A gay story: The Farm Ch. 11 Some chapters don’t end, they just get published. And so it is here. If I can keep the characters dancing to my tune, this story will end soon. It’s a big if. Prize is acting up again and pulling things away from the big plan. I gave up trying to quiet him. He has a story to tell, and if he doesn’t get it out, he haunts me.
Sandi
Afterwards and Before
“Here ye are.” Tom handed the pan of feed to Danny and smiled. “Sleep well?”
Prize nodded and looked into Tom’s face to read his mood, to read his mind. He saw a Tom unchanged. Open face, a smile that reached his eyes. No hint of the night and what he learned. No hint of distain. No leer. No demands. Prize turned his attention to the insistent chickens. His hand trembled as he scattered the grain. Tom walked off to the barn.
The morning went as every other morning went before the coach and before the fucking and confessions in the room off the kitchen. Prize began to wonder if the night happened. His body told him it did. He wondered at what happened. He kept looking up to locate Tom. Tom cleaning Belle’s stall. Tom polishing the harness. Tom sharpening the scythe on the whetstone. Tom looking at him as he watched him. Prize dropped his gaze and picked up the basket and started hunting for eggs.
Tom found as much as he could to do near the barn door. He wanted to keep his eye on Danny. He couldn’t keep his eyes off him. The hard things Danny’d told him in the soft lamplight in the small room. His surrender to him for whatever Tom wanted troubled him now in the daylight. He knew he gave himself over to him in fear and passion. He feared he gave himself to be fucked or beaten as Tom willed. In the cold autumn light, Tom’s doubts grew about what he’d done. He knew what he wanted to do, make love to sweet Danny. Now he wasn’t sure if he had loved him or fucked him. He knew he wanted to kiss Danny again. To make him tremble with need and not fear. He knew he’d never have enough of him. He knew he wanted all of him. His love, his body, his fears, his desires, his past. He bided his time as the morning slipped away.
The cart hitched and Nanny handed up to William a letter in her apron pocket to be posted to Lord Downcliff. A letter crudely written with much effort and discussion. Tom waited until the jingle of the harness faded. He took a deep breath. Now. Danny sat on the milking stool face turned into the sun, eyes closed his hands clasped between his knees. Tom coughed to let him know he was near. No repeat of yesterday. He called his name. The azure eyes turned to him. Wary.
“I’ll talk with ye, Danny.”
Prize stood not sure if he should run. But run where. He read the attitude of Tom’s body. He judged the tone of his voice. It seemed safe enough. Perhaps last night satisfied him. He didn’t want to be chased down. And he was there close enough to touch him. He watched the big hand move toward him. Open palm up. He looked at the scrape on the jaw, the bruise he’d made. The hand touched his arm. He jumped.
“Are ye afraid of me, Danny?” Tom looked in to the face. “Did I hurt ye last night?” He closed his hand on the bicep. “I’ll nay hurt ye. I told you so and I won’t let them that did near ye.”
Too much. Prize felt the fear rise. The grip like iron. Now with William and Nanny gone. Now. Then let it be now. He heard the words. He wanted to believe him, Tom big and strong as an oak. He looked him in the eye and saw no guile. The grip on his arm relaxed. The hand moved away.
Tom smiled. “I was caught off guard. Yesterday. They’s not many that can knock me down.” His head tipped to one side to catch Danny’s eyes. “I meant what I said, I’ll nay hurt you.” He laid his hand on Danny’s back far from where the pink scar marred the skin.
The first kiss was soft. It barely touched Prize’s lips. The second firm and insistent. The tongue pushed against his lips. Prize opened to it. He knew how to suck the slick muscle. He’d learned his lessons well.
Tom pulled him close. He folded him in his arms. Prize let him. He kissed his neck. Prize trembled. He kissed his neck and tasted the skin. “I’ll nay hurt ye,” Tom whispered against the skin below the ear. Prize shuddered and shut his eyes and reached for the front of Tom’s trousers with a practiced touch. Tom stepped back. “But I’ll not have ye afraid. And I’ll nay have ye as a whore.”
A blow from Tom’s hard hand less painful. More welcome. The word knocked the air from his lungs. It made his stomach flip. His heart refused to beat. Sweat tickled down his back.
Tom stepped away and rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. He returned to his work. Prize watched him cross the yard. A few sparks rose from the whetstone as Tom sharpened a rake and flashed blue against the dark of the barn. He didn’t look up. He didn’t look over.
Prize watched for a moment more until he felt he could control his legs and went to the kitchen door, removed his boots, and closed the door behind him. He filled the kettle and placed it on the fire to heat. He found soap and a cloth.
The small basin hung on the wall. He didn’t want to use the room off the kitchen to bathe. The room where he said whore. That was Tom’s now.
Bathing in the kitchen was awkward and exposed. Prize removed his shirt and washed his upper torso with a bit of cloth and a sliver of brown soap that didn’t lather. He kept one eye on the door. He shivered in the chill air. He ran the cloth down the long white scar along his ribs. He didn’t take time to dry his chest and arms. Prize pulled the shirt back over his head. It smelled faintly of sex and Tom. The water cooled but he didn’t pause to warm it, just stripped off his trousers and socks and washed his hairless legs. As he rubbed the soap over his circumcised penis, rubbing and rubbing, he thought about last night in the room. A climax at the hands of another. It was the first time he wasn’t used and left to seek his own release as best he could. He grew hard under his hand remembering Tom’s callused hand bringing him to orgasm. The giving and not the taking. The warm kisses. His hand drifted back and stroked the soft skin between his cheeks. A soapy finger slipped inside. He felt sore. His fingers long and soft where Tom’s were hard and rough skinned. His hands hard, his intentions soft. His breath ragged. Prize rhymes with sighs. Always a whore. Always a whore. Tom didn’t want a whore. His penis softened.
Prize pulled on his underclothes and trousers. He tossed the water out the door onto the bare ground. Tom tested the edge of the sickle with his thumb. He didn’t look up. Prize carefully put the kitchen back in order and went to the hearth, his hearth. He pulled the winter quilt around him and rested his cheek on his arm. He tried to sort through what happened in the night and in the yard. He slept. Dreams of a farm.
He walked through the ripening wheat heading for home. A boy barely on the threshold of manhood. The swelling heads of grain brushed against his hands and bent as he passed along. He looked back at the path he’d left in the grain. Green turning to gold. A lark sang. Crows screamed out their territory and circled above him, black kites against a sharp-blue sky. Home, he had to get home. The wheat reached his shoulders and tangled around his ankles. The low hum of insects and the calling of crows lower now.
Something big made its way through the wheat. He saw the blades bow and tremble as it moved parallel to him. Home, he had to get home.
At the crest of the small rise, he broke free of the wheat. Over the stone style onto the low cropped grass where the sheep grazed. Below him the farm rested in a long valley. The solid two-story house of stone, the thatched roof, four windows above and two below, smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. The great cow barn. Stables to the left. The farm hands moving through the yard. The milk maids with their pails carried their burdens to the cooling barn.
The thing in the wheat stopped moving. A crow dived and brushed his hair with a wing as black. He ran down the hill toward the farm. An old man tall and broad shouldered stood in the kitchen garden shading his eyes with his hand; he looked toward the hill and waved. Almost there, almost home. He ran faster.
Prize woke breathless. Tom brought him tea and placed the mug on the hearth, a plate of buttered bread next to it. He busied himself with his own mug and looked up at the picture of the boy and dog.
“Came from the manor, that did.” Tom nodded at the picture. “Nanny brought it with her when she left. Used to hang in the nursery.”
Prize sipped his tea, hot and sweet.
“That’s the boys’ nursery, Anthony and Gordy.”
Prize looked over at Tom. He’d said his name and made him real. The name that lurked in every part of the little freehold. The name no one said to him. The name only used in other rooms. Prize felt better now that it was spoken.
“Anthony died. It broke Gordy’s heart.”
Prize waited for more.
“Tomorrow we have a job to start.”
“You can’t expect him to do such work as yet. He’s not ready.” Nanny thumped the kettle down on the table.
“I’ll go slow. He needs to work.”
“The chickens are his.”
“Naught but a chore for little girls. It’ll be the wall.”
And so it was the next morning; Prize woke to feed the chickens in the chill autumn air. Tom rushed him through his morning ritual and thrust shovel, pick, and digging bar at him. He led him down to the dry-stacked wall that fronted on the lane. “We’ll build the wall up to meet the laurels.”
Prize followed the line of Tom’s hand. A stretch of sixty yards to the trees. He nodded and set down the tools.
Nanny watched from the doorway as Tom drove the first peg and tied the line. Daniel swung the pick, tentative at first and the footer began.
***
Had the letter contained a description of the man driving the Growler, Gordy would have responded like the wrath of God. Had William and Nanny included Prize’s violent reaction to Tom’s touch, Gordy would have removed Prize from the freehold to the safety of Leeshore. Had Prize told of March standing next to the barn, Gordy would have loaded his pistols and kicked in the tulip-yellow door at Mrs. Featherwink’s. Had the letter been more legible, more urgent, more cohesive, more informative Gordy would have whipped and spurred the grey through the night to reach them. But it wasn’t and Gordy read it once and replied with soothing words addressing a lost coachman and the stress of illness, a five-pound note, and news he planned on returning to Leeshore with his bride in the early spring. At Caroline’s request, he sent a copy of Far From the Madding Crowd. Gordy smiled when he thought of the novel in William and Nanny’s sitting room displayed prominently as the Bible but unread. What would Prize make of such a thing? Always Prize.
Two evenings before his wedding Gordy visited Greco. A quiet home of some size and moderate stone decoration on a cobble street lined with mature linden trees. It stood in a section of London considered out of fashion and on the decline.
Gordy let the brass ring of the knocker fall. The ring pierced the nose of a brass bull’s head. Hairy and wild eyed, its nostrils flared. The horns long and lowered as if to charge. The Cretan Bull. Footsteps echoed within and a slim grey-haired man in impeccable formalwear opened the door and ushered Gordy into a well appointed vestibule and relieved him of his gloves and hat. He slung his coat over his arm and with a gloved hand, ushered Gordy through to a comfortably masculine drawing room. Gordy asked for a whisky. Paisley wallpaper in forest green, prints of hunting scenes on the wall, a polished brass chandelier, deep leather chairs in ox blood, an upright piano against a wall, a large fern tree near a statue of Adonis, a fire warm in the marble fireplace. A glass on a side table told Gordy that he was not the first visitor of the night. Gordy chose a chair near the fire, extended his legs, crossed them at the ankle, and waited. The pocket door slid open and the same slim man entered with a silver tray balanced on his left hand, a thin album of photographs, and a solicitous smile. No words were spoken. The whisky and album left within easy reach on a mahogany table. The used glass removed with an apologetic smile.
Gordy sipped the liquor and opened the album. Inside a series of pictures of men. A few pages devoted to each man. A portrait, full frontal shot and one from the back, and a costume picture. Each chapter provided a short biography and description of abilities. Gordy flipped the pages. On the page for one of the young men a purple ribbon lay with the word “engaged” stitched neatly in silver thread. Gordy flipped through the pages finding this reason and that to eliminate each. He paused at a costume picture of an African, upper torso wrapped in a shawl of some sort. He stood like a stork on one leg and leaned on a tasseled spear. The man looked down the lens of the camera with fierce black eyes. Gordy moved on.
The young man lay supine on the divan, his hand behind his head, left leg bent, torso turned slightly to the camera, eyes hooded. Long limbed and lean, hairless below the neck. Lips parted slightly in a knowing smile. Gordy rang the small bell and the host appeared. He tapped the picture with his middle finger and said, “How are his teeth?”
“Quite good.”
“This one, then.”
“Excellent choice. Shall I bring your drink along?” A purple ribbon pinned to the page.
And up the wide stairs past more prints and paintings. Down the dim hall. A soft knock. A sound from within and the door opened. The host entered carrying a silver tray with Gordy’s whisky and placed it in a long-fingered hand. He bowed and left.
He stood there barefooted in his shirtsleeves and trousers. Clean and fresh and handed the drink to Gordy and directed him to a chair and went to stand near the fire. He looked up from under long lashes with dark brown eyes and reached for the top button of his shirt.
Gordy watched as each button slipped free. Slowly the shirt drifted down from the white shoulders and off his hands to hang by the tails tucked into the tight trousers. He stepped closer and knelt on the yellow rug. Gordy stood and placed his hand on the dark hair and directed the face to the front of his trousers. The first kiss light against the fabric. The second firm against the encased head of the penis. Hands to undo buttons and slide them along Gordy’s thighs. The kisses continued, wetter now against his undergarment. The hand inserted. The shaft firmly grasped. The kisses joined by a pink tongue. Gordy’s penis pulled free and held in a firm grasp. The tongue darting at the eye, circling the head, lips to kiss along the shaft.
He knelt there like a supplicant at prayer in a pagan temple offering himself to his god. Softly he placed his cheek against the shaft and planted kisses along Gordy’s inner thigh. He twined his arms along his legs and up and behind to stroke Gordy’s back beneath coat, vest, and shirt and down to the buttocks. And all the while the mouth and tongue working: sucking, licking, dancing, kissing, his mouth pulling gently and insistently.
“Remove your trousers.”
And he did without removing Gordy’s penis from his mouth or losing a stroke from his hand or abandoning eye contact. Gordy felt his climax building and pushed the face away. Not yet. Not yet.
“Assist me with my coat.”
The young man rose with reluctance and a final kiss but did as he was told and helped Gordy remove the remainder of his clothing. He took in his form with a practiced eye and smiled to see the flat stomach and muscled chest and arms lightly dusted with dark hair. He reached to stroke a melon-colored nipple, but paused his hand, fingertips short of their goal until Gordy nodded permission and was rewarded with a smile and a touch and soft lips. Gordy left him to lick and nip and nuzzle, and suck across his chest and always lower to the goal. Again his penis touched the lips and the tongue flicked against the exposed glands and teased the g-string beneath. Gordy hissed in appreciation. The lips opened and the penis slid into the warm mouth, deeper until it touched the back of the throat. The young man adjusted his position slightly, moving between Gordy’s legs and easing down on his own claves he dropped his head back slightly to create a straight line and began to swallow. Hot and tight. Gordy felt the head of his penis bump the larynx. And like a sword swallower in the side show, the young man swallowed and swallowed. Gordy laid his hand against the throat and felt the passage of his member as he pulled out and in. So enthralled by the delightful passage Gordy forgot about the person attached to tongue, mouth, and esophagus until a soft push on his thighs and gurgle returned him to the room with the yellow rug.
He pulled out and the man gasped then returned to kissing and licking the dorsal side from base to slit.
Gordy groaned in animal satisfaction as he came. The young man moved quickly to capture the pearls on his tongue. Those that escaped his quick mouth, he licked from his lips and scooped up from his chin with his fingers. He sat before Gordy licking his fingers clean then with a questioning look at Gordy moved to gently lick clean the satin tip of his penis. He curled his legs beneath him and eased Gordy back into the embrace of the chair and pulled his balls into his mouth and rolled them on his tongue. Gordy sighed and let the tension in his muscles float away. He reached for his whisky and found the glass empty. The sound of the empty glass on wood roused the young man, and he uncurled himself and walked with fluid movements to a crystal decanter and poured more amber liquid into the glass. Gordy heard the trickle of water and a cool cloth pressed against his neck. Fingers massaged his shoulders, drifting down across his pectoral muscles to tease his nipples. His body glowed; his legs fell open; the young man returned to the floor at his feet and kissed his instep. Gordy enjoyed the view of his bent back and leaned forward to wrap his fingers in the long hair and pull the head back sharply.
“Bring the ottoman here.”
The man obeyed. His rigid penis bounced as he walked to the yellow and green piece. He slid it slowly in front of Gordy, giving him a lovely view of his buttocks, and produced a large linen cloth to cover the fine tufted materiel and waited.
Gordy stood and walked to him carrying his glass. He tipped the head back and poured the whisky past the puffy lips. He drank. He drank again. The glass emptied. His blush grew deeper. Gordy refilled his own glass and settled back in the chair and designed the scenario.
“Move it closer.”
It was done.
“Lie on your back.”
He did still hard. Like a beautiful offering on an Aztec blood altar. Feet flat on the floor head fallen over the far edge, arms languidly drooping toward the floor. Gordy stood with his glass and walked the three steps to him and knelt. He dribbled the whisky on the belly and drank it slowly from the hollow of the navel. He licked the smooth skin of the abdomen. He twisted a small pink nipple between his thumb and forefinger until he heard a moan. A drop on the puckered nipple tip to lick and suck. The penis danced. The stomach rolled. The hips snapped once. Yearning into air.
Gordy smacked his chest. “Hold still.”
Gordy ran his hands up the body. Light and dancing. Butterfly wings on skin as smooth as lily petals. The man held still though blood rushed hot just under the surface of his skin, and he turned pink as a tea rose. Gordy laughed deep in his throat and moved between the legs. He pushed the knees farther apart and ran his fingers along the soft skin between thigh and groin. He continued to tease and touch and lick until the young man disobeyed and snapped his pelvis just once in desire. Gordy smiled.
“Roll over.”
He rolled himself gracefully on the round ottoman. Gordy reached beneath him and pulled his penis down and back through his legs. “Spread.” He did. “More.” He did. “Up on your toes and push those knees out.” The young man circled his legs along the edge of the ottoman until only the balls of his feet touched the rug. He spread himself for Gordy. He pushed his ass up. “Just so.” Gordy smacked him with the flat of his hand to watch the lovely muscles in his butt contract. “Just so.”
Gordy reached down and lined the man’s penis up directly with the exposed anus. He touched it gently. He ran his hand up the seam between the firm buttocks. He admired the handprint. He settled himself on the floor and poured more whisky into the small of the back. He rested the heavy glass between his shoulder blades. He stroked his fingers lightly down the tailbone and along the exposed crease and along the balls and pinned penis. Again and again until ripples appeared in the amber fluid. Gordy laughed and sipped from the hollow of his back. He stroked and watched. A glistening bead of moisture formed on the tip of penis. The young man’s breathing grew ragged.
“Don’t spill my drink.”
The long stroke from shoulder blades through the pool of amber, down the stretched valley, a circle of the ring, across the balls and along the dorsal side of the penis to the tip to circle. Again the tremble of liquid. Gordy licked his lips. He bent his head and pulled a little whisky into his mouth. He let it trickle across the anus. The anus that fluttered open and exposed the thulian pink interior. More pearls ran from the head of the penis. Gordy wanted more.
“Make yourself ready.”
A hand wreathed to the penis and the ass moved up.
“Oh no, not like that.” The hand stopped. “Put your fingers up that hole. Make yourself open.” The dark eyes peered through dark hair as the head turned. “Yes, you may adjust yourself.” The glass removed.
Knees up and spread wide. Back arched. Buttocks high.
“A little something to ease your way?”
Gordy lifted a jar of viscous sweet-smelling jelly, removed the lid, and placed it where the young man could reach it. Gordy settled back to watch, his drink forgotten as one lubricated finger snaked between the spread thighs and touched the tiny star. Back and forth. The star winked and gleamed with lubricant. Into the first knuckle. In and out and a second digit.
“More.”
Another dip of the fingers into the jelly. A third finger pressed. The chest pressed to the ottoman. A hand to spread the buttocks to ease access. Four fingers and the thumb pressed together to make a goose bill. The panting. The undulations. The hitching sighs. The fingers slow disappearance.
“Turn your face so I can see it.” Gordy stroked his hard member. “Yes, like that.”
Back and forth. In and out. Deeper. Gordy watched as the young man strained and twisted on his own hand. His penis leaked and twitched. The fingers pressed on. His eyes closed. His eyebrows contracted in concentration. Perspiration beads on his upper lip. A growl as his pleasure grew.
“Stop.”
Gordy pulled the hand away. He pressed the head of his penis to the stretched opening and pushed in to the warm, slick depths. He groaned and grabbed the hips. He thrust ball deep. The slap of wet flesh, the urgent gasps from beneath him. The push back. The sweet contraction as the young man came. Gordy’s own surge deep within at the first grip of the channel. He pulled out quickly, leaving the anus to gape. Gordy pulled the man over and plunged past the bruising lips and climaxed again on the lapping tongue. His toes dug into the rug. His pubic bone pushed hard against the nose. He looked into dark eyes made darker by widely dilated pupils.
“Wash me.” Gordy fell back into the chair and closed his eyes.
Gordy placed his hat on his head took his gloves and coat. “Bill me at my club. I’ll place a reservation next time.” The early morning air invigorated him. Tomorrow he married.
The process of planning a marriage to Caroline Rockby flowed remarkably smoothly and with practicality and civility. They accomplished it over a cold lunch. He offered her independence, security, and elevated station. If she did not produce an heir, she promised to quietly divorce him and live on a generous pension. He promised to keep his demands on her person to a minimum and allow her to pursue her love of the arts. She promised to allow him his own life to continue with his private interests. Neither held delusions about their union. Both found the other a reasonable companion and attractive with similar interests in art, literature, theater, music, and free thinking. They married in a small ceremony with Lady Billingswoth and Farnham to witness. Caroline wore dove-grey.
They made an attractive couple. A small luncheon followed at the home of Mrs. Farnham. Ices were served.
The marriage was consummated quickly and with little pain. Gordy kissed Caroline on the forehead, thanked her, and left for his own room.
***
“Mr. Tidewell, you’re going to wear that cloth out staring at it.”
“Love, it’s the only thing I have to prove Philip Maycott stepped foot in London.”
“It’s a strange thing or things. It doesn’t tell me much.”
“It speaks to me.” Lorenzo ran his hand along the embroidered neck. “See here, it’s an expensive piece of work. Someone spent a good amount of money on this shirt. See how it was cared for. It was folded carefully and straightened to prevent wrinkles. It was received out of, perhaps, gratitude or friendship and treated gently. I believe Philip fully expected to return for his clothes and wear them again.”
“Dear, it’s heathen cloth.”
“It was important to Philip.”
“When did he become Philip to you? You’ve never met him. He’s no more than the man your client seeks. And for what purpose, Lorenzo? I fear it can’t be wholesome.”
“Pet, the man who gifted this garment is rich and powerful enough to send a surge of enquiry through the British headquarters and pay for my services. The man he searches for well respected by his fellow soldiers. His record reads like, er, perfection.”
Petula bent and kissed her husband on a spot just above his weak-tea-colored sidewhiskers and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll finish your packing. You finish your letter to that Mr. Kataar person.”
“My Dear Rahim,” Alonzo wrote in a fine hand. “I have hopeful news at last concerning Philip Alexander Maycott.”
***
The steam engine sighed by the platform at Paddington Station. Alonzo patted his ticket secure in his breast pocket. His grip rested at his feet. He planned to spend the night at an inn in the village of Gilling and travel the remaining distance in a rented trap. He didn’t write to announce his arrival lest the cousins residing at Denenwy Farm, Philip Alexander Maycott’s farm should he be found alive, warn him of the arrival. He watched the countryside slide by as the engine pulled him west.
What he didn’t expect was the reaction from the innkeeper at the Maid and Swan in Gilling when he mentioned Denenwy Farm. His face closed down. His answers sharp. His whole attitude one of disapproval.
“Spose ye’s going to deliver the farm into the hands of that Maycott cousin. Sad thing. Sad to think of young Philip as gone and dead.”
“Did you know him, Philip?”
“A lovely boy. A fine young man. Shame all that happened.”
“You knew him well?”
“This is nay London. There’s no not knowing all that live about Gilling.”
“What can you tell me about Philip?” Lorenzo showed him the handbill.
“Sad story that. He was left with his grandparents, that be Abraham and Abigail Maycott up ta Denenwy Farm, when his parents left to save souls on a five-year mission. Dead both of em from the bloody flux ‘for they ever saw a Hottentot. But Abraham and Abigail saw Philip as a gift and a blessing. Loved him dearly. And he loved them. You’ve caught a bit of his likeness there.” He tapped the paper.
Lorenzo pulled out his gold-washed mechanical pencil and black notebook and began writing.
***
Somerset 1864
Abraham met them at the tiny station. They stood in the swirling steam on the platform, the boy between them clutching their hands. Abraham scooped the boy up and looked into startling azure-blue eyes. His own eyes. The boy went to him easily. He kissed the boy and hugged him close. He pecked his daughter-in-law on the cheek and shook hands with his son. He pressed twenty pounds into his hand for bibles. They did not go to the farm. They left on the next train secure in their faith and the wellbeing of their only child.
Philip snuggled close to his grandfather as they made their way home. He didn’t cry. He felt at once that this tall, broad-shouldered man loved him. The horse knew the way, and being a big and placid beast, Abraham had no reservations in handing the reins to Philip and let him play at driving them home. He ruffled the raven hair and told him he did well. The boy smiled up at him.
Abigail greeted them at the bottom of the hill and walked alongside the cart never taking her eyes from the solemn, beautiful face of the boy set on controlling the huge draft horse.
Philip missed his parents and loved his grandparents. He slipped into life on the prosperous Denenwy Farm. He soon knew the names of the milkmaids and of the cows. He was the pet of the farmhands and followed Rud Tricklebank, second only to Abraham in importance and power, absorbing knowledge as quickly as it was presented. Up at dawn and out the kitchen door not to return until Abigail called him in to supper. He explored the hills, fished the stream, climbed the apple trees, learned to milk, played with the barn cats, rode the backs of the big horses, drove the placid cows home for milking, fed the chickens, hunted eggs, chased and was chased by the geese, went out for harvest and helped gather the sheaves, he learned to plant and care for the vegetable garden under the tutelage of Abigail, he cried against his grandfather’s chest when news of his poor parents reached Denenwy Farm, he attended the village school and astounded the master by learning his lessons as fully and completely as he learned the farm. On the weekend evenings he read to his grandparents and Rud from the books he borrowed from the school master. He lived with the childless couple who ran the Maid and Swan during the week, the trip from farm to town too great, and they treated him like their own child. On Fridays, Rud collected him and returned him to home, Denenwy Farm.
He grew honest and strong. He was happy and made those around him happy for seven years.
It was a blocked teat, mastitis, on a young cow and a new farmhand that brought it all to an end. Rud had gone to supervise the shoeing of the horses, Philip at his side. Abraham took the new man to teach him how to massage the blocked teat and milk the black infection from the quarter and apply warm poultices. He stepped back to let the hand take over the process and bent, hands on his knees to direct the ministrations. The cow kicked out in pain. The hoof caught Abraham in the head above his right ear. Rud and the new hand carried Abraham to his bed.
The doctor arrived and dressed the wound. He talked quietly with Abigail. He left powders and instructions for their use. Abraham never spoke again. He never left his bed. His eyes closed only when Abigail moved the lids. Philip was twelve, his parents six years dead. He sat by his grandfather and spooned soup past dry lips. He held his hand. He read to him. He changed the bandage and helped the maid bathe Abraham. He watched his body shrink and contract. He sat with Abraham for three hours after he stopped breathing. Abigail found him holding the cold hand and reading Robinson Crusoe to his grandfather’s corpse. She had to pry his fingers loose.
Abigail buried her husband on the farm next to the empty graves of her only son and his wife, their bodies covered in quicklime buried in a mass grave on a distant continent. She arraigned for Philip to go away to school as she and Abraham had planned where a mind like his would benefit from advanced mathematics and the classics. She made sure the farm would pass to Philip on her death. She wrote to a distant cousin of Abraham’s and asked him to come with his wife and help Rud run the farm. She went into the sitting room, folded her hands, and waited to join her husband.
Cousin Maycott and his thin wife arrived in the rain pulling all they owned in the world in a rattling handcart. The money sent to ease their journey gone to gin and dice. Cousin Maycott wiped the rain from his eyes and laughed. He saw his fortune in the valley before him. They moved into the stone house with four windows above and two below and began to care for Abigail and Denenwy Farm. Rud knew Cousin Maycott knew shite about farming, but he did his best out of respect for Abraham and love of Philip to make the farm pay.
Philip did not come home for Christmas at the suggestion of Cousin Maycott, but stayed with a few other boys and spent the holiday with teachers and staff. He wrote to his grandmother every week. He drew a picture of the school and sent that to the Maid and Swan. He drove back his sadness with studies and new friendships.
That summer he accepted an invitation to stay with Ralph at his industrialist father’s summer home by the sea. There they did what young boys did when time was their own. They explored the tidal pools and watched the fishermen bring in their daily catch. They swam in the sea and collected eggs of sea birds. That fall he boarded the train with Ralph and a large cold lunch packed by Cook. He returned to school, his hostess’s kiss warm on his cheek.
As the winter holiday approached, the headmaster called Philip to his office and told him he would not return to school following the break.
When Philip came home at Christmas, no one met him at the small station. He picked up his valise and walked the seven miles to his farm. He walked through the farmyard and in the falling dusk noted that all was not well. There was disarray and ill repair evident, but he was home. He was almost fourteen.
A strange thin woman let him in at the kitchen door and informed him he’d miss supper. She told him to call her Mrs. Maycott. She took his fortnighter and led him to Abigail’s sitting room. His grandmother sat on a wooden chair near a small fire. A small woman in a black dress too large. Her skin yellow and thin as tissue paper. Her eyes red rimmed. He bent and kissed her cool cheek. She didn’t move.
“Grandmother, it’s me, Philip.” Philip knelt beside her and lifted her hand.
“Philip?” A blue-veined hand extended.
The voice came from behind him. “And so it is. I’m your Cousin Maycott come to help your grandmother.”
***
Alonzo wrote a few notes. The innkeeper, in the end, had little to tell. Lorenzo learned that Philip boarded with him during the week to allow Philip better access to school. He learned that the farm fell on troubled times after the death of Abraham. He learned that Philip was recruited out of the village into the army. He realized that the innkeeper hid something. Guilt? Philip? The next statement shattered that misconception.
“We all grieved to learn the lad died?”
Alonzo took a deep breath, “It’s the belief of the army and myself that Philip is alive.”
The man’s knees buckled; Alonzo feared he would fall and reached to grab his elbow but was rebuffed.
The innkeeper put his hand out to Alonzo. “Where is he?”
“I hoped to find him here.”
“Never.” That was all he said.
***
Cousin Maycott stood there in his black coat the lapels shiny with grease. He wore his bowler hat in the house. His shirt stained with what looked like gravy and egg yolk. Philip stood and extended his hand.
“Yer room’s been moved. The wife and me took yers to be close to Granny should she call out in the night. Joan, Mrs. Maycott to you, will show you up.”
Philip moved to collect his valise.
“Leave it be. Joan, light the boy up to his room.”
Philip followed his Mrs. Cousin Maycott to a small room on the third floor where the housemaid slept. Mrs. Cousin pushed the door open. The room dusty and still.
“Had to let the girl go. Poor harvest.”
Philip was left without a candle. The room was cold. The door locked. He lay down on the narrow bed that still smelled of Dolly’s special lavender sachet gifted to her by his grandmother and fell asleep. He woke shivering in the dark and wrapped himself in the blanket. In the morning he planned on finding Rud. In the morning things would look better.
Mrs. Cousin shook Philip awake long before dawn. “Get ye down to the kitchen if ye want to eat.”
Philip rubbed his eyes, found his shoes, and made his way through the dark house to the kitchen. A bowel of mush without milk. Cold tea.
“Rud needs ye to milk. Eat if yer hungry.” He was and spooned the mess into his mouth. He walked out into his grandmother’s garden and paused at the gate to look up at the cold stars.
Rud sat on a milking stool his cheek pressed against the side of a brown cow. The rhythmic splash of milk in the pail.
“I’m here to help you, Rud.” The man turned his head and a wide grin split his face.
“Philip, yer here at last.” And Philip was engulfed by strong arms and held at arm’s length and hugged again. “We’ve missed ye, but yer here now. And tall and handsome and welcome.” And embraced again.
“I’ve missed you too.” A bit alarmed by the intensity of the greeting, Philip struggled to free himself from the strong arms.
“Too old are ye to hug.” Rud faked a frown and dipped a tin cup into the pail and handed the warm milk to Philip. “I doubt the tight bitch gave ye much for breakfast.”
Philip hid his silence on the subject in the cup. And turned to milking. They worked side by side throughout the day. Rud held his tongue and let Philip take in the condition of the farm. It was well past dark when Philip let himself in at the kitchen door. Another cold bowl of the same mess he had at breakfast and another mug of weak, cold tea. Philip ate and thought on all he’d seen that day. So many absent from the farm. So much disrepair. The animals few. He walked leaden legged to his grandmother’s parlor to find Cousin Maycott and his wife sitting by the fire.
“Yer granny’s ta bed. Best ye do the same.”
“Cousin Maycott, I have questions for you.”
“Time for that tomorrow.”
Philip made his way to the small attic room and slept in his clothes too exhausted and hungry to think.
Every day after that was the same until he pressed his cousin to open the farm books to him. He received his first beating and was locked in the attic room. He felt too ashamed to tell Rud as they worked the next day. He confronted his cousin again. He earned another beating.
On a morning in the new year he walked out under the stars and turned left to the road that led to town. Abraham’s solicitor found Philip sitting on the top step waiting for him. He didn’t like the worn look of the boy and the purple rings under his eyes and brought him in to the office and put him near the fire. He sent his secretary round to the Maid and Swan for buns and tea. He explained to Philip that until he reached his majority, he and Denenwy Farm were in the care of Cousin Maycott. He was sorry. His hands were tied by the law and the paper Abigail signed. Philip walked home.
Cousin Maycott stood in the kitchen waiting for him. He dragged Philip up the stairs to the attic room and threw him on the bed. Philip watched as he pulled his belt free of the loops. He braced himself for another beating. But what happened next defied his experience. The cousin wrapped the belt around his neck and pulled him close.
“Yer granny’s in poor health. I’d hate to see anything happen to her. She’s an old woman and no one’d be the wiser. “Ye’ll make no more trips to town.” He tightened the belt and patted Philip on the cheek. “Do ye understand me, lad?”
Philip could barely croak out his answer. He understood. He understood he was a coward, a coward not to stand up to Cousin Maycott sooner. He understood that if anything happened to his grandmother it fell to him because he failed to act.
When Rud saw the belt mark on his neck, Philip pulled up his collar and turned his back. When Rud hitched the horse and prepared to go to town, Philip begged him not to. He told him they didn’t have the law. He told him about the papers at the solicitor’s office. He told him he needed him to stay on the farm and help him. Rud listened and nodded and thought about what Philip said. He didn’t go to the solicitor’s.
“Then keep yer head down. Bide yer time.”
Time was something Cousin Maycott saw as running out. He knew a thing or two about getting what he wanted and he wanted the farm. He kept the boy in line with brutal amounts of farm work, isolation, concern for his grandmother, and more beatings. Never enough to push Rud to action. Not that he knew the full extent of it. Cousin Maycott executed what he considered his coup de grace on any rebellion Philip might initiate, though there was little mercy involved.
In the garden Philip worked the under the directions of his grandmother. She pointed with her cane and Philip pulled a weed or lifted a carrot from the dirt. She didn’t talk. She never talked now. She smiled at Philip and pointed at the pea plants twining up the back wall. Philip searched among the leaves and found a few young pods and brought them back to the wooden chair. He placed one in his grandmother’s hand and lifted one to his lips and bit through the green flesh and sucked the peas into his mouth. He let them roll on his tongue a moment then popped them between his teeth. His grandmother smiled at him and lifted the pod to her lips.
“Philip, do you want her to choke to death.”
Cousin Maycott pulled the pod from Abigail’s hand and threw it in the dirt. He helped her to her feet and steered her back to the house and handed Abigail to Mrs. Cousin. “Yer a fool. An uncaring brat. Don’t ye care for yer granny?”
Philip opened his mouth to answer. Tears started in his eyes.
Cousin Maycott put his arm around Philip’s shoulders and walked him to the end of the garden where a few tools were kept and lifted a shovel. “It’s no matter, Philip. Take this. It’s time ye understood how sick Granny is. Philip, I don’t expect my dear cousin to live through the winter. Winter takes so many of the weak and old.” He pushed the shovel into Philip’s hands. “Come walk with me.”
They walked up the hill to where the grave of Abraham lay next to the empty ones of his parents. The markers small, the graves well tended by Rud or Philip, whoever found a moment to sneak up the hill.
“So sad.” Cousin Maycott dabbed at a tear. “The ground will be hard to turn and dig once the cold sets in. It’s best ye dig the grave now.” He thrust the shovel into the dirt and left Philip to hollow out Abigail’s grave.
It was nothing more than a garden spade that he left with Philip on the hill. Philip began to dig. His hands were hard and calloused from farm work but the hard ground pulled new blisters from the skin. Rud found him that evening there kneeling in a shallow trough his arm across Abraham’s headstone weeping. Philip was inconsolable. Philip was fifteen.
“Ah, boy, what’s happened?” Rud knelt down and put his arm around Philip. “Is it Abigail?”
“Cousin Maycott says she won’t last the winter. He says I’m to ready her grave.”
“He’s a cruel bastard that one. Let me do it for ye.”
“No, Rud.”
“Then let me help ye.”
Philip looked up. “She’s my grandmother. I’ll do it.”
Every day when the chores were done, Philip climbed the hill in the falling light and worked on the grave with the garden spade. It took him more than a month and late summer turned to autumn. He shed tears. He left the last of his boy self in the grave and the digging of it.
And Cousin Maycott applied his other plan and talked of soldiers and the army and glory and the making of heroes and adventure. He talked on through the cold winter in Abigail’s parlor as the old woman sat by the fire.
“Granny,” Cousin Maycott shouted in her ear, “Don’t you think Philip’d make a striking fine soldier?”
Abigail smiled at Philip and patted his hand. Maycott may as well have asked her if Philip would make a good pope for all she understood. She knew Philip with his blue eyes and black hair so like her Abraham, but she knew little else. And so it went through the winter.
That spring Philip placed his grandmother’s wooden chair in the garden and began turning the soil with the same garden spade. The air smelled of greening and life, the sun warm, the earth rich and dark as Philip turned the soil.
“Do you want the peas planted against the far wall, Grandmother?” Philip turned to ask her again.
She sat so still. Her eyes fixed on spot where Philip stood moments before, a smile just fading from her lips.
The solicitor, innkeeper and his wife, Rud, the Cousins Maycott, and Philip stood on the hill and listened to the minister finish his last prayer. The others turned to the house for tea and cakes while Philip and Rud lowered the cheap coffin into the grave. Philip sent Rud away and filled the grave alone.
Rud stood at the door of his room off the stable and watched Philip on the hill. A thin young man now in clothes too small. In clothes too worn. Rud turned to his room to get blind drunk.
Luck smiled on Cousin Maycott. It began when he received the letter from Abigail to come to the farm and it continued when he learned that recruitment for the army was planned in several villages including Gilling. He took Philip, who at six feet and muscled from hard work, was not questioned hard about his age. And Philip became a soldier at sixteen.
***
In all his reading, searching, and interviewing Alonzo never heard a hard or disparaging word about Philip until he sat in the dark farm kitchen and listened to Mr. and Mrs. Maycott. Once they learned that he hadn’t come to turn the farm over to them in the most official and legal sense, they became markedly less hospitable. Their view of Philip less than charitable once they learned he wasn’t dead or most likely not dead at all.
They painted a picture of a selfish boy who plagued his dear grandparents with demands and tantrums. A young man who contributed little to the farm once he left school and returned. They hadn’t seen him nor did they expect to. Alonzo should look for him in taverns and brothels. Seek him out in gambling halls. If the man lived, he lived were he could profit from others not here where hard work and honest toil dictated the day.
Then Cousin Maycott leaned forward, lifted his hand, nodded at his wife and whispered, “He was alone with both his grandparents when they died.” His wife nodded. They both nodded sadly.
Alonzo Tidewell kept his own counsel and left the kitchen feeling slightly ill and headed for his rented trap.
“So Denenby’s those cousins now.” The man stood near the horse and glared at Alonzo, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
A little taken aback, Alonzo answered with less than his usual even tone. “I’m looking for information on Philip Alexander Maycott.”
The man looked at Alonzo and indicated a small hill. “Come with me.”
They climbed the hill to a small family graveyard. There Alonzo saw three headstones and two wooden crosses. The arrangement of the graves was odd. Four graves parallel to each other and the fifth perpendicular to the four. Rud pointed at the cross and Alonzo read the words in black paint, “Philip, most loved.”
He turned to the old man startled and trembling. To be so misled by the people in the kitchen. To hunt and travel and worry and to find this.
“Oh, it’s empty. Those two are empty too. Those that belong to his parents. I couldn’t let him disappear.” Rud turned away to hide his emotion. “I put the marker at the foot of the others as the only way to bury him close to them all. Not him, his grave. They never found his body.” His voice muffled and drifting on the air.
Alonzo waited to give the man time to collect himself. He reached and touched his arm. “I don’t mean to distress you further, but we, er, I believe Philip is alive.”
“Where?”
“I hoped I might find him here.”
And the old man wept.
***
“Ye’ll need to dig faster than that. It’s a hard bitch when the earth’s cold.”
Prize stopped and looked at Tom. He’d had a thought, a feeling, a memory niggling so far back in his brain that it seemed to crawl right out of his spine. Digging in the cold. It was gone. Prize wiped his hands down his trouser legs and worked faster. He felt tears tickle his throat. He worked faster.
Tom left with Belle to gather a load of stones. When he returned, he saw Danny using the digging bar working on a large root. “Danny, let me help ye with that.” They worked on the thick root together. The tension between them began to pull loose as the root pulled loose from the earth.
Prize fell asleep by the fire that night with his bread still in his hand. Tom pulled the winter quilt over him and placed the bread on the plate. Nanny, William, and Tom sat in silence and watched Danny sleep, each with their own thoughts.
Chickens and the wall. That was Prize’s day. He worked hard. He slept deeply. He started to look forward to his time with Tom down at the wall. He grew strong again. He enjoyed the progress of the wall.
“Will ye come with me to load the stones, Danny?”
Prize smiled and put down his shovel. They rode on the cart down the lane and over the bridge that led to Leeshore. Tom pointed out the big house just visible beyond the trees. Tom turned the cart to the north to a rocky hillside. They stopped at a wall toppled by workmen and replaced with an ornate iron fence that surrounded a graveyard. Tom jumped down from the cart and opened the gate. He held it for Prize.
Five grave markers, three small lozenges, a marble stone with a butterfly in relief, and a grand obelisk of granite. Tom walked to the marble stone and pulled a few dried leaves from the base. Prize looked on.
“This here’s Antony’s grave. I like to stop and make it look nice.” He pulled his cap from his head.
Prize stood awkwardly at the gate and waited. The three small lozenges with the word Baby on them held his eyes. They seemed as insubstantial as the bones they marked.
“Antony, Gordy, an’ me explored this area. I’ll show you the pirate cave up on the hill one day.”
Prize shifted his eyes. He never thought of Gordy with a life that wasn’t the cottage or before the cottage. Never as a boy who played pirate. It seemed inexplicably sad to Prize.
Tom patted Anthony’s stone. “Let’s load those stones and get home.”
They walked back beside the cart to save the pony.
“Did you have fun?”
Tom turned and looked at Danny. “What?”
“Playing pirates. Was it fun?”
Tom laughed in relief. “Good fun.”
They walked in silence to the small stone bridge. Tom shook his head and laughed at himself.
“Did you play pirates?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The scar on yer side, it could be from a pirate’s sword.” He wanted to kick himself.
Prize stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. Belle’s hooves made a hollow sound as they crossed the bridge and turned up the hill to the freehold. They unloaded the cart in silence.
“I’m sorry, Danny.”
“Why?”
Tom wanted to say he was sorry that Danny didn’t play pirates or know where the white scar came from and that he saw him in the lamplight. And he. . . He didn’t finish the thought.
Prize didn’t ask again. They lifted the big rocks together and stacked them next to the footer.
Nanny saved the package until after dinner. The letter she opened and read. As she always did, she removed the money and hid it her knitting basket to give Daniel when he needed it. She passed the parcel to Daniel.
“You open it.”
Prize reached reluctantly up from the hearth and took the package. He turned it in his hands and read the name on the label and turned the package. No one rushed him. A package was not to be rushed. He untied the string and folded back the paper. A book. A book beautifully bound in Morocco with the title embossed in gold. Far from the Madding Crowd. He ran his fingers along the cover and handed it to Nanny. The book was passed to William and then Tom. No one opened it.
“It’s lovely. I’ll put it here.” Nanny placed it on the small bureau beneath the print of the boy and dog. She ran her fingers along the cover and returned to her seat.
“Aren’t ye going to read it, then?” Tom leaned forward in his chair.
“My eyes, Tom. Will you?”
Tom blushed to the roots of his hair. “I don’t read well, ye know.”
“Get it here. I’ll help ye.”
Tom cleared his throat. He cleared it again. He pointed at the words as he read in a halting voice. “When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an,” he stumbled on the next word. “Un, un.”
“Let me see. Unimportant. It’s unimportant.” Nanny returned the book.
Tom ran his fingers through his hair and started again and stumbled again. He put down the book and stood.
Prize’s smile was meant to encourage him, but Tom snapped, “And ye can do better.” He picked up the book and thrust it at Prize.
“No, I don’t read.”
“Daniel, I saw you read the label on the parcel.” Nanny looked at him hard. “Give it a try.”
Prize took the thick volume and opened it. He didn’t read the inscription written in a feminine hand. He licked his lips. “When Farmer Oak smiled, the corners of his mouth spread till they were within an unimportant distance of his ears, his eyes were reduced to chinks, and diverging wrinkles appeared round them, extending upon his countenance like the rays in a rudimentary sketch of the rising sun.” He didn’t see the look Nanny shot at her husband and Tom.
“Lovely, Daniel. Isn’t Farmer Oak the picture of you, Tom?
Tom blushed and sat back to listen as the story slowly unfolded. They didn’t get far that night. Prize yawned midway through the first chapter and William drifted off in his chair his cold pipe in his hand. Nanny called the reading to an end and smiled at Prize. She placed the book next to the Bible and woke William.
That night Prize dreamed of Tom as strong as an oak and his wide, wide smile and his hands and his kisses.
The weather was threatening but Tom wanted to take Danny up to the pirate cave anyway. He thought he deserved a break from the wall, and they would pick up a load of stones. He wanted to kiss Danny again. He wanted to go back to that night after The Ruby Smoke and before the night in the room. And he wanted to share something of himself, a bit of a nice memory with Danny. He wanted him to have more than chickens and stones to be the good things. He wanted to see the cave again. After Anthony died and Gordy went to school, he didn’t want to go back and be a pirate by himself.
“It’s not like I remember it. Smaller and just a little hole in the hill.” Tom stood at the mouth of the cave and touched the roof. “Oh, but we had big adventures up here. Gordy’d carry Anthony up on his back.” Prize looked at him. “Anthony couldn’t climb. His heart was weak and he was twisted up.” Tom looked at his Danny, “I’m sorry, it isn’t much.”
Prize sat down on the dirt his legs crossed and looked out at the bare trees and the dark sky. He wanted Tom to kiss him. “It’s a nice cave.”
Tom laughed and turned. “It’s not the same.” He put his hand on Danny’s hair. He did it without design. He did it to reassure himself. He took a deep breath when Danny moved away. “Oh.”
Prize rose and lifted his face and before he stopped himself he kissed Tom. He kissed the wide mouth and drew away. He waited for what Tom did next. He held his breath.
“I’ll kiss ye now, Danny. I’ll not hurt you.”
Tom moved his hands to the sides of Danny’s face and tried to read his eyes. He kissed him and Danny kissed back sweetly and moved his body closer and lifted his arm to circle Tom’s neck. They kissed again and Tom lifted Danny’s arm free and stepped back.
Prize dropped his arms and looked at the dry dirt. A crow cawed in a barren horse chestnut tree. Always a whore. He started to leave.
“Wait.” Tom slipped out of his coat and unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. “I’ll have ye see me.”
Prize saw him and wanted him. He lifted his hand and touched the hard muscles on Tom’s chest. He ran his hand down his stomach and watched Tom shiver. He put his lips to a nipple and felt it harden. He ran his fingers up the strong back and listened to Tom sigh. He kissed him again along the blond curls on his chest. Tom kept his arms at his sides. Prize stopped touching and kissing. He waited and wanted.
“I’ll love ye now if ye’ll let me.” Tom’s voice low and hitched with emotion. He extended his hands palms up. “I’ll love ye, Danny.”
“Yes.”
It was gentle and sweet, giving and tender, compassionate and gracious that lovemaking in the cave. Prize forgot all he’d learned in the cell and made love with Tom and Tom with him. He lost himself in the caresses and kisses. And he was Danny and not Prize. And he knew he was safe and he knew love. And when Tom entered him and made him shudder and tremble he arched his back and wanted more. And when Tom pulled him into his mouth warm and velvet he came. And when Tom held him close and touched him with his hands almost twice the size of his own and looked down at his body with its scars, Prize cried and frightened him.
“Did I hurt ye? Did I not. . .? He lifted Danny’s face wet with tears. “Oh, don’t weep. Oh, Danny, what have I done?” He touched the soft black hair.
Danny sobbed and didn’t know why. He couldn’t stop the tears. Tom started to pull away in confusion and Danny pulled him back. “You didn’t hurt me.” He rubbed at the tears on his face and more replaced them.
Tom wrapped him in his arms and rocked him and kissed the dark hair. Danny fell asleep in his arms and felt safe and loved. Tom held him and watched the even breathing. He ran his finger down the white scar on his side and looked at the soft circumcised penis resting on Danny’s thigh and marveled at the beautiful man in his arms and knew he would always love him and everything he was.
***
The sullen March seemed to be in unusual good spirits as he helped Halden dig the hole behind the casks in the dirt floor of the basement.
He’d never liked Rupert, but his quick exit from this world did not justify his mood.
When the hole reached a depth to ensure containment the decomposition odor, Rupert’s naked body rolled in, and the dirt shoveled over, March turned to Halden and asked for the remainder of the afternoon off. He had a few errands to attend to. And he was off to visit his hidey-hole cellar and begin his preparations for the Afterward.
He emptied the burlap sack on the dirt floor and touched the manacles and chain. He lifted them to his face and inhaled the odor of iron. He licked the iron and the taste of blood filled his mouth. It made him hard, hard to think of Prize, his arms pinned behind his back. Prize on his knees on the ground. He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers and shot his cum on the dirt.