben, if I wound you as you seek to evade detention prior to the arrival of the police, I will face no criminal prosecution. Do you understand? I’m in the right here. YOU’RE the criminal, and ignorance is no excuse in the eyes of the law. Now, for the last time, come back here.”

Ben stopped and stood still for a minute. Was this guy serious? Probably not. But they were all fucking nuts, and he didn’t really want to run the risk of having his leg blown off by a shotgun. And surely, when he failed to arrive at the coach, the teachers would start looking for him…

He turned slowly, his hands in the air. “Fine. Fine, call the police or whatever. But I wanna call my teacher, too.”

He reached for his pocket, and extracted his iPhone.

The Warden spoke. “You’ll find a very poor signal out here, Ben. Non-existent, infact. Let’s get back to the house. You can call your teacher from there, and we’ll see what His Lordship has to say about all this…who knows? Maybe he’ll let you go…he’s been known to show mercy, on occasion.”

John produced a length of rope, and Ben shied away from him. “I-I’ll walk. It’s fine. You ain’t tying me up.”

Philip replied, “you’ll walk, and then as soon as our backs are turned, you’ll be off into the woods. I know how young men’s minds work – I used ta’ be one, ya’ know! No, no, no. You’ll be seein’ His Lordship, make no mistake, and I intend to make sure you reach him. Now John’s got a good, long bit of rope there, and we’ll just tie you from the front; put your wrists together. It won’t hurt or anything.”

Knowing in the pit of his stomach that it would be something he’d regret, Ben put his wrists together, unable to see how he could possibly do anything else. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, if he actually did reach the house…at least he could use their phone.

John stood before Ben, and spent five minutes tying the thick rope across each wrist, and then looping a figure-of-eight around them both before tying another tight, synched double-knot.

He looked at Ben, smiling. “Boy Scout, I was, for my sins. Comes in handy every now and again.”

With that John returned to his Uncle, and passed the end of the rope to Philip. Wrapping the rope around his hand several times, he took the reins of his horse, and cantered round, heading off across the field. His ‘Deputies’ followed, with Ben taking up the rear, stumbling as he moved, securely tethered to the length of rope.

The hunt was over. Now; the spoils.

Chapter Three

After a few minutes walking, the fallow field had been left behind, and the group traversed across an unkempt medow, led by the Warden and his men  and with Ben following behind, uncertainly but without any choice.

As they surmounted a gentle hillock marked only by a large, gently rustling tree, Philip proclaimed, “Alright, lads. Let’s stop here for lunch.”

As Philip descended from his horse, Danny put down the rucksack he had slung over his back, opening it to reveal a veritable feast. Robbie put his arm round his brother and remarked, “my dear brother Danny, the best pack animal around, even when we’ve got a pair of horses with us.”

Everyone burst out laughing. Even Ben felt himself smile as he took the moment of respite to sit himself down on the wild grass.

He was most surprised when his wrists jolted upward and forward. As he stumbled back to his feet – a difficult task when one is being pulled like a magnet in a particular direction – he looked to see the Warden had ignored the laugher of the other chaps and had instead taken the time to loop the end of the rope Ben was attached to over a thick branch of the tree.

He made himself red in the face as he pulled hard on the rope, pulling all eleven stone of uncooperative teenager ever closer to the tree.

“Whoa, what the fuck, man-“ was all Ben managed to squeak out before his arms were pointing up toward the tree branch, then stretched up towards the tree branch, and finally, pulling the rest of his body off the ground and up towards that very same tree branch.

He was left dangling with his feet a couple of inches off the ground, legs flailing around wildly.

In no time at all, his arms began to ache dully.

“This is insane. Just…just let me down, and we’ll pretend this didn’t happen, ok?”

“No, Ben. We’re not going to eat our lunch watching over our shoulders every two minutes,” said Philip in a cool, professional tone, as if everything he was saying was perfectly reasonable.

Ben wriggled with the tenacity of an eel, trying to escape from a situation he quickly realised he was incapable of escaping from.

“Stop that,” the Warden calmly stated after a few minutes. “You’ll do yourself a mischief, Ben.”

“I’m…not…STAYING…LIKE…THIS! IT’S FUCKING ILLEGAL!” Ben shouted between breaths.

“Excuse me, Ben, but I think I know a little more about the law than you do. And the law allows considerable latitude when it comes to confining and holding a dangerous felon after he’s committed numerous offenses on someone’s private property.”

“Ain’t you ever heard the saying, ‘an Englishman’s home is his castle?’” asked a rosy-cheeked Robbie, biting into a scotch egg.

Ben shook his head. “It doesn’t literally mean your home’s a fucking castle, you stupid wanker! I mean, yeah, people say it, but it doesn’t mean you can build a fucking moat around your semi-detached! And it certainly doesn’t mean you can STRING TRESSPASSERS UP A FUCKING TREE!”

Robbie immediate retort: “his Lordship’s got a moat.”

To that, Ben had no response.

After another ten minutes, Robbie hesitantly stood, looking at the group arrayed around him before solemnly stating, “this is all a bit cruel, if you ask me.”

Ben sighed heavily and looking at the ground, thanking the God he didn’t believe in for his apparent salvation. “Thankyou! Yes, cruel. He’s right. This is fucking CRUEL.”

Philip watched, open-mouthed, as Robbie walked over to the boy.

“Of all my lads, Robbie, you are the last I’d expect to do this…”

Robbie stood before Ben. “Cruel, because really, this heavy pack on your back needs to come off.”

Ben dangled there helplessly as Robbie carefully inspected the straps – one over each shoulder, and one around his waist, ridden low through the act of being suspended mid-air whilst having the heavy backpack slung over his shoulders.

The young farmer slid his fingers around the black buckle at his waist; the tips of his fingers frivolously scratching upward, up and over the hem of the T-shirt to the warm cotton covering the lad’s tight abs, where his fingers prodded and pinched the delicately corrugated, physically honed flesh of the boy.

Then, in the process of pulling the buckle away from his waist, he stroked behind the buckle; at the fuzzy, frizzy bulge made by the boy’s flourishing pubic bush. Only then did he carefully slide the clip out of the buckle, Ben wide-eyed and speechless as he did so.

Robbie followed this spending a minute to carefully unloop the hard fabric from the buckle beneath his left armpit, its freedom resulting in that strap coming away from the boys arm, and the pack hanging off his right shoulder.

At which point, Robbie said, “let me get that for you, Ben.”

He stepped forward, practically embracing Ben as he did so – resting his head on the boys hard, muscular shoulder, sandwiched between his thick neck and upturned arm. Unable to help himself – poor Robbie, always thinking with his big gay cock before he did with his small gay brain – burrowed his nose into the fleshy, comfortingly developed muscle surrounding Ben’s clavicle.

The audibly loud intake of breath made by Robbie distressed Ben, but the boy was still unable to speak as Robbie took in deep, barely perceptible lungful’s of the sweaty boy’s distinctive smell: a scent masked by his stronger, recently applied and sweetly tart Adidas deodorant. But no matter; for Robbie, that was still a pleasing, teenage smell.

As he did this, Robbie’s left hand slithered behind the boy to the base of his heavy backpack. His hand gripped the corner of the drooping pack and lifted. All the while ensuring his hand remained adjoined to, initially, the rear of Ben’s mountainous thigh, and then, the uppermost crest of his tight young arse, still covered by the rough fabric of his white shorts.

Meanwhile, his right hand began the process of unsnapping the right buckle.

He did this slowly.

Pulling his nose from the soft cotton of Ben’s T-shirt for a moment, saliva smeared across both Robbie’s thin lips and the darkly staining the fabric of Ben’s T-shirt, Robbie remarked, “this one’s a bit more fiddly,” before descending once more and taking another deep lungful of teen-stink infused air. His left hand would ‘slip’ every now and again, the curved outer edge of that hand dreamily grazing across the boy’s smooth, balloon-like right butt-cheek, his powerful little pinky finger purposefully running along the outer furrow betwixt the distressed lad’s arse.

Finally, the snap was undone; it flew out of the buckle, with the right side of the pack collapsing and pulling the entire pack down, falling to the floor with a loud crash.

Robbie stood back. “Oops.”

He moved back to resume eating his lunch. Philip remarked, “yes, very helpful, Robbie, but you didn’t think that one through, did you? I think we all know what you were thinking with there.”

A low murmur of laughter sounded from the men.

Ben signalled Philip to come over to him. “I think that guy just molested me!” he said.

Philip frowned. “Did he?”

“You didn’t see?”

Philip chuckled. “No. But he is a very friendly fellow. I think he was trying to help you, Ben.”

“He felt me up!”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Philip said, an incongruous grin breaking out on his hard face.

Ben continued to hang there in sombre silence, aware of the eyes focusing on him, but trying to ignore them…trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Trying to convince himself that the obvious explanation, wasn’t the correct explanation.

Trying, and failing.

He knew why they were looking at him, of course. It embarrassed him immensely, but he still couldn’t explain why he was a little bit stiff. He’d tried to think about something else – about the horribleness of it all – but that just seemed to make it worse.

On a trip without his girlfriend, he hadn’t cum in a while, but even so, he certainly didn’t find the situation arousing. Did he? Maybe…I mean, who doesn’t like being ogled, he asked himself? Apart from uptight girls, that is.

But Ben wasn’t a girl; he was a good looking lad, and he liked to be looked at.

To be wanted.

There it went again! The watching men were treated to the sight of Ben’s subdued but growing cock flexing and tightening slightly, shifting and distorting the stiff contours of his shorts still further.

“He seems a bit fidgety to me,” said Danny after ten minutes or so, cautiously inspecting the insides of a ham sandwich as he spoke.

“Might be best to restrain him further,” he added, biting manfully into his sandwich, “you know, for our own safety,” he concluded, chewing.

Philip, now in the role of neutral arbiter, breathed in deeply as he considered Danny’s statement. “Yes, I think I know what you mean, Danny.”

Ben was still wriggling like a salamander as Philip waltzed over to him, planted a hand on either side of his waist, and forcefully yanked down his loose rugby shorts, sliding them over the chunky walking boots and off his body.

Philip spun on his heels, walked back, sat on the grass with his ‘Deputies’, and began eating a cheese cob before craning his neck to look at Ben.

The first thing he noticed was the pink flush to his cheeks, and the stunned silence that preceded the inevitable nervous laugh.

After all, this must all be some hilarious joke, right?

Philip ignored the boy’s rationalising and moralising, where every other sentence began with “ha ha, very funny…” and “if you let me go now, we’ll pretend it never happened…” instead focusing on the lad’s semi hard chisel, currently encased in black stretch lycra and with its bulbous, all-seeing eye edging ever closer to his left hip, the fabric weighed down by the teenager’s eminently exploitable, deliciously plump ballsack.

As Philip finished off his sandwich, he motioned for the brothers to move into position; to perform the task they’d performed numerous times previously, and were now well-practiced at.

There were no words, either to each other or to Ben; no words were necessary.

First, each produced a short length of rope, which they first looped, and then tied, to a branch of roughly similar height to the one Ben was hanging from.

With Ben’s protestations serving as the only noise, each man took firm grip of one of Ben’s size 12 feet, which were still wrapped in the thick woollen grey socks and large, dark green nylon-canvas Overide Hi GTX boots.

As one, they lifted the two kicking feet up into the air before easily sliding each foot into one of the homemade stirrups, synching the rope tight around the boy’s socked ankles.

Now he was secured in position, the boy formed a sharp ‘V’ shape, with his arms and torso forming one line and his short, muscular legs forming the other. His crotch at the base highlighted the perfectly rounded, clothed rump of the boy, swaying slightly in the rustling wind atop the sunny hillock.

Oh, and he was screaming. Screaming so very, very loud, his deep voice echoing as it carried across the windswept meadows, grassland and farmland.

But they were so very, very far from anywhere, that it really didn’t matter. Indeed, Philip watched as he screamed, armed folded, patiently waiting until the boy’s lungs were red raw, his voice cracked, and his stamina greatly reduced.

Only then, when the boy was croaking incoherently and swaying fitfully, did Philip approach. He knelt beside Ben, his big left hand reassuringly patting the trussed up teen’s golden head.

 “Now, Ben. If you were an ugly little fucker, we’d have you up at that house getting a bollocking off the old bill. But you ain’t, are ya’? You’re a beautiful, blond-haired little stunner – and I’m sure you’re quite the performer in the bedroom, right? Well today you’re gonna perform for us. Honestly, Ben, if it was just you and I here, I’d lick you from neck to fuckin’ toe, makin’ sure to suck up the juice from all the bits in between – you know; make you feel like a fuckin’ king. But it ain’t just you and me; I’ve got this bunch of reprobates to look after, and that complicates things a bit…I mean, everyone has to get their slice of the pie, right? And when it’s a nice, succulent pie, oozing with gravy and packed with meat…”

Philip chuckled lowly, swirling Ben’s flaxen hair around his chubby fingers as he spoke.

“Well, that just makes people want even more of the fuckin’ pie, don’t it? So let me give you some advice; be a man. Ok? Don’t scream, don’t cry; just take it. Because, you are gonna take it, one way or ‘tother, and when you look back on this, you’ll judge who won – and make no mistake, when competitive males engage in this sort of activity, it isn’t love, it isn’t fun; it’s a sport – you’ll judge who won by the extent to which you maintained your dignity. See what I’m saying?”

Ben, luscious lower lip quivering, nodded, as Philip continued to. “Good boy. Now, we’re going to start you off nice and easy, with Jason here. Look at him, standing over there, off to one side; waiting to be beckoned. See how he’s a grown man, but he’s standing there with his arms behind his back; as if he’s being judged, or sent to the headmaster’s office? That’s because he’s scared, Ben. Now, when you’re with a girl, and they’re scared; why are they usually scared?”

Ben didn’t want to answer, but at the same time, he wanted this to be over. Whatever was going to happen, let it happen, he thought. “Because it’s their first time,” he grumbled.

“Ding!” whispered Philip, “we have a winner. Yes, it’s Jason’s first time. Now, whenever it’s your first time, what do you want more than anything?”

Ben didn’t answer, because he didn’t have anything to reply with. “Dunno,” he said after a minute.

“I’m disappointed, Ben. This is the easiest question I can ask – in a manner of speaking, it’s your first time right now, isn’t it? And what do you want more than anything?”

“I…I want it to be over.”

Philip chuckled. “Right. When it’s your first time, and when you get going, the thing you want more than anything is to get it fucking over with. To not be nervous anymore. Well, Jason’s exactly the same. And, like any first timer – he doesn’t want to hurt you, Ben; he loves you. You, he will remember, for the rest of his life. Even when that kid of his grows up and has a runt of his own – you’ll still be the only man who has ever truly touched him.”

Ben craned his neck to look at Philip his face scrunched up in disgust. “Kid?!”

Philip chuckled again. “Oh, Ben. Bless your heart. Yes, Jason has a wife, and a child, and he’s as gay as a three bob note. It happens, you know. He thinks that if he does this, now, with you, it’ll…get the feelings out of his system. Make him better.”

Philip laughed loudly this time, causing Jason, still standing out of earshot but looking on expectantly, to frown in confusion. “Why’s that funny?” asked Ben. “It sounds fucking pathetic to me.”

“Yes,” replied Philip. “That’s why it’s funny. It’s funny, the little lies people can make up in their heads – lies which are so big, they come to depend on them for their own sanity. I mean, when you like a girl – let’s say, a girl you’ve liked more than anyone else, for years and years - do you fuck her once, and then it’s ‘out of your system’? Of course not! It’s like a drug, Ben. You have to keep going back…and I bet you go back pretty often, don’t you Ben? I bet you like nothing more than sticking that fat todger up some bird’s slippery old cunt.”

“Leave my…todger…out of this.”

“Alas, Ben. Your todger is at the very epicentre of all this.”

Before Ben could protest, Philip called Jason over.

Chapter Three

Jason approached, slowly moving between the helpless youngster’s shapely upturned thighs.

He placed a hand on each calf, feeling the bristly coating of fair fur on each leg, and squeezing each fillet of muscle contained within.

He steps forward, moving his hands as he goes; sliding along each leg, curving round from the base to the lateral exterior of each leg, as they get progressively closer to the ground.

Appreciating their sturdy heft; their gentle curve.

His hands progressed over the lyrca, his curiosity making him grip the stretchy fabric betwixt his fingers…as a completely heterosexual male farmer, obviously, he had made a point of never wearing or touching lycra shorts. But the way the fabric seemed moulded to the big boy’s chunky, rugger thighs…intrigued him.

He wondered if the fabric itched; if it made Ben’s poor sweaty cock and hairy balls tickle and tingle all day.

The made him close his eyes, and stifle a groan.

He only stopped slowly moving forward when his own crotch, well-packed and outrageously hard after years of unfulfilled want, sidled up into the crook of Ben’s own groin.

The lad was a good deal less eager about all this but, with the vim of youth combined with his notoriously unruly prong, he too was as stiff as his mum’s ironing board, pulsing and occasionally oozing into the tight black fabric.

Ben hated his dick for a whole bunch of reasons; the fact that it got hard whenever it wanted, the fact that it was always noticeable to others when he was hard because of how big it was; the fact that he’d ruined God knows how many pairs of boxers from the fucker leaking all the time. But what Ben hated most about his dick was that he was such a fucking slave to it.

He was pretty sure it wasn’t always like this. There probably was a time, when he was younger, when he’d think with his brain first. But now? It was just as well that he was tied up, because right at that moment, in spite of the fear, in spite of the anger, in spite of the humiliation, if he could’ve, he would’ve reached down and tossed himself silly.

And as Ben looked at Philip, the elder-statesman of the group, still standing at his side and stroking his blond hair – the only one not watching Jason, but instead watching Ben’s face, he realised with horror that Philip knew.

His secret was out.

As it was, if he wasn’t so in-the-moment; so utterly terrified, he’d of felt ashamed. But even though Jason moved with the speed of an overly cautious, calculating tortoise, it seemed like there was no time to feel afraid; things were happening so quickly.

Jason’s finger caused Ben to refocus his attentions with a start; he looked back at the man now standing between his outstretched thighs, and watched in horror as his right index finger picked at scratched at the outstretched knob, now being gently but surely scrubbed by the slick black fabric. Ben leant his head back, determined to stop the tide of misty horniness washing over him and his frail adolescent senses. The demure man put the finger which had just been picking at Ben’s grubby teenage bellend to his nose. He sniffed, then licked, then smiled, and then collapsed to his knees, where after briefly looking at the crisply defined shapes of Ben’s man-grown sex organs, moulded as they were to the black lycra, he mashed his face against the lad’s wonderfully spicy, perfectly spread crotch.

It seemed to Ben that Jason wasn’t especially eager to get this over with.

Every muscle in Ben’s body tensed in shock and horror as he felt and heard the quiet married man inelegantly slobber over his family jewels as if he were Jabba the Hut’s gay brother.

The shock was made worse by the fact that to this point in his life Ben was quite unaware that there were grown men who would pay anything and kill anyone to feast on his sweaty teenage treasures just as Jason was now.

Jason used to be so proud. He swore he wouldn’t get too involved, this first time…that he’d just turn up, prove to himself that this sort of thing really wasn’t for him, and then go home to his wife, reaffirmed in the belief that his life up to this point had been worthwhile.

Now, giving in to his basest carnal desires, he really wasn’t so sure. His strong hands gripped each of the muscle-boy’s ripped, athletic thighs, revelling in the marble-like strength of the flexed muscle.

His tongue had made a beeline for the bit of Ben’s anatomy which most intrigued him – along the pulsating shaft of the boy’s porker, the lycra richly flavoured with fresh, hot-from-the-oven male flavourings; a product of Ben’s perpetually-dissatisfied prong marinating for the past 20 minutes in an ever growing quantity of its own sweetened seepage. Jason ran his tongue, and his nipping teeth, along the shaft to the pronounced tip, where he was met by an intensely rich helping of concentrated boy-sap.

His slung-up legs remained hard and fixed as Jason descended still further whilst keeping his face thrust against Ben’s heavy appendages, his face’s journey eased by the compliant lycra easily sliding against his own saliva-slick face.

He paid an all-too-brief visit to the source of many of Ben’s problems – his walnut sized bollocks, overwrought with stimulation and hoping the buckets of testosterone and precum they were producing would cure Ben of his own confusingly intense sexual dilemma.

It didn’t.

Jason slid his tongue over first one entombed bollock and then the other, Ben watching his shaggy head and feeling his dexterous tongue as he quietly worked on his nuts.

When Jason withdrew his tongue and instead took one firm nut gently between his front teeth, Ben reared his head back and let out a high-pitched whimper; when Jason released the fat gonad and raked those same sharp teeth across the boy’s drawn-up sack, a pained, low growl was released from the very depths of Ben’s stomach, the disgustingly intense dissatisfaction causing his head to swim and his legs to turn to mush in their constraints.

Philip, still beside him whispered, “are you alright Ben? You look a little flushed.”

Unable to admit to another man the feelings coursing through him, Ben just lay there with his eyes squeezed shut – pretty much the only form of rebellion still open to him.

He couldn’t tell his cock what to do, but at least he still had control of his eyes.

Except he didn’t! Even that was denied as, with the constant, delicious wetness from Jason’s tongue and teeth compelling him to ascend to ever greater heights, Ben found his eyes opening so he could stare down once more at Jason’s shaggy head, powerless to stop the farmer from becoming better acquainted with his stinky bag of tricks.

It was at this point, with the man sucking the very life out of his nuts, that Ben realised who was really to blame for all this – his bloody girlfriend. And girls in general, actually.

If they’d ever – ever – done this for him, he’d be used to it, and it wouldn’t be such a big deal. But no. When would a girl hate themselves enough to lower themselves to this sort of thing? The only way – the ­only ­way – you could even hope to get a girl to do this was to go out with some great big fat 32 year old virgin, who would feel compelled to do whatever you wanted, even if that meant sucking on your babymakers whilst you watched Match of the Day.

No. Because of that, Ben, well-respected lothario that he was, was totally inexperienced, and the result was clear for all to see: total physical embolism.

Without even realising it, Ben started to shake slightly. And he found himself twisting his feet, digging the heel of his shoe into the rope tied around his ankle, so that he could get better leverage – and all so he could push his crotch a quarter of an inch of so closer to Jason’s face. A part of his brain was shouting, he’s already fucking close enough! But that voice was dead to him now.

At the same time, his knees began to bend, as he strained his considerable muscles in opening his legs – again, it achieved at most, a quarter of an inch or so, but for Ben, at that moment, it was worth it.

Then, Jason moved further still, into the humid climes surrounding his dank perenium – the fetid environment nestled between his mountainous thighs; corpulent arse on one end, troublesome ballsack on the other, which no man or woman had previously yet explored.

Now, this really was new. Why would a person want to put their face there? Ben couldn’t understand it at all.

Jason, however, was in his element, his teeth clawing at the boy’s sweat-slick thighs, the air thick with the distilled, compressed male stink emanating from his arse and balls.

But for Ben, there were pros and cons to this sort of thing. Sure, he got a kick out of knowing this bloke got a kick from…that part of him, but what was the point? It felt odd. But for Ben, the problem at this point wasn’t so much the activity, but rather the noises. They were the one thing you never saw in a porno, and now, they horrified him. Jason, practically sucking the dank musky ball-sweat and thigh-sweat and bum-sweat accrued over the day’s walking in the summer heat and coalescing around Ben’s juvenile juncture, was making such fucking awful noises – a constant litany of wet squelches; a horse, almost asthmatic heavy breathing through his nose (which was, admittedly, depositing a cosy, pleasing warmth on his crampt ballsack); an oddly erotic slurping that transmuted a giggling gentle vibration throughout his stuffy groin; and the occasional animalistic snuffle.

If Ben could’ve closed his eyes, he would of. But instead, he stared, unable to look away as Jason, now satisfied with his explorations thus far, produced a flick knife, sliding the blade along the seams of his shorts as if he were filleting a baby calf.

At this point, Ben closed his eyes, and said a little prayer.

But even now, as he was ‘unveiled’, he felt his prick lurch suddenly, rear up its angry flared head and deposit a dribble of juice on his flaxen pubes. Damn me and my stupid cock, Ben thought.

As Jason pulled the fabric away, taking care to remove the sticky material plastered to Ben’s excited bothersome knob, the men, all of whom were stroking their own cocks, murmured in admiration. Philip, looking on, smiled down at Ben and ruffled his hair, as if to congratulate him on doing so well in the cock department.

“It looks like the sort of cock an angel would have,” said Danny reverentially.

Robbie slung an arm around his shoulder remarking, “my brother Danny, always putting those Sunday school lessons to good use!” There was a murmur of laughter, but not as much as Robbie would’ve liked.

He took out his frustrations on Danny’s cock, firmly yanking on his big brother’s little(er) cock.

Thick, and long. Unblemished, and uncut. Alabaster white, with a sheath obscuring what the exposed tip promised to be a deeply scented rose-pink head. Hard, and straight (in more ways than one). As Jason wrapped his fist around the thick shaft of the bound adolescent’s needy oversized prick, his face descended slowly; meekly; reverentially, to the almost comically swollen hair-lined bag resting beneath.

His eyes closed, he was guided by little more than the overpowering, yet distinct bouquet produced by the lad’s distressed nads – a stale stink noted for its fertile starchiness and darkly musky raw sexual power.

Sure enough, Jason’s course stayed true. Lifting the right nut up with the flat of his wet tongue, he sucked the precious grape into his warm, moist, mouth.

His mouth suddenly got a lot moister as his appetite for boy balls was fuelled by the sights, tastes and smells now enveloping him.

He began to methodically suckle on the juicy overweight cumsac before quickly sliding its randy brother into his cavernous mouth, his teeth gently clamping down on the prodigious prickly meat of his sack to keep the temperamental teenager’s groin firmly tethered to his own face.

Then, Jason proceeded to dine on Ben in a manner which maximised his own carnal pleasure whilst keeping Ben suitably frustrated.

And what a meal. As Jason used spit – lots and lots of spit - to savour and devour each intensely aromatic offering from each sweaty follicle and each irrigated ribbed ridge of Ben’s bulging sack flesh, his tongue did its best to manfully curl around the pair of full nuts, licking and basting them still further in the lad’s own sex sweat.

This all had quite an effect on Ben. He had nothing to do with it, really; he was just lying there, slack, feeling as though he were a visitor to his own body. But the steady trickle of fuck juice, always emanating from the boys gaping pisshole, had (since Jason had latched his face onto Ben’s poor, sensitive nutsack) turned into a constantly flowing, pulsing, burping stream.

In no time at all, Jason’s hand, wrapped around the boy’s fully-extended dong and steadily jacking it in time with his own, was coated in the lad’s syrupy seasoning, coating his fingers, Ben’s cock, and Ben’s bouncy blonde bush; previously moist with sweat, now positively swampy with pre.

Ben almost felt like he should apologise, but then he realised Jason liked this sort of thing. Previously, he’d always been a little self-conscious of the fact he dripped pre so often; girls had implied it wasn’t ‘normal’.

But then, there were lots of things about Ben’s crotch that wasn’t normal, and Jason seemed to enjoy those abnormalities a great deal; so Ben decided that no, he wouldn’t apologise.

Fuck him.

But with his legs aching from being tensed for so long, he couldn’t help but moan…in pain, initially, but it quickly morphed into something longer, whinier, and more guttural. More…carnal.

Jason treated that as his cue to move on to better, and definitively bigger, things.

Knowing that the boy’s fluidic baby droppings were going to waste on his hand, Jason allowed Ben’s randy bollocks to plop from his mouth.

From there, it was a short journey to Ben’s stiff, clogged-up organ, now pointing up toward his naval and resplendent with a bright pink head, fully retracted and burbling up that constant stream of laddish liquor.

As Jason jacked the bottom half of his shaft, corkscrewing and frigging the boy mercilessly, his mouth descended over the first inch of the top half, enclosing his perfumed, plump, plum-like head in its entirety.

“Oh, Jesus,” Ben muttered, his eyes closed as his curved buttocks flexed for all they were worth up into the married farmer’s pliant mouth.

John, who was watching the scene off to the side smirked and said, “Jesus indeed. If that ain’t the most beautiful thing I’ve seen involving that tree…a real fuckin’ Kodak moment.”

Nobody said anything as Jason took in another inch. And then another, as if he were a snake swallowing a cucumber.

Ben, still flexing upward, was incoherently mumbling with a raw, beastly need “more…MORE…fuckin’ more…bit more, please…please…little more…”, a constant commentary of inane pleadings and insistent demands.

Jason was down to the fourth inch, and was methodically, almost clumsily suckling on Ben’s developed, well experienced – but ultimately foolish lad-cock. His lips then ascended along the pale surface, greedily digesting the zesty sheen of sweat and tart beads balljuice which had steadily built up and now coated his sublimely fat shaft after his day of orienteering.

Jason’s tongue finally reached the summit, where it proceeded to do a merry little dance upon Ben’s tortured purple head, hoovering up the acrid piss from his rushed toilet break into a bush earlier in the day, whilst constantly, eagerly devouring the syrupy discharge from Ben’s criminally unsatisfied, unhappy and overworked teen bull-balls.

Descending once more to inch six, Jason could take no more, and rather than kill himself, he worked his mouth back up, so that only Ben’s princely, darkly pink and greased-up royal crown remained in his mouth, which he proceeded to greedily suck from and absent-mindedly nip at in a manner reminiscent of his squawking kid whenever it was around his wife’s tits.

Of course, teenage-player-about-town that was he was, Ben was used to this sort of thing. He might only be 17, but growing up in a big inner-city neighbourhood, blowjobs were no big deal for him.

But the situation, combined with everything that had come before, made Ben into loose, over-eager putty, ready to cum at the next turn of a fist.

Sensing this, Philip reached for the boy’s T-shirt, and carefully pulled it up and over his head, looping it behind his neck and revealing the teenager’s divinely sculpted, hairless torso.

Ben was so lost, he didn’t even notice.

But he certainly felt Philip’s blunt nail forcefully molesting his right titty.

“AGH-HA GODNOGODOGONAGGHHH”

It was at this moment that Ben tensed every muscle so hard that it rendered every square inch of his body a painful wreck the following day.

Jason felt the first spurt of Ben’s uniquely mulled and well-clotted west-country cream flood his mouth with a dazzling array of intensely boyish flavours.

Removing his mouth after that first surge, Jason held the shaft firmly as Ben emptied himself onto himself, and only now did he get to truly look at the boy’s magnificent prick – all eight stiff inches of it, firing off white pellets of jizz with a strength only an emotionally wrought and sexually charged teenager is capable of – with the first shot hitting him square in the forehead, coating his blonde bangs with paste, before hitting his eye, nose, lips and torso.

Jason stood, and jacked his cock for all it was worth, still savouring the lad’s lustily ripe, heartily robust boyish taste on his tongue, and licking his other hand for the cooling remains of the teen’s intimate, explosive emission.

Ben, had slipped into a post-coital coma, his eyes closed as his cock continued to gently discharge gravy into his pubes, his abs clinching in delightful agony with each burst.

He flinched when he felt viscous goop impact against his scalp, screaming “GOD NO” - but it was too late.

Jason’s own orgasm, more powerful than any he could previously remember, jetted out of his cock and screamed across Ben’s bullish neck, built torso, and cherubic face.

Jason was particularly proud of the shot the slid through the boys lips as he was protesting, causing him to cough and splutter, pulling restlessly on his bonds as he was overcome with the agitation of it all.

When Jason was done, he cleaned his cock on a few curly handfuls of Ben’s freshly washed hair, with Philip then rubbing the thick pellets now decorating his hair further and deeper into his scalp, intoning “don’t worry lad, keeps your hair nice and shiny. Now, one down, four to go. I think it’s our two young brothers who are next…”

Chapter Four

As Danny and Robbie approached the prone boy, Ben suddenly felt his arms give way; for one brief, mad moment, he thought that maybe he was being freed.

But just as quickly as the torso-end of his body had started to move downward, ever closer toward the cool grass beneath, he stopped, with Philip once more retying the knot to the tree.

Ben’s profile had switched from a ‘V’ shape to a ‘_/’ shape, with his head, shoulders and back now perpendicular to the ground, but his legs still numb and in the air.

Was it possible to feel both numb and pain? Ben thought it must be possible as the new position stretched his legs still further, prompting bolts of pain to shoot through the muscular, well-worked limbs.

He again tried to bend his legs slightly; to bring his muscles some relief; but it was too much effort. His strength was expended, and he could do no more, so he just lay there, slack.

Danny and Robbie stood side-by-side between his legs, Robbie running a hand along one thigh, cold with sweat, as both brothers looked down at him.

“You’ve got a little something on your face, mate,” said Robbie with a chuckle, flicking a rivulet of white spunk up into helpless Ben’s wide, dulcet brown right eye; he flinched, but his eyelash was dotted with his own pearly batter, all the same.

As one, the two brothers knelt. Ben was about to tell them he couldn’t handle another blowjob so soon after Jason, but he felt one of the brother’s scoop up his genitals in their hand – and move them away from his body.

Then, he felt other hands on his buttocks. Being a diminutive little lad, his arse was a small, tightly formed little thing; but powerful and peachy, too.

He was always proud of his precious, perfectly rounded pink behind, going out of his way to show it off wherever girls might be around…but as he lay there, a west country simpleton having his adolescent buttcheeks squeezed and hefted by some dirty farmer, as if he were choosing melons at the market, he couldn’t help but think that his perfect posterior was going to get him in even more trouble.

He heard Robbie mutter something which ended with ‘arse’, and presumed he was the one doing the fondling.

Ben then felt Robbie’s head of hair rubbing against his lower back, and realised that the farmer was actually physically under him, inspecting his arse.

It was a thorough inspection. Not one for having his arse played with in any sexual context, let alone an all-male one, Ben instinctively clenched when he felt Robbie’s thumb begin to accidently-on-purpose slide through his darkly menacing, acutely inclined anal trench. It was at this point that Ben was pleased he spent so much time at the gym working his glutes, when Robbie retorted loudly, “the fucker’s trapped me thumb!”

John replied, “well, there are worse places to trap a thumb than up a lad’s arse, eh?”

“That there is! I can only assume young Ben here’s had a change of heart, and very much wants me to get to know his copper penny!”

“Now, Robert,” continued John jokingly, “just because a person likes to be anally violated doesn’t make him gay. You should know better. Being a gay yourself, I mean.”

“Good point, Jonathan. Being a gay myself, I do indeed know better. Don’t worry, Benny-boy, it don’t make ya’ gay to have a cravin’ to bounce on me finger for a while.”

At which point, Robbie spent a brief moment running the tip of his fat thumb across the slick rose of muscle at the centre of Ben’s arse, nudging the scratching nail and yielding thumb-tip with every greater strength into the boy’s grouchy fundament. This prompted Ben to relent, unflexing his solid rear, and Robbie removed his thumb– after a moment more of naughtily fiddling with the prone straight boy’s unknowing pussy.

But he left only so he could give Ben’s arse one last jiggle before sliding his hands down to his lower back and pushing the teenager’s crotch up into the air, and revealing his winking, twinkling arsehole to the sun, and his waiting brother.

Ben knew that it made him look like more a slut, but God, the relief it brought to his legs now that he could bend them a little was so fucking sweet.

With his leg’s parted and crooked, the two brother’s continued with their plan – a plan Ben would’ve found it impossible to guess at, until he felt Danny dumb, wet tongue slowly slide up the furry, tropical interior of Ben’s serpentine canal.

Again Ben clenched, determined to stop the thrashing anal invader in its tracks, and Danny chuckled slightly. He loved nothing more than sticking his sloppy tongue up some lad’s bum, particularly if it was a good hearty one with mountainous slopes, and particularly if the lad didn’t want Danny’s probing tongue up there.

And as he knelt there, his tongue flaying around within the musky, sweaty confines of Ben’s crevasse, his teeth sinking into the deep flesh which lined it, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. But, he felt it was probably about time to take charge a little; to let Ben know precisely who was in charge of his fit arse from now on.

With his randy sibling pushing the kid’s backside into the air, all Danny needed to do was stop wanking his cock for a moment, grip the powerfully toned cheeks, and pull, as if he were popping open an oyster.

He was impressed with how fit Ben proved to be.

It was seriously difficult for him to prize open the boy’s arse – it was almost as if Ben really, really didn’t want Danny’s blunt fingers and wet tongue to hold court over his musky trench.

Danny’s task wasn’t helped by his sweaty hands combining with Ben’s deliciously sweaty bum, compelling him to regrip every couple of seconds but, whilst he might like to think otherwise when around his friends, the fact of the matter was that Ben wasn’t superman.

Danny’s pulling and yanking and prying finally paid off, with Ben’s muscular globes relenting a fraction of an inch – all Danny needed to manoeuvre his tongue purposefully forward, and down, into the dark, fetid depths of Ben’s rump.

Now nose-deep, the randy farmer drove forward, his tongue painting Ben’s previously untouched anal opening with a thin, sloppy film of spittle.

The sodden sensation coming from deep in his ass surprised straight Ben, leading to a complete collapse in his anal defences.

Danny’s strong hands capitalised on his moment of confused pleasantness by definitively parting the twin peaks of his arse and revealing for the first time the moist, darkly blond curls decorating his deeply-set crease to the bright summer air, and withdrawing so he slowly blow cool air along the entirety of his bare, sopping wet crack.

With Ben’s eyes all a-flutter as he once more revelled in the unexpectedly pleasant feelings emanating from the arsehole he was previously so protective of, it was easy for Danny to then slide his tongue through the teen’s tight, but accessible knot of muscle, and into the scorching interior of Ben’s hot, round ass.

With the boy’s prickly ballsack providing an interesting view and unique teen-boy aroma as he worked, Danny sliced his tongue in and out of Ben’s now defeated pussy as his brother made sure the boy was positioned perfectly for his sibling to work.

Poor Ben was lost. The prostate was not something the young, fiercely straight teen was particularly aware of – infact, he routinely confused it with the appendix. But when Danny’s solid, spear-like tongue started prodding and pressing against his happy little fucknut, Ben knew that was not a mistake he would ever make again.

For those watching and wanking, it was great to watch how Ben’s body would spasm whilst simultaneously intoning ‘UGH…UGH…UGH…” at regular intervals, each and every time Danny’s tongue entered and took a sneaky swipe at the orgasm regulator deep within his steaming insides.

Danny was kinda lost, too; unaware of any world existing beyond Ben’s buttcheeks, and completely focussed on sucking and prodding and jabbing and suckling and tasting everything the cocky lad’s succulent, well-exercised rear end had to offer.

John, however, retained close control over the situation, closely observing how Ben’s wet, shiny cock had gone from its soft (well, half-hard…that was as soft as it got for 17 year old Ben) condition, to steadily inflate over the course of Danny’s sloppy anal lovemaking to its present state of pulsing in time with the lad’s rapid heartbeat, depositing yet more treacly secretions onto his flat tummy.

Before Ben came, he pulled Danny away from his now well-irrigated buttcrack, his unfulfilled hole winking and flexing as the spit it was festooned in quickly became ice cold in the breeze.

But, it only remained unfilled for a short while, as Robbie saw his bother stand and moved to stand himself, watching as Danny gripped and pushed the boy’s two legs as far toward his chest as he could, and then smoothly slid his seven and half inches up past the boy’s now defunct anal knot and into the tight cosy confines of the boy’s rectum.

“AGH-HARGH, no, STOP!”

But even if they’d wanted to, could anyone of stopped Danny, whose build resembled a brick shit-house more than most modern brick shit-houses do?

No, better to just leave him to carry on, despite Ben’s pleadings.

Danny kicked things off with what he called a ‘gentle hello’; sliding his thin but lengthy tuning fork into the boy’s arse, and only stopping when his dark pubes were grinding into the finely fuzzed teeny-bopper ballsack of his prone, uncooperative lover.

Holding it for a few moments, he leaned into the boy, breathing.

“STOP Y-Y-You FUCK, stopppppp!”

Danny would then calmly extract his cock – all except the bulbous head, which he would leave in because he liked the natural heat generated by a boy’s insides, gently warming the tip of his pisser, before then putting all of the power he honed through labouring and farming and playing rugby to good use, and slamming into the boy as hard as he possibly could.

The tree visibly shook. Leaves fell. And Ben screamed, loudly, his legs pushing back on Danny’s unmoving hands, as he was being fucked by a man who clearly held the caveman as his rolemodel in lovemaking.

“My fucking insides, you’re…moving…my insides,” Ben whimpered as Danny once more withdrew, and pushed forward, with less gusto then before, but still more gusto then straight Ben was really comfortable with.

In most instances, it would be at this time that the boy would break; that he would either start screaming incoherently, or simply stop speaking altogether.

But for proud, noble Ben, it took one more grand-slam, which Danny was happy to deliver.

And then Ben convulsed, as though all the nerve endings coating his previously pristine insides were engulfed in a total, all-encompassing, unimaginable sexual wildfire.

Following that, Ben laid there, as though in a state of deep contemplation – but of course, what with him now mid-way through the fucking of a lifetime, he was if anything steadily losing his ability to contemplate, think, talk or for that matter do anything at all which required significant higher brain function.

His body slackened, moving in time to Danny’s evolving fucking style – the long, purposeful strokes, which felt like he might as well of slid a blunt candlestick up his rectum – slowly – had been replaced by a series of insistent, urgent, uncoordinated thrusts, varying in speed and intensity but always resulting in Danny’s floppy ballsack swinging up to audibly smack against Ben’s coccyx – and with his greasy cockhead maddeningly diddling his distressed prostate on each inward thrust.

All the while, Philip stood at one end, Ben’s head resting in the crotch of his jeans, allowing himself to wallow in his stink as the old farmer lovingly stroked his blond, cum-streaked hair. Robbie meanwhile ran his fingertips along Ben’s reinvigorated cock; commending Ben for its size, like girls did – which always struck Ben as stupid; after all, he didn’t really have anything to do with that. He went to say thanks, but instead just said “urmghh.”

And things got worse for Ben’s cracked mind as the index finger of Robbie’s right hand methodically ran over the unctuous, stinking pheromone-laden tip, the hard, calcified nail scratched at the point where the cushion-like rose-hued knob ended and the alabaster-white sheath began, causing the sensitive, flared head of his organ to feel as though it were being tickled by an orgasm… “ammagah,” he groaned as his head briefly reared, like he were about to throw-up. But Ben soon settled back down and returned to his sexual haze, and once more lost track of thoughts, insignificant as they were, and surrendered to the fork prodding his insides, and the orgasm tickling his knob.

He was both relieved and annoyed when both Robbie’s hand departed his dribbley, juvenile bellend, and Danny’s cock departed his tight, straight sphincter.

Both his relief and his annoyance were cut short however, as the two farmers had merely switched positions, with Danny now taking charge of the teen’s rampant erection as he leisurely stroked his own, more mature wood with his other hand.

His brother moved between the lad’s legs and, wrapping his arms firmly around each toned thigh, jammed his mammoth cock into Ben’s well-worn arsehole with a forceful grunt, his toes curling as his organ was embraced by the warm, gloopy insides that his brother’s own prick had been slicing in and out of only a moment previously. Robbie ignored the more restrained, but still pronounced and heartfelt yelp from Ben.

With the lad’s legs once again resembling a pair of polished marble columns, Robbie quickly began slamming in and out of the boy’s strong, but enfeebled arse, and whereas Danny was nudging and brushing against Ben’s nut with resolute poise, it felt like Robbie was positively beating the thing up, smacking into it again, and again, and again.

Ben’s only reaction to the onslaught was to meekly accept the ravaging of his arse and the diddling of his hunky chunky prick by the two brothers, and lie there, T-shirt stretched over his head, size 12 hiking boots up in the air.

Danny enjoyed getting to know Ben’s prick. It wasn’t as good as his brother’s, but it was certainly worth investigating.

He began by leaning down, and breathing in the earthy, pungent scent produced by the teenager’s perky prick, beginning where the scent was at its strongest: at the boyishly vinegary epicentre of his adolescent potatoes. He then ran his nose along the slick, sweaty shaft, like it were a Cuban cigar, before coming to rest on the zestily gamey knob.

Farmer Danny – who was an expert at these things – decided that Ben smelt a lot like the bull they kept in the top field. He was a horny bugger; his big, swaying cock always dripping, always looking for something to fuck.

Yes, he and Ben had a lot in common.

But how many bulls get to find out what it’s like to be the heifer? Only the seriously unlucky bulls ever got to experience that unique pleasure.

Danny concluded his up-close-and-personal tour with a quick, sneaky taste of Ben’s knob – nothing too invasive, you understand; just a little kiss.

Unfortunately, Danny was so taken by the stickily sweet emission coating the boyish knob, that he followed this up with a somewhat lazier, somewhat slower, somewhat more satisfying lick of the boy’s lusciously sour, ripened cock-plum.

Danny became somewhat lost at this point; but he heard himself slurping as he traversed the lad’s all-seeing eye, so perhaps it was even lazier than intended.

And, somehow – Danny really couldn’t explain it; it must have been something to do with what his brother was up to, or perhaps it was Philip sensually twirling the tufts of shaggy hair around Ben’s ears – but as soon as Danny extracted his face, Ben’s half-lidded eyes fogged up with lust, his abs started crunching, and then, he started to cum.

The first shot, which was catapulted up to Ben’s hairless, square jaw, was accompanied with him leaning his head back, closing his eyes, and roaring like a fucking animal.

“Uhhhh…AH-HA,” he intoned with the second, his voice a tortured, high-pitched wail of undiluted pleasure.

Of course, Danny didn’t exactly help. As Ben was enduring his tormenting orgasm, cum rocketing out of his untouched prick, the organ winding back, twitching and bouncing after each agonised volley, Danny’s fingertips idly flittered along the pronounced cum-pipe running the length of the lad’s throbbing erection.

And rather than lend a relieving, much-welcomed hand, Danny opted instead to observe, and rub; almost tickle that pipe, in what was for Danny at least now more of an experiment then a sexual encounter, as he made a game of attempting to trace the pellets of thick, laddish batter as they each shot along the runway and flew out of the flared gaping piss-slit at the end.

The lack of any friction on his prick made the whole thing painful for Ben; but it was a sort of sweet, blinding pain that compelled his throat to growl and gurgle in confused, angry ecstasy.

And then, as his orgasm subsided with flecks of his own cum painting his jaw, upper torso and once again his pubes, Ben suddenly felt like his intestines had been removed – as if there was a gaping hole in the pit of his gut.

And then, Robbie was at his left side, wanking his cock furiously. Ben was almost hypnotised by the sight of Robbie’s 9 inch prick, and he found himself staring at the little hole at the end.

A splash of thick liquid smacking his cheek broke him out of his reverie – but Ben was puzzled, because Robbie was still wanking hard.

As he turned to look on his right side, Danny, who was now directly opposite his brother and towering over Ben’s face, fired a second shot of farmer spunk, coating his nose; a third quickly followed, striking his lip and chin.

Robbie’s first shot struck him on the head, settling thickly into his blonde hair. Not learning his lesson, he instinctively turned to look in the general direction the projectile had come from, just in time to see a second shot smack him in the eye, with a third and a fourth striking his lips. Not satisfied with merely coating the boy, Robbie gripped his compliant skull and guided the head of his organ past his puffy pink lips.

Ben looked up at him imploringly, as Robbie said “drink up now Ben. It’s good for you, that is. Drink it all up.”

Ben did nothing as the final salty expulsion from Robbie’s heavy balls splashed onto his wet, twisting tongue, now for some reason Ben couldn’t explain, curled around the older man’s slimy purple cockhead.

Danny’s orgasm now complete, Ben didn’t even notice as he moved an inch closer and, running his finger forcefully along his own organ to produce a final globule of spunk on the oily tip, carefully and assiduously wiped himself clean on Ben’s pink, shell-like ear, using the ridges and crevices of solid cartilage to maximum effect.

As the two brothers withdrew their cocks, Philip smiled. “Well. I suppose now, at long last, it’s the turn of my Nephew. And myself.”

Chapter Five

John, wanking over by the picnic hamper, approached the boy from afar, but Philip was closer, so he took the time to carefully lower the rope holding Ben’s wrists another inch or so.

Then, as his Nephew started to pull down his own trousers, Philip pulled down his own, revealing the great, big, ugly, veiny slab of meat he called a cock. Without so much as a word of warning, he stood once more at the head of Ben’s tired body, gripped his hairless chin so as to tip his head back, and smoothly slid his pungent eel down the fit teenager’s untested gullet.

Meanwhile John, whose trousers were now round his ankles, sidled up to the other end of the boy, and eased his own smaller, but not insubstantial 7 inch prick between the sodden, ruined cushions of the boy’s ass.

Ben was vaguely aware of someone for the third time that day sliding a hot living poker into his tortured str8 arsehole. But what with the novelty of such an event having worn off long ago, added to the sexual mist now thoroughly enveloping his proud, but under-developed juvenile mind, it barely registered.

Also, he had bigger things to worry about, going on closer to his mind.

A lot bigger, and a lot closer.

Philip had initially slid his stale, sweaty cock – ever so gently – down Ben’s constricting throat, keeping a firm grip on his neck, and watching the teen’s adam’s apple bob as he did so.

But as Ben’s baby browns began to water, he slowed, and when he coughed, even though it was delightfully coating his cock with phlegm and a heartily warm breeze, Philip relented and pulled back.

But only slightly. After all, the sensations really were quite pleasant.

What Philip didn’t know, however, was how John’s actions at the other end of the boy’s coltish body were as much to blame for his coughing and spluttering, as his Nephew’s wickedly curved cock methodically sawed into his despoiled body for the first time, scraping along the sensitive tissues lining his stuffed rectum before predatorily circling and inevitably pouncing on his stiff prostate.

As the fleshy intruder began to slowly withdraw, Ben managed to regain some semblance of self-awareness. He became acutely aware of what his face was doing; of saliva dripping, like a waterfall, from his mouth, around the sloppy cock, onto the contours of his soft face, already sodden with reeking sweat and greasy white paste.

Ben’s tongue scraped along the ridges of the mansized cock lodged in his throat, in an effort to better accommodate it – and ‘better accommodate’ in this instance means, ‘breathe’.

Philip was happy for Ben’s tongue to go to work, haphazardly and without any real ability or eagerness, on the stiff pipe he was still leaving stuffed in the boy’s thick neck.

He stood there, idling away a few quiet moments by scraping his blunt nail across the erect teat adorning the lad’s muscular shiny torso. Quickly growing tired of that however, he gently ran his nails across the boy’s chest, collecting up a little taster of the various fluids which had coalesced between the nooks, crannies and ridges of his pronounced pectorals.

Sliding his fingers into his mouth, his taste buds were assaulted by the tart, ripe flavours of base, frantic masculinity in its purest form.

Ben’s brief, fleeting moment of self-awareness soon slipped away however as John’s cock got the better of the teenager’s mind, and he descended once more into a fuck-induced haze, his dextrous tongue going limp as the sound waves and vibrating voice-box triggered by his demonic groan reverberated against Philip’s cock.

For Philip at least, that seemed as good a time as any to carefully pull back until only the purple head of his cock remained wrapped within the confines of Ben’s soft dewy lips.

He looked down and smiled at the straight boy who, now his mind was mush and who had no understanding of anything beyond the feelings coursing through his overloaded body, was contentedly and absent-mindedly suckling on Philip’s crown as if it were a meaty, salty pacifier. Fearing Ben might cry if he took it away, Philip instead took a small but necessary step forward, so he could stuff his cock down the boy’s throat like he were stuffing a turkey. He only stopped when his mature ballsack rested upon Ben’s hirsute top lip; the bristly, fragrant mane of fur which coated his pendulous sack tickling Ben’s nose and threatening to him make sneeze.

Ben wretched, using his young but developed muscles to pull against his bonds as hard as he could, coughing and spluttering and very nearly dislodging the weighty bag of babies resting on his face.

When he started gasping for air, his mouth as wide as it’d go around Philip’s prick, Philip again rested, allowing Ben to become acquainted with the size.

“You’re doing a super job, Ben,” Philip shouted. “Won’t be long til we fuck the straight-peacock persona out of you and mould you into a fine, submissive little cocksucker. Then you can come visit the countryside more often, eh? Spend the whole weekend, maybe – tell the parents you’re going ‘orienteering’. And then I can spend the weekend taking you on an epic journey, tied to my bedroom. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Ben?”

“Ummrff,” Ben drowsily replied, his mouth too full of cock to say anything sensible.

“I’ll take that as a yes. So what you have to do now, Benny, is suck. Just think about what you like a girl to do, and do that. Yeah, I’m looking forward to your visits. You can come down on the train with your girlfriend, if you like; a nice romantic stay in the country; but you’ll have to find something for her to do whilst you suck me off behind that old abandoned cow shed they have down by the station. Now you’d like THAT, wouldn’t you? Don’t answer, Ben. Just keep working that tongue. And then, maybe I’d milk you, in that old shed? Or maybe I wouldn’t. Depends on my mood. But don’t…umh…that’s it, keep, keep doing that…don’t worry, Ben, you’ll still get time with the missus. I wouldn’t want to, you know, cause problems for your relationship. Just a few good squirts of jizz down your throat to set you up for the weekend, and then you go off and be all lovey-dovey together; you’d like that, wouldn’t you Ben? Nod.”

Philip felt his fat ballsack moving this way and that as the befuddled, malfunctioning youth slowly nodded.

“Good boy.”

As a ‘reward’ for his compliance, Philip began to withdraw the slimy cock from Ben’s mouth, the gaping pink eye at the end depositing a trail of lukewarm man-goo across Ben’s tongue as he did so; he watched as Ben made sloppy gulping sounds, absent-mindedly drinking down the farmer’s nutty protein without even realising it.

This time, instead of leaving the head inside Ben’s compliant mouth, Philip stepped back slightly so he could withdraw entirely, and draw up a thick pearl of translucent syrup from the balls perched atop the lad’s face, using his hand to steer the tip of his frothing monster gently across the delicate pink surface of the youngster’s puffy, kissable and slightly-parted lips, his dark brown eyes looking up at him as he did so.

“I bet you’re a reeeeal fuckin’ heartbreaker, eh Ben,” he muttered. “All those girls, weepin’ from up top and down below over you, well if only they could see you now, with my slime coating your lips, my nephew’s dong up your shitter, and ma’ boys babies all over your face. There, that’s enough for the moment. Lick your lips.”

Ben’s tongue hesitantly slithered out of his mouth, and carefully licked his lips, and continued doing so until the sauce was gone.

He showed no visible reaction as he did so.

John interjected, “bet that tongues great for lickin out cunnies, Ben-me-old-mucker. Works just as well lickin’ up me Uncle’s baby slop though, don’t it?”

Ben still didn’t say anything, his body just gently rocking in time with the persistent fucking John was administering.

John kept one hand on Ben’s thigh, but used the other to explore a little bit; tweaking a perky, erect nipple here, running along a slack, unresponsive calf there; often returning to give the boy’s slumbering cock an unwelcome yank, pulling back his greasy sheath; or giving his recharging balls an unanticipated squeeze, jiggling the firm eggs in a crinkly sack which John could smell a metre away…the unmistakable smell of angrily feverish, proudly bursting, but presently overworked boy-balls.

All the while, he kept up with his experienced strokes; slower than those Ben had endured previously, but with a powerful strength, sufficient size and well-practiced ability which ensured John personally visited every nook and cranny of Ben’s guts on every rectal descent, with the rabidly heterosexual lad’s long limbs tensing fiercely and his well-exercised (in more ways than one) arse pushing back on each of John’s inward strokes.

John enjoyed the teenage rugby player’s muscular butt cheeks meeting his own pumping hips, and acting as a delightfully firm-yet-yielding cushion.

And as an unintended dramatic bonus, a cushion which made a loud, echoing clap of thunder every five seconds or so.

“Oh, Ben. That really is lovely,” he said mockingly. “I’m so pleased you’ve worked and worked that arse over the years; it’s coming in so ruddy handy right now. Not only delightful to look at, but absolutely brill to fuck, too.”

It was impossible to maintain forever, however, and as practiced as John was, he was still young: when he felt the inevitable tingle deep in his balls, his body demanded more, and faster – and like all young men, including the one he was fucking; John was ultimately a servant of his body.

As he got closer, the well-practiced strokes were replaced by shorter, stronger, harder strokes; as he got closer, his prick spent more and more time in the sweltering interior of Ben’s deliciously rounded, hardened backside; as he got closer, the time between the claps of thunder steadily got closer and closer, as the storm got nearer and nearer.

Philip had also not been idle: he had taken a hold on to the boy’s neck, as if he were strangling him, and had then slid his meaty spear into the gaping orifice, resting and dribbling in the snug, warm cavity usually employed by Ben to chat up girls, before withdrawing and doing it all over again.

Philip pushed himself into the boy’s face at varying speeds, watching the tubular lump his prick made in Ben’s sloppy throat as his fat, spluttering cock would become lodged in it.

Thanks to his Nephew’s methodical strokes, it was relatively easy to ensure that he was pushing forward just as his Nephew was; not only did this ensure as much cock as possible got shoved into the lad, but it also meant that all at once his tonsils were tickled by a thickly pulsing beast, and his prostate was titillated by a thickly weeping cockhead.

As a result, each and every thrust by the two men caused Ben’s simple heterosexual mind to pop, and his delicate heterosexual senses to melt.

Philip motioned for a still jittery Jason to raise the rope tied to Ben’s wrists by a half inch of so. This made things a little harder for Ben, but it meant Philip could be satisfied in having the forlorn straight boy’s head and face wedged tightly and securely up against the sweaty, gnarled bush of hair coating his untamed and unwashed perenium, deep between the fit forty year olds hard-worked, hairy legs.

Ben kept his mouth and eyes firmly shut, but Philip delighted in feeling the tingle of warm air emitted from his nose and gently breezing against the back of the hairy ballsack Ben’s nose now abutted, knowing that every time the the city boy breathed in, he’d have no choice but to breath in the earthy scent of the farmer’s ripe nads.

Ben didn’t even really notice. He was too occupied with the cock, embedded in his dopey blonde noodle, which he was desperately trying to coexist with – something which the cock in question, angry and spitting, seemed to have no interest in.

Ben had only one response; the same one the proud rugby-playing lad had offered up several times already today: abject surrender.

So, he just lay there, being spit roasted by a pair of wondrous, horrific cocks, with only the sight and thick, acrid smell of a farmer’s bullish ballsack to occupy him.

He tried to pretend he was somewhere else: that he was at school, playing a game – one of those games which hurt so hard that every muscle hurt…but there were muscles in his body which never hurt in even the most arduous of sports, but which were being stretched and exercised in every way possible by the two cocks plugging him at either end.

Ben found himself constantly being drawn back to the present; drawn back by the alluring, unrelenting torment of pleasure.

He gurgled pleasantly and his eyes fluttered as his prick shot out a fresh watery load, coating his matted pubes.

Had he been hard?

At the same time, with one final almighty thrust and a manful pitched cry of sweet relief, John began loading up his arse with spunk for the first time that day.

It was an odd feeling, but it caused Ben’s cock to twitch, his mouth to tighten, and his tummy to emit an unexpected, uncontrollable groan of well-earned satisfaction.

None of this stopped Philip, however, who was pushing in and pulling out of Ben’s face with a wild abandon now that the melodic pentameter of John’s thrusting had disappeared.

Philip gripped either side of the boy’s upturned face so that he could keep him dead centre as he fucked into him, saliva coating his cock and now a majority of the boy’s own face as Philip’s big old balls smacked against the bound boy’s slick chops at every opportunity

When he felt his orgasm finally breach, he stepped forward again so that his dark hairy groin was nuzzling the blonde boy’s hairless face, and he began to unload.

All was silent, save for Philip’s heavy breathing, as the two forms remained locked together, the only movement caused by Ben’s bobbing adam’s apple.

Philip would occasionally mutter ‘good boy’, or ‘take it all down’, stroking his shoulder softly as he did so.

The silence was shattered however when Philip’s cum spilled out of the lad’s mouth, dribbling down toward his eyes.

As Philip extracted his cock, still even now lightly pulsing spurts of slime into Ben’s abused throat, Ben coughed loudly, sending flecks of jizz out into the open air as he did so. Philip knelt, and smoothly stroked the boy’s still bobbing throat as it desperately sought oxygen for a pulmonary system pushed to its very limit thanks to four cocks and one inhuman monster.

Rain began to spit as Jason and Robbie came over and unloaded watery, pungent second loads onto Ben’s face.

When they were done, it looked as though someone had tipped a bucket of white wallpaper paste over Ben, caked as he was in the dried contents of eight testicles, and painted with the most recent offerings of four, all added to the contents of his own which he had previously sort of assumed his girlfriend would be seeing on her tits at some point in the near future – not plastered over his own face.

“Now,” Philip whispered, as the others began doing up their trousers out of earshot, “it’s only us here, Ben, so you can be honest with me; you enjoyed that, didn’t you.”

Ben’s voice croaked as if his vocal cords had been scraped over with a biro, replying, “no.” His voice was also thick, and laboured, as he was still getting his breath back, and his saliva was so thick with spunk that he was absent-mindedly chewing on it in his mouth, like he had a kilo of taffy stuffed in there.

Philip shuffled closer to the boy, took his sticky blond hair in his hand, and softly pulled him against his chest. He whispered in his ear this time, “now, tell me the truth this time. I know you don’t want to of enjoyed it, but you did, didn’t you?”

This time, he could feel the boy slowly nod into the nook of his armpit; too ashamed to admit it with words, or whilst anyone was looking at him, but unable to deny that regardless of his sexuality, anything which had caused him to cum four times in an hour must have been at least somewhat enjoyable.

Philip stood, and motioned the fellas to let Ben down. When they had done so, Ben lay still in the grass, his limbs seemingly unresponsive after having received the most intense workout of their lives without actually moving.

Walking over to his pack, Philip opened it up, and extracted a green beach towel with the name of St. Bernard’s school, and a rugby club, emblazoned on each side. He returned to Ben, and wiped the streaks of cum off his chest, before pushing the slush on his face off to one side, and then off, before vigorously wiping his lightly tanned skin clean.

Philip said, “I’ve written a phone number down on this piece of paper, here. I’m putting it in your pack. Next time you go orienteering, you call it. Understand?”

Ben looked sheepishly at the ground, all the men standing around him, but Philip knew he understood.

He nodded at the fellas around him, smiled, and as a group they moved off to their horses. As they rode off in the opposite direction of Ben’s school coach, the boy shouted, “I, um, I won’t trespass again.”

He just faintly heard the broad, sombre voice of Philip as he replied, “doesn’t bother me, pal – the old tosser in the castle sacked me six months ago.”

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