Actions of Man on Covert Mission

A Natural Habitat for Strength and Love

A chilly wind blew down from the mountains. That was good. A cold night meant men yearned for greater proximity to warmth.

Marco returned from the sheep herd that he had moved into a pen at a lower altitude. Mitya would by now have started a fire in order to grill or boil something that had been harvested or hunted in autumn. The fortress they had recovered and renovated with stone and other raw materials of the land, had, as Mitya had predicted during their escape almost one and a half years ago, come to exert a pull on certain men of nearby regions. On these hills men grew stronger and bigger in all the good ways.

It had not been easy. A few locals had of course objected. Nature had thrown a few storms at them as well to test their resolve. However, they were on lands onto which the ordinary world did not venture. No signs of CIA, KGB, MGB, MI6 and so on. Near these fuzzy borders, among harsh mountains, between seas and the arid and boreal, where people have lived and migrated for millennia, a more ancient metaphysics appeared to reign. Marco and Mitya thrived when challenged by these conditions. Marco felt relief upon these distant hills.

Marco entered the fortress. It was pleasantly warm, in part from a fire, in part from the bodies that had gathered. Marco removed his thick wool clothes. Indoors he dressed in a short chiton fashioned from cotton — a pleasant fashion. All who stayed within the walls of the fortress dressed so as well.

In the vestibule the holy card of Saint Sebastian had been placed in a frame. His pain and wounded body, yet his endurance and great spirit captured so well in the artwork. It spoke to all who entered. The crucifix remained steady between pectoral muscles. 

The cock ring too had found purpose and frequent use. Mitya remained a challenge. He always found new creative ways to make sexual stimulation dangerously intense. That ass, those buttocks, the muscles, the skin, the grip… This journey had been tough and painful — sex with Mitya was a kind of reward, as were the preceding encounters.

But enough of reminiscing of the past, Marco thought. He wrested his mind away from vague recollections of warm and vibrant moments in bathhouses, on beaches, below deck and all over ballrooms. 

As many as twenty-five men had decided to join Marco and Mitya in the fortress for the evening. They all came over to greet Marco as he entered the inner chamber. He had come to know them all intimately, in at least one sense, usually more. Bishr was the most recent addition. He had come all the way from Samawah in Iraq — or Mesopotamia as he insisted it should be called — and he had already begun to blossom. Fear and loss had driven him away, ambition and grit had sustained him on his escape, smarts and growth had directed him to this fortress. The way he could bend and arch his body — the lumbar spine recognized few limits — had made him a favourite subject for many spirited educational sessions.

Mitya was almost done with the stew. He wore short chiton and while he leaned forward to add more spice to the stew, his buttocks were almost revealed. Several of the men’s heads turned reflexively in the hope of catching a glimpse of the sweet ass that had done so much for them and to them. They felt a firm phantom grip around their dicks.

“We are all gathered, so line up. Stew, bread and a small glass of smuggled Georgian red wine is the nourishment for our bodies. You eat your plates clean and drink your glasses empty, no leftovers, no complaints, or else…” said Mitya. 

Though a Russian can be taken out of Russia, Russia can never truly be taken out of a Russian, so Mitya maintained a strict routine, he always demanded improvement, never quite satisfied with the men. ‘Not bad’ was the highest praise a man in training, drained and exhausted, could receive after he had performed — be that construction labour, intellectual work, or long, deep, delicious and hard thrusts of his dick between Mitya’s perky and powerful buttocks. Never underestimate an apex bottom, a dictum all men in the fortress knew well.

The men sat around the table and ate the stew. Under the table thighs already pressed and rubbed against each other. Mitya sternly inspected the men around the table. Below the table his need for hard and heavy manhood expressed themselves as his left hand grabbed and massaged Marco’s dick and balls.

The food and drink had been eaten and thanks given. Not a single crumb had been left. This was both a cause for pride and disappointment. It had, after all, been pure pleasure the previous evening when Marco had lifted Bishr’s chiton and disciplined the playful butt until warm and compliant due to an errant chunk of carrot. A tanned ass can turn rosy, and Bishr had a lot of smooth tanned ass that Marco’s hand had explored to establish this fact of the body. The soothing ointment afterwards had been lovingly applied by each man in the fortress under Marco’s knowledgeable guidance. Love and care for the buttocks and the buttocks will love and care for you — another dictum of the fortress.

In the fortress, both body and spirit were part of the growth, exercise and enjoyment. So after dinner, Marco and Mitya always read from books, recited from memory, or told stories of past templates of manly glory, for spiritual formation. The notebook that had travelled with Marco from Paris through many hardships had been carefully studied and debated.

The young men sat down on a sea of cushions on the stone floor. They faced Mitya and Marco. It was Mitya’s turn to stir new thoughts among the men with some philosophy. This was serious stuff, and like all continental Europeans who talked philosophy, it had to be at times esoteric — also known as Hegel’s uncertainty principle.

“The headline for today: The eternal connection between plow and pleasure.”

“Numerous have the attempts been to divorce the two. That is, to attain pleasure in the body without effort. The plow — man’s hard and burdensome productive tool — is the symbol of effort. The effort involves mechanical force created by the body, but also force of reason and thought. What ground to clear and till, where in nature to labour — that is for the spirit to say. In other words, you must both think and trust good fate as you sink your plow in pliable land.”

“Pleasure, some believe, is but a reward. Many are those who have written about how to share the rewards of the plow, like that from industry or glorious conquests. That is a surface view of the plow, which makes the plow no more than an instruments, like a hard hunk of meat or metal.”

“Pleasure, rather, is had by the plow. Effort is what your bodies and spirits were made for. That is, pardon my Greek, man’s telos. We all carry in the tangible flesh and the intangible soul we have been given, that purpose and capacity. Pleasure is to act on purpose, to act on purpose is to apply your plow. The plow has dignity by virtue of that it can and should create pleasure — it is more than meat or metal.” 

“Embrace your plow. Love it, do not fear it. Look to other men, great men, and see what they have been able to make. Know their plows, know their efforts and learn. That which stirs our dicks and tickles our insides when we honour the great plows around us is the first inkling that can point men towards serious, tough, risky and purposeful effort — telos and true pleasure.” 

“Men must meet for the plow to be known and applied. The path to a mighty and beautiful plow requires thusly. Rich and poor, big and small, dick and buttocks. He is their maker. Men must stand in each other’s way. The force felt against body and spirit, in their natural perky, hard, imperfect, varied beauty, is how the plow becomes known to a man in the making. Among the flesh and word, act and argument, in crowded male spaces, the gift of heavy burdens will be realized.”

“As you breathe in, squeeze and thrust the plow, the effort moves you with purpose. Too often the bodily and spiritual dynamics of men is understood as one active piece of matter that moves another passive piece of matter. Like action and reaction, like today and tomorrow, like dick and orifice. But that is at best a surface relation. The manly effort, your plow, moves all — yourself included. The mover and the moved is one and all. By the pleasure of the plow, a shared creation through manhood takes place. To be virtuous, apply the plow for good — that is the meaning of manly charity.”

Mitya concluded his short lecture with a few illustrative anecdotes from the collective farms up north, especially rich on references to Oleg’s thrusting penis. Then the debate began. The young men seated on the cushions had much to explore and grasp. 

What was telos, really? Was the plow the best symbol nowadays? How about the hammer and hammering all night long? Did Mitya mean men should be in crowded spaces, physically speaking, or was that more of a metaphor? Is the penis the plow or can a man who works his butt also command the plow? How do you find great men? How do you know if you are one? Why must natural beauty be imperfect? Is manhood collective and is that why manly efforts also move the mover? Can you see manhood, taste it? Will there be a wild fuck session soon… I mean, if I plow Bishr’s ass, I will better understand this stuff about pleasure and moving manhood, like sort of pedagogically speaking you know…

It of course had to come to that. Manly action, one way or the other, had to do with sex, and the plow would do what the plow would do. How a civilization acted on that fact was key to its health and creativity. Marco and Mitya had in the fortress, in this precious corner of the world, sought to guide the efforts of the day, in body and spirit, towards a rich variety of productive ends. To whip out a balls to the wall twenty-seven man strong group fuck was the cherry on top after the men had chewed the fat on a buttload of esoteric matters.

Marco and Mitya exchanged looks and nodded. It was time to conclude this winter day.

Bishr had thrown the chiton off his body the quickest. He was soon on his back, legs up against his chest, butthole twitching. He knew his natural beauty and spankable butt would draw men to him, and indeed, six naked men surrounded him fast.

The men were competitive creatures and some rough wrestling took place in order to settle who could insert themselves where and in what order. But as strong men, they soon came to an understanding, and Bishr was impaled, ass and mouth, by handsome and variously curved and shaped dicks. His hands were busy too as they moved along the shafts of two men to his sides. Kisses were exchanged along with the thrusts and squeezes. The remaining two men, who soon enough would join the inner circle around Bishr, moved their hands over their own and the other men’s bodies while they feasted their eyes on thrusting muscles and Bishr’s bendable body.

In another corner, eight men formed a train, dick to butt. The men were on their sides, facing south, legs lifted to make their asses available for the hard penis behind. The six lucky men who were squeezed in the middle moaned and grunted the loudest as they felt the force of man do things to them front and back, top and bottom, inside and out. Their own thrusts bumped and ground against the collective rhythm. It was an athletic achievement to have eight men so well synchronized.

The man at the very top of the train was a big sturdy guy who usually did the heaviest work on the farm. He was overcome by an amazing sensation of masculine power, as if his large dick was inside all seven tight and squeezing butts below. In spirit this was true, his manhood and its rhythm flowed through the train. Marco had taught the sturdy man well on how to move his body and spirit to command men below — how to be a good and strong apex top. If only my arms were long enough to feel, stroke and grab all the way down to the boy at the bottom, tickle his belly and squeeze his chest, the sturdy man thought, and ramped up the speed.

The two men with the most plump and bouncy butts went down on all fours, bent over, and licked and kissed the sweaty back of the sturdy man at the top of the eight-man train. The two men with the plump butts had become bottom buddies, one of the strongest bonds two men can form. That fact, along with asses that felt so good in the hand, and buttocks between which dicks, fingers and tongues were gripped mercilessly hard, only Marco had the fortitude to take on the two bottom buddies on his own. The effort created by bottom buddies were far greater than the sum of the two parts. 

Two men had divided the mighty task of mounting the two plump and bouncy butts. The grip, the wiggling, the teasing and moaning were intense, but the two men on top persevered and together moved harder and deeper, and soon assumed command. They felt so good when they had asserted their strength, because this action was not simply about bodily insertions, but about connection and command. The distinctive sound of balls slapping against perky ass rang out.

Mitya had joined a group of four guys. These were some of the most boisterous and assertive guys in the fortress, always labile and loud, often on the receiving end of Marco’s sharp palm action. Three of them had been pushed onto their backs, their dicks pointed upwards. Mitya was already on top one of them. He moved up and down, his muscular legs and ass worked hard as he furiously rode the guy below whose usual smirk had been replaced by groans and an expression of vertigo and wonder as Mitya brought his dick to new heights. The second guy of the group had his dick and balls firmly, at times even roughly, massaged and primed by Mitya’s hand. When the time was right, Mitya would jump over to that guy, fuck him good and proper. The third and fourth guys of the group had adopted the same arrangement, one guy rode the other with all his perkiness and manly force, while they received instructions from Mitya on how to make the guy loose all senses except that which the grip around his dick gave. No doubt, men can multitask.

Marco watched the final two guys of the fortress make tender love. On top a blonde guy rhythmically moved his hips to plow all kinds of feelings of care and love into a slender Persian boy on his back. The blonde guy had arrived from a village along Dnipro. When he joined he had been full of fears, always scared of connection. Marco had cared for him, first through hard manual labour in the fields, up and down the mountains, then through touches and kisses. He had blossomed and became a natural and good leader, who moved his manhood with confidence. Especially important to his formation was the bond he had with the slender Persian guy under him, whose butt squeezed in all the right ways and whose arms pulled the man above closer. It was true that some men formed the strongest bonds in pairs. It was a beautiful couple. In a year or so they would go somewhere together and do great things.

Marco moved in behind the blonde guy, kissed his neck and ears, and gently massaged his buttocks and hole. Marco also reached around and stroked and fondled dick and balls of the Persian. Soon thereafter he began to press the dick against the blonde butt. Soon the guy found the rhythm and he felt Marco’s insertion in addition to the grip of the love of his life underneath. 

“You make me proud, both of you. Look what you have been able to create. Lovers, leaders, virtuous men” whispered Marco as he felt the grip tighten. This was not simply a top who fucked two guys — this was not a nice little throbbing threesome. Marco fucked a pair of loving men — the pair, as such, as its own unique creature in the world. He touched the pair of loving men, felt the pair, heard their joy as a fully merged couple. It was beautiful to be close to it.

These positions, penetrations, and manly configurations were just the beginning. Bodies moved, merged, squeezed and flexed on the sea of cushions for another hour. An aggregation of five metres of dick and fifty-four buttocks could be combined in so many ways, after all, the combinatorics vast in number. The evening turned into night, and soon enough the plows of all varieties had to come to rest. Effort was the best teacher, the plow and pleasure as one.

In the early morning, Marco separated from his snoring spooning position. The fortress had cooled down, the men still asleep. Marco looked outside and snow fell to the ground in great volume. The ground became white with wet and slippery snow, and the sounds of nature were muted by the dense stream of snowflakes. It was a rare sight, like someone from above had decided to surprise Marco and empty a big bucket of snow on his little piece of the world.

It reminded him of the start of winter in Washington DC. Except the traffic jam and crashed cars that would pile up on days of heavy snowfall in the capital city of USA. The chaos on the asphalt and concrete roads of big steely cars with their powerful combustion engines was usually blamed on staff and congressmen from Florida. It was a ritual: heavy snow from above, crashed cars on the streets, the wheels of government moved even slower, and uttered curses of Floridian men. 

On those days Marco either worked overtime to cover for the men whose important intelligence and military duties had to be dealt with while they were stuck somewhere in snow. Or he stripped some Floridian man of his speedos to spank his buttocks for his presumed naughtiness in traffic. Either way, good times. 

And Billy of course, who joined the great snow ball battles of DC with gusto. He knew how to handle those balls. His aim was excellent, his intent playful. 

He loved snow, or snowing more specifically, he had told Marco. He would merrily sing to Shakok, the Native American spirit of winter, to ask for snowing over the lands. It would be songs about happy encounters. Something about how with snow in hand and feet on slippery and uncertain grounds, sweet tender Billy would defeat bigger men with speed, improvisation and dexterity, and tease them until they were intensely flustered. Marco had received that treatment once. Billy had been very powerful, and quite difficult to catch. The snow as well had made both Billy and Marco cold. So the teasing, as Billy surely had planned, concluded in capture and a strong, rhythmic and cozy session of lovemaking. Very good times.

How is he spending this winter, Marco wondered. When he sings to Shakok, what wish and hope would the lyrics ask for?

Marco kept looking out at the snow. An understanding took shape. He had to return to the world — return to a home. This fortress and the blissfulness within was a rare accomplishment  that few men could have created. It was a place to grow in good ways that were few and far between in the present era. And Mitya was unique, a hero’s hero. Without him this place would not be, and Marco’s efforts would not have moved him to these heights or powers.  

But that could not be the conclusion. There was purpose and duty elsewhere among greater areas, lesser arrangements, and more troublesome persons — where home was. Marco was not unburdened, nor could he ever be. His affections called him forth. 

Marco decided to talk with Mitya later in the day, let him know. Marco would still help with the winter labour, and continue to train men. By spring, after the sheep had been sheared, however, the journey had to resume. This was not the end of the path. The mission had been revealed.