Richard Takes Some Leave

Being a dutiful son, Lieutenant Richard Finch normally began his leave by spending a few days under the roof of his adoptive parents, Dr and Mrs Matthew Finch (Senior) of Much Hadham,  Hertfordshire. Having discharged this filial duty, he liked to go exploring, sometimes in Europe, especially in France; sometimes within the UK, where he had friends from school, Cambridge and the army, who were usually delighted to see him. There was never a dull moment when Richard was around. On this particular occasion, his first long leave since joining his regiment, he had three weeks at his disposal and was determined to enjoy himself.  

Richard's leave had begun promisingly. Before proceeding to Hertfordshire, he had broken his journey in London to get a haircut, be measured for two new suits and to buy some casual clothes from the chain-tailors, Berry & Chumms. In their Kensington High Street store, Richard had been assisted in the challenging task of selecting a couple of pairs of jeans by a personable, young and blond shop-walker, whose name-badge showed  him to be called “Jake”. The jeans had to be close-fitting, to emphasise Richard's muscular physique and potency, but not even vaguely flared; Richard detested flares as much as he did Zapata moustaches and men who wore their hair over their ears. In the 1970s this meant most civilian men. Jake was clearly “wowed” by Richard, who was by now fairly used to having that effect on other men and indeed on women, to whom he was largely indifferent. The wow factor had been amplified when Jake, hurrying into Richard's changing cubicle carrying yet more jeans for him to try on, encountered Richard, now naked apart from a pair of burgundy-red bikini briefs and socks, pretending to read The Spectator. Jake blushed furiously and became almost speechless, so their conversation had to be telepathic:

“?”

“!” 

Soon after this, Jake gave Richard an impromptu tour of the historic Directors' Suite on the top floor. After minimal but urgent foreplay, under the disapproving gaze of the original Mr Berry and Mr Chumm; both of whom had been painted by Sir David Wilkie, and both of whom strongly resembled Prime Minister William Ewart Gladstone, Richard and Jake celebrated an ecstatic consummation on the highly-polished boardroom table. In the large mirrors adorning the walls Richard was able to watch a delighted Jake riding his cock or being bent over and deep-fucked. Phwoar! 

On their last evening together in Hertfordshire, Richard had gone to the pub with his adoptive elder brother, Dr Matthew Finch (Junior). Matthew had begun to practice Medicine and was now their father's junior partner. The brothers, who were not related by blood, looked very different. Matthew,  taller than Richard, had a fair complexion and was typically English, with brown hair and grey eyes, while Richard was strikingly handsome in a tough, square-jawed and masculine way that was more Latin than Anglo-Saxon. His London barber had cut his thick, dark, wavy hair a few days earlier; it was now very short and sleek. As they walked back afterwards, Richard raised a question that had been hovering at the back of his mind: 

“The parents seem well,” said Richard, “but something isn't right between us. Have you any idea what it might be?” 

“How d'you mean?” responded Matthew. 

“Well, they seem reserved. You'd almost think they were afraid of me! Asking me whether everything was to my satisfaction and worried that it might not be. I've had to explain to them that after my recent arduous training, living off Compo rations, our house seems like the lap of luxury! I've no complaints.”  

Matthew thought for a moment. “I think they have been afraid that you might find it boring here. Let's face it, your horizons have expanded enormously. The real problem however is that we're both adopted; neither of us is their biological child. It was a lottery: they had no idea what they'd be taking on, or how we'd turn out, when they pulled us out of the bran-tub. Their own family histories are no guide. They cannot say: 'Ah, he's turning out like his grandfather' or 'Just like Uncle Paul!'” 

Richard chuckled. “I see what you mean! It's like a farmer's wife putting duck eggs under a broody hen. The ducklings hatch out and start behaving like ducks; swimming on the pond, etcetera. The poor hen doesn't know what to think and goes slightly bananas!”   

Matthew laughed: “Something like that,” he said. They walked on.

“Even so,” continued Richard, “They haven't that much to complain about. You're a doctor, following in Father's footsteps, which is splendid. As for me, unlike some of my contemporaries, I didn't drop out, grow my hair long – which the parents would have hated -  smoke pot, or disappear to some ashram in Kathmandu, leaving no forwarding address. Neither of us did anything like that. Au contraire, I won scholarships and things, which incidentally saved them oodles of money;  I got a good degree from Cambridge, which seemed to surprise, as well as please them; then I got into a distinguished regiment. One might say that I'd made quite a reasonable start in life!” 

“True, but they couldn't even imagine doing half the things you've done. They've seldom travelled, and then no further than Spain. Neither of them went to Cambridge or Oxford; nor did Father ever consider the army as a career. You might not have noticed that they were gob-smacked when you mentioned that you had been shooting with the Duke of Ancaster – I know his son is one of your brother officers -  but that, to them, is on another planet. You're more unusual than any duckling. None of us has a clue what you are or what you'll do next; it's as though two Silkie Bantams had hatched out a baby falcon or something similar!”  

Richard was happy to be compared to a dangerous bird of prey. On a warm impulse he gave his elder brother a bear-hug.  He was now so strong that he lifted Matthew off the ground for a few moments. 

“You say the nicest things, Matthew!” chuckled Richard. “A falcon, eh? The Silkie Bantams might well be alarmed about that! Please reassure them.” 

“Put me down! I mean it! There's something else,” continued Matthew, laughingly disengaging himself from his brother's python-like embrace. Richard's display of affection struck him as slightly over-the-top. Thank heaven none of his patients was around. “They're concerned about your present religious position.” 

“Oh, that,” sighed Richard. “I don't suppose that they were referring to the Missionary Position? No? That was a joke, of course. Okay, you can tell them that I'm still C of E. I attend the Guards Chapel when in London – I'm expected to, and I don't mind because the church music is great  - and I even read the Lesson when it is my turn to be Orderly Officer. Underneath, as you very well know, I am an unrepentant pagan!” 

“Good!” said Matthew. He was deeply attached to Richard, even if he frequently found him  incomprehensible and occasionally irritating; he would not have wanted him to change. He changed the subject:

 “Any girlfriends at the moment?” 

“Nope. To be honest, Matthew, I don't think I like women very much.”

“Balls!” said Matthew, knowingly. “I know all too well what that means: sour grapes! I've been 'crossed in love' and all that malarkey, too. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.  Believe me, one gets over it. Neither of us has yet met Miss Right; that's all.” 

To that, Richard said nothing.   

 A few days later Richard was staying with Alan, a friend from Cambridge days, whose family had been squires in their corner of East Anglia for time out of mind. Alan had taken over running the family estate from his father, who had decamped to the amenities and pleasures of London. He only now returned to the Manor House for the shooting season and important family occasions, so Alan was often busy with estate business and not available to entertain Richard. No problem; Richard was content to amuse himself by exploring in a second-hand Alfa Romeo sports car that he had recently bought from another young officer; a purchase that he was now starting to regret.  

Despite it dashing looks, the Alfa Romeo was not one-hundred-percent reliable. That particular day Richard had been on his way to look at a distant castle – he took an interest in military history - but the Alfa Romeo had chosen to “conk out” in a remote area of Norfolk, miles from anywhere. Bugger! Birds twittered, bees buzzed and the scent of wild roses wafted in Richard's direction, but  neither these, nor the sight of a rare Swallow-Tail butterfly flitting among the daisies, did anything to improve Richard's mood. 

Fuck! Richard at the start of his army career was a less-competent mechanic than he was later to become. Having tried a few basic tests without result, he swore again. Double-fuck! Nothing for it; he must call the AA, but there was of course no AA telephone box – nor any other public 'phone box - anywhere in sight. Triple-fuck!! 

Consulting the Ordinance Survey map, Richard saw that, while he was still miles away from the castle, he was a short distance from a farm. It was hidden from the road by a low hill and some woodland. A pair of white-washed stone gateposts, supporting a five-barred gate bearing the legend “Glebe Farm”, indicated the way there. Locking the car, he set out to seek help, hoping  – given that it was a Wednesday – that the entire household would not prove to be out at the market. He was in luck: Mrs Compton, the farmer's wife, was at home, making good use of the absence at market of her husband and their sons to prepare, cook and/or freeze a week's supply of food in peace. She was  impressed by Richard's good manners, good looks and ready smile, so she served him a large tumblerful of a cool drink: “my own elder-flower champagne”. When Mrs Compton learned that Richard was in the army, she approved still more; one of her five sons had recently signed on with the county infantry regiment. That was one big mouth less for her to feed! 

Mrs Compton then asked his name and Richard handed over his visiting card, of which he usually kept a few in his wallet. She raised her eyebrows: 

“Bless me... You're dark but you don't seem much like a Pikey!”

Richard was mystified: “What's a Pikey?”

“It means a Gypsy. Finch is a Pikey name round here.”

“Well, I'm not a Pikey. And I'm not really a Finch; Finch is the name of my adoptive parents, who aren't Pikeys either! I believe that my father's family, the Finches, came originally from Boston, Lincolnshire. My real father was – is – Southern French. I'm a bastard, you see, so I was adopted.” 

“Goodness me! No offence taken, I hope?” asked Mrs Compton, topping-up Richard's glass of elder-flower champagne. “Boston's not so far from here, but if your father was French that would explain your looks!”

“No offence! And, yes, I do look very like my natural father.”  

Which was undoubtedly true: Richard and his father, Thierry, were both handsome, dark-haired men. There was less than twenty years between their ages, so they were occasionally mistaken for each other.  

Mrs Compton let Richard use the telephone. The nearest AA office turned out to be in King's Lynn, which was not close. When Richard got through to them, they appreciated his precise directions, with the OS map reference, and his brief description of what he thought might be wrong with the car. Few other motorists were that efficient. They estimated that an AA patrol-man could be with Richard in about an hour.  

It was a very hot day. The elder-flower champagne was refreshing and tasted excellent, like superior lemonade. Richard, who was thirsty, had unwisely knocked it back quickly. It soon became clear to him that, unlike lemonade, it was very potent and alcoholic. He must avoid drinking a further glass of it, which Mrs Compton was urging on him. He needed to sober up fast, if he were to drive again that day. Making the excuse that his car was valuable and that he dared not leave it for long, Richard walked back to it more slowly than he had come; but not before Mrs Compton had pressed on him some bread, cheese, a slice of fruit cake and an apple to make a picnic while he waited for the AA man. On the way Richard decided to investigate the wood that he had noticed earlier. It looked cool, shady and ideal for a picnic. As he approached it, a heron flew away over the treetops with slow wing-beats. A heron usually means open water.  Depending upon how much water there was, there might be time for a quick swim, or at least to “freshen up”. He turned aside into the trees. 

The wood was a game covert, which was why it had been allowed to survive in such an intensively-farmed landscape. As he walked through the trees, Richard trod on some of last year's spent shotgun cartridges, half-buried in leaf-mould. He disturbed several  pheasants, which squawked angrily. The water, whose existence he had deduced, turned out to be an artificial lake, surrounded by trees and created by damming a stream that ran through the covert. Numerous immature mallard ducks swam or scurried away out of sight. Poor ducks! Just you wait till the autumn! Once, the lake had served a more ornamental purpose. On the overgrown bank Richard noticed some elegant stone benches and the statue of a naked Greek or Roman god. I wouldn't mind nicking that, thought Richard, as he absent-mindedly caressed the statue's bronze genitals. The metal was warm to his touch; almost like smooth, living flesh. There was also a boat-house with a jetty, to which Richard now made his way.  No-one was around: nor, apart from the gamekeeper, were they likely to be, until October. Richard sat down on the jetty and wolfed his picnic lunch. He then stood up, stripped naked and enjoyed feeling the warm breeze on his skin. He looked as good as the statue. He grinned and gave it a v-sign. The Greek god continued to look inscrutable.

Richard stared into the clear, greenish depths. The lake had been stocked with rainbow trout, which were rising to the fly. He lowered himself in, feeling the weeds tickling his skin. The water was refreshingly cold. Richard swam around, surface-dived a couple of times and soon felt a lot brighter. He clambered out, sat on the jetty, lit a cigarette and thought about what he might do the following day, assuming that he could get his car fixed. A distant shout disturbed his reverie: 

“Hullo! Mr Finch!! Hullooo!!”

Damn! The AA man must have got here already. 

Richard shouted “Coming!!” at parade-ground volume and forgetting about drying himself, he quickly pulled on his T-shirt, jeans – he was going commando on such a warm day – and finally his trainers, over his wet skin and began to run towards his car. In the process he soon got dry. This time he did not follow the farm drive but took a short cut across a meadow, vaulted the fence and jumped down the bank towards the car. An AA van was now parked beside it. The patrol-man was  waiting for him. In those days AA patrol-men wore a smart military-style uniform and beret. The AA man saluted Richard smartly. The name-tag on his tunic read “Trevor Goodwin”.  

“You got here quickly,” said Trevor, with a grin. “But it's a damn' hot day. There was no need to have run!”

Richard smiled and shrugged. He said, “I don't like keeping people waiting. And, despite my run, I'm not sweaty!”    

Trevor was pleasant-looking; smart and neat. In those days few young male civilians wore a short-back-and-sides and Trevor did not, but his hair, which was barley-blond and very curly, was cropped short all over, with minimal sideburns and a neat square-cut at the back of the neck. What Richard could see of his physique suggested that Trevor kept himself fit; he probably played squash or soccer in his spare time. A good, strong jaw completed this masculine look. He has no facial hair, thank heaven. As noted earlier, Richard disliked facial hair, especially fashionable Zapata moustaches. The only odd  feature was Trevor's mouth. It was broad and smiley but it was  also sensuous, with full, pink lips. On a woman it would have looked very sexy, like Bardot. On a man it was positively erotic, causing a premonitory stir inside Richard's trousers. By rights such a man ought to be a shameless sensualist; he looked the part.  

Although his manner was polite and professional, Trevor's blue eyes, when they met Richard's, were twinkly and mischievous, which seemed promising. He declined Richard's offer of help. 

“You relax and do the crossword or something. I'll sort this out; hopefully fairly quickly,” he said.

The road was deserted. Richard spread out a tartan travelling rug on the verge. He pulled off his T-shirt and prepared to sun-bathe by smearing suntan oil across his torso. This emphasised his six-pack. He wore reflective Aviator sun-glasses, from behind which he discreetly inspected Trevor. Had any of Richard's close friends been present, they would have smiled darkly and started to lay bets. 

Meanwhile Trevor was chattering enthusiastically: “This is a lovely car, it's a classic! Look at that walnut dashboard and those leather seats! Pity she hasn't been maintained! She must be well overdue for a service; for more than one, I think. And you need an oil-change. That's overdue too.” 

Richard was secretly annoyed. Bloody Toby, when he sold me this jalopy, said it had been scrupulously maintained. I had begun to suspect that it hadn't. Now I have confirmation; I'll get him for this. 

Despite Trevor's confident pronouncement, the car took longer to fix than anticipated. Firstly, it proved to require a new fan-belt; then it needed new sparking-plugs. But, even after those had been fitted, it still shuddered, juddered and would not start. 

“Nothing for it: I'll have to take a look underneath,” groaned Trevor. 

He stripped to the waist in his turn, briefly showing a suntanned torso, and donned a khaki overall. Then he disappeared under the car. Nice, muscular arms, thought Richard, as one of them emerged and groped for the tool-box. Fine golden hairs glittered on Trevor's forearm and biceps. No tattoos, thank heaven, Richard thought. Trevor was underneath the car for quite a long time. 

Finally he said “I think I've fixed it” and eased himself out into the open. He stood up. “Would you like to try and start her now?”

Richard switched on the ignition. The car purred into life. 

“Wow. Thanks! Problem solved?” 

“For the moment,” said Trevor. “When you get back to London or wherever you live, get a garage to do a thorough service, oil-change and anything else they think is needed. You might need a new carburettor. I'm afraid I'll have to charge for the new fan-belt and the spark-plugs.” 

“No problem,” said Richard. He then explained that he would not be returning to London any time soon; that he was staying in Alan's Manor House and he asked Trevor to recommend a local garage. Trevor suggested Swinton's, in the next village to Alan's. 

Trevor looked at himself ruefully. He was covered with dust from the road surface and splattered with engine oil; especially his face. “I'm a sight for sore eyes. I must get clean.” 

'I must be clean!' Just like Tom in The Water Babies, thought Richard flippantly. 

“Come for a swim with me!” suggested Richard. “There's a small lake over there. I had a dip  in it earlier. You can get most of that off you if you take a quick dip too.” 

“Good idea. Let's go!”  

Although he was local, Trevor had never suspected the lake's existence. They stripped on the jetty. Trevor's body was as fine as Richard had guessed. He was sun-tanned, apart from the pale area covered by his Speedo. They unapologetically looked at one another. Trevor asked: 

“Are you a bodybuilder or something like that?” 

“Nope; guess again!” chuckled Richard. 

“Rugby player?”

“Yep! And I do a bit of boxing too.”

Trevor was impressed. The water in the lake was still chilly. This time Richard, who knew what to expect, dived straight in. Trevor however walked along the bank to a shallow part of the lake, waded cautiously in and stood there, up to his waist in the water, splashing himself and rubbing his skin to get off the dust and oil. The chill was making him shiver. Richard mischievously swam near him, turned on his back and, churning the water to foam with energetic strokes of his legs, splashed Trevor vigorously. 

“Stop that!” shouted Trevor, although he was laughing as he said it. He tried ineffectively to splash Richard, who ducked underwater. Then he pulled Trevor under. Next moment they were wrestling thigh-deep in the shallows. They started laughing uncontrollably.  

The wrestling movements slowed down, like a film run at half the correct speed.  Their laughter died, although they did not disengage; they were still holding one another. Richard slowly and gently caressed Trevor's left flank, hip and ass-cheek. His hand slipped between the ass-cheeks; he briefly but firmly touched Trevor's fundament. Trevor looked at him inquiringly. It was now or never; Richard made a determined pass, kissing Trevor on that beautiful sexy mouth. Trevor's eyes opened wide in astonishment. He looked almost frightened. 

Now I'll either have a fight on my hands, or else he'll want to take this further!

It seemed that he wanted to take it further. 

“Back to the jetty,” murmured Richard. A few minutes later, Trevor was stretched out on it. Richard grabbed his cock, which was impressive. Even relaxed, it was big and a beautiful pink. So many cocks don't look right; the “hammer-headed shark”, for instance, has too big a head on a too-thin shaft. This one was classically proportioned, like the bronze god's cock on the other side of the lake. The wrinkles suggested that it could be dramatically extended; it seemed a good idea to test this.  Richard handled it and the testicles gently. Trevor's cock lay there, heavy and inert, for a few moments, then it flushed and started to grow. With a violent jerk it started to expand. Now it was at right-angles to Trevor's body; Richard continued to tease, stroke and squeeze it until it was a full nine inches long, and almost three inches wide in the middle of the column. A pearl of transparent pre-cum glittered at the mouth of the piss-slit. Above it, Trevor's golden pubic hair was dense, curly and tangled; a young man's thicket. A line of hair ran from his bush up to his navel. His balls were massive. They must be full of sperm. Let's find out!

Richard kissed the rosy glans and toyed with Trevor's testicles. Then he decided to kiss Trevor's mouth again. He slid along his body and did so. Trevor's eyes were closed and his breath was coming in short gasps.  Richard gently stroked  his face, his ears, the back of his neck.  He kissed, and suddenly bit, Trevor's armpit. Trevor gasped but did not open his eyes.  

“I want to rim you,” said Richard. 

Trevor did not reply but turned onto his stomach and opened his legs. Richard eased his ass-cheeks apart. Trevor squirmed as Richard's tongue penetrated him. Richard turned him over onto his back. Trevor's cock wagged gently at him, like a happy dog's tail. It was now massive and hard. Richard began to tease, lick and suck it. 

“Wow, wow! Don't stop!” Trevor was getting all excited.  Richard didn't stop, but he slowed down. His tongue teased the cock-helmet. Richard slid a finger into Trevor's man-hole as far as the first joint. He wriggled it gently. This got Trevor's juices flowing.

“Wow, wow, wow!”    

Trevor had had little or no practice at this, although he seemed eager to learn, and he soon lost control. Richard continued to play with his ass as he shot jet after jet of spunk into Richard's mouth. It tasted great. Trevor almost passed out. Richard cradled him protectively. It was important not to break physical contact too early. Finally Trevor opened his eyes and smiled weakly at Richard:

“We're a couple of bad lads and no mistake!!” But he did not look very repentant. After another swim to clean up, they parted amicably. Richard did not expect to see Trevor again, but he was wrong.  

Two nights later Richard, whose bedroom was at the back of the Manor House, with a view over the garden, was sitting reading near the half-open window. He wore only a black terry-towelling bathrobe; Richard slept naked and had no pyjamas with him. It was late but by no means dark; the summer solstice had only recently passed. The previous evening a nightingale had been singing nearby. Richard hoped to hear it again. The nightingale did not oblige, but suddenly a handful of gravel hit the window-pane. He looked out. Trevor was standing outside in the moonlight; this time in a tracksuit; he looked, and presumably intended to look, like a man out for a late run.    

“Can I come up?” he whispered hoarsely. 

“Okay, wait for me to let you in.” 

“Forget that. I'm coming now.”

Trevor took a running jump and was soon hauling himself up a drainpipe. Richard let him in at the window.  They hugged and kissed. Richard's black bathrobe fell to the ground as Trevor caressed him. His pale skin shone in the moonlight. 

“Now, let's fuck,” said Trevor.