The Stag

by Max Markham

17 Feb 2017 901 readers Score 8.6 (20 votes) PDF Mobi ePub Txt


The Stag, Part 5

When I finally spoke, I did so carefully because I did not want to encourage Richard's superstitious leanings: 

“It's food for thought. What happened to you was odd and the coincidences are striking, but nothing that you've described could not be explained rationally.  There's no reason to think that you've had sex with a ghost. Like many religious sceptics - like many Ancient Greeks and Romans - you seem curiously eager to embrace superstition. I wonder why?”  

Richard ignored this question. “There is a further 'striking coincidence'; it's to be found in Robert Hanbury's private anthology,” he said. “He did have a key to the shooting-lodge!”

“How did he come by that?” I asked. 

“One of his Latin poems explains it: 'On my Auspicious Day', he wrote - he meant his twenty-first birthday – his friend James MacLean sent him a key in a box. Nothing odd about that, except that this was no symbolic silver or tinsel key; it was a real one, made of iron. It was a key to MacLean's shooting lodge in Sutherland, so that he could come and go as he pleased. Or, as Hanbury put it, 'the key to the house of our contentment, on the borderland of Paradise'. He went on to vow that he would never lose it.” 

“Again, that is interesting, but why should a ghost need a key?  They are supposed to pass through locked doors with ease.” 

“I don't know,” said Richard. “There is a good deal about that episode that makes no sense. And what happened to the key? Surely it should have been returned to James MacLean along with the book of poetry, but Major Gyles does not mention it in his letter. Did Hanbury lose it, despite his promise? Was it buried with him? Or did his family find it later among his personal effects, wonder why it was there and which door it opened? We've no way of finding out now.” 

“One other question,” I said. “If I've understood correctly, after Robert Hanbury died of his wounds, the future Sir James MacLean seems to have put homosexual love aside and done his dynastic duty. He got married and evidently lived – if not happily – at any rate healthily, for many years afterwards. Simon MacLean remembers him well from his early youth, and you say that Simon's only our age. In due course Sir James and his wife had children, one of whom presented him with a grandson, Simon, who has inherited. But did no-one ever suspect the truth about MacLean and Hanbury?” 

“It seems not,” said Richard. “They were cautious and discreet; Hanbury says so in more than one poem. They were under no illusion as to what would happen to them if they were exposed. And it is likely that the few who did suspect - if there were any - simply never returned from the First World War. The grandson, Simon, seems to know or suspect nothing. He remembers his grandfather occasionally speaking about the friends he lost in the Great War but he rarely mentioned their names. He also recalls that his grandfather could never bring himself to revisit his old college at Oxford, even many years later. That's about it.”  

“So, for all those years he never told anyone, kept the secret locked in his heart and probably thought that it would die with him, but now you have uncovered it?” 

“Yep!”said Richard. “That's about the size of it: My heart is locked till the King returns!”  he quoted. “And I suppose that he forgot about the book of poems in the attic.” 

“Or he couldn't bear to destroy it, even though he knew that another classicist might one day read and understand the poems. Richard, promise me that you won't translate or try to publish those poems, however excellent they may be. And don't tell anyone else about them, either. I've got a bad feeling about it. I don't think that either of those men would have wanted their story to become public property.” 

“Fuck, no!” said Richard, genuinely shocked. “I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart/ That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat. That's by Wilde and I agree with him. It would be sacrilege; retribution of one sort or another would be sure to follow. It did in Wilde's case.”

“How d'you mean?” 

“Wilde didn't follow his own advice. He wrote that when he heard that some of Keats's letters to Fanny Brawne were about to be auctioned. But in the event he changed his mind; he attended the auction and bid successfully for one of the letters. What happened thereafter is history; that letter was one of his personal effects that were auctioned in 1895 to pay off his creditors.”  

Richard paused and looked out of the window.  Then he resumed thoughtfully: 

“There's something about MacLean and Hanbury's story that one might easily overlook. They were only 'together', if you can call it that, for at most six years. Three of those years were passed at Oxford.Thereafter they were only ever alone together for odd weekends and during their holidays in Scotland. Then in 1914 the Great War came.They were commissioned in different  battalions. Even so, they managed to meet from time to time and occasionally to take leave together. Their love was still strong. They made plans for after the war. They thought about farming in British East Africa; the moral climate there was more tolerant than in the UK. Then Hanbury got badly wounded and was invalided back to England. He died at Aldershot before MacLean, who was at the front, could get leave to visit him there. It was the end of a dream: there was so much left unsaid; so much unfinished business, so many plans that could never now come to fruition. During their short romance they never had time for it to cool off. They ended on a high note. We can be certain that Hanbury's last thoughts were about MacLean and that MacLean never forgot his friend.” 

Richardfell silent for a moment; then he spoke again: 

“There's one Greek poetic fragment near the end of the book. Hanbury probably wrote it in hospital at Aldershot while he was waiting to learn when MacLean would be able to come and see him. He makes his feelings very plain; it is powerful stuff! MacLean must have read it when he received the book. I'll tell you what he did next: it was not difficult to piece the story together. He sought heroic death in battle, repeatedly volunteering to lead attacks on the German trenches and taking terrifying risks. He did not succeed; it seemed as though someone or something supernatural was now protecting him. He mentioned that in a poem of his own, which he  added at the very end of Hanbury's personal anthology. Their handwriting was quite different. MacLean got a few bullets through his clothing; that was all. His bravery was recognised: he was Mentioned in Dispatches and in 1918 he was awarded both the Distinguished Service Order and the Military Cross. Then, suddenly, the war was over: he had to start living again, even though he had lost his other half. Somehow he managed it.”  

“That's greatly to his credit,” I remarked. 

Richard nodded but said nothing.   

We did not mention James MacLean or Robert Hanbury again for a long time but, without telling Richard, I later made discreet inquiries to locate a photo or portrait of  Hanbury. My reason was simple: if, as I hoped, Hanbury should turn out to have been tall and/or dark and unlike the man whom Richard had encountered that evening at Muldoan, I would let him know and we'd have a relieved laugh about it. 

My search was frustrating. Although his Army records had survived,no-one, including the Middlesex regimental museum, now seemed to possess any photo or sketch of Robert Hanbury; not even in a group-photo. That branch of the Hanbury family seemed to be extinct.In the end it was Hanbury and MacLean's former College at Oxford that provided the answer. The Bursar, to whom I had written as a last resort, responded that they possessed an oil portrait of Hanbury,presented to the College by his parents after his death. It had been painted in 1914, soon after he was commissioned in his regiment. It now hung in the ante-room of the College Hall. Unfortunately it was not one of the paintings of which the College could send me a postcard-sized reproduction. Hanbury, though a brilliant Scholar, a gallant soldier and a credit to his College, was not famous enough for that. I was however welcome to visit the college at my convenience. The Bursar would arrange a short guided tour and show me Hanbury's portrait, as well as those of more illustrious alumni. 

It was a fine Spring morning. The Bursar let me admire the Fellows' Garden, gave me coffee in the Senior Common Room and began the tour with a visit to the College Chapel. It quickly became obvious why Simon MacLean's grandfather had never wished to go back. In addition to stained-glass memorial windows, following the Great War an entire wall of the Chapel had been covered with grey Purbeck marble panels bearing line upon line of carved and gilded names of the fallen, many of whom would have been familiar to James MacLean. I looked for and found one name in particular: Robert Eugene Hanbury. 

Next, the Bursar ushered me into the sombrely-panelled Hall ante-room.Robert Hanbury was now a forgotten man: his portrait, although a well-known artist had painted it, hung in a dark corner; I could hardly make out his features. The Bursar flicked some switches and the picture-lights  came on.  Hanbury was suddenly brilliantly illuminated, looking at me. He was wearing a high-necked 1914-pattern khaki infantry tunic with gleaming brass buttons and insignia. He seemed to be of medium height and was strikingly handsome:  Face like an angel, form like the cypress, as he described his friend MacLean in one of his Greek poems that Richard had translated for me, but it applied equally-well to himself. Hanbury's hair was blond, with a high parting, his eyes a brilliant blue and, in Richard's words, he was smiling “the most delightful smile I ever saw; you could warm your hands at it!” I stared at Hanbury for a long time. 

“Now,”said the Bursar briskly, “Step this way into Hall, please. We keep our better portraits here.  This one, of our Founder, is believed to be by Holbein...” 

But I was not paying attention; I was still thinking about Robert Hanbury. As I left the ante-room I  seemed to feel his eyes on my back. I never told Richard about my visit to Oxford. 

Later I tracked down Hanbury's grave. Having died in England, he had been interred in a village churchyard near his parents' house, with a regulation Imperial War Graves Commission headstone. The Rector helped with my inquiries, sending me a photo of the gravestone. It bore a  mysterious epitaph from the Book of Ecclesiasticus: 

That which hath been is now; and that which is to be hath already been;and God requireth that which is past.

That seemed a strange text to use. Had Hanbury chosen it for himself while he was lying in hospital at Aldershot, perhaps because he had begun to fear that his wounds might prove fatal after all? If so, what did he mean by it? 

The clergyman also enclosed a photograph of Hanbury's memorial window in the church. A donor, who had wished to remain anonymous, but who was clearly MacLean, had presented it in 1937, twenty years after Hanbury's death. It was made of translucent engraved glass – not stained glass – which gave a view of the churchyard and the countryside beyond.  But engraved on it, and  superimposed on the gentle Home Counties landscape, was the wilder panorama of Sutherland's mountains, moorland and lochs, with distant stags and an eagle.  At the extreme right- and left-hand edges of the window were engraved two gnarled and windblown trees:the one on the left was alive and bearing leaves, but the tree on the right was as bare as in winter. On a broken branch of the latter hung an infantry officer's Sam Browne belt and cap. At the top of the window the two trees' twigs reached out to touch one another, framing the landscape. Drifting across the sky were Cumulus clouds, on which lines of poetry and prose had been inconspicuously engraved. Two that stuck in my mind were: “As it was” and “World without end”. 

James MacLean seemed to have had no interest in “moving on”, “achieving closure”and trying to forget about Robert Hanbury. I could not make up my mind whether that was admirable, unhealthy or just realistic? Hanbury was probably not an easy person to forget even if you wanted to, and especially not if you had been in love with him. Once more, I did not mention any of this to Richard.  

Soon after his return from Sutherland, Richard had a second unsettling encounter, although there was nothing supernatural about it. At this period he was enjoying a discreet affair with Mark Stainer, whom he had fallen in love with at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. As with Hanbury and MacLean, his feelings were completely reciprocated. Unlike Hanbury and MacLean, they managed to get commissioned in the same regiment: the first battalion Bombardier Guards. Since neither was married, they were expected to live in the Officers' Mess, which was not the ideal place to conduct a clandestine gay affair, given that its discovery would have led to their expulsion from the Army. However they enjoyed access to what Richard called their “secret orchard”, to which they could escape from the Mess, spend time together and, in Richard's words, “shag each other senseless” whenever the opportunity presented itself. 

Alexander, one of Mark's former school-friends, was a yuppie merchant banker in the City of London. He too was gay, although this was far from obvious. This was in the 1970s, so he did not admit his orientation to work-colleagues but indulged himself while on holiday overseas. His main activity in London was adding to his already large family fortune. Among other things, he had inherited a large flat in a Victorian mansion-block in Warkworth Terrace, a gloomy red-brick canyon near Westminster's Roman Catholic Cathedral and not far from the Barracks. Alexander was happy to let a room in it to Mark and Richard. This was furnished as a bed-sitting room, with two divan beds, to preserve the fiction that they were “two gentlemen sharing” for the benefit of the cleaning-lady and anyone else who might take an interest. They usually had the run of the whole flat because Alexander was seldom there; it was more of a base than a home for him. When in London the workaholic Alexander rose early and returned home late, via an expensive gym club.  At weekends he was often in the country, visiting family and friends. In Alexander's absence Richard and Mark would relax in the drawing room, use Alex's ultra-modern and gadget-infested kitchen, installed at heaven knew what expense, his Jacuzzi bath and power-shower and watch videos on his large-screen television set. Very occasionally, to their amusement, a grim-faced and desperate-looking Alexander – unable to withstand the stress of self-control any longer - would unexpectedly appear,accompanied by a hunky rent-boy, to have urgent, strenuous and vocal sex in  his bedroom.  

Their shared room in Alexander's flat remained a closely-guarded secret; Richard and Mark met there, but never went there together. When they arrived and left, they did so separately; as much as half-an-hour apart, using different routes.  They always had a pre-agreed story about what they had done during their absence, which did not involve each other.  Richard's usual explanations were that he had been in the gym, out running or at his club.  

On this particular day Richard was off duty after lunch. Unfortunately Mark was at Windsor, so there was no prospect of either his company or a fuck with him that day. Nevertheless Richard decided  to go to Alexander's flat for a quiet, relaxing afternoon and to catch up on his reading. He left the  Barracks dressed for a serious training run.  His small backpack contained a pair of blue briefs, a scarlet Army polo-shirt, a pair of blue jeans and a towel. He kept slippers and shoes in the flat. Above the waist he wore a red-trimmed sleeveless white T-shirt. Below it, Richard, who had a definite chavvy streak, wore very short scarlet running shorts, slit up the sides, which exposed his handsome, powerful legs from hip to sock-top. Under the shorts he wore only a close-fitting thong, to contain and restrain his genitals. Richard liked the feel of the thong, snug and tight between his ass-cheeks. Running at top speed or in a strong wind, his shorts would fly up and expose his hard,muscular backside, to the delight of any shop-girls or homosexuals he might encounter. Richard enjoyed making these cockily provocative sexual displays. It did not occur to him that he might one day attract very unwelcome attention, get into trouble and have difficulty extricating himself from it.  

“Hey, look at his legs!” the girls would shout.  “Woof! woof! Nice ass!” was the gay men's usual compliment, often accompanied by a wolf-whistle. Normally Richard would gallop onward with a grin and a wave. Not always, however: in very fine weather, especially when running very early in the country, Richard sometimes dispensed with the T-shirt and ran bare-chested,bare-legged and effectively bare-assed. From time to time, running almost naked like this, he would get lucky and get laid en route. He used to tell me about these adventures, which he treated as an enormous joke, though they struck me as  potentially risky.  On one recent occasion Richard had unexpectedly encountered a posh young gentleman out after snipe in boggy woodland at a very early hour. 

Fair-haired,blue-eyed, tanned and muscular, the man looked handsome, arrogant and exuded macho sex-appeal. He was Richard's preferred physical type. It was a challenge: I have to have him! 

Richard had charged into the clearing where the sportsman was taking a rest and smoking a cigarette. They hardly needed to speak; they eyed each other hungrily and the look said it all. After staring for a few moments:   

“D'you fuck?” the sportsman finally drawled in what Richard identified as an Etonian accent. 

“Like a rattlesnake!” laughed Richard. 

For various reasons Richard did not usually like Old Etonians, although he had no objection to fucking them and this one was physically very attractive.  

“Oh really? Then you're on!” said the other. “Get your kit off; that shouldn't take you long. Let's see what you can do!” 

Patronising bastard. 

While he was speaking, the young man was shrugging off his shooting-jacket. He hung it on a tree; next, he pulled his Tattersall-check shirt over his head. While he was stripping, his eyes never left  Richard, who had got naked within seconds and stood waiting impatiently, hands on hips. 

Whatever the Old Etonian sportsman might originally have had in mind, it was probably not what then happened. Richard, who proved to be much the stronger, took control from the start of their sweaty, combative encounter; held the man's head down firmly, and fucked him within an inch of his life.  

“He had come prepared: in his shooting-bag he was carrying condoms and lube! I think that he might have been an oarsman; he had great legs,a bubble-butt and a good tan, which covered most of  his muscly, fuckable body.” said Richard reminiscently. 

“Clearly an optimist!” I responded. 

“Well, he had every reason to be; I loved drilling him. So would anybody!”

The last that Richard saw of the sportsman, looking back over his shoulder as he jogged away, the guy was no longer looking arrogant. He had been completely fucked, in every conceivable way. He was lying on the ground, propped against a tree, naked apart from his boots and socks; his floppy, well-cut fair hair dishevelled; chest heaving; gasping for breath; head tilted back, eyes closed, face and and torso spattered with sperm. One hand was cupped protectively over his now rather sore cock and balls. Richard thought poetically  that he resembled a famous nude statue, The Dying  Adonis. In the legend Adonis was fatally gored by a wild boar with its tusks while hunting; this modern hunter had been gored by Richard with his cock, while shooting. Sex with Richard was apt to be like unarmed combat, spiced with kinky sexual techniques that he probably picked up in some Bangkok brothel.  

I said: “He probably felt as though he was dying. I know what you're like when you get carried away.  Did you get round to asking his name and do you remember it?” 

“Yep; it was Rupert!”

“Rupert Who, I wonder? There are rather a lot of them!” 

“The Honourable Rupert Van Jonkheer of Badham Park, near Leeds. It sounds Jane-Austen-ish.” 

“Crikey! That family? They are a distinguished dynasty of soldiers and sailors. They came over with William of Orange. How did you come by that information? I don't suppose he handed you his card after you did that to him?” 

“He was in no state to hand me anything; he was bollock-naked and had no pockets within reach at the time. I found  out by accident” said Richard. “His is an odd, outlandish surname, as you observed.  To my surprise and amusement, a few weeks later I spotted his wedding photo in The Tatler! It was him, all right; he was marrying another Honourable: the Hon. Squitabella Spalding, or some such name. I must have been his last fling before the wedding! That's why he stuck in my memory.” 

I teased him: “So that makes two bridegrooms you've seduced just before their wedding?” 

“At least two,” said Richard smugly. “And why not? For some reason young men seem to be uniquely susceptible at that time.”

Backin London, after Richard had cantered out into the Park, the Duty NCOat the Barracks noted in his log-book: “12.30 pm: Mr Finch left fora training run.” He's so bloody keen, thought Corporal Cheadle, He's fucking good-looking; hotter than a three-balled tom-cat, and I think he knows it. Those legs and that ass; Phwoar! Officer though he may be, I'd like to bend him over and give him one!Although a married man, the Corporal still had an eye for a handsome soldier. 

Richard ran three circuits round the Park: the first was one quite relaxed, to warm up; the next two were faster, in case anyone from the Barracks should be watching him. (Lieutenant Colonel Stockwell's office looked out over the Park.) No-one should be in any doubt that Richard was in quest of healthy exercise, and nothing else. A number of other joggers were running there, too. Richard noticed one in particular; he was dressed, unlike Richard, in an all-enveloping outfit including a black, long-sleeved top with a roll-collar, which he had pulled up to cover his lower face, although the weather, which was quite mild, hardly seemed to justify this. He wore a black“ beanie” hat, which was pulled down over his ears and eyebrows.All that Richard could see of his face was the eyes. His legs, which were very muscular, were encased in skin-tight black Lycra running tights.  He was evidently very well-hung. Many men wear tights to keep warm while running. Most however wear shorts on top of them. Not this guy; in fact, his tights had a “bulge-enhancing” pouch front.  

That's pretty blatant; I'm surprised that a cop has not arrested him,thought Richard. Sexual exhibitionist though I sometimes may be, that would not be my choice of running-kit, though I definitely like his legs. 

Presently it dawned on Richard that the Man in Black, or MIB, as he had provisionally christened him, seemed to be shadowing him. Richard slowed down and MIB did so too, so that he did not overtake Richard,but remained the same distance behind him. What could be the meaning of this?  Could he be IRA, a stalker or both? Perhaps it was time to go somewhere else: either back inside the Barracks – the sensible but cowardly option - or on to Warkworth Terrace? On balance the latter course seemed preferable; Richard should manage to lose his stalker in Westminster's quiet back-streets. 

First of all however Richard ran to the poste-restante near Victoria Station to check his private mailbox. Looking back from the doorway, he thought that he saw the MIB dodge into another shop-door, although he could not be sure. Richard asked for his mail. An attractive girl assistant, who plainly liked hunky men who wore very brief running shorts, checked the box for him. Apart from some magazines and books, which Richard immediately put in his rucksack for later perusal, there was a card from Rufus Finlayson, which both amused and caused him concern. It bore a black-and-white photo by Leni Riefenstahl, to publicise the 1936  Berlin Olympic Games.  This depicted a male athlete aiming a longbow. The man, who was handsome in a thuggish Teutonic way, appeared to be naked, apart from a glistening coating of oil, which made his muscles stand out. His crotch was  tactfully shadowed. The caption, added by the card's publisher,read : “I've got you in my sights!” Rufus was yet again asking for a meeting – probably more than a meeting - with Richard.Although it appealed to him, the card would have to be shredded.Emerging from the office, Richard again thought that he glimpsed the MIB disappearing round a corner. It was time to shake him off. 

Richard now ran on towards Alexander's flat. Partly because of the need for secrecy and partly because he enjoyed exploring the byways of Westminster, he took a favourite but obscure and indirect route,through St Willibrord's deserted churchyard.  St Willibrord's was an old church that the Luftwaffe had flattened in 1941. It had never been rebuilt but the churchyard was preserved as a public green space and had even been provided with a few park-benches. The unappreciative public did not often use the little park; possibly because it was gloomy, overgrown, still full of gravestones and shaded by large plane-trees, whose branches formed a dark tunnel in summer. It looked rather Hammer-Filmish at the best of times; urban legend suggested that it was haunted. More to the point, the former parish of St Willibrord's was a quiet residential enclave; relatively few people were available to frequent it on week-days, anyway. There were few offices, shops or pubs in the surrounding streets; just small town-houses and flats, whose busy inhabitants – many of them MPs – were out for most of the day.  Richard, who often ran that way, seldom met anybody there, apart from postmen and Westminster City Council street-cleaners. Despite its sombre atmosphere, Richard liked the former churchyard, partly because he had once seen a very rare bird there. 

Occasionally Richard would pause in the graveyard to catch his breath, do some stretching and read the epitaphs on the old headstones. He was“taking five”, gulping mineral water and translating the Latin epitaph of one Numa Pompilius, an African former slave who had become a celebrity in eighteenth-century London, when, without warning,someone who had been hiding in the plane-tree branches above swung down and jumped him. A pair of powerful thighs – this guy must be a wrestler or a rugby player- was clamped round Richard's neck. As he fought back, the other man let go of the branch from which he had been hanging and they both crashed to earth. 

“Gotcha!” muttered the other guy.

Richard was temporarily winded and slightly concussed by his fall, so he was unable to stop the man getting him face-down on the ground and twisting his arms behind him. However once Richard had recovered his breath, he began to struggle and fight back. He was more angry than frightened; he knew that he was much stronger than most other men of his size. So apparently did his assailant, who suddenly snapped handcuffs, which he had presumably been carrying in his pocket, round Richard's wrists.  Then a ball-gag was jammed into Richard's mouth, which reduced his bellows of rage to muffled grunts. 

Oh fuck! 

His unknown attacker now manhandled Richard towards an altar-tomb, well away from the path, bent him over it, tore apart his shorts and thong and threw them aside. Richard was now naked from the waist down.  The attacker then smeared some lube on Richard's ass-hole. It was obvious what was about to happen. 

This cannot be happening: not here, in the middle of Westminster! 

Richard tried to shout “Fuck off, you bastard!” but the gag muffled his voice. 

Chuckling drily, the man took no notice; he probed Richard's ass-hole with his fingers and then began to thrust his cock against it. Richard's shouts of rage and pain were muted by the gag, but not altogether silenced. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes tight. He tried not to think about the indignity that he was going to suffer.   

Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier;I have seen worse sights than this.   

“Hey! What's going on?” 

The voice was deep, authoritative and North-American. Richard sensed,rather than saw, that its owner was a very big man. His attacker smothered a curse and ran away.  The new arrival bent solicitously over Richard. He removed the gag and somehow managed to get the handcuffs off. The voice now sounded friendly and caring. 

“Say, Son, are you okay?”

Richard looked up at him. “I think so, but thank heaven you came along!”     

The man was tall, with a square-jawed attractive face, which was starting to show the laughter-lines of early middle-age. His short dark hair showed a few flecks of grey. He wore steel-framed eye-glasses. The combination of that haircut with those glasses and his boyish grin made him look like a mature college-boy. He was wearing a grey suit with white shirt and crimson silk neck-tie; the latter bearing a recurring, small gold motif of globe, anchor and eagle. Richard thought it looked vaguely familiar. The man had been carrying two self-explanatory paperback books: Hidden London and Haunted London, which he had put down on the altar-tomb and now retrieved.  History, ghosts or both explained why he was in St Willibrord's secluded churchyard in the early afternoon. He looked concerned. He helped Richard to his feet. 

“Your shorts are a write-off. Have you got some more kit with you?” 

“Yep; I've got clean clothes in my backpack. Let me get into them. Please keep a lookout.” Richard shed off his T-shirt and was briefly naked before he pulled on his clean briefs, polo-shirt and jeans. The mans at nearby, keeping a lookout but also watching him. Richard then picked up his ruined shorts. He regretfully dropped them in a municipal rubbish-bin.  

Dammit!I really liked those shorts.

The man was still hanging around: “D'you want to go to the police? ”D'you want me to be a witness? Here's my business card! You must be in shock! D'you live nearby? Can I walk you home?” 

Richard was not in shock; just very angry. Young though he was, he had seen, endured and done worse things, but he assumed that the kindly American was probably a civilian, who no doubt found man-on-man sexual assault profoundly shocking. Hell, he might even be a Mormon missionary, he looked so respectable!  

“I'd welcome your company,” said Richard politely. “And I do live nearby. Let's walk there now and I can offer you some coffee?” 

“What about the cops?”asked the American. 

“I shall not bother with them. I have an idea of who did that to me and I'll deal with him in my own way and in my own time!” said Richard.

His new friend nodded seriously: “Well, if you change your mind, I'll provide you with a statement.”

When they got to Alexander's flat the American, who was called Ben Hoyt, volunteered to make the coffee while Richard showered, took time to relax and calm down. 

“Good thinking!” agreed Richard. “But I should warn you that my landlord's coffee machine is very high-tech and you need a degree in Computer Science to operate it!” 

Ben looked at it. “It's American; I know how it works!” 

“Great!”

First things first: Richard headed for the bed-sitting room that he shared with Mark. He decided that he needed a stiffer drink than coffee after all that had happened. Among other things, he kept a few bottles of alcohol there, one of which contained whisky. He looked for a glass, found one, poured himself a generous measure and was in the process of knocking it back when he was interrupted.  Alerted by the clink of crystal, Ben entered the room. He gently took the tumbler from Richard and put it on the dressing-table. 

“Please don't. That is not good stress-therapy,” he said seriously. 

“Who says?” asked Richard, crossly. 

“I say. You'll end up becoming dependent on it.” 

“What makes you think that?”

“My own knowledge and experience. You see, I was a Marine Corps psychiatrist until recently.  I'm now back in academe, but in the USMC I met a thundering lot of highly-charged guys like you with high testosterone levels. Surprisingly often they would find themselves in a situation like yours, so they turned to drink to help them handle it – it goes without saying that real men don't seek help - and that just made it worse; they got hooked on alcohol. Even worse, they sometimes progressed to substance-abuse; you know,  restricted drugs.” 

Richard was still annoyed: “So at 'therapy' you suggest, if not single malt?” 

“If you were my patient I would recommend counselling...”

“Boring bollocks!” snapped Richard. “Not my scene.” 

“...But since you are not, and we have no formal relationship,  I'd suggest something simpler; a massage, for a start; I can do that.  It'll make you feel better. Sit down.”  

Richard sat down in a chair.  Ben took off his jacket, his tie and a pair of handsome cuff-links. He rolled  up the sleeves of his immaculate white shirt and stood behind Richard. He now started to massage Richard's shoulders through his red polo-shirt.  Ben was evidently very strong and knew exactly what he was doing. Richard started to relax; a warm feeling of well-being began to well up inside him.Presently Ben gently pulled the polo-shirt over Richard's head and continued to massage his bare shoulders and back. From time to time he would lightly stroke Richard's face, hair and nipples. It felt great. Richard closed his eyes. Ben then massaged his feet.  

This is taking a decidedly enjoyable turn, thought Richard. Let's see how things develop. 

Ben spoke quietly: “You've had a shock. Would you like to work it out of your system now?” 

“How?”

“We could have sex,” said Ben, matter-of-factly. “It would be better for you than whisky. That is, if it is of interest. No offence taken if the idea doesn't appeal.”  

Richard started laughing. He said, disingenuously: “Yes, it would be of interest!I t would never have occurred to me you might be up for that! I can see that you're very fit – I bet you've got a good body!” 

Ben grinned. “I don't think that you'll be disappointed. I used to wrestle at High School and University. I shouldn't boast, but back then I was an inter-collegiate champ! I kept it up in the Marines and I still train and work out with weights. You wonder why a guy like me went out for wrestling?”

“Yes! You seem like a gentle giant; a true gentleman and so not aggressive enough for combat sports.”

“It's simple; my eyesight is terrible! Without glasses or contact lenses, which I hate, I have difficulty hitting a stationary golf-ball, let alone a moving squash-ball, baseball or a football. But you don't need to see well to wrestle! And I turned out to be good at it!” 

As Richard watched, Ben crouched down, unlaced his shoes and put them neatly to one side. Carefully, he put his socks inside them. He straightened up, loosened his tie and pulled his shirt over his head. His trouser-zip whined briefly. Ben pulled off his trousers and hung them over a chair. He was now naked apart from a small pair of burgundy briefs patterned  with white skulls-and-crossbones. Richard had not expected to see anything so daring, frivolous or erotic on Ben. To Ben himself they evidently seemed risqué and un-American. He laughed uneasily and seemed almost to apologise for wearing them:   

“This isn't my usual style; I wear boxer-shorts, but I saw these in a shop yesterday and  - what the hell - I kinda liked them and bought them.So now I'm wearing them. I'm still getting used to the feel – and not having a front-fly!” 

“You don't need a front-fly when they're that small; you just push them down. I like them too,” said Richard. He stepped up to Ben and kissed him. First his mouth, then his throat, then his nipples, then his stomach; then anywhere, until his face was close to Ben's crotch. Richard knelt, pulled down the briefs and took Ben's cock between his lips. Ben was wearing a steel cock-ring around the base of his cock and balls. It glimmered dully against his dark public hair. 

It looks like he was hoping to have sex with someone this day!  I'll oblige him! 

“It seems that I was destined to get laid today, whatever happened!” laughed Richard.

“If it's your destiny, you should embrace it!” said Ben quietly and seriously.  

It dawned on Richard that Ben was not just interested; he was extremely keen to have sex with him; right now, that minute. He began to suck Ben's balls expertly and explore his man-hole with a finger. Ben's testicles and ass-crack were completely hairless; he kept them shaved. Pierced through the loose skin of the scrotum, behind his balls, was a neat gold ring. Richard had not expected Ben to wear anything as gay as that, even although it was in a discreet place. He tweaked it playfully.  Not normally a friend of body-piercings,Richard found this one erotic. 

Stripped of  his Brooks Brothers suit, Ben was revealed as a tall,heavily-muscled man with broad shoulders. He had superb definition.Massive as he was, he had little subcutaneous fat; muscles, sinews and veins stood out. Although his voice was New England, Ben when naked looked like a Californian  bodybuilder who spent a lot of time on the beach. He had a good,even tan with no tan-line. Fin ally Ben took off his glasses. He smiled uncertainly. The smile was slightly lopsided. His eyes blinked in an unfocused way that made him look vulnerable, The contrast between his powerful physique and his gentle, intelligent and myopic face was poignant.  

Richard thought: His vulnerability is erotic, in a way I've never encountered before. 

“Ben, you've been shaved all over: you must've been in a bodybuilding competition recently!” 

Ben looked more embarrassed. “Yeah, I was. Some guys saw me in the locker-room: they talked me into it and, next thing, I got signed up!” 

“And were you placed?” 

“Oh sure; I won second prize!” Ben seemed even more embarrassed when he said this. 

He's the first man I've ever met who manages to appear ultra-sexy just by being embarrassed.

Richard now had a strong erection. He grinned at Ben: “You're fucking beautiful and you're very well-hung.” 

“Aw shucks!” said Ben gruffly. “C'mon. Enough compliments. Let's get to business.” 

“Gladly, but I'm the one who's starting to feel nervous now. I've never done it with a guy your size!”  

“I'll make it easy,” said Ben. “Relax.” He smiled and pushed Richard onto the bed, climbed on top of him and kissed him gently. The kissing soon got passionate. Ben kissed Richard's nipples, armpits and everywhere else. He pulled off Richard's jeans and briefs, went down on him skilfully and got him hard. 

“C'mon,” said Ben again. He lay down on a bench , grabbed his own feet and pulled his great, muscular legs backwards and apart. “I'm all yours.” 

As indeed he was. Ben's mix of gentleness and physical strength was a heady erotic stimulant for Richard. From the first moment he had wanted to fuck Ben and – presto – that suddenly seemed to be on offer! Richard spread his hands and pressed Ben's ass-cheeks apart.Ben's  man-hole was a rich, blush-pink inside. It seemed to invite rimming and penetration. The big man made no sound apart from a few muffled groans when Richard started to probe and explore him intimately with one finger, then two, then his lips and tongue. To begin with, Richard tried to be gentle, but that did not come easily to him; his inner  nature started to assert itself. Richard gently bit the loose skin of Ben's scrotum and his ass-cheeks. Ben gasped. 

“Now,over here; bend over that sofa!” Richard commanded. 

Without a word, Ben did as he was told. He braced himself against the back of the sofa, stuck out his backside and bowed his head submissively.Richard loved that. He smeared some lube on Ben's hole and started to slide in. Then he started to thrust, slowly at first. Ben closed his eyes and gasped as Richard hammered his ass. 

I have to possess him completely. 

A few minutes later, Ben was lying on his stomach on an Ottoman, his arms twisted behind him. Richard, now astride him, thrust deep inside Ben, past the second sphincter... 

Ben shouted: “OH FUCK!!”

Richard laughed; he enjoyed that and he hammered Ben some more.   Then Ben was flipped onto his back, with Richard grabbing his ankles. Ben got fucked again. He was beautifully submissive; Richard loved watching the play of emotions from pain to extreme pleasure passing over Ben's face. 

If his mates in the US Marine Corps could only see him like this! Richard later decided that some of them almost certainly had. 

“Over here!” Ben was now braced against a door-frame for a standing-fuck. Richard put his arms round Ben and took him from behind. 

After that they enjoyed a few minutes' rest on one of Alexander's Chinese watered-silk rugs. “Wow!” was all that Ben said. Richard nothing but kissed him again. 

“On your back,” said Ben. Richard lay on his back; once more Ben gave him skilful oral sex and got him hard again. “You know what's coming next!” Ben teased him. 

“Both of us?” Richard replied. 

“What, not who!” said Ben. He now eased himself onto Richard's cock. His ass felt both good and hot to Richard.  As Ben sank down, taking all eight inches of Richard's cock inside him, Richard closed his eyes and ran his hands over Ben's chest muscles and pecs. “Fucking marvellous body!”

Later they showered and, happy in each other's company, they decided to pass the evening and night together in the flat. Richard would not be on duty until eight o'clock the next morning. Alexander did not appear; he was on a business trip. Richard had some wine stored in Alexander's wine-fridge, so they sent out for an up-market Chinese takeaway.  They watched television for a while before going to bed. About three o'clock the following  morning, they felt randy again and the fucking began in earnest.