This encounter happened when I was in my thirties.  I was visiting the north of England, as I wanted to do some serious hill-walking. I was lodged in one of those isolated, old-fashioned inns that you find in Cumbria and the Yorkshire Dales: a village inn without a village, in the middle of nowhere, whose clientele was mainly farmers, anglers, climbers and serious hill-walkers. Tourists would not have felt welcome. The food was fine but it was not a gastro-pub; it belonged to a small local brewery. The place was pretty quiet; it was early springtime, not the tourist season.

Primroses were starting to appear in the hedgerows. Herdwick lambs were frolicking about. I was starting to stretch my legs and get fit again. In what more innocent way could a still-youngish man  pass his holiday?

That day I determined to climb the biggest fell in the district. It was simply called Great Fell. It is not one of the famous peaks, like Blencathra or Skiddaw. It is very big, but not rugged. There is no scope for rock-climbing. It looks a bit like a beached whale. Serious climbers do not bother with it. Once you get up there, you can walk over to other fells which are part of the same range. It is just a long, hard slog to the top although, when you finally get there, there are some good views; at least there are in good weather. Often the view is hidden by low cloud or drizzle, but that day was fine, though not warm. There was a cool breeze blowing. I checked myself in the tarnished mirror of the Victorian wardrobe in my bedroom. I was wearing the appropriate uniform: tweed climbing breeches with Velcro fastenings at the knee, worn with long knee-socks, boots and ankle-puttees; heavy Tattersall check shirt with a sweater. I looked the business; a thoroughly respectable and well-prepared hill-walker. In my knapsack were windproof clothing, some food, including Kendal mint-cake, maps and a bird book. I was not however prepared for what was about to happen to me. 

I was off. It was indeed a long, hard slog to the top. However I managed it in less time than I had taken on the previous occasion, two years earlier, because I was now fitter than I had been then. I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I leaned on my stick and admired the panorama. A few minutes later, something happened that put my achievement into perspective. I noticed a man approaching very rapidly. He was not hill-walking; he was running. Nor was he dressed like me. He was in running kit: flimsy brief white shorts, a slieveless singlet and running shoes. He might have been carrying a water-bottle; he certainly was only wearing a small, light pack. What made it worse was that he was clearly older than I, but about 200% fitter. He was bounding along, over far from ideal terrain. Damn!

I was not totally surprised, as I knew that fell-racing was a serious sport in that area. This guy was presumably practicing for the Skiddaw Race or a similar event. For some reason this sport does not particularly favour young men. The best fell racers are usually mature;  frequently shepherds or farmers. At that time the reigning champion was in his early sixties. Having retained the trophy for years, he retired unbeaten a year or two later. Mr Dinsdale - I think that was the name - was a shepherd and the huntsman of one of the Cumbrian fell packs, which pursue foxes but hunt on foot; like beagling, but using very large Trail Hounds. The terrain is much too rough and steep for horses. You have to be very fit to keep up with them.

This other guy, whose name I never knew, was older than me: maybe nudging fifty. He was not handsome but  tanned and weather-beaten, with a lean, pleasantly ugly face; sticky-out ears (which for some reason is often a turn-on for me, God knows why) and a very nice friendly grin, which disclosed bog, slightly uneven teeth. Because he was starting to go bald, he kept his greying sandy hair very short. This too is a turn-on for me. But his body was great. It more than made up for any lack of handsomeness in the face. The skimpy, sweat-soaked running strip did not conceal much. I do not suppose that there was an ounce of fat on him. If he had been a soldier, you'd have said that he was a "lean, mean, keen fighting machine," although some of his muscles were massive.

I now think that he was probably a wrestler as well as a runner. Cumberland and Westmorland have their own distinctive version of wrestling, mainly practiced at country shows. It is very popular indeed. A lot of young, and even not-so-young, men like to have a go. Some just strip to the waist, take off their shoes and jump into the ring. Serious contestants wear Victorian wrestling gear: embroidered black velvet trunks over white silk tights and white singlets. Black socks are worn, but no shoes. This is picturesque, but I still prefer brief trunks, bare upper bodies and legs! That, however, is the Lancashire or Catch-as-Catch-Can style, which has become international. Some Cumbrian men, like Johnny Moss, also practice that and are very good at it. Even Randy Orton, the US Heavyweight Champ, is of Cumbrian descent. Wrestling is in his blood. 

We exchanged a few friendly words. He caught his breath and then he gave me a big, lustful, conspiratorial grin. I instantly knew exactly what he wanted: some of my valuable time, and my ass, but, even so, I could hardly believe this. He had seemed such a nice, normal, manly man! I started grinning as well, although the grin would soon be wiped off my face. Nearby was a circular dry-stane sheep-fold for confining strays. This afforded some privacy, unless the RAF or Army or Mountain Rescue should happen by in a helicopter, in which case we were in for a spot of embarrassment.

'Nuff said! He went for me like a bull-terrier puppy presented with a beefsteak: hugged me, kissed me roughly (he had not shaved that morning), grabbed my crotch and squeezed my genitals through the cloth. His own shorts, singlet and jock-strap came off very quickly. He then set about unwrapping me. This wasn't difficult either. The climbing breeches came off easily; then he pulled my shirt and sweater over my head. I lost one or two shirt buttons in the process, thanks to his eagerness. I was now naked apart from boots, puttees and socks, which he pushed down as far as possible. Another rough, hungry embrace followed. Then he bent me over, spat on my man-hole and eased himself in. This hurt like fuck -literally like fuck, because I had an almost-virgin ass. I had not been fucked for years. I had developed this idea that, provided that I did the fucking and did not submit, I was still just about "normal" or "a proper man". Tops aren't wimps, you see; bottoms are. Well, we know better now.

Anyway, there was very little that I could do about it. This guy was so strong and had me in a wrestling hold. Confucius is supposed to have said that if rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it. It became quickly clear that rape was inevitable. This guy had not had sex for a bit; he was super-fit; far stronger than I and unstoppable. I got thoroughly used and abused. Having fucked me doggy-style, then he got me on my back, spread me and went for it again. It was brutal, frightening and great. To stretch my asshole, he just thrust both thumbs inside and tugged in different directions. Then he used his saliva as lubricant again and thrust two long, rough, calloused fingers deep inside. Then it was his very big cock. Bang, bang, bang.

There wasn't a lot of dialogue. At one stage he said, looking at my agonised grimace,

"I'm hurting thee, lad, aren't I?"

"Too fucking right!"

"Well, I'm not gaan' to stop now. Just relax and tak' it!"

(A moment or two later) "Christ that hurts!"

"It will. It's a good pain, though. I'm breaking you in. Just tak 'it."

Having little option, I took it, until he had exhausted himself. Then he wanked his load all over me. Then he wanked me off and gave me oral sex, which is both painful and great, immediately after emission.

Then he got dressed in his running kit. I was still lying there, naked and gasping.

"Ye'll catch yer death o' cold like that," he said. And he made me dress: even helped me.

After a big hug he said "Thanks, lad" and cantered off. I walked back rather slowly. Larks were now singing all around.

I have no idea who he was and I never saw him again. I hope that he won his fell-race.


Max Markham


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