From the Fields

Riding the backroads between Butterworth on the Malay peninsula, across the water from the island of Penang, and the plantation manor at Taman Binjai on Mountjoy, with Sebastian on the lead behind me, I glimpsed a disturbance off in a cinnamon tree field at the side of the pathway. An undulating furry pelt peeked out incongruously from between the cinnamon trees, giving the impression that some poor animal was caught in some manner of a trap and struggling to free itself. Not knowing if danger was on offer but not wanting a creature to suffer if it was caught in the vines, I guided Mountjoy and Sebastian off the road and into a stand of palm trees running beside the field in which I could advance to near the spot unseen.

It was with a certain sadness and feeling of loss that I was returning from taking erstwhile stable boy, Malik, to Butterworth to hand him over to a tavern and brothel keeper there. Malik had given good service but, being beyond his twenty-fifth year, was past being of the age now to be moving to a position that would afford him a more lucrative income. I was happy to do this favor for him—he had done me well for neigh unto six years—but he had grown older than I liked having in the stable in his capacity. Now, however, I was minus a stable boy who would fulfill the duty Malik did, but there were men in the stable well enough to do the work until I could find a replacement. We paid well at the manor and I and my needs were well known in the neighborhood, so I trusted it would not be long before there was a new Malik in place.

I tied the reins of the two horses to a tree just inside the stand and proceeded, as silently as I could, to a position of dense thicket just opposite of where I had seen the movement of the animal. Gaining a purchase that I thought concealed me sufficiently, I gasped to find that it was no animal at all, but rather a man, my Chinese overseer of the cinnamon fields, Peng, with a cloak on his back made of animal fur. He was a large, coarse, strong man of middle years, one I knew to be rough with his Malay workers, but who met production quotas with them. The undulating movement that had caught my eye on the road was the result of Peng holding a young, comely, naked Malay man under him, the youth’s knees hooked on the man’s hips. Peng was fucking the young man.

In contrast to the dark-tan brown flesh of the slim young man’s nakedness, the older man fucking him was fully clothed, the laces of his breeches codpiece undone and flared to free his cock, which was inside the young man, who must have been no older than eighteen or nineteen, and was pumping him in long slides. This vigorous taking had been what caused the aspect of undulation I’d seen from the road. Peng was on his knees, between the young man’s thighs, with one arm under the youth’s waist, pulling the Malay’s pelvis off the soft ground between the cinnamon tree rows so that the young man’s perfectly formed torso streamed back onto the earth, with his lustrous black strands of shoulder-length hair fanned out from his head. His arms were stretched out straight from his body in a sacrificial cruciform position, and his head was lolled to one side, his slit eyes staring into the thicket where I was—or thought I was—hidden. The expression on the young man’s face was such that it seemed like he could see me. It was just the sort of look I was aroused to receive from a young man of his age.

The look wasn’t one of consternation, but of satiation. The youth clearly was fine, at least for now, with having the man’s cock working inside him. His beauty and acceptance had a hardening effect on me. I would have been even harder if I had arrived at a stage where the young man struggled and I could see the moment of penetration and surrender.

The other hand of the man fucking him was palmed on the youth’s sternum, holding his body to the ground, captive, while the man punished the young man’s passage. But that seemed unnecessary. The small Malay was putting up no resistance, possibly having done so earlier in the assault to no avail and now totally cowed. In fact, the Malay was engaged in the coupling, moving his pelvis in rhythm to the thrusts of my overseer. My eyes fixated on the rocking of the slim hips of the Malay as they fucked. Peng touched him in the hollow of his hip, and I longed to be the one doing that. Where Peng touched him was red and I could see what looked like a hand impression as if the overseer had struck the young man there more than once. That too, I found to be arousing.

I was not sure whether this be assault or seduction—or just giving the demanding overseer his right in currying favor with him. The young Malay could not help but feel the power of the shaft moving inside him, and yet he gave no struggle against it. Was this master and slave, I wondered. The Malay workers on our plantations were little more than slaves here in the late nineteenth century. If one of our overseers was fucking his workers, even if it was male-on-male rather than the infinitely more accepted male on slave female, there was little to be said about that as long as quotas were being met. That was not my rule, but, rather, the guidance from London. London, in fact, favored a practice of Malay women bearing more children, either of pure Malay race or mixed breeding, to add to the workforce. Formal marriages were for the Europeans. Whatever the case, it got my juices going and I settled down on my haunches to further examine this mystery unfolding before me. Was this by consent or by privilege? To be truthful, I was the more aroused when it was taken by right initially rather than by mutual desire.

As privileged, I was the more moved by being a dominator.

I was stirred to the core of me not only from the act I was observing or the beauty of the young Malay, but as much by his vulnerability and helplessness in the taking and in the searching, teasing stare he was directing me, evidently able to see me in the thicket. I gasped as Peng moved his hand from the young man’s sternum and, with a flick of his wrist slapped the youth across the face, first in one direction and then in the other, which snapped the small Malay’s head back and forth in surprise and made his eyes flash. He squeezed the young man’s cheeks in his hand and made the Malay look directly in his eyes as he fucked him. Each slap had made me harden a bit more.

I was about to gather myself to rush out of hiding and pull the brute off the youth, and be a bit of a brute myself with the youth. Peng would have acceded me my rights. I was his master. But just as I was steeling my muscles to pounce forward, the small Malay cried out a “Ya! Membuat saya rasa!—Yes, make me feel it!” and raised his arms and his torso, his assaulter taking his hand away to encircle the young man’s cock, which I could now see and could discern was in erection, and cupped the back of Peng’s head with both his hands. The Malay youth brought their faces together in a kiss.

The overseer wasn’t assaulting the young man at all. The Malay youth was acquiescing to, fully participating in, the fuck, and he liked it a little rough—it had brought him to life and fully into the fuck. I was holding my riding crop in my hand, and, with a low moan, I flicked it against the leather of my riding boots and licked my lips. I fantasized about dominating an innocent youth, but I also liked a young man who wanted a little pain.

As if to emphasize that the bit of cruelty had heightened the young man’s arousal, his hips began to rock more insistently against Peng’s crotch; his fingernails dug into the shoulder tips of the fur jacket, scrabbling to pull the man deeper inside him; and when they came out of the kiss, the young man arched his back toward the soil, his pelvis still held in place with the older man’s strong arm encircling it, and started babbling, “Ya. Ya. Maka, seperti itu. Memberikannya kepada saya baik!—Yes, yes. There, like that. Give it to me good!” The young man’s body spasmed, and I could tell that he had come.

He went back into the arms-stretched fully open pose that made me ache to possess his little, lithe, berry-brown body as well. I gave no thought to whether I could, if I wanted to. There was no reason I should. That was the privilege of the English plantation manager. I exercised my privileges.

Even when the man slapped the boy’s bare buttocks hard with his hand, the boy merely laughed and called out a “Ya! Sekali lagi!—Yes! Again!” The acceptance of the boy was making me throb.

Settling back down on my haunches in the thicket, I unlaced my trousers, released myself, and stroked, matching my stroking to the rhythm of the man’s buttocks rocking against the young man and the Malay youth giving little gasps marking the bottoming of the shaft inside him and the promised that the overseer would bring him to climax again.

At length, the young man took control, making the understanding of his complicity in the act complete. He showed, with the movement of his arms and body, that he wanted to change positions, and Peng gave him his way, lowering himself on his back in the space between the rows. Throughout the man was facing away from me and the young man, who from time to time glanced my way and smiling, knowing I was there, watching, masturbating. It was almost as if he was performing for me, showing me what he could do, what he could do for me as well as he was doing it for the overseer.

With Peng prone on the ground, his hard cock—and a very nice one in size, almost as thick and long as mine was, standing up from his unruly bush as it protruded out of the flare of his trousers, the lacings cascading down the man’s sides—the youth climbed on top, straddling Peng’s shaft. Slowly, deliberately, the small Malay looking into my eyes all the time, he descended his passage on the shaft, taking his time to sheath it in its entirety, as the man under him shuddered and grasped the young man’s waist tight. Once well saddled, Peng raised his torso to that of the Malay youth, who tugged at the furred jacket, pulling it off the man and then pulling the man’s white, but graying, cotton shirt over his head. Peng’s chest was massively muscular, marked with the welts of the lash from an earlier, rebellious youth, the physique of a virile man not afraid of performing grueling manual labor himself and withstanding the punishment of his actions.

Peng no longer was just a middle-aged, crude overseer. His body was as beautiful in its maturity, power, and danger-seasoned experience as the Malay’s was in its fresh diminutive size, leanness, and litheness. The two fucked with a beauty of motion now that deserved to be sculpted—the older, experienced man taking his unfettered pleasure on a fresh, young body. Peng leaned back on his hands, fists planted in the soil behind him, and he moaned as the brown-bodied youth kissed down his cheeks and throat and his mouth went to the man’s nipples. At the same time the youth started to move his hips, rising and falling on the hard shaft inside him.

With a sigh, Peng lowered his torso again, fully prone on the ground, his arms going out from his body, he showing the position of the cruciform now, as the young man leaned back, placed his palms on Peng’s knees, and rose and fell on the cock. In this position, it would seem that Peng had lowered in authority or the young Malay worker had risen to his level and now controlled the fuck. Peng was not objecting.

The small Malay was displaying to me the point of the fusion of the two, the very center of the act that both obviously were taking full pleasure from, rising full to where I could see the rim of the glans on the huge, thick cock nearly surface before he descended again, tickling the surface of his tender inner thighs with the curly black hair of the man’s bush. Up, down. Up, down, until, in a frenzy, the overseer couldn’t take it anymore and, with a roar, pulled himself up and rolled over taking the small Malay to the ground, folded under him, completely covering him. He was growling and grunting, swinging his hips in a long, fast back and forth movement, fucking the youth hard. The young man was crying out his passion in the frenzied taking in words I could not decipher, though he used both Malay and English. His body was too muffled by Peng’s thrusting, dominating figure for me to clearly hear.

I watched as Peng tensed, jerked, and released, tensed, jerked, and released. I released my seed on the ground at the same time.

Immediately having released his cum, Peng rose off the surely crushed body, I thought at the time, stood over him as he folded his now-spent cock back into his breeches, and laced up the crotch. The youth lay below him on his back, his legs spread and bent, one hand playing with his still erect cock, the other rubbing one of his nipples, ready to go again. I ached to be the one. He had a beatific smile on his face and the dribble of cum dripping out of his gaping hole, which had just taken what seemed to be an impossible ram rod to handle.

Without a word, Peng marched away, down the path separating the rows of cinnamon trees, other duties to attend to.

The Malay youth’s eyes went to me, taking in that I was crouched down on my haunches, my cock out, magnificently long and thick even in repose, and dripping my seed on the ground.

I watched as the cheeky young man stroked himself to another ejaculation, all the time capturing my eyes with his. He was on his back, legs inviting open, inviting me, I was sure, to take up the position Peng had been in, fucking him.

But I had spent my load and, in my pride as English manager of the plantation, I could not countenance following behind a Chinese overseer of the field no matter how enticing the small, perfectly formed Malay worker was. That Peng was walking away from the opportunity to fuck the willing youth again and leaving him to me, the young man’s passage leaking a Chinaman’s cum, was an affront to my pride, even though Peng probably had no idea I was there. With a sigh of both satisfaction and regret, I stood, readjusted myself, turned and returned to the horses, and rode on to my manor at Taman Binjai. The more distance I put between me and the enticing Malay youth, though, the more regret I had that I hadn’t remained and made sport with him.

* * * *

The regret remained with me through the day, accentuated by arriving at the stable with no Malik to greet me and lie under me when, after what I’d seen, I was aching for an energetic session with a young man. The regret and longing were there the next day when I rode out on the Jalan Baru Road that ran through the various fields of the plantation for exercise and to calm my urges, my mind racing through images of the beautiful, lithe Malay youth, lying there, his legs open—open to me for the taking. If I had knelt between those legs, he would not—could not—have denied me.

I rode slowly by a field where a lone worker, one of our Indian workers from the Kashmir region, was weeding around rubber tree seedlings we’d put in the previous year as the rubber market was opening up in Malaya. He looked up and saw me, dropped his sickle, and walked to the edge of the field on a route that would intersect with me at a slightly lesser pace with the horse. I slowed Mountjoy to signal to the man that he had gained my attention and assessed the young man as we converged. He was older than I liked, probably twenty or more, and he was gangly, tall and thin, clothed just in a long sarong wrapped low around his hips. With all that, I was still attracted to him. His black hair was tied in a bun on top of his head. Flashing through my mind was visions of the hair let down, swaying with the rhythm of my cock working inside him. Sometimes the Indian workers performed swaying dances for us in their sarongs, and I’d found them arousing. I was going hard. The face was nothing to be proud of, but if I took him from the rear, that would not be part of the experience. A pleasant part of the experience, though, would be in unwrapping that sarong.

Then he turned his back on me as the hem of his sarong caught in the foliage and he had to twist around to disengage it. I caught my breath. The young man had welts on his back. He had been whipped. He had acceded to being whipped.

“Greetings, Sir Robert. Are you having a nice ride?” he asked when we converged. His voice showed nerves, but he spoke in a sing-song manner that aroused me. He knew what he was about when he came out of the field to me. He, like all young male workers, Malay, Chinese, and Indian alike, within miles of Taman Binjai knew what I like and wanted and would pay for. I had no trouble taking young men from the fields and covering them. They gained position from coupling with me. There were young British men in the colony as well, but it would not have been moral for me to touch them.

“Would you be interested in riding?” I asked, pulling a Malayan dollar, worth two shillings six pence at the time, out of my pocket and holding it up for him to see. That would be enough to feed him for four days, and richly so. As I spoke to him, I swished my hand whip against my thigh. He looked at it—and he knew—but he did not shrink from me.

“As you wish, Master,” he answered, almost reluctantly. His eyes gleamed at seeing the dollar bill, but his doubts told me that he was not experienced.

I had my doubts about laying him. He seemed unsure and quite possibly unridden, and he was not in any way my ideal. But I was hard, hard from the thoughts of the berry-brown Malay in another field on the previous day, hard from having seen the welts on this young man’s back, and my need was great. The Malay youth wasn’t here; this older field worker was. The Indian workers were obsequious; they would immediately do whatever I demanded of them and thank me for the privilege. He would be grateful for the Malay dollar. He had made his decision what he would do for the money before he saw me riding by the field. He would turn his back and take a few lashings as I prepared to mount him.

And if he was unridden as yet, there was sport in being the first to take him. The unwrapping of the sarong would be pleasant in its own performance.

I came down off Mountjoy, unlaced myself, and freed my shaft, which already three-quarters erect. The Indian youth gasped at the sight of it.

“If you think you can take this in your throat, kneel to me,” I said.

He went down on his knees, and I placed one hand on the back of his head, freeing his long hair, and guided his mouth to me. I ran my fingers through his hair, finding the fineness and length of it and the way it caught the highlights of the sun pleasing while he gagged on the cock in his throat. I had my riding whip in my other hand and applied it lightly on his biceps, shoulder blades, and cheeks while he struggled with my shaft. He jerked, sensitive to the touch of the lash, with each flick. But he could not be surprised by the whip if he knew of my proclivities at all, which he must have done by coming to me from the fields. I lashed him hard enough to make him gasp and jerk, but no harder.

He brought me to full hard, but it was clear that he couldn’t take it this way for very long and that he had no experience in trying to.

He obviously was a virgin. But he had come to me. He needed a Malay dollar more than he needed his virginity to a man up his passage. He was not ideal, but there was some arousal to deflowering a virgin. It was enough to keep me hard while I fucked him. He gritted his teeth and asked for no quarter. I gave him none.

I put him on all fours some yards into the field, behind a shielding palm tree, mounted him from behind, worked my way inside him as his grunted and groaned and, eventually sobbed, and I rode the virginity out of him. When I was well saddled and he was open to me at last, I grabbed onto his hair as reins, arched his head back to the sound of a yelp from him, and, using the leverage of my feet, rode him hard. He did not take well to the application of the whip on his flanks and buttocks while I was riding him, but he did not refuse me. How could he? I was the English master of the plantation.

He took it. He panted and sobbed, but he held steady and took the whip and the cock—all of it. His flanks and buttocks were red at the finish line too, but he had taken the whip. He wanted the money. He quite probably heard of the opening in the stable and wanted that too and that want was part of what he was willing to give up so stoically. But it would have taken too much effort to make the stable boy out of him that I needed. I doubted he’d ever beg for the whip as the younger Malay might do. And, at twenty, which he confirmed to me, Hakim was two years too old for my tastes in starting to train a young man to my desires and needs.

But he had assuaged the raging fire building in me for the saucy Malay youth of the previous day—at least for now. And he was happy to get the Malayan dollar.

* * * *

I’m not even aware what brought me back to the stand of trees by the field on the Butterworth-to-Taman Binjai back road, but I found myself there the next afternoon, standing at the edge of the trees overlooking the cinnamon tree field where I had seen the overseer and the Malay youth fucking. There was a figure in the field some distance away when I got there, stooping over the weeds around a tree. He straightened up and turned toward me and I could see that it was the young man I couldn’t get out of my mind.

We stood there, at a distance, just looking at each other. I wasn’t even aware that I was unlacing the crotch of my riding breeches until it was done and I had pulled the shaft out. I was hugely erect. I had the riding whip with me and flicked it against my thigh. I am sure he took the whole picture and what it portended.

He started walking toward me. As he walked, he was discarding the sarong at his waist so that, when he reached me, he was gloriously naked. His body was as beautiful as I remembered—small, perfectly formed, berry-brown, with lustrous black hair at head and pubes. His cock was that of a mature man, erect and inviting.

When he reached me, he came up close and put his hand out to encase my shaft. We kissed and I stroked his cock and then held our shafts together, frotting them, while he unbuckled me, slipped my riding breeches down off my hips and then pulled my vest and shirt over my head.

When I was almost as naked as he was, only in my riding boots and holding my riding whip in one hand, he pulled away from me, went down in front of me, and gave me the expert suck that Hakim, the Indian from the fields, had not been able to accomplish the previous day. Rather than standing when I pushed him off and said I could take no more, he went down on all fours for me and whimpered, “Mengalahkan saya! Fuck saya!—Beat me; fuck me.” I went down on my knees behind him and buried my face in the crease of his buttocks. I stood over him then and raised the hand whip and brought it whistling down on his back. He flinched and gave a little cry, but he held steady as I raised the whip again . . . and then again.

He was a thoroughbred. I rode him high, taking him in long sweeps, with him rocking back on the cock as I buried it, taking it deep. I wanted to ride him in a position where I could watch the cock penetrate, pull back, and then penetrate again. That had been the most arousing aspect of Peng, the overseer, fucking him—that I could watch the fusion of the bodies at the point of contact and see how beautifully the cock worked the hole. He also took the whip like a champion. I raised the whip high and brought it down hard, again and again, and, jerking, he cried out for it each time. “Ya, lakukan semuanya. Mengambil apa yang anda mahu!—Yes, do it all. Take what you want!”

I wanted him to come with me, so I went down on my knees and pulled his back up to my chest, him still on his knees in front of me, my shaft still hard and throbbing up his passage. I embraced him close, buried my lips in his throat, and encased his cock with my hand. I stroked him off as we rocked against each other and I fucked up deep inside his channel. I encouraged him to warn me when he was coming, and he did so, and I managed to finish with him. We both cried out as we both came—again and again and again. “Oh, Menguasai, Menguasai!—Oh, Master, Master!” he exclaimed, and I felt every inch the master of him.

But, was I really the master? In the beauty and surrender of him, had I become his slave? No, of course not. I was English. I would never be a slave to Malay.

I sat there afterward, beside him, as he lay on his back, panting and smiling, his eyes watching my every move, the slave ready to respond to the master’s every wish. He knew what I wished without my having to say anything. He smiled, spread and bent his legs, placing his feet firmly on the ground and pushing his pelvis slightly elevated. His arms went straight out from his body, taking the sacrificial position of a cruciform.

I rolled over on top of him and fucked him again. As I raised the crop and snapped it against his flanks, the youth laughed and cried out, “Ya, Ya. Perjalanan saya keras!—Yes, yes. Ride me hard!”

Afterward I stretched out beside him and, exhausted, dozed off. When I awoke, he was gone. I had intended to give him a Malayan dollar, but he hadn’t remained to collect his reward. Just as well, I thought. A single dollar would have cheapened what we had done. He was worth two at least.

* * * *

“There’s a Malay here to see you, Sir Robert,” Lan, the horse groomer, said to me as I was in the horse barn, feeding sugar cubes to Mountjoy. “He says he’s come about the stable boy position. I know you want to hire for that job yourself.” If there was a smirk on his face, I didn’t see it. He had turned from me when he said it.

As he spoke, the berry-brown beautiful young man who had captivated me and still was floating in my dreams walked into the barn, eyes cast down, looking perfectly angelic.

“His name is Wira,” Lan said.

“Is it?” I asked, not realizing until now that I hadn’t asked his name earlier. “Thank you, Lan. Could you check the feeding troughs in the paddock, please.” It wasn’t a question; it was a direction, and Lan well knew me and dropped what he was working on and left the barn.

When Lan was gone, I fished around in my pocket and came up the two Malayan dollars that had been burning a hole there. “I meant to give you these yesterday,” I said, “but you were gone when I woke.”

“I’d rather have the job,” he said, looking up into my eyes. “And not just for the money.” Regardless, he reached out and took the money.

“Do you know what the job is?” I asked.

“Yes, do you not think I can handle it?”

I interviewed him in the hayloft, lying on my back on a bale of hay, with my feet on the boards, giving me leverage to fuck up as he straddled my pelvis and rode my cock. He cried out in surprise when I snap the riding whip on his buttocks, but he fucked on, not losing a beat.

That evening, at dinner, my wife said, “I understand you’ve hired a new stable boy.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“That was fast. Malik was still here at the beginning of the week.”

“Yes,” I answered. “This one apparently is named Wira. He’s a Malay.”

“Well, I hope this one is in for the long haul. The stable boys seem to be gone every two years or so.”

“Yes, I hope this one lasts too,” I said. But then twenty was old in my book. I had it very hard for a younger one—eighteen. Wira’s age. And the Malay youth took the whip well. Not all of them did, although I had no trouble finding a willing eighteen-year-old worker in the fields for a fuck whenever I needed or wanted one and had a dollar to flip to them. Wira, though. Wira was worth two.

“I’ve often wondered whether the Malay, Chinese, and Indians working for us appreciate all we do for them,” my wife said. “I wonder which of them likes us best.”

“I’ve found all of them to be quite amenable,” my dear, “And very accommodating. I’m sure they all are equally happy that the English are here to guide them—and will be here forever.”