Clay pigeons are like magnets to some boys, especially the couple of boys who lived close to my clay pigeon shoot. On Saturdays and Sundays, the sound of shooting would plague the neighbourhood with farmers and shooting types entering competitions or just shooting clays to keep their eye in. All other times of the week, life became quiet and uneventful to say the least.
Richard and Steven were such boys who, over the years, had spent a lot of time trespassing on my land, collecting unbroken clays, and using them for target practice. I had a formidable reputation for being grumpy.....well, let's just say, frightening, and the boys would practice their "child-like army skills" to avoid detection and capture, which had rather annoyed me. I had never caught them in the act.
However, on a scorching Tuesday afternoon, I spotted both boys from my kitchen window, darting like foxes through the tall grass bordering the shooting ground, and I knew this was going to be my day.
I slipped out quietly and melted into the shadow of the old oak tree as they were heading for Blind Man’s Butt, the notorious skeet range where beginners consistently overshot, allowing clays to land untouched in the dense thicket behind. Over the weekend, dozens would accumulate there, pristine discs gleaming amidst the undergrowth, and this single fact remained: they were there for taking.
The air hung thick and still, heavy with the scent of crushed bracken and dust as I hid. I saw Richard stumble over a rabbit hole, muffling a curse as Steven hauled him up. They couldn’t see me, nestled motionless behind the oak’s gnarled roots where the shadows pooled deepest. Their fear of being caught was genuine because they truly believed in my reputation.
It was then, from my hiding place, that I saw Richard kiss Steven. A small thankful kiss for hauling him out of the rabbit hole, but a kiss all the same.
"Fuck me," I muttered. The realisation that these boys liked each other more than normal friends should do, from a momentary visual of Steven, returning the kiss while clutching Richard’s arse.
I immediately knew my angle. My way to humiliate both of them. All I had to do was catch them in the act of theft, and then, chuckling, I whispered to myself, "I know your secret."
My shooting ground sprawled across forgotten acres, swallowed by ancient oaks and tangled brambles. Visitors groaned about the two miles of rutted track, winding through the woods, and the boys lived in cottages bordering my land.
These boys, though, knew the deserted ranges were their El Dorado, whispering promises of gleaming clay discs piled high. Worth the hike? Clearly. Worth the risk of facing me? That remained to be seen, especially now, I knew, they had a secret.
My own secret gnawed at me as I watched them vanish into the Blind Man’s Butt thicket. I lived with my elderly father, his world shrinking to the four walls of the front room and the flickering television. Marriage? No. Girlfriends? Not one. My sex life was a barren stretch, dusty and forgotten.
People talked, of course, but the truth was, I had always had a persistent, unspoken attraction to men, younger men, that flickered in glances I quickly averted, in fantasies I buried deep.
My feelings since adolescence hadn't changed and remained heavy and unexplored, out of fear, social pressure and my father's reputation. However, inside my mind, I pondered what I would do when I caught them as I continued to watch, the trap having been set.
Richard and Steven continued to approach my lair, unknowing I had been watching them. Their footfalls crunched softly on dry twigs and pine needles, each snap echoing through the stillness.
They moved with less caution now, believing themselves alone in this forgotten corner of the scrubland. Richard’s hand brushed Steven’s lower back, a fleeting touch Steven leaned into, before they crouched near the edge of the Blind Man’s Butt.
Their .22 rifles slid off their shoulders, propped carelessly against a fallen birch as they scanned the undergrowth. I could see their faces clearly: Richard’s freckles stark against sun-flushed cheeks, Steven’s brow furrowed in concentration. They moved deeper into the thicket, where the overshoots lay scattered. Whole clays gleaming like misplaced moons among the nettles and foxgloves. Richard knelt first, fingers brushing dirt from a pristine disc. Steven followed, stacking it atop another he’d recovered in pristine condition.
Each boy gathered enough, cradling them against their chests. Ten, twelve, maybe fifteen discs apiece. Enough to be undeniable. Enough to be mine. Enough to be theft.
I had seen enough, and they remained oblivious as I broke cover and gently walked up behind them. "Hello, boys. I've finally caught you in the act."
Steven gasped, dropping his clays with a clatter. Richard froze mid-reach, eyes widening in horror. They scrambled back like startled deer, tripping over roots and landing hard in the dirt.
Their rifles lay forgotten against the birch as I stood there, my shotgun broken open over my arm, as I tried to look more scary than normal. I deliberately didn't snap the gun shut; the broken, harmless look of it somehow amplifying the menace I and it posed.
But my eyes weren't on their pale, terrified faces. They were fixed on those two .22 rifles leaning casually against the silver-grey bark. The question, sharp and sudden, cut through the humid air before I could even think about accusations of theft: "Before we discuss what you're doing... are those rifles loaded?"
Steven answered first. "Yes, Mr Jacobs, but the safeties are on."
"Make them safe," I instructed, my voice low but unwavering, my command rolling out with the same calm authority I used when marshalling shooters on the range.
Richard scrambled up first, dust clinging to his shorts. His fingers trembled slightly as he worked the bolt of his .22. A single copper-jacketed round slid smoothly out of the chamber, gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight, and he handed it to me. Steven followed suit, his movements jerky with adrenaline, but precise, and another cartridge landed in my waiting hand, feeling like tiny surrenders as I slipped them into my trouser pocket.
"Thank you," I grunted, my voice rasping like dry gravel, sounding exactly as fierce as I wanted it to sound, the embodiment of that grumpy, frightening reputation they feared.
"I've finally caught you sneaking about after all these years," as I shifted my stance, deliberately looming taller against the tangled backdrop of the thicket. My gaze swept deliberately over the scattered clays gleaming at their feet. "Well? How many do you have today? Looks like quite the haul."
Steven swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his throat. "S-sixteen each, Mr Jacobs," he stammered, avoiding my eyes as he gestured helplessly at the pile he’d dropped. Richard remained silent, standing next to Steven.
I let the silence stretch, thick as the pollen-choked air. "Well, boys," I murmured, the gravel in my voice lower now, almost conversational. "Caught red-handed with stolen property. And trespassing. With loaded firearms. Quite the list."
Steven flinched. Richard’s knuckles whitened where he gripped the hem of his t-shirt. They both stared at the scattered clays like guilty verdicts already pronounced.
"I’m in a dilemma, I have to tell you." I paused, enjoying the way their shoulders tensed, the frantic darting of their eyes. "Do I inform the police about your little criminal enterprise? Trespass. Theft. Unsafe handling of firearms."
Taking a pause, I realised I was enjoying my victory. "Or," I leaned forward slightly, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial rasp that carried unnaturally well in the stillness, "do I tell Constable Harris about the... other activities I witnessed?" My gaze flickered meaningfully between them. "A kiss of gratitude, was it? Or perhaps something... warmer... happens out here?"
Richard flinched as if struck. Steven’s face drained of all colour, leaving him looking ghostly amidst the summer greens. "We... we weren't..." Steven stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of panic.
"It... it was only stealing the clays, Mr Jacobs! Honest! We didn't mean any harm!" His words tumbled out in a desperate rush. "And... and the kiss?" He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Richard, then back to me, pleading. "It was nothing! Just... just a small thank you! For helping him up! That's all!"
Smiling internally at the boys' discomfort, I persisted. "Just a small thank you..." I let the words hang, heavy with implication, "...with your hand clutching Richard's backside." My gaze locked onto Steven, sharp and unyielding. "Is that what you call it?"
Richard shifted his weight, the dry leaves crunching beneath his worn trainers. "It's not illegal!" he blurted out, defiance flashing in his eyes before fear swallowed it again.
"It is illegal if you are trespassing," I rounded on him. "What a dilemma, I have, boys."
I watched Steven's hand twitch toward Richard's sleeve, a small, instinctive movement that confirmed everything. The stolen clays were forgotten; the rifles lay harmless against the birch. Their secret, raw and trembling, hung between us like the heat haze shimmering above the bracken.
"Relax, boys," I said, my voice deliberately losing its gravel-edge, softening into something unfamiliar even to my own ears. I deliberately snapped my shotgun shut without loading it, the harmless click echoing softly. "I'm not mean like folks think me. Not about this." I gestured vaguely towards the scattered discs. "Trespassing? Theft?" I shook my head slowly. "I tell you what. Instead of nicking my clays, why don't I pay you to collect them for me?”
I saw Steven's jaw loosen slightly, confusion warring with disbelief in his wide eyes. Richard remained rigid, suspicion etched onto his freckled face.
"Are you serious, Mr Jacobs, Richard asked.
"Deadly," I responded, “but in exchange for being nice with he job offer, I want you to be honest with me and tell me how long you have been good friends. I'm genuinely being honest, asking because......I enjoyed watching you kiss."
This wasn’t just about catching thieves anymore. It was about me confessing to two young men that I, too, had feelings and perhaps, our secrets should be spoken but kept between ourselves.
"Six months," Steven whispered, his eyes locked on the discarded clays. His voice was barely audible over the droning flies. "Since... since Richard twisted his ankle climbing the fence near Fenton’s field. I helped him home."
He paused, as Richard nodded his head in agreement, swallowing hard. "His mum was out and we... felt something and then we talked as we waited for her to come home."
Richard shifted, a flush creeping up his neck, confirming Steven’s halting confession. Their secret wasn’t about stolen moments in the bracken; it was about becoming aware that they felt different and drawn to each other.
"I understand," I said, the words feeling strange and thick on my tongue. I leaned my unloaded shotgun against the oak’s rough bark, deliberately removing the physical barrier. "I used to have the same feelings, boys."
My gaze drifted past them to where the ancient woods swallowed the sunlight. "Unlike you, though... when I was your age, society wasn’t so understanding. Back then, whispers weren't just whispers. They were brands."
I remembered the stifling silence in my own adolescence, the panic when a glance lingered too long on a classmate, the crushing weight of pretending. "You couldn't talk. You couldn't trust anyone. You just... buried it. Deep."
Steven stared at me, his expression shifting from stark terror to stunned disbelief. Richard’s mouth hung slightly open, his freckles stark against his suddenly pale skin.
I could tell what they were thinking. Mr Jacobs, the grumpy, frightening owner of the shooting ground, had just confessed to understanding their deepest secret, their most vulnerable feeling.
I let the silence stretch. "Now," I began, watching their eyes widen fractionally, "if we're being truly honest here..." I paused, letting the implication hang heavy. "Have you boys done anything more... intimate?" my gaze flickering pointedly between them, bypassing the stolen clays entirely. "Don't say kissing. I saw that."
Richard flushed crimson, his freckles vanishing beneath the tide of colour. Steven stared fixedly at a patch of nettles, his throat working silently. "No, Mr Jacobs," Richard finally mumbled, the words thick with embarrassment. "We... haven't. Just kissing. And... touching." His gaze darted nervously to Steven, seeking confirmation.
Steven nodded vigorously, his cheeks burning. "Just... over clothes," he choked out, staring resolutely at the dirt. "We... we talked about... maybe... someday..." His voice trailed off into the buzzing silence of the thicket.
A sharp, barking laugh escaped me, startling them both. It wasn't cruel, more astonished, raw. "Fucking hell," I breathed, shaking my head slowly. "All this sneaking, this hiding... risking trespass charges, theft charges... and that’s as far as you’ve got?" The incredulity thickened my voice. "I thought I was lame, boys. Seriously? You two are worse than me."
Richard kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering into the nettles. Steven just looked mortified, shoulders hunched.
"If I had had a friendship like you two have," I said, the words tasting strange yet freeing, "I would have been fucking, properly," as I gestured towards the woods beyond the thicket, dense and shadowed. "Not skulking around picking up broken clays. I’d have found a quiet spot, deep in there, maybe, and explored it. Thoroughly."
Steven found his voice first, a strangled whisper. "It's... complicated, Mr Jacobs." He shuffled his feet, avoiding my eyes. "We... we wanted to... but..." He trailed off helplessly.
Richard kicked another stone, harder this time. "Finding the right time..." he gestured vaguely at the surrounding woods. "To be alone, but it was never the right time, I guess, between shooting and exploring."
My gaze drifted past them, towards a dense patch of elderberry bushes deeper in the woods. "Alone?" I murmured, the gravel gone from my voice entirely. It was softer now, almost curious. "You're alone now, boys. Well, sort of alone if you don’t count me."
Richard froze mid-kick, his trainer hovering over another stone. Steven’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and searching mine. "What? Now?"
My pulse hammered against my ribs, "Why not?" The words came out thicker than I intended, rough-edged but lacking their usual bite. "It’s safe. It's private." A bead of sweat traced the line of my temple, warm and insistent. "And... I’d understand."
Richard’s fingers tightened on Steven’s sleeve. His gaze flickered between Steven’s flushed face and me, but I could tell they were thinking about it.
"Stand up," I instructed, my voice low but firm, cutting through the droning insects. The command wasn’t a shout; it was the quiet authority of someone taking charge. "Both of you."
I paused, letting the stillness settle again as they both stood up. "This is a perfect place for you two to get properly acquainted. Without interruptions, and I want to watch."
Richard shifted his weight, his worn trainers scraping softly on the pine needles. "I don't know," he said, his voice thick with hesitation.
Steven's approach was different but still hesitant as he declared, "It's... this feels...."
"Enough of this agonising dance of nerves and denial. I know you want each other. Your bulge’s in your shorts speak volumes," as my own pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a mix of reckless intent and terrifying liberation.
Both Richard and Steven blushed, knowing my observation had been spot on as I pushed myself off the rough bark of the oak tree, my joints protesting faintly after crouching so long.
Now standing and enjoying my authority and control, I looked at both boys. “Strip. I want you to strip down to your underwear. Right here and now. Call it what you want, but I will call it payment for your stealing from me. I want to watch you get better acquainted if you know what I mean.”
Steven stood frozen, breathing shallowly. Richard looked at his friend as he started to fumble with his shirt button. “Come on, Steve, perhaps we should do as he says.” Steven nodded and started to unbutton his shirt too, and in no time, their shirts lay on the ground behind their feet.
They looked magnificent in their bare chests. Their torsos looked muscular and well-trimmed from hard work and country life. Richard had very little hair, and Steven had some hair that ran a trail downwards, past his navel, disappearing below the waistband of his shorts.
"Kick your sandals off and then deal with your shorts. I want you to see each other in your underwear for the first time, properly. Fuck it, I want to see you in your underwear."
Steven’s fingers trembled as they hooked into his waistband. The rasp of denim sliding down muscular thighs as he stepped out, standing awkwardly in faded white Y-Fronts that clung damply to his hips.
Richard followed, slower, his movements jerky as eventually, his own shorts pooled around his ankles, revealing equally faded white Y-Fronts stretched tight over lean hips.
Both boys were breathtakingly beautiful. Their Y-Fronts strained against the unmistakable evidence of their arousal, the cotton fabric tented sharply upwards towards the waistbands. Twin arcs, rigid and urgent with dark patches, unmistakably, precum soaking through.
"Look at each other," I commanded, my voice low and rough. "Properly. Not a glance. Look."
They hesitated, eyes darting away, cheeks flaming crimson. "Now," I insisted, the word cracking like a whip. Slowly, painfully, Steven turned his head towards Richard. Richard lifted his gaze, meeting Steven’s. Their eyes locked, wide and terrified, pupils blown dark with arousal and fear.
My own pulse hammered against my temples. "Good," I murmured, "Now, touch each other, boys. Come on, for fucks sake, I'm allowing you to explore what you desire. All you have to do is lose the Y-Fronts and touch each other, or do you want me to rip them from you? Either way, I know you want to."
A shocked silence descended, broken only by the frantic buzz of insects. Neither moved. Their faces were masks of horrified disbelief.
"Do it," I growled, the command laced with an intensity that brooked no refusal. "Or do I fetch Constable Harris and tell him exactly what I found you boys doing out here? Touching yourselves over stolen clay?"
The threat hung heavy, sharpened by the truth it contained. Their choice was stark: humiliation and exposure, or surrender to the heat building between them, witnessed by the one man who held their fate and was actively encouraging them.
Slowly, agonisingly, Steven’s trembling fingers drifted towards his own waistband. Richard watched, mesmerised, his own hand drifting downward.
Steven’s knuckles brushed against the damp cotton tenting over his straining cock. A choked gasp escaped his lips as his fingertips pressed tentatively against the hot, rigid outline. The friction, even through the fabric, made his hips jerk forward involuntarily.
Suddenly, Steven’s eyes flew open. They locked onto Richard’s frantic hand moving over his Y-Fronts. "Rich..." Steven gasped, his voice ragged. "Look... look at me..."
His fingers didn't slide beneath the elastic waistband. Instead, they hooked violently into the worn fly hole of his Y-Fronts. With a desperate, animalistic grunt, Steven ripped the thin, faded cotton, splitting it from fly to waistband. He wrenched the ruined fabric aside as the waistband failed, exposing himself completely as the remains of his Y-Fronts dropped to the ground.
His cock sprang free, thick and rigid, flushed dark red, glistening with precum that wept steadily from the swollen slit as his veins pulsed beneath the taut skin. His cock jutted proudly upwards, untouched, exposed fully to the dappled sunlight and Richard’s horrified, mesmerised gaze.
"Do it, Rich, do it," Steven told his friend.
Richard didn't hesitate. A wildness seized him, the same frantic energy that had driven Steven. His fingers scrabbled at his own fly hole, tearing desperately at the worn fabric. The rip was louder, more violent. Cotton fabric fell to the ground, exposing him completely. His cock, was leaner than Steven’s but equally rigid, bounced free, slick with precum, its flushed tip pointing urgently towards Steven.
Only the waistband remained around his waist as Steven lunged forward, crashing into Richard. Their mouths met in a desperate, clumsy fusion of lips and teeth. Steven’s hands immediately clamped onto Richard’s bare buttocks, fingers digging deep into the firm muscle, pulling their hips flush. A hungry groan vibrated between them. Richard gasped into Steven’s mouth, his own hands flying not to Steven’s back, but downwards. His fingers wrapped around Steven’s slick, straining cock.
The touch was electric. Steven bucked violently against Richard’s hand, breaking the kiss with a choked cry, head thrown back.
I watched, rooted, the heat pooling low in my own gut. Steven clutched Richard’s arse, squeezing and kneading, pulling him impossibly closer as Richard’s hand began to stroke Steven’s cock with frantic urgency.
Up and down the hot, veined shaft, slickness easing the slide. Richard’s other hand scrabbled at Steven’s hip, pulling him tighter still. Steven’s hips snapped forward, fucking Richard’s hand. Their movements were jerky, unpractised, fuelled by terror and lust and the sheer shock of finally touching each other.
Richard twisted his head, burying his face against Steven’s sweaty neck, biting softly as he pumped Steven’s cock faster. Steven’s response was a guttural moan. He ground his own rigid length against Richard’s hip bone, the friction drawing a desperate whimper from Richard. Their bodies slid together, sweat mingling, the air thick with the musk of young arousal and the sharp scent of crushed bracken. Steven’s fingers slid lower, exploring the cleft of Richard’s arse, a bold, trembling invasion. Richard cried out, arching his back, pressing harder against Steven’s seeking touch.
Richard’s hand slid from Steven’s cock, slick with precum, and fumbled urgently between their bodies. He grasped his own neglected erection and Steven’s together, squeezing both hard shafts into his slick hand.
The groan that tore from both boys was primal, a sound of unbearable pressure finding release. They bucked against each other, against Richard’s encircling grip, a frantic rhythm building. Steven’s fingers pressed deeper, probing tentatively at Richard’s entrance. Richard’s head snapped back, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth open in a silent scream of overwhelmed sensation.
Who succumbed first? Impossible to tell. One choked gasp seemed to trigger the other. Suddenly, thick ropes of white streaked across Richard’s freckled stomach. Simultaneously, Steven jerked violently, his own release spurting hotly onto Richard’s hip and thigh, mixing messily with the pearly streaks already painting his skin.
More jets of cum followed, uncontrolled pulses splattering chests and lower bellies. Richard shuddered violently, his entire body convulsing as Steven’s fingers pressed deeper still, triggering another frantic pulse that hit Steven squarely on his chest.
Steven gasped, his cock twitching wildly in Richard’s slackening grip, adding another viscous stripe across his friend’s trembling forearm. The scent, thick and musky-sweet, bloomed pungently in the humid air, mingling with the smell of sweat and crushed greenery. Cum glistened everywhere, pooled in Richard’s navel, dripping slowly down Steven’s clenched abs, smeared across skin where frantic bodies had slid together. Silence crashed down, broken only by ragged, shuddering breaths.
They stood frozen, locked together, trembling with aftershocks. Their Eyes met, wide, stunned and bewildered.
Slowly, Steven withdrew his fingers, leaving Richard gasping softly. Richard’s hand fell away from their spent cocks. For a long moment, they just stared at the glistening evidence smeared across each other’s skin, sticky strands connecting them. A drop slid slowly from Steven’s chest onto Richard’s. Neither moved. The sheer magnitude of what had just happened, witnessed and commanded, hung heavier than the humid air and then, they smiled at each other. A smile that said it all.
Steven tried to speak, but only a dry rasp emerged. He swallowed hard, licking suddenly parched lips, tasting salt and musk. He looked down at himself, at Richard, at the startling mess binding them. His shoulders slumped. "Oh god," he whispered, the sound raw and broken. "Rich..."
"I know, mate. And I enjoyed every moment of it," as he continued to smile at his friend.
Steven kissed Richard again before looking at me, "Happy Mr Jacobs?"
"Very happy and I can see, Richard is very, very happy," I responded. "Do you feel better, Steven?
"Totally," Richard declared as Steven managed a, "Yeah, much better."
"Good stuff because I have a suggestion for you both, now that introductions have been made."
"Oh yeah, what is?" Steven demanded.
I gestured towards the scattered clays glinting dully under the oak canopy. "This skeet range. It still needs clearing. Those clays still need picking up."
Their bewildered expressions deepened. "But now," Richard exclaimed.
"Why not?" I continued, a conspiratorial edge softening my voice, "You're already... unencumbered." My gaze swept pointedly over their sticky, naked bodies. "Why don’t you stay naked for the afternoon and enjoy the air, the sun... each other?"
The sheer audacity of the suggestion hung thick between us. "I'll pay you properly. Double what I offered before. For the clays and... for taking your time." A slow smile touched my lips. "No rush. Enjoy yourselves while you work."
“We might be seen,” Steven said.
“Only by me, I promise.”
Steven and Richard looked at each other and smiled. I could tell they liked the idea, realising it wasn't humiliation; it was liberation, whispered by the man who’d orchestrated it.
Richard’s grin was tentative, flickering across his flushed face as he nudged Steven’s sticky shoulder. Steven chuckled softly, the sound rough but genuine, his gaze drifting over Richard’s freckled skin, still glistening with their mingled release. The terror of discovery had burned away, leaving only the raw, sticky intimacy and the impossible freedom of my offer.
“Go on, boys, do it and continue exploring each other while earning money,” I advised as I bent, gathering their discarded clothes.
Bundling them under one arm, I looked at them both. "These?" I shook the bundle lightly. "You get them back when the job’s done. You will find me in the workshop later, ready to receive you."
The boys stood, silent now, their bodies shifting in the dappled light. Already, beneath the streaks of drying cum, I saw the faint stirrings again. Richard’s lean cock twitching against his thigh, Steven’s thicker length filling slowly, nudging Richard’s hip where their skin still touched.
Without another word, I turned and pushed through the low-hanging branches of the oak thicket, leaving them utterly exposed behind me.
Steven’s low murmur jogged Richard out of his trance. "Just us now, Rich..."
A laugh bubbled up from Richard, light and unburdened, followed by the distinct, wet sound of a kiss as I turned to look at them briefly, seeing them embrace and kiss with passion, a prelude to what I imagined might happen during the afternoon.
Peering back through a narrow gap, the scene unfolded like forbidden theatre. Richard knelt among the scattered orange clays, his freckled back arched as Steven stood behind him, hands gripping Richard’s hips. Sunlight caught the sweat beading along Steven’s spine as he pressed forward, Richard’s head tipping back against Steven’s thigh, mouth open in a silent moan.
They weren’t collecting clays yet. Not even close. Steven’s fingers traced Richard’s spine, down to the cleft, exploring with a boldness born of their earlier frenzy. Richard shuddered, reaching back blindly to grasp Steven’s calf, anchoring himself as Steven rocked against him, their movements fluid, unhurried.
A clay disc clattered nearby, kicked aside unnoticed. Richard twisted, capturing Steven’s mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, pulling him down into the leaf litter. Limbs tangled, skin sliding on skin, urgent whispers lost in the rustle of oak leaves overhead. They’d remember the work eventually, but for now, under the watchful trees, they were learning the map of each other’s bodies, inch by sunlit inch.
Feeling happy with myself, I walked into the kitchen to find my father sitting at the table, drinking a cup of tea.
"What are those you are carrying?" he asked, his eyes narrowing at the bundle of clothes under my arm.
"Clothes, Dad," I answered, keeping my voice steady despite the tremor in my fingers. "I caught the little fuckers who've been stealing my clays. Made them start collecting the bloody things naked as punishment."
My father peered over his steaming mug, his bushy eyebrows knitting into a sceptical frown as he took a slow sip, the clink of china unnaturally loud. "Naked?" he finally echoed, his tone flat. "A bit harsh, isn't it? Bit… extreme for clay pigeons."
I dumped the bundle of clothes onto the scarred pine table. "Caught them red-handed," I countered, leaning against the counter, forcing nonchalance. "Trespassing, stealing. Thought a dose of public humiliation might be more effective than calling Constable Harris. Teach 'em a sharper lesson."
My father studied the clothes, his gaze lingering on the torn white cotton underwear. He took another long, deliberate sip of tea, the silence stretching taut. Slowly, he lowered the mug. "Hmm," he grunted, setting it down with a soft clink. A flicker of something crossed his weathered face. Amusement? And perhaps understanding?
"Suppose you're right, Ben. Naked shame will likely stick harder for lads that age," as he picked up remains of someone's Y-Fronts between his thumb and forefinger, examining the damage. "As for these, I assume the boys refused to co-operate?"
"Yes, Dad, they did, but I soon dealt with that, as you can see."
“You know, son, you are a mean, grumpy fucker sometimes,” my dad stated.
“Yes, Dad, but I can’t have thieves thinking they can take my stuff and get away with it.”
His gaze lifted, sharp and assessing. "Just make sure you give ‘em a proper hiding when they’re done. A sound thrashing. Bare arse over the wooden horse. Always kept you straight that way," as he tapped the table for emphasis. "Kept you straight, didn’t it? A good hiding settles ’em down, puts ’em back on the straight and narrow. Works wonders."
"Yes, Dad, nothing like a good thrashing, as you know."
I left him grumbling about lax modern parenting and carried the boys' clothes into my workshop, where I planned to bathe the boys when they finished the task at hand.
I found the thought of bathing them slightly weird but desirable since I had no plans to have sex with them. Bathing them would allow me to touch them both all over while hopefully we talked and they shared their adventures from the afternoon.
Two hours crawled by, thick with personal tension as I busied myself. The dusty air smelled of linseed oil and old pine. Sweat trickled down my temples as I started to fill an old tin bath with hot water, which I myself had often used. Outside, the sun beat relentlessly on the tin roof, amplifying the silence where the boys' voices should be. I even wondered if they had fled. Or had Constable Harris found them? The thought coiled cold in my gut as I waited as patiently as I could.
Then, I heard a faint scrape at the back door, the metal hinges whispering a rusty protest. I froze, the grinding stone still spinning in my hand. Heart pounding against my ribs, as I slowly turned.
Richard shuffled in first, his rifle slung over his shoulder, blinking against the dusty gloom after the harsh sunlight. Steven followed close behind, likewise, carrying his rifle. Both were wonderfully, shockingly filthy. Mud streaked their bare chests and thighs like war paint, dried brown smears mixed with paler streaks of dried seed.
Scratches laddered Richard’s arms from elbow to shoulder, vivid red lines crisscrossing the freckled skin, a testament to enthusiastic tumbles through thorny undergrowth.
A long, curved scrape marred Steven’s hipbone, already bruising purple at the edges. Twigs and brittle oak leaves clung to their damp hair, and bracken fragments were plastered stickily to their sweaty calves. Their feet were blackened with forest loam, toes curling slightly on the cool concrete floor. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, utterly naked, breathing a little heavily, radiating earthy musk and the sharper tang of dried semen. Their cocks, soft now but still thick, hung heavy between their thighs, dusted with fine dirt and flecks of forest debris.
"You look," I began, my voice rough, catching slightly as I took in the startling tableau, "like you’ve had a remarkably good time and I see you remembered your rifles."
Richard grinned, the expression cracking the dried mud on his cheeks. Steven shuffled beside him, eyes darting sideways towards his friend before settling back on me. They hadn't merely collected clays; they'd wallowed in it, played in it… Perhaps fucked in it. The sheer, unadulterated filth coating them was a testament to the liberation enjoyed.
"We had a fantastic time, Mr Jacobs, and we collected over 300 clays. We have left them by your shed."
Richard beamed, his shoulders muddy, every scratch and bruise a badge of honour. Steven nodded vigorously beside him, his own smile tentative but gleaming through the dirt smeared across his cheeks.
Pride swelled unexpectedly in my chest. Pride in their raw, earthy accomplishment, pride in witnessing their tentative freedom blossom in the woods. Yet the weight of my father's words settled coldly beneath that warmth.
"You've done exceptionally well," I acknowledged, stepping closer. "But..." I paused, letting the word hang heavy in the dim air. Their smiles faltered slightly. "My father knows I stripped you naked as punishment and humiliation. His single comment was, "They need a thrashing. A 'proper hiding' for the trespassing and theft."
Richard's grin vanished instantly. Steven froze, his eyes widening with renewed dread.
"Don't worry, boys. I'm not doing that after the afternoon you guys have enjoyed. I am, though, going to clean you up and send you home with this, £12."
Richard and Steven stared at the battered tin tub steaming gently in the workshop's gloom as I stirred the water with my hand. "Who wants to be first?"
"Me," Richard declared, stepping forward without hesitation. His muddy foot slapped onto the wooden stool placed beside the bath.
"Well, get in then," I ordered.
Richard climbed awkwardly over the high rim, lowering himself gingerly into the steaming water. A sigh escaped him as the heat enveloped his scratched, mud-caked legs. He slid down until only his head and tense shoulders remained above the surface, knees tented upwards. The murky water instantly clouded brown with dissolving filth. Bracken fragments floated like tiny ships.
I grabbed the coarse sponge from the stool, dunking it until it was heavy and hot. Without hesitation, I brought it down firmly onto Richard's scalp, scrubbing through the dirt-matted hair. He flinched at the pressure but stayed still, eyes fixed on the swirling water. Rivulets of grime streamed down his temples.
"Right," I murmured, methodically working the lather down his neck, over the sharp jut of his collarbones. The sponge rasped against skin still showing faint pink marks where Steven’s fingers had dug in. "So Richard," I began, my tone deliberately casual, conversational even, as I moved the sponge down his biceps, tracing the angry red scratches. "How many times have you cum this afternoon?"
Richard tensed. His eyes flickered towards Steven, who stood frozen beside the tub, watching intently. A blush climbed Richard’s neck, clashing violently with the streaks of drying mud. He swallowed audibly. "Dunno..." he mumbled, voice thick.
"Dunno?" I echoed, splashing water onto his chest now. "I guess Steven kept touching you. Kept getting you hard again?"
My hand slid beneath the opaque surface. "Keep still," I commanded quietly, my submerged hand moving deliberately. "I have to wash the filth off," as the sponge pressed firmly between his legs, against the soft root of his spent cock.
Richard's cock was rising again as I told him to get out. "Your turn, Steven."
Steven climbed into the hot water. His thick cock stood rigid against his stomach before he sank beneath the surface.
I plunged the sponge into the steaming water, letting it hover near Steven's thigh. "Tell me," I demanded, my voice low and deliberate. "Out there... in the woods... did you fuck him? Did you take Richard?"
Steven froze. Water lapped against his flushed chest. His gaze darted to Richard, who stood shifting his weight, naked and dripping, his own cock thickening as he watched. Steven licked his lips. "I... we..."
He swallowed hard, the water rippling around his tense shoulders. "We tried," he whispered, the word cracking. "Once. Up against that big beech near the stream, but...."
"But? What?" I demanded.
"I couldn't get in," Steven answered, an element of shame crossing his face.
I knew immediately what the problem was. The first attempt is always frantic, with inexperienced fingers fumbling without proper preparation. "Nothing to be ashamed of," I assured him, swirling the sponge over his broad shoulders. "The first time is always hard. Tight. Dry as a bone without lubrication."
Richard shifted beside us, his breathing audible in the dusty workshop. "I expect you discovered that quickly."
"We did," Richard responded. "I really wanted him to take me but......"
"There’s plenty of time for that, boys," I said softly, squeezing the sponge over Steven’s dark hair, letting warm water cascade down his flushed face. "Plenty of time to learn."
Steven exhaled, some tension leaving his shoulders as he leaned back against the tin rim, eyes drifting shut for a moment. "It’s too late now, I guess."
"Not at all," I countered, dunking the sponge again. "You're learning. That's what matters." My submerged hand pressed the sponge firmly against Steven's abdomen, swirling in slow circles through the swirling silt. His cock stirred visibly beneath the cloudy water as Richard watched intently, his posture stiffening, his own arousal hardening further.
"Will you teach us?" Richard asked. "Please?"
“I don’t see why not,” I responded as my hand gripped the sponge, as I washed Steven’s hard cock.
“You see that tube on the workbench? That is what you need, boys. Lubrication. KY Jelly."
I stopped washing Steven as I grabbed the tube, squeezing it gently as I became their tutor. “First," I began, my voice low and deliberate, "it’s about patience. Not forcing." I held up my slicked index finger. "One finger first, gentle circles... easing the muscle open."
"Slowly," I emphasised, tracing a slow circle in the air, the tub’s murky water. "Let the body adjust. When the tightness starts to fade..." I paused, letting the implication hang thick between us before I continued. "...then you add another."
I lifted my middle finger, pressing it alongside the first. "Two fingers, working slowly back and forth, stretching gradually..." I demonstrated the rhythm against my own palm, in, out, widening. "That’s how you make space. How you prepare."
Steven’s gaze flickered from my fingers to Richard’s flushed face, hunger warring with apprehension. "The pain will ease," I assured them both, my gaze steady. "If you go slow, give it time... soon enough, the body welcomes it. Then..."
I lowered my fingers slowly towards Steven’s submerged hips, the murky water swirling around my wrist. "Then you can slide yourself inside."
Steven’s sharp gasp echoed off the tin walls as my slicked finger breached him underwater, pressing slowly past the tight ring of muscle. His thighs clamped instantly around my submerged forearm. "Breathe," I commanded softly, holding the pressure steady, feeling the frantic flutter of resistance beneath my touch. "Just breathe through it..."
Richard leaned closer, mesmerised. Beneath the clouded surface, Steven’s cock throbbed against his thigh. Slowly, the fierce clenching eased. My finger slid deeper, exploring the hot, silken channel. Steven groaned, head lolling back against the metal, eyes squeezed shut, not in pain now, but in stunned surrender to the invasive fullness, the shocking intimacy of being opened.
My thumb rubbed slow circles against his perineum, coaxing another ragged moan from his throat. "Feel that?" I murmured. "The tightness giving way?"
Steven nodded mutely, biting his lip.
Richard’s hand shook as he reached out blindly, fingers closing around Steven’s slippery shoulder. "Steve..." he breathed, the name thick with awe and envy.
Steven lurched upright in the tin bath, water sloshing violently over the rim onto the concrete floor. His cock jutted rigidly from his hips, flushed dark and glistening as he took the tube, squeezing it on his cock and fingers as he stepped clumsily out of the cooling water, dripping rivulets onto the gritty floor, his gaze never leaving Richard’s face.
"Use the wooden horse, Richard," I advised, knowing they wanted to put the lesson into practice.
Richard scrambled towards it, his wet feet slipping slightly on the damp concrete. He bent low over the broad beam, spine arching sharply, pale buttocks offered high, trembling visibly. Steven followed him instantly, stepping behind him, his thick cock bobbing urgently. He didn't hesitate. One hand pressed firmly into the small of Richard’s back, the other guiding his slick cockhead towards the tight entrance.
Steven leaned forward, steadying himself against Richard’s hips using his fingers like I had shown him.
"Go for it, Steven," I urged softly. "Slowly... like we did."
Steven pushed his fingers in. Richard gasped sharply, his hands gripping the opposite edge of the wooden horse. Richard’s choked groan filled the workshop, pain tangled with profound acceptance as Steven worked in his technique.
"I think Richard's ready, Steven."
Steven withdrew his fingers as Richard trembled over the wooden horse. His freckled bottom glistened with KY jelly and water, his entrance visibly relaxed now, glistening pink and slick.
Steven shifted behind him, his own breathing shallow and rapid. He gripped the base of his thick cock, slicking it again, murmuring Richard’s name like a question. He leaned forward, pressing the blunt tip firmly against the loosened ring. Richard inhaled sharply, his spine tensing.
Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Steven pushed. Richard whimpered, a high, thin sound, burying his face against his arms. The head resisted, stretched impossibly tight around Steven’s girth, then, suddenly, his body yielded and his cock sank inside with a soft, wet pop, buried to the crown.
Richard gasped, a shudder rippling through him. "Christ!" he choked out, fingers scrabbling on the wood. Steven froze, trembling, buried deep.
"It hurts," Richard whispered, voice thick.
"Breathe," I instructed, stepping closer, my own pulse hammering. "Just breathe, Richard. Feel it easing."
Steven remained motionless, buried deep. He rested his hands flat on Richard’s hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the dimples above his buttocks. Richard’s ragged breaths gradually softened. The frantic trembling subsided into a low hum of tension. His grip on the horse loosened fractionally.
"Okay?" Steven rasped, a desperate plea.
Richard nodded, muffled against his arm. "Yeah... keep... keep going slow."
Inch by agonising inch, Steven pushed deeper. Richard arched his back, pressing his forehead hard into the wood, letting out a low groan that morphed from pain into something deeper, rougher. He reached back blindly, fingers finding Steven’s hip, pulling him closer. "Fuck... Steve..." Richard moaned, fingers digging in. "All... all the way..."
Steven surged forward, burying himself completely, hips flush against Richard’s arse.
Their bodies locked together, Steven shuddering violently, eyes wide with disbelief at the impossible heat gripping him. Richard cried out, a raw sound torn from his throat, half-pain, half-bliss.
Richard pushed back against him, urging him deeper still. Steven moved now, tentative thrusts growing bolder, sliding almost entirely out before driving back in, Richard meeting each stroke with a desperate arch of his hips. The sound grew slicker, louder, the rhythmic intrusion pulling gasps and groans from both boys tangled together on the old wooden horse.
Richard’s eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. Then it hit him. A sudden jolt of pure sensation deep inside, radiating outwards like lightning. His eyes flew open. "Oh! There!" he choked out, his hand flying back to clutch Steven’s thigh. "Right there, Steve! Feels... feels fucking amazing!"
Steven grunted in response, adjusting his angle subtly, seeking it again. Each subsequent thrust struck true against Richard’s spot, making him gasp, whimper, and push back frantically. "Don't stop! Christ, don't stop!"
Steven obeyed, piston-driven now. He gripped Richard’s hips hard enough to bruise, burying himself impossibly deep with every plunge, his cock swelling and pulsing within the tight channel. He wasn't thrusting anymore; he was pulsing, shuddering, teetering on the edge. "Rich... I'm... gonna...!" he gasped, voice strangled.
I watched, rooted to the spot. Richard’s frantic pushing, his choked cries signalling ecstasy blooming deep inside him. Steven’s ragged breathing, the wild, uncontrolled bucking of his hips, the way his whole body tensed like a drawn bowstring, it screamed imminent explosion.
My own briefs grew damply uncomfortable, clinging. My cock, thick and insistent against the rough khaki, throbbed in time with Steven’s frantic thrusts. I licked my dry lips, craving it, the arch of Richard’s spine, Steven’s roar, the wet slap of flesh hitting flesh reaching its peak.
The climax was palpable, hanging thick and electric in the humid workshop air. Now, I thought fiercely. Let it happen. Show me.
Richard shuddered violently beneath him. "Cum, Steve!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Do it! Fill me!"
That final plea snapped Steven’s control. A guttural groan tore from his throat as he slammed home one last time, buried impossibly deep. His body locked, rigid against Richard’s back. He threw his head back, cords standing out in his neck, mouth open in a silent scream of release.
Richard gasped sharply, feeling the sudden, fierce pulse deep within him. The unmistakable throbbing surge of Steven’s cock pumping hot seed inside his body. The sensation triggered his own response instantly; untouched, Richard’s cock jerked violently against the underside of the wooden horse, thick ropes of cum spurting onto the dusty concrete floor beneath him.
Steven slumped forward, panting raggedly against Richard’s sweat-slicked shoulder blades, his cock still twitching inside, buried deep. Richard whimpered softly, spent against the worn wood, trembling from peak to aftershock.
The workshop hung heavy with the smell of sex and orgasms, KY jelly, sweat, semen, and the profound silence of shared release. My hand finally moved, rubbing slowly through the damp fabric of my trousers. I felt relief, realising I had also cum from just watching.
Richard remained slumped over the wooden horse, trembling breaths easing into shallow ones, Steven draped across his back like a spent shield.
“Oh my god, that was amazing,” Richard muttered as he remained trapped under Steven.
Finally, Steven lifted his head, his expression dazed, almost reverent as he gazed at the flushed skin beneath him. He pulled out slowly, a thick trickle of pearly fluid escaping Richard’s loosened entrance, tracing a glistening path down his inner thigh. Richard gasped softly at the separation, his body twitching.
“Wow, that was incredible. You were incredible, Rich,” Steven declared as they stumbled apart.
Steven caught Richard’s arm as he swayed upright. Both stood naked once more on the gritty concrete floor, legs trembling, chests heaving, their bodies mapped with scratches, mud smears, and now the stark, drying evidence of their climaxes mingling with KY jelly.
Richard glanced down at his softening cock, sticky against his thigh, then at the creamy mess trailing from Steven’s flushed cockhead onto the floor. Steven just blinked, looking utterly bewildered, running a shaky hand through his damp, leaf-strewn hair.
I found my voice, thick with suppressed laughter and something deeper, admiration perhaps. "Well," I said slowly, gesturing at their spent, naked forms, at the tin bath’s murky ring, at the KY tube lying discarded. "Bet you didn’t expect this when you woke up this morning."
Richard choked out a laugh, a raw, disbelieving sound. He looked at Steven, then back at me, shaking his head. "Mr Jacobs... we... we thought we were just sneaking onto the range again. Maybe nick a few clays. Get shouted at but definitely not...this."
Steven wiped sweat from his brow, smearing dirt. "Definitely not... this," he finished softly, a faint, giddy smile touching his lips despite the exhaustion as his gaze drifted back to Richard, lingering on the slick trail drying on his thigh. "Definitely not..."
Richard met his gaze, a blush rising high on his freckled cheeks, but no shame touched his eyes now, only a kind of stunned wonder.
The twelve pounds they had earned felt suddenly inadequate, crumpled in my pocket. Their payment was etched onto their skin, written in scratches and drying seed. "I think, boys, that you've learnt your lesson for today.”
Both boys smiled at that comment as I continued. “I think you should get dressed now and go home. If you fancy coming back tomorrow, that will be fine with me, but enough for today. I'm not sure I can take any more of your.......misbehaviour," I stated, smiling like a Cheshire cat.
Richard grinned, wiping sweaty hair from his forehead. "Yes, sir. We'll be back tomorrow."
Steven nodded. "Definitely."
I watched them as they gathered their clothes, dusty and damp from the work surface. Both hesitated before pulling on their shorts and shirts. They left their torn Y-Fronts lying discarded on the floor, sodden white cotton reminders of the afternoon's journey.
“Hope my mum doesn’t ask where my briefs are?” Richard said, buttoning the top of his shorts together.
Steven laughed. “She will never know, but I do,” as he slipped his shorts up.
I watched them disappear down the track, Richard's arm slung loosely around Steven's waist, their heads bent close in quiet conversation. Shoulders relaxed, steps unhurried. Utterly transformed from the frantic, trembling figures I'd cornered hours earlier.
The twelve pounds felt like pocket change against the currency they'd truly earned: freedom tasted, boundaries crossed, pleasure claimed. They’d learned trespassing carried unexpected rewards. Learned about each other’s bodies. Learned the shuddering shock of surrender and release. Only one lesson remained untaught, a tantalising frontier awaiting exploration. Blowjob given properly.
Leaning against the workshop doorframe, I traced the warm outline of my hardened cock beneath my khakis, already anticipating tomorrow. The next step beckoned: the yielding heat of a mouth, the wet slide of a tongue, the choked gasp swallowed whole.
Yes, that would be tomorrow’s syllabus. How to blow each other properly. They might have already done so, but I was determined to teach them the delights of a 69 as the mere thought made my cock throb, promising more education amongst the clay pigeons.
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