Tales from the Birchfield farm

PREFACE: Months have flown (& other stories of mine appeared) since the previous chapter of this series, months during which readers may have forgotten the Farm’s location, purpose, & cast of characters. Quickly, the Farm is a farm all right but also a discrete destination for wealthy men to realize specialized primal fantasies with highly trained members of their sex. So extensive is the operation that it features a Town Square with rebuilt hotel & other amenities. Trainers and Providers on staff currently face the situation that new arrivals, Afghans & Americans, must be cared for, then integrated into life there. No need to read the 15 preceding chapters (unless you like hot sex galore). They & their characters wish you would – & will welcome you.

P.S. Actually, to keep the characters properly in mind while reading below, you may wish to prepare by boning up on this: https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Pairs_More_31011.html.

b/b, M/M, anal, minor bondage, simulated s/m

Pashtun passion in pleasure’s pastures

It seemed a marvel that the arrival and settling in of three teenage Afghan boys keyed a relationship no one could have predicted. Largely non-verbal Avery Gerald James, himself having been cascaded by air crash into the Farm, began to talk with the youngest, smallest Pashtun, the boy named only Mati.

*

“I like you,” Avery said quietly when they happened to meet on the Farm House’s porch.

Mati hugged him, afraid to squeeze too hard. Kissed his mouth delicately. “Me, too,” Mati responded. “I mean, I like you, too.” A sincere expression preceded, “Why don’t you talk more?”

“I’m trying. It’s hard.”

“Are you shy? You aren’t shy about getting fucked.” Mati’s sympathetic tone and open face invited more from Avery.

“Men have been fucking me since, like ever. They didn’t want to hear anything out of me, anything I wanted to say. Everybody here says I was traum-a-tized.”

A difficult word for one unaccustomed to speech.

Mati did not let on that so many words from Avery startled him. Before he could think of what next to say, Avery added to what he had said.

“I was used to being fucked a lot and often hard. Only here, Big Ben’s fucked me with love. I can talk, only nobody seems to think so, not even him so…”

“Let’s go sit over there. I want to tell you about us – me and my friends Aarov and Siamok. Do you know about where we come from and the customs there?”

The pretty head shook. They parked their much-lauded bottoms on soft grass under an elm.

“In our part of Afghanistan, boys like us are taken by tribal warlords as – what? – ‘companions’ to train, really to fuck at night by campfires until we’re old enough to marry, around eighteen. Those mountain bandits are fierce about everything. Boys that resist get whipped into shape real fast.”

Avery’s brow was knit with concern. “They whipped you?”

“No, not me. I was lucky. Aarov and Siamok, too. We were taken up, sort of in the custody of the UNESCO soldier who’s here. You know him, Burt Namath. Don’t tell, but it was Aarov who tricked him into fucking us, got him hooked on our butts, and…and here we are!” he beamed bright as the sun. “The army helped us in lots of ways. That’s how we learned English.”

“Hug me some more, please.”

“It’s your turn. You hug me, Avery. We’re equal here. You’re talking real well. That’s so nice. Now be nice to me the way I was nice to you. It shows love. I’ve never felt loved. Only here, everybody seems to love me.” He paused to be thoughtful, “No one is in love with me.”

“I think the only people actually in love here are Hiram and Hank. They’re a little older than we are…”

“Like us, Hank’s a kind of orphan. He and Hiram – their love is nurtured by Hiram’s dad, Randy-James. And gosh, are they happy.”

“Did you see Hiram’s photos of me?”

To Avery’s coquettish, over-the-shoulder look, Mati got up, leaned against the elm’s trunk and boyishly planted one foot on its ridged bark. “Every part of you looked like it was ready to be kissed. You are so sexy.”

“You can kiss me, if you want.”

“I’m safer over here.”

A snicker jiggled Avery’s countenance. He waited.

“Guys like us boys don’t kiss in Afghanistan. We just get fucked. On the Farm, all the oral stuff’s really new. Aarov and Siamok have taken to it – even, you know, swallowing cocks and everything. Me, they say I’m too young, too little – anyway, I’m scared.”

“Not of kissing?”

“You can practice with me. In fact, I want you to. Please, Mati? Practice being assertive, like a man. I want you to. Please.”

Mati thought he could try. Should try. Nobody would see. And what if they did?

“Come here, Avery. I want you.”

Seconds later, He plundered Avery’s mouth after working his lips apart and thrusting his tongue between them. Went full throttle. Remembering something once overheard about kissing, he tempered the violence of his attack. The more tender the kiss became, the more Avery kissed him back, hotly and wetly with small, wanting sounds vibrating within his swan-thin throat – driving Mati a little mad.

They leaned into each other, pressing erections together with need. In breathy starts and stops, they angled their heads better, both moaning.

Awed, thrilled, grateful, Mati panted Avery’s name.

That did it. They came. When shudders ceased, both laughed and lay where they were.

* * *

Cosmo nudged Ting, “Are we going to tell Randy-James we saw that?”

A finger went to Ting’s chin. He shook his head.

“What about Big Ben? You know he’s totally into little Avery. Should he know? Or the other Pashtuns – about Mati?”

“Don’t rush me. I’m thinking.”

Cosmo shrugged, sighed, gave Ting a poke in the ribs. “C’mon. You’re stalling. What are you thinking?”

The two friends, on their way to the court for a game of tennis, had spotted the two, noticed with astonishment that silent Avery seemed to be doing the talking, been enthralled by the tryst’s display of youthful passion, and secreted themselves behind a hedge of blooming begonias not far away.

“I think we should take Hiram and Hank into our confidence,” he whispered for no apparent reason, “so that they can photograph Avery and Mati in secret. Think of it…as a clandestine operation we…” he added sharply “…and they can spring on Randy-James, and Ecks, and…and everybody.”

Together waving their rackets, they strode to the Farm’s darkroom where, lo, the two teens were freshening the developing tanks. It was safe to go in.

Fifteen-year-old Hiram, son of head honcho Randy-James’ McLeod and exclusive lover of fourteen-year-old Hank van Sant, excelled at photography. Successful exhibits in New York and Berlin lay behind him, artistic and financial triumphs. Hank was devoted to Hiram, there for him at every twist or turn.

They listened, intent.

Hiram and Hank communicated by eye, then declared, “Yes!”

* * *

The plot was hatched at the next meal shared by all under supervision by the Farm’s Italian cook, known to all as Mama. Think super-vision, literally. Little escaped her notice. The maneuvering involved Hank and Hiram borrowing Avery from Big Ben and, on their way out, appearing to ask the only other really young boy there, neglected Mati, to join them.

Maria “Mama” Corleoni turned from her kitchen door porthole to Trainer Mike Manleigh, who was among those on meal duty at the time. “Hey-a Mike. Look at-a this,” she pointed. Mike taught photography classes and oversaw costuming and directing the Farm’s theatrical and video productions (one had included Avery). He peered. With Cosmo and Ting in tow, Mike followed discretely as the young ones headed for the Fairfax Theater.

Originally a façade for a movie set on the Farm’s Town Square, the Fairfax had been finished and fully equipped for shooting and projection. Some of the world’s most upscale, profitable male erotica originated there. Doubtless, the boys were up to something – perhaps good.

“Let’s use the black wool,” Hiram directed Hank to spread the five-foot-wide cloth over a handy mattress while he hung more for a background on the wall behind. “Their bodies will show in beautiful contrast.” Mati caught on quickly and helped.

Lights set quickly and turned on, Hank smiled at their subjects. “Time for your clothes.”

Avery provoked Mati into helping him remove his before his own. When almost nude, the Farm’s most delicate looking resident stopped his friend. He stared an instant at Hank before saying to Hiram, “You should take off your clothes, too.”

Mati’s face seemed to say the same to Hank. From his exquisite mouth came, “Must, so we are the same.” More boldly, “Or have you got something to hide? Are you ashamed?”

Logic won the day.

Hiram scrambled nakedly around the boys’ spirited re-smooch session, focusing and clicking, fussing at inquisitive Hank whose face intruded on some of his close-ups. Hank, whose only experience was with Hiram (for the most part under him), found fascinating how those two mouths interacted so passionately.

“You’re getting in the way,” he was admonished.

“I want to kiss like that. Take my picture kissing them.”

Miffed at first, Hiram thought a second. “Okay, go for it,” hardly believing Hank’s forwardness.

Quickest to move was Mati. He made a play for Hank, who was hotly erect, but tugged him not to his own lips but past, to Avery’s. In the free-for-all that ensued, Avery applied his experienced lips to fairly-staid Hank’s and Mati ran a finger in the boy’s ass.

Hank, in a daze, pushed back. Mati moved in with his raging Pashtun cock ready to pierce the spot where his finger sampled van Sant warmth.

From the dark of the Fairfax Theater, Mike observed to Ting and Cosmo, “Wish we had this on video.” They agreed. Ting whispered, “I know there’s been nothing like it in our porn world.” Cosmo pointed to Hiram, “Look!”

While continuing to click away, Hiram could be heard croaking to Mati, “Fuck him. Fuck Hank. I’ll get great pictures.”

Avery, turned on by the novelty of Hank’s ass being screwed into by now-assertive Mati, sprang an erection right in front of Hank’s face. Wicked assertiveness seized the willowy teen. His hands captured that innocent face and directed it to his cock, one no one had ever sucked.

Crazy, Hank opened and began the first fellation of his life.

“Incredible,” murmured Hiram, setting aside both camera and personal reservations. He spat on himself. Jacked a bit and, in haste, almost vaulted to a place behind Mati’s bobbing buttocks. More spit and he slid into the Pashtun who spontaneously threw himself into fucking and being fucked.

“Oh!” Ting wiped away false tears, “This should be captured.”

“Right.” Mike stole from the house to the stage, his moccasins making not the slightest sound to distract the orgiasts. He crept near, picked up Hiram’s camera, shot stills until Avery noticed him. The “ooooh!” of surprise coincided with his orgasm into Hank’s mouth – which, in turn, somehow triggered Hiram’s own climax into Mati. Last to cum, Mati rode backwards and forwards for further amazement.

The witnesses could bear their tension no longer. Rushing to the stage and applauding, they made much of the event, helped the boys dress and, a happy lot, headed for group showers.

Informed, Mama broke out some champagne. Small servings were poured for each youngster, adult portions for Randy-James and Blaine who were in stitches at Mike’s telling of the story. The boys feigned being sillier than mere sips of champagne made them.

By night, the whole Farm was in an uproar. Mati’s fellow Pashtuns, Aarov and Siamok, hoisted the little one to their shoulders and paraded him through the dining hall. Big Ben tossed a squealing Avery close to the ceiling, catching him adroitly, kissing him, and tossing him again. Hiram and Hank, late to the festivities from special time in the darkroom, yelled, “Hey, what about us?”

During a momentary lull, Ting’s voice was heard to ask no one in particular, “Now can we all fuck them?”

* * *

Days after, the phone rang in Mieczyslaw Brownstone’s Manhattan gallery, MW ART. Answering was Florian West who, with his twin Floyd, loved and lived with the owner. “Oh hello, Mr. Ecks. … No, he’s not here, but we are, Mieczyslaw’s residents. You remember us, the West twins? May we be of service? … Hiram McLeod’s photos? …Just a sec. Let me ask my brother, who’s at the computer right now. … Mieczyslaw’s having a check-up. You know, at his age…”

Small talk out of his way, Alan Ecks, The Birchfield Farm’s business manager, zeroed in on his need to know about possible clientele for “a precedent-setting series of elegant photos by our Hiram of boys in their early- to mid-teens engaging with each other in multiple forms of nude intimacy.”

Florian exclaimed, “Are you kidding? After the money made from Hiram’s previous show here? He knows everybody in this country and has connections to some men in Britain, France, Belgium, Germany, and at least one Middle Eastern country who’re really interested in boys – and can afford to be. Boys, you know, as – shall I say – works of art.” He chuckled and listened.

“You mean it – sucking and fucking? Holy shit. That’s hot. … You mean it, that Hiram’s in some of them. … Holy shit.”

Floyd was heard answering the Gallery’s other line.

“Mr. Ecks, hang on. My brother’s trying to tell me something. It’s Mieczyslaw. In a taxi coming here. I’ll have him to call you. Should be fifteen or twenty minutes. … Most definitely.”

To Floyd, Florian said, “Close the drapes and lock the front door. When Mieczyslaw hears the news, he’ll want us both bent over the desk.”

Floyd agreed, “We’ve plenty of time to make sure our holes are fresh-shaved and oiled up.”

* * *

Randy-James McLeod had news for his son Hiram and pseudo-son Hank. “You guys and your pranking around have raised eyebrows and excited some flutters of hearts, not to mention visions of money dancing in the heads of your representative in New York. Do you remember that curious guy, Victor Vermont, with Tallmark Greeting Cards?”

The boys thought about it. “Uh-huh.”

“Before I drop that nugget of news, I want you to tell me honestly – as you always have – how you felt being sexually involved with those other boys. You’ve been exclusive to each other since we – Blaine and I – put you together. Did you discover new flesh feels good?”

Hank, usually of few words, spoke before his lover could, “It’s like something broke and, and…the walls came tumbling down.”

“Yes, Dad, we came out of our cocoon. And we just wanted to flutter our wings.” Before he could become flustered by what he was admitting, Hiram blurted, “This place is crawling with sex. We want in on it, not just as observers. I mean, we’re old enough now, aren’t we?”

“Hold that question. No, don’t. I’ll answer. First, I told Mieczyslaw about your randy dealings with Mati and Avery – that they’re completely documented – and he wants to hold a big, precedent-setting exhibition. The precedent he wants to set – you’d both better have a seat – is for what he calls ‘a super-secret-special opening’ to be all nude – you both, him, me, Blaire, his twins and those old folks you photographed, as well as the by-invitation-only attendees – the place closed up tighter than a drum so that lusts can find their outlets in an orgy on the floor for all the customers who purchase.”

Hiram hid his face. Hank fairly glowed, wanted to know, “Will they want to fuck us?”

A cough tried to cover Randy-James’ astonishment. He coughed twice. “I suspect not only you two but Avery and Mati, too.”

“He’ll need to carpet the floor,” Hiram deadpanned.

“And you four will need preparation, if you’re actually thinking of consenting.”

With a grin from ear to ear, Hank contributed, “Avery won’t. Need preparation, that is.”

Before setting up the near future, Randy-James told them that Tallmark Cards would sign an exclusivity contract for the new photographs.

* * *

Illegalities and practicalities juggled, former army corporal Burt Namath, manager Alan Ecks and investor Duane Wilderforce consulted, and consents obtained, Randy-James began to concentrate on pairing his two boys with appropriately-hung Farm personages. Arranged in ascending order of length and width beginning with Cosmo and Sammie, twice-daily rump romps were scheduled for Hiram and Hank. Mieczyslaw brought twins Floyd and Florian to visit – for broadening by certain Trainers. They, too, were to be up for grabs on the big night months ahead.

Randy-James took special pains to entrust the renewal of innocent-looking, diminutive Mati’s anal flowering to Félix Patrice (with Mike secretly documenting every moment via hidden video cameras in a reserved room at The Hotel Shellman). A great asset, Félix had been called to everyone’s attention by long-retired Sociologist Dr. Dalton Brawne. The flowery recommendation had been studied by every interested party:

Black as soot but agleam in the right light with skin that looks polished, Felix stems from a mixed-race family – maternal grandparents Franco-Haitian, paternal grandparents Haitian-Norwegian. The result, the features of a fine-boned European with startlingly iceberg-blue eyes and perfect pearl-white teeth in a setting of maximum contrast.

At first sight, one’s heart stops. It is impossible not to stare. His shapely body (imagine a slender Greek kouros with a high-hung African butt), he carries with statesman-like dignity, rare beyond rare in a teenager. Finely tailored pants reveal one great part of his heritage from the rear but which, from the front, are structured to hang such that what lies beneath, well-secured against intrusive speculation, cannot distract the viewer.

Bilingually- and finely-educated, incredibly sexed and eminently personable, Félix adores the idea that he might encompass the most sophisticated forms of gratification for other, older men. His functionality has virtually demolished my lover, our roommate, and me. Me! If he is not what you want, then, with avarice aforethought, we will keep him with us while he completes his university studies. That is, if we can survive.

Félix hustled Mati past nodding Charles and smirking Ward at the newly constructedHotel Shellman’s front desk and whisked him up its stairs to the specially outfitted room at their top. Once there, he embraced the boy, kissed his brow, and told him how happy we was to be with him again.

Fingers working on the boy’s clothes, Félix said, “When I had you before, I was afraid you might be harmed – you looked almost as angelic as Avery.”

Mati thought that funny. “He’s the most welcoming bottom here. Have you ever seen the way he takes Big Ben? It’s like he’s a champion.” His fingers were returning the favor, starting with the man’s nearby belt and zipper. What fell forward was a beautifully tremendous penis, well on its way to full arousal. As if Mati needed to be reminded of what once had roamed and roared in him. Eager with anticipation the way Pashtun boys traditionally were, he felt behind himself.

-Yes.

Félix completed stripping Mati then himself. His strong hands lifted the boy high. Félix made a show of sniffing teen genitals before blubbering his lips there and above to tickle stomach areas. “If I have your attention, little one, I want to show you what soon will be a collaboration for us.”

Two clicks of a remote control brought to the large TV screen across from the room’s wide bed an incredible sight.

“That’s called Swaggering Blackamoor with an Emerald Cluster. One of the treasures of Dresden. I’m going to be costumed like that. Instead of the gem matrix on my tray, there will be you, nude and trussed tightly. See how all the gold ornaments show against such dark skin? Look, Mati, set with rubies, sapphires, emeralds, pearls and I don’t know what else are that tall feather headdress, sparkling necklace, big jeweled pectoral, paired armlets, cuffs, shin guards, and that form-displaying, belted kilt with pendants!”

Mati, all eyes, let his mouth hang open. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Why, dear boy, you’ll be displayed like the treasure you are to our audience before I pick you up, show your tiny ass, and fuck you in every possible way – face up, face down, held straight out, bouncing you like a pogo stick. Won’t that be wonderful?”

“Are we going to rehearse?”

“Starting now. I have oiled rope already looped.”

Mati liked the process. Liked having his ankles crossed and secured, legs and arms bound together, pretty head immobilized, curvaceous bottom’s entry feeling the room’s cool air. Félix’ thumbs spread the lovely hole with Übersilk, worked in a fair amount, wiped off any that strayed beyond the dusky pink anus, and patted his handiwork. “You’re more beguiling this way than when you squirmed under me that other time.”

Mati’s breath hitched in his throat. The exotic man’s exploration of his bottom, delicate as could be, brought goose bumps. A curious thought entered his mind, that Félix was learning his surface. Touches to his oiled place and a finger turning in excited him more breathlessly. No way could Mati move, except inside – where rectal muscles vibrated on contact, contracted to increase the feeling.

“Receptive little ass, isn’t it? I’ll call you my cocotte amoureuse.”

A coy glance widened at the impressive sight of Félix anointing his dark, broad length and red-glow head inch after inch. How his startlingly blue eyes concentrated on the oily gleam of plump hard surface!

Mati closed his eyes to focus on what came to rub his rim and to cajole its cooperation in admitting, accepting, accommodating, and being pumped, plumbed, and purged beyond reason. Being bound intensified the effect in him of wild anal spasms on Félix’ unremitting assault. But those reactions touched off nothing similar in the elder. The great black cock rode in and out with implacably forceful steadiness, raking innermost surfaces satiny smooth.

With intent to ravish further, Félix flexed the muscles of his arms to turn his skewered Mati bundle slowly on its side. The massive, rock-rigid organ’s twist alerted the Pashtun boy that more was to come. Mere thought of that set his sphincters on fire. Félix brought the fuck to a halt long enough to let Mati’s excruciating second orgasm pass. Pushing home again, he breathed heavily, “I could fall in love with you.”

Light-headed from utter ecstasy, Mati’s brain and body rallied to absorb the message delivered by words and Félix’ extraordinary masculine tumescence. Driving thrusts sent throbbing, knobby head over flattened prostate. Each pass was an action toward recovery from temporary, post-climax discomfort. Bestirred capillaries fed the buried gland and surrounding tissues red blood to refresh their area.

Noting his shaft’s appearance coming and going in the boy’s cleft, Félix reveled in his view of its healthy, glistening diameter. It was lost from sight then reappeared, found depth again, returned to view, swept forward to vanish dozens of times, and surprisingly zigzagged back. The single, eccentric shift from pattern struck like a slap for attention the part of his mind where resided desire for sex’s culmination. He wavered for a second.

Urgent need for orgasm’s anguishing joy seized his tirelessly repetitive pelvic thrusts, quickened their pace, caused the hollows on either side at the base of his spine to deepen, his powerful buns to tighten, his gut to churn, his eyes to burn, and his pelvis to hurl beyond control.

Into bundled and bound, helpless, little Mati’s core.

Viselike hands turned Mati again, abruptly, to his back while being barreled into. A single moan goaded Félix from wildness to madness.

Ballistic forces ripped through his grinding hips, tearing apart his loins, stripping them of every glandular secretion, and blasting prostatic and testicular fluids where Mati felt hottest. Each discharge registered throughout the battered boy like a shock wave. His lesser-size tracts surrendered juicelessly as his ass cramped and convulsed. Shoved deep, the Haitian-heavy cock expelled less and less into what pooled there and was seeping out. Félix pitched this way and that in frantic efforts to prolong the agony’s pleasure. But the waves which usually rose from placidity and passed through him as rolling swells could not be recalled. He ached with exhaustion. Limp with fatigue, he relinquished his place, dismounted and, drenched cock flopping on his thigh, fell aside and fumbled to untie Mati’s ropes.

The task took several minutes. When accomplished, shameless Mati stretched to limber his joints and to restore full circulation – then, heedless of his skin’s accumulated ejaculations, crawled over Félix’ heaving chest to ask, “Can you do all that wearing the blackamoor’s jewelry?”

* * *

Mike Manleigh edited his multi-angled videos of the large-black on small-white bondage rehearsal scene. Two hours of material became fifty minutes of compelling eroticism. He raised its audio level to insure qualities of explicit breathing could be heard and adjusted differences in contrast to even the lighting throughout. The result he previewed for Danielle Bentley and her cock-caged Sergio, the Pashtuns, Félix, Randy-James, Hiram, Hank, Ben, Avery, Cosmo, Ting, and masochistic Konstantin.

The moment it ended, Konstantin jumped up applauding and rushed to hug Mati. “I got so hot watching you take it from Félix, I almost came in my pants.” Under the blanket of hands clapping, he leaned over Félix, “Do a scene with me. You can bind me tighter and do anything you like with me. I’d love it.”

Mati’s sharp hearing picked up Konstantin’s self-promotion. “Hey, I liked it! You’ll have to wait, because we have to shoot it again with Félix in costume.”

Randy-James’ words were the lubricant need to lessen the friction. “Let’s not sidetrack ourselves. Mike, what about all those jeweled, gold attachments for Félix?”

“Very good replicas exist in a film studio’s warehouse in Italy. Arrangements to borrow them for a price will require negotiation. Should be possible in a month or so. For now though, what does everyone think? Shall this rehearsal video be shown to our other residents?”

Psychologist Bentley stood, as always, to speak. “Of course. It’s perfect. I want my Americans, Brad and Wyatt, to see it and for you, Félix, to bind their bodies just as you did Mati.” To Sergio, at her feet, “New possibilities for them – and if some of these big guys can master the techniques of tying someone your size that tightly… Ah, the pleasures ahead for my discipline to be measured in stages.”

Avery popped to his feet. “Félix, will you tie me up for Ben?” His recently exercised treble, which only a few of the younger set had heard, startled even Ben, “I think he would really ravage me.” He plunked down and covered his face.

Mouths dropped.

Hank prompted Hiram with a reminder about the big offer for an orgy-exhibition in New York. “Yes,” Hiram faced the group, “the proposal’s been floated, as I think all of you know, for us to be profitably outrageous there. If it’s in the cards, then this video should be part of that – along with my pictures.”

If so dark-skinned a nineteen-year-old as Félix may be said to blush, then he did, turning to his boss, Randy-James. “If you want me to perform these tasks, I will. But, nothing pulls at me more than to be of service to controlling, older men – as Dr. Brawne told you.”

“Everybody, let’s simmer down. There’s work ahead that may, I should say will take us far beyond where we are now. I’ll confer with our CEO. Spread word around that after breakfast tomorrow the video will be given another run-through. Input will be sought. Félix, spend the night with Uldis and Vas. They’ll set you right. Mati, if you want, hook up with Aarov and Siamok for the night with your original man, Burt. Mama will understand. She’s monopolized him enough lately. The rest of you, choose someone, or ask Blaine for one of his new vibrating plugs. Sleep well.”

Cosmo was impertinently sassy, “Randy-James, aren’t you monopolizing Tarak?”

Ting joined the provocation, “Yeah, since he’s been sleeping with you, we’ve hardly seen him.”

“Perhaps he’s teaching me Pashto.”

Aarov came out with, “I’ll bet” – and immediately regretted it.

On that high note, the crowd scattered.

* * *

Charles rang Burt Namath from The Hotel Shellman and told him, “Get your ass over here quick as you can. Wade and I have emergency rations. We’ll feed you and have the shower ready so you can get the smell of Mama’s cunt off you, powder your parts, gird your loins – whatever.”

Somewhat off-kilter, Burt, the Farm’s former member of a special NATO contingent in Afghanistan, barely formulated a “Huh?” before Charles blew him away. The news was that “Siamok, Aarov, and Mati are expecting to relive their original experiences on the end of your dick, my dear.”

Burt’s looked at his genitals’ sapped state, “I don’t think so.”

“You aren’t hearing me. The toshaks already await you on the floor. No appropriate cushions but plenty of thick towels you can roll for the lads’ pelvic support. We have Sildenafil, Vardenafil, Tadalafil and Avanafil on hand. The sooner you swallow whichever’s your best tonic, the sooner you’ll be able to rise to the occasion. Oh, and we’ve chocolates for you to gratify those determined Pashtun pups.”

*

Pills down, Burt Namath adjusted to the room’s darkness. A single penlight taped to a bedpost provided its only illumination. He recalled the thought that launched him into anal sex with pubescent boys, boys with Pashtun’s traditional desire for men: A hole is a hole. His groin was coming to life.

Aarov, Siamok, and Mati slipped from a door Burt Namath did not hear opening. Wearing traditional high-necked, low hanging, long sleeve, white tunics over baggy trousers, one’s head sported a baseball cap, the other two improvised turbans. Smiles revealed bright shining teeth and eyes. They approached, teased, implored, jostled to find foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses in his pockets. At their chocolatey fun, Burt’s seven inches grew luridly. He stripped for action and pulled down Mati’s pants.

Just as in the army’s base camp, a folded blanket was placed to cushion the young pelvis. Mati pulled his tunic to armpit level before taking position, his barely-teen bottom facing Burt. Rapidly lubed, the man sank to his knees, nudged the head of his ready penis to Mati’s hot spot, rode slowly in, looked down, and started the gyrations of fucking. No more than three inches at first, Mati appearing so small. Four got his notice even now, then five. Burt held to that for flashbacks before shifting another inch deeper with his drives.

Six inches pistoned back and forth with such regularity that Aarov and Siamok, seated close by, remembered to whisper in rhythm, “Pup--py-pup--py-pup--py-pup…”

Jolted by that reminiscence, Burt’s orgasm caused him to plunge full-length into Mati. Out of control, his cock pounded into the boy as it flooded the narrow, now-stretched rectum so hard that, when the onslaught could be brought to stop, Mati blinked lustily and exclaimed in Pashto, “He’s still a warlord!”

Burt managed to roll away for Aarov, tunic raised, to situate himself on the blanket. Aarov, like Siamok, already knew and loved the sensations of seven inches. He relished the prospect of Burt’s again. Fucked for the first time when he was twelve and puberty had made him eligible in the mountain ranges of home, Aarov had been conditioned six thousand miles away to solid fucks of his ample bottom.

Mounted anew by his first American, he craved a particular roughness. At the touch to his seasoned anus of the man’s dripping, still-firm erection, he said, “Be my warlord again, Burt.”

Burt burst through to spike the boy as if driven in by a hammer. Not caught off-guard, Aarov said aloud, “Yes!”

Mati clapped a hand over Aarov’s mouth.

Mati and Siamok drew admiring breaths at the methodical fury with which their former soldier attacked Aarov’s bottom. He smashed into the boy so vigorously and so fast, he literally fucked him off the blanket’s folds onto the room’s carpeted floor, keeping his fuck’s pace. Exhilaration of mind called upon his adrenal glands to produce for his body the energizing force for another orgasm worthy of such a bottom’s demand – and to be added to his day’s growing total.

Aarov spasmed back. Boy met man in combat. Together they crashed and collapsed quivering.

Triumphantly brandishing his chemically-enabled cock fresh from Aarov, Burt turned slowly toward Siamok. His eyes glinted. A smile broke.

Siamok dived for the blanket. Redoubled it. Lifted his tunic. Doffed the garment completely. Fell to his face. The ex-soldier felt between Siamok’s legs, caressed the crinkled seam of scrotum and perineum, located the anus, pushing gently on it with the flat of a thumb, wiggling it, then transferring saliva there before angling for entry. The muscle surrendered not to a ram’s battering but to steady pressure of a specific cock, the cock it wanted.

Burt streamlined in and set himself into smooth-stroke motion. Beautiful to watch, the fuck seemed to flow with the shifting quality of breezes. Soon, his hips flew as if by unseen wings – just it had so far away.

Siamok’s head lolled, the only part of his entranced body that moved. Billowy lightness was a new sensation, conjured by the confluent mingling of feelings ineffable as clouds. Unrivaled buoyance of spirit prevailed until the human element began to surface and something like gravity attracted the two bodies and drew them into that whirlwind known as uncontrollable orgasm.

Totally depleted, Burt fell deeply asleep and had to be rolled from Siamok’s prone form by giggling Mati and Aarov.

“Let’s leave him this way, Aarov said. They squeezed on the loads they contained, gathered their home-style costumes, retrieved the penlight Charles provided and other evidence, and met Wade at the door. Conspiratorially, he led them downstairs to learn from Mike that the low-light videos were going to be sensational.

* * *

Luckiest among Pashtuns in America was Tarak. Heading toward age twenty-one and safely ensconced with Randy-James McLeod, he felt himself to be of value as never in his life. Only eleven when he orphaned during the worst raid and ransacking of his village, he had been snatched as a trophy by one of the warlords, raped that night, and subsequently drilled, trained, and kept as a body slave until turned out at eighteen as no longer desirable.

Such fate befell other boys. Those with families returned to them and entered arranged marriages. Not Tarak.

For seven years, he had conformed to every demand by his captor. He learned how to ride with him and his tribe of invaders, make camp for them, prepare simple food, and take in stride punishing regimens of sex. Roughness turned him on by campfires, in a khema, over a convenient rock, strung up to a whipping post…

With no family, there were no prospects. The arrival of NATO forces in Afghanistan, a small contingent of which was posted to his area, the foothills south of Kandahar, Tarak found part-time work running errands for soldiers, cleaning anything for which we was paid whatever pittance, and lining up Pashtun boys with certain troops.

Pvt. (later Cpl.) Burt Namath had been his best patron. It was Tarak who pointed Aarov, Siamok, and Mati his way. The unexpected, breathtaking good fortune was his being taken on the plane that airlifted the whole group away.

Once oriented to life on The Birchfield Farm, he grew healthy. Tarak took to on-line education in the computer lab (as did the others). Bettered himself. When Randy-James settled him in his rooms at the Farm House, Tarak felt singularly honored. His own man to fuck him, an important man, a man with status and a very firm cock.

“Tarak,” Randy-James indicated his bed, “I will take you here for the time being. You will be a welcome change from all the others my Trainers and I keep on-track for service. Any objections?”

The fidgety young man’s fluffy black hair concealed his face as Tarak fell to the floor and placed his head on Randy-James’ feet. “I will do anything for you. You saved my life.” Tears flooded his eyes when he looked up. “Anything. Any punishment if I do not please you.”

Raising him for the encouragement of a manly embrace, Randy-James said, “I didn’t have punishment in mind, only some personal therapy.” He pushed Tarak at arms’ length, “My bed has known every Provider here many times. I know them on the outside and on the inside, their mouths and asses. You, on the other hand, will be new and, from the way to express yourself, grateful, not merely dutiful.”

His smile made Tarak queasy. “Please don’t make me kiss. I mean, if you force me, I will have to. But it’s not the Pashtun way.”

“You will kiss me when you want to. For now though, your naked body underneath mine will suffice. That is your way, right?”

Tarak stripped himself, flung himself face to the bed, reached behind himself to spread himself, even spread his legs. What Randy-James saw was less than a turn-on. The soles of Tarak’s feet, his legs, butt, and back bore marks from more than one instrument of discipline.

-No wonder he’ll do anything to please.-

Pity drove the Farm’s number one Provider to open a bottle of lotion he last had used on Konstantin. The Russian liked being disciplined to a degree in sex but afterwards occasionally needed Nurse-Practioner Blaine’s ministrations. Blaine, away for a medical conference, his duties passed to Randy-James along with some of some balms and ointments for unlikely but possible emergencies.

Sitting on his bed’s edge, Randy-James warmed the chosen lotion with his hands then began smoothing its creamy texture on Tarak’s heels and soles. His deepest voice warned, “Do not move.” Employing masseur’s skill, the lotion was worked between toes, around ankles and up. Warming skin was one of its qualities. The soft area behind the Pashtun’s knees, where scar tissue evidenced something severe had taken place long ago, proved oddly sensual to caress. Upper legs and buttocks responded, too. Tarak might have been trying not to show emotion. Hard to tell, yet the flesh in those spots felt eager for the attention.

Randy-James added lotion to one index finger and slid it carefully through the purplish hole. Tarak may have controlled his body’s apparent calm but, on its own, his rectum shuddered. He bit his lower lip.

Now was the time, Randy-James thought, to move in. At full stand, his cock’s color vanished under the opaque lotion’s application. So did that of his chest, which he covered with the stuff. He slipped into Tarak and lay forward so that his chest would transfer lotion to wounded back. Thus was commenced the gentlest impalement Tarak had ever known.

Dreamy smooth coitus seemed to go on forever, Randy-James balls deep at the end of every stroke. Raising and lowering his pelvis in motion slower than the Pashtun could have imagined possible coaxed long-ignored sensitivities of surface to awaken. At movement of the man’s hairy chest’s back and forth transference to Tarak’s scarred back of the wonderful lotion, sighs could not be prevented. Tarak’s mouth hung open. The head against his nuzzled as one might a baby’s.

“Can you sleep now?” Randy-James asked softly. “Answer me.”

“If you stay where you are, I will be your toshak.”

Randy-James’s erection stayed with them, buried totally in Tarak the pallet. Waking every hour or so to undulate his hips for assurance, Randy-James decided that this was one of his career’s finest evenings.

For their second night, Tarak was positioned knees drawn under his chest, bottom out – for creamy fondling of his scrotum and its contents, and pats of lotion to his tautly rounded cheeks. Hands roamed the surface of the skin there as if their goal was to smooth away past memories.

Randy-James knelt behind the waiting posterior, his knees where needed for him to administer a soul-stirring, snail-slow, coup de grace breach – his sex telescoping into Tarak and his voice telling him, “Stretch out now for me to savor the beauty inside you.”

To report that Tarak literally became malleable as clay for the Trainer’s shaping understates the twenty-one-year-old’s disbelief that his miserable, oft-derided body had anything praiseworthy to offer such a caring man.

Randy-James probed Tarak thoroughly. With hands under the Pashtun’s shoulders, he made sure to press slight dips of traversing cock against the young man’s pleasure spot.

Tarak’s own hands reached to pull his sex toward his stomach – to allow it room to grow. When had anyone let him do that? His ass joined the pursuit of anal sex’s outcome while his hands cushioned the friction of tumescence against sweating palms. Insistent grew the plumbing of his extended rectum – it meant orgasm impended. His own.

-He’s fucking me – for me!-

The tongue licking his neck sent Tarak’s nerves spiraling, his balls convulsing, his ass thrashing at Randy-James. Crashing past the indescribable delight of being fucked implacably beyond climax and its aftermath, Tarak felt justifiably proud to be the recipient of the man’s sperm. But had he?

“This time is for me,” husky-voiced Randy-James said. Implacably, his cock continued its claim on Tarak’s inner integrity as if the area would ever belong to any other claimant. Not if Tarak’s luck held and he kept his wits. Sex as pure emotion filled his mind and attached him to Randy-James who, with one impact after another of macho pubis to butthole volleyed his all as far as possible into the young man on top of whom he then could sleep the night through.

Comfort for Randy-James, sublimity for Tarak.

During the day, they had no contact. Clerical and other business-oriented tasks occupied the man. A bevy of the Farm’s Providers – Sammie, Ting, Javier, Clyff, and Ahmed – snagged Tarak for an account of his bouts in Randy-James’ bed.

“All of you have been where I was,” Tarak reminded them, “So you know how he screws. Why are you asking me?”

Albino Clyff answered, “We have, only not two nights in a row. Nobody ever had two nights in a row. Something special’s got to be going on.”

Aware that secrets were not supposed to be harbored by any residents, Tarak chose to tell what he thought was true. “Randy-James is helping me to feel self-worth – the way you all do. And I…” – he choked back an overflow.

Ahmed put a friendly hand on Tarak’s shoulder, “Guys, I’m a refugee from the Middle East, Tarak’s from the Far East. I think I know what’s under his skin. People held him in contempt growing up. Like me, he suffered exploitation – what Blaine calls sexploitation – and trauma. I was rescued in time. He was rescued, too, much later, so he’s more special. Randy-James, I bet – tell us Tarak – Randy-James is treating you like the special case you are, right?”

“Oh, Ahmed…”

“Scat, guys. This good man and I need some private time, okay? I’ll catch you later,” he winked while consoling Tarak with hugs. “If you see Aarov or Siamok, say that we are going to the gym. They can join us there in the steam room.”

They did – greatly excited. Bold as ever, they closed the steam room door behind their naked bodies. Both took breaths of the hot, moist air, streaked hands over their skin, and – speaking fast – pounced on Tarak.

“Show us your ass.”

“Did you really take Randy-James two nights in a row?”

“He means,” Siamok admonished Aarov, “did he fuck you all night?”

“How did he fuck you? Doggy style? Did you go nuts?”

Ahmed, who held Tarak in his slippery, perspiring arms, said, “Tell them.”

Tarak wiped his eyes. In Pashto, he outlined what happened, and rolled over to show them his recovering love-hole. At his mention that Randy-James slept on top of him both times with his cock inside, the boys wanted feels of the sponginess there.

Impressed beyond words, they looked at each other, minds sharing the same question.

Tarak guessed. In English, he said, “I hope he wants me again.”

* * *

Whatever Tarak did in the fields sharing crop work with others during the next days, he disappeared into Randy-James’ quarters after the evening meal. And he did so with a question on his mind: to go with the emotion Randy-James was likely to display or to resist.

Whether the two showered separately or together, when they retired, Tarak was hesitant to be placed on his back. The first night, face down, he tangled with Randy-James and received a smack on the side of his face. “All right then, you’re asking for this.”

Not rape, it was as fierce. His insides were displaced by Randy-James’ driven down, ramrod attack. Shot in, jerked back, flailed angrily by the cock they knew well, every knock-hard thrust was absorbed and their impacts enjoyed. Bites to his neck upped the excitement of welcome domination while his body rubbed into the cotton sheet.

Exactly what he wanted to counter his assailant’s desire to treat him like a woman. Randy-James had forgotten his pledge not to push kissing. The sudden rough and tumble fuck he was taking brought on the confusion of Tarak’s sexual fit – during which Randy-James whipped him half around, shifted over one leg, grabbed the other, hoisted it, and proceeded to take his intended pleasure.

Minutes passed speeding in and out. Tarak’s wrists pinned to the pillow, Randy-James moved in for a kiss – and was bitten on the cheek. A fast slap stung Tarak’s face. Good. It grounded him to receive without protest – smugly, in fact – more of the powerful fuck and, unexpectantly for both, Randy-James’ jism splashing inside his ass. A growl and several moans were stifled by Tarak’s seeking then to be kissed. He was plowed into by cock and tongue until a completely spent Randy-James lifted off, lay back, gathered Tarak to him, and ordered him to sleep.

The next time he went to the man’s bed, Tarak invited Randy-James to teach him “the loving ways of your world.”

The conquered Pashtun’s legs opened. Already hard, his sex throbbed. His hands, covered with lube, reached for Randy-James’ cock, laved its head and first inches, directed it to himself and, as his seemingly weakened ring was breached, broke the silence with, “Think you can kiss me?”

Twisting in with due dominance, Randy-James edged forward to begin what promised to be a desire come true. He would be the Trainer a hardy man in his position could be. Tarak would be brought to the level of lover. Considerately, Randy-James moved his cock with time-honored, affectionate skill, fucking the glove-like surrounding of Pashtun rectum as if trying its capacity prior to testing its limits. His pelvis revolved smoothly to a growing glow on Tarak’s face.

Leaning close, he canted his head to kiss the closed, waiting lips. Noses neared, breaths exchanged, mouths connected. Randy-James’ tongue sought to part the puckered lips.

Tarak exploded, “No! This is wrong!” He pummeled Randy-James’ shoulders, spat at him, screamed, "Get off me you devil!” and turned over, grabbing the pillow to protect his head.

His bottom became the target for the angriest spanking the Trainer could remember administering. One hand mashed the pillow on Tarak’s head, the other struck buttocks furiously again and again until its palm reddened with hurt.

Tarak blubbered and wailed – to excite Randy-James further. His act worked.

Randy-James besieged his ass with rape-strong intent. Only, his cock met wriggling squeezes, spasming throttles, convulsing constrictions, and a root-wrenching demand for what boiled in its depths. Forced into discharge against his will, Randy-James rasped gutterably while cramming violently and spewing deep.

In place on top, his breath shifting down, he heard Tarak softly order him to go to sleep.

He surrendered.

Gone before Tarak awoke, Randy-James wolfed down Mama’s earliest available breakfast. Fresh coffee in his mug, he awaited certain arrivals – Syd, who escorted a clearly worked-over, happy Konstantin, Siamok and Aarov of boisterous behavior, joshing about Hank and Hiram who, trailed by Mati, were threatening something dire, Blaine with Ben and Avery, who strolled assertively in front, and Félix by himself, looking rested. From the kitchen door’s porthole window, Uldis noted Randy-James making the rounds, obviously in planning mode.

By breakfast’s end, everyone on the Farm had been fed except Tarak. Mama sent Uldis with hot food – tea, oatmeal laden with sugary fruit, and a yogurt surprise (She’d flavored it with Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge). While imbibing the deliciousness with Uldis sitting near Randy-James’ bed, Tarak told all.

In stitches, Uldis thought it even more hilarious when he heard the summation, “I did him in.”

* * *

Once ready to face the day, Tarak saw few people around the Town Square. Perhaps watering or weeding the crops being grown? No, he walked there. He did spot Sammie, who waved and approached.

“People say you’ve really been getting it from Randy-James,” Sammie tossed his girly hair. “What’s it like – hot and heavy? I’d like to be in your place.”

“Probably not. Where have all the ‘flowers’ gone?”

Sammie looked over his shoulder before saying, “They’re setting up something for you. Hush-hush, I think.”

A voice called Tarak’s name. Blaine’s.

Sammie vanished. Tarak turned, followed the Nurse-Practitioner into the Shellman.

As they approached a familiar cellar door, strains of Afghan tribal dance music caused hummingbirds to take flight in Tarak’s stomach. A smelly, coarse-woven horse blanket hung where a door had been. The room behind revealed little of itself, light being suspiciously low and colored dark yellow-orange like weak candle flame. Sounds of an argument in the native tongue commingled to confuse the man whose wrists were being secured by ropes.

A turbaned man of ferocious mien and bulky Afghan mountain-style clothes pointed to the floor. Two other big men of hidden faces and thuggish clothes ripped at Tarak’s shirt and pants. More frightening was a gravel-toned, deep voice speaking Pashto slowly, threatening to cut his balls off. His dick.

“You want to be a woman? I can make you one with this! – his tribal peshkabz’s razor edge catching the feeble light. Shadows hid the fact that his mouth was not moving.

“No! No! Master, I beg you!” he shrieked in terror, so real did the scene seem a flashback to his homeland. “I was never a proper Pashtun boy so I wasn’t formed – but I know about tradition. I have been taken…”

A tremendous slap to his face produced silence. “American cock! That’s all you’ve had – and you fought that, wanting to be like a woman,” he snarled.

His face tear-streaked, Tarak looked up, “Teach me, Warlord, what I should be.”

Spread and shackled, Tarak squeezed his eyes in panic. What penetrated raked profoundly through his channel, pulling its walls with rushed severity, pushing them from its rampaging churns.

The would-be warlord supported his upper bulk with a hand to Tarak’s head. The other snapped a woven leather crop against his leg for emphasis. Tensions caved to skillful negotiations of nerve-laden muscles, glands cooperated, Tarak’s mind as well. He was being loosed in order to be grateful by showing attention to the man-thing inside. The whip stopped after Tarak succumbed to its command. The brute’s hand left his aching neck. Two beefy hands pressed on his shoulder blades while what pressed into him lower down now commanded the available space. The image of a subway train speeding so fast in an underground tube that it creates a vacuum behind it might be accurate, but this warlord’s cock created one on its way back. Tarak thought some of his organs might be sucked along with it. The thrill seemed about to turn him inside-out when the disembodied voice – the same? a different one? – boomed darkly, “You are where you belong, pinioned and helpless, taking what is meted to you. Do..you..under..stand..Tarak?..Or..shall. it..be..beaten..into..you?” Tarak’s ass took the emphatic beats of man-driven pelvic thrusts to be a voice unto themselves enforcing the now-wordless message. A message through marvels of anal pain.

Abandoned as ruined his usurper’s thought to uproot the order of Pashtun ways, to turn them into mere steps toward Western love. Coming around after his epic encounter, Tarak found his wrists and ankles freed, his ass bereft, and himself alone, exhausted, and chilled.

There were youthful voices – children’s? A blanket. Orange juice fed him through a straw. Encouragements. A woman telling someone of his survival. His blood pressure being taken. Hushed exchanges about a meal in his honor. Drowsiness. Sleep.

* * *

He was sure that, in the night, hands rolled him to his stomach and that a cock of noble size rested in him, its body hard against his. But he did not know whose until morning when Randy-James’s tongue was in his ear while his cock stirred his readied rectum. He was at peace to be fucked by the man who moved more lovingly than ever.

“Tarak, yield always thus when a man needs you as I do now. Choose to accept and you will benefit this place and your role within it – and mine within you.” Randy-James angled left, moved by circular motions toward the right, aimed directly in and coasted glibly to coax back the delicacies of reaction he knew had been there. Under such kindness, Tarak began to rally. Together, they reached concord.

* * *

Hank and Hiram, Mati and Avery, Aarov and Siamok, Ting and Cosmo, Sammie and Félix encircled Tarak the moment they could. Peppered by so many questions he could not answer, he pushed them all, made faces, laughed and, when finally facing the quieted mob, said simply, “I’m my man’s special pleasure boy now and one of you. Randy-James told “X” on the ’phone that I was now ready to take my place among you as a full-time member of The Birchfield Farm.

* * *