Fucked on the Fell

I never forgot my encounter with the fell-runner, which had been one of the most painful and brilliant fucks that I ever experienced. So, breaking my rule that Spring holidays should never be taken in the same place for two years running, I once again booked a week in the Blank Arms about the same time as I had visited the previous year, in the hope of meeting my runner again. Since I never knew his name, and since I recalled his nakedness very well, I had mentally nicknamed him Adam. In the event I didn't meet Adam again but I had another adventure. 

On my first visit I had noticed that the Blank Arms seemed to have few female customers; this was partly because it was rural and isolated; its patrons tended to be local farmers, climbers, fell walkers, anglers and at certain seasons game shooters, most of whom were men. There was also something in the Northern, conservative culture of the region that inhibited local women, at any rate, from entering it in the evening. Social drinking after work was something that men, including farmers and farm labourers, did. Their wives and female relations were fully occupied then, preparing their families' suppers in old-fashioned farm kitchens with sandstone-flagged floors. Apart from a few minor details – a modern calendar and a Babycham Bambi behind the bar, for example - the public bar was substantially unchanged since 1939, or even earlier. King George V, Lords Kitchener, Jellicoe and Beatty gave me disapproving glances from their framed and faded sepia portraits. The other pictures were mostly hunting prints.  

I stationed myself in the public bar, in a corner with my back to the wall; 'the gunfighter's seat'. There, I could see everyone who came in and watch people drinking at the bar while remaining unnoticed. If 'Adam' were to enter, I could observe him for a few minutes before he noticed me. Having installed myself with a half-pint of lager, I then became uneasy. Am I turning into a stalker? I wondered.

I knew that the inn was normally quiet on weekdays, but that evening – it was a Thursday - there was a press of men in the public bar. They were younger than the regular crowd. The barman explained that a rugby club was holding its annual dinner there; the members were tanking up before the main event. The room was full of large, cheerful, muscular young men with ruddy complexions, all talking and laughing at full volume, shouting to greet new arrivals and slapping each other on the back. The evening was warm; they had taken off their blazers or jackets but still wore what amounted to a uniform; white or coloured short-sleeved shirts, which showed off their tanned forearms, with the club tie. For the moment they were loud and good-humoured. Every so often there would be a great guffaw. Later the ties would come off; they would become boisterous and, if I had not already left, I would quietly withdraw at that point.         

One of the men was bigger than the rest. I put him down as a Forward; at least six foot, six inches tall. He was good-looking, too. His  floppy, reddish-gold hair was parted on the left; his forelock had a tendency to fall over his eyes. He had a good square jaw, a turned-up nose and striking greenish-hazel eyes under thick pale golden eyebrows. The eyes were alive with mischief and merriment; his manner was animated and he had a cheerful grin. The skin of his face, throat and forearms was tanned, healthy and looked very clean. His short-sleeved shirt and close-fitting cinnamon-coloured corduroy trousers covered a powerful physique. The trousers closely followed the lines of his strong legs and fitted neatly round his ass and crotch. His tie had already been stuffed into his rear trouser-pocket. He was evidently popular with the other rugby-players; moving among them, handing out his round of drinks, he was seemingly always at the centre of a laughing group. Whoever he was, they treated him with affection and respect. And he had a great, muscular ass. I felt an erection straining against my briefs. 

Suddenly I noticed that the man was standing still. Although he had his back to me, he knew that I was looking at him. There was a gap in the crowd at the bar. For two or three minutes he had been watching me in the bar mirror as intently as I had been watching him. I blushed angrily; I knew what he must be thinking. 

Oh damn. 

We locked eyes. Then he gave me a big smile and winked. Maybe he didn't mind? He must be used to the admiration; of both sexes, I suspected. The next minute he straightened his face, collected a trayful of pint mugs from the bar and walked off to present them to the group that he had just left. Our silent exchange was over so quickly that I wondered whether it had really happened; was it my over-heated imagination? I decided to duck out at that point, ordered dinner in my room and prepared to spend the evening reading and planning my next hill-walk. I had after all come North, among other reasons, to enjoy some peace and quiet. 

“I think you're wise, Sir!” said the barman. “Things'll get lively in here after dinner.  There'll be high jinks, although – fair play – they always pay for any damage.” 

He then told me to leave the dinner tray outside my door after I had finished eating. There was a small dresser in the twilit corridor outside for that purpose; the chambermaid would collect the tray later.  

Back in my wooden-beamed room, with views over the surrounding hills, I listened to a concert on the radio and began to relax. Dinner, when it arrived, was steak and kidney pie. A bottle of French village wine accompanied it. There were various cheeses instead of a dessert. From time to time I would hear a distant raucous cheer from the large 'function room', which now occupied the former stable block, where the rugby club dinner was happening. The evening started to get dark, so I drew the curtains and lit one or two table lamps. I put up my feet up and poured another glass of wine. I heard the door open softly.  

“I've put the tray outside,” I said without looking up.  

There was a quiet masculine laugh. It wasn't the chambermaid; it was my new friend, whoever he was, from the bar, smiling at me. I decided to play it straight:

“Hi! I wasn't expecting any visitors...”

“No; I know. Someone told me you're one of those strong, silent men who likes to go hill-walking by yourself. But I've decided to join you; they won't miss me for a while!” 

With a practised air, he turned the key in the lock and tossed it into a distant corner of the room. Picking up my cap, he hung it over the keyhole. He then sat on the bed and removed his shoes and socks. Is what I think is happening, going to happen? He stood up, pulled his shirt over his head; tossed it aside; he had a great, suntanned torso. Then he unbuckled and dropped his trousers. He looked at me. 

“C'me on! Get your kit off. We haven't got all evening! You want it, don't you?”

Of course I bloody-well wanted it; so would anybody. Now he was naked, apart from a pair of minute briefs which were printed with a reptilian pattern, like a python's skin markings. They were semi-see-through; his cock and balls were dimly visible inside, while his crotch hair, a vigorous golden bush, was not covered at all. His chest was well covered with a mass of curly fair hair; brown nipples showed through it. Apart from a small pale area where his minimal swimming trunks had been, his entire body was tanned golden-brown. 

Next thing, he was kissing me and doing it very well, too. Had I been a girl, I might well have swooned. My shirt came off. Then my trousers were round my knees and he was kissing and sucking my cock. Now I was naked and stretched out on the bed; I felt him rimming and fingering my asshole. Next thing, he had pulled on a condom, which he evidently kept in his wallet for these occasions – you never know your luck, especially if you look like him - applied some lube and was forcing his way in. 

“Fuck! That hurts”, I groaned. 

“This'll hurt even more!” he chuckled.

I was now upside-down, resting on my neck and shoulders, legs in the air. He was braced above me, legs apart. In he went, for a seriously deep fuck. Balls-deep, beyond the second sphincter; total violation.  

“Aaargh!” I cried. 

This earned me a gentle smack on the chops.  

“Quiet! Mustn't frighten the horses!” he laughed.

There was no respite. He then took me, standing up. The pain had made my cock go hard-rigid and not inclined to go soft again. 

Finally, collapsed in the armchair, he spread me and and took me again and again. Occasionally he would pause for a rest, when he would suck my cock but never let me or himself get to orgasm. 

Finally we were on the floor. He gave me more oral sex and anal fingering. Then: 

“Jack yourself off” he said.

No problem. As I emptied my balls, he did the same, splashing his sperm over my face. Then he kissed me again. 

A quick shower, a scuffle to retrieve the key, and he was gone, back to his party. If this had been a work of fiction, I would never have seen him again; never have known his name and our one-night stand would soon have faded like a dream. In reality I did see him again.  

The next time, I was walking in a particularly remote valley. It was unseasonably warm and I felt the urge to strip off and sunbathe. There was a small beck nearby which widened into a pool. Too small to swim in, it made a good natural bath and the water was deliciously cold. Suddenly I looked up and there he was, standing on the bank above me. 

“Ill join you,” he said and soon we were in the bath together, kissing with our legs round each other's bodies. Later he rode my cock while I lay on a rock beside the stream. After which I got fucked again. Grinning, he paid me a compliment of sorts: 

"It's great, fucking small guys like you. You're usually strong and put up a fight, which is fun. But I always win in the end. And when I have you, really have you, it's deeply-fucking satisfying!"  

The third time I saw him was in a magazine article; Rural Life was the magazine's name. There he was, surrounded by hounds and terriers which were putting an end to a fox. The long, strong legs, which I remembered so well, were encased in close-fitting buff breeches and top-boots and he was wearing a tight-waisted pink, i.e. scarlet, coat. Here he was finally named, 'Mr Tom Watson, Huntsman of the B****** Hunt, at work'. 'Tom' was a smart, manly name; it suited him.