I had joined my mate Gerry in the New Forest, and we were going to be part of an archaeology dig to unearth an ancient barrow or tumuli, as they are officially called. Rumour had it that the Celts had built it, and it was for this reason I had volunteered to help.
The weather was perfect when I arrived. Slightly hot but perfect. There were two barrows side by side, which in many respects was unusual. The site was also surrounded by trees that were the fringe of the New Forest. Needless to say, I was excited to see the site and even more excited to see Gerry after a long time separated when he was on another dig.
Professor Armitage was waiting for us at the edge of the dig site, clipboard in hand and squinting against the glare. He waved us over, his voice carrying a clipped urgency. "Right then, you're Gerry's mate? Good. We're on a tight schedule and a tighter budget." He tapped the clipboard. "You two are the only ones contracted for this phase. We need an exploratory trench dug along the eastern flank of the northern barrow, starting today, because the council's breathing down my neck about permits."
Gerry shot me a knowing look; this was typical Armitage, all pressure and no preamble.
To the lesser initiates, a Celtic barrow's architectural design consists of a large mound of earth or stones covering one or more graves. Key features include a central burial chamber, which could be made of stone or timber.
The professor's urgency was infectious, but digging trenches wasn't glamorous work. We would begin using a digger, drawing out a shallow trench. It was methodical, repetitive, and backbreaking work, but diggers made it easy in the first instance.
I would operate the digger, and Gerry would keep an eye out for anything unusual and would then signify, stop, and he would jump in the trench and then move earth inch by inch, square foot by square foot, sifting through centuries of accumulated soil, roots, and stones.
Most days would yield nothing but pottery shards the size of a thumbnail or animal bones worn smooth by time. The science lay in the layers themselves, the stratigraphy telling a silent story of occupation, abandonment, and environmental shifts.
Finding a complete artefact was like winning the lottery; the real prize was the context, the undisturbed soil whispering secrets about how people lived and died. Satisfaction came in mapping the subtle changes in soil colour, the precise angle of a stone that hinted at deliberate placement, not natural tumble. It was detective work where the clues were dirt, and patience was your magnifying glass.
The good news was the weather, and we had been given a week in which to complete the trench, with instructions to let the professor know if we had found anything exciting.
The professor was happy as I fired up the digger, and he promptly left, muttering something about a meeting with the Council. Gerry donned his hat and stood as I drew the bucket carefully along the agreed path of the trench.
The digger's engine settled into a steady growl, vibrating through the seat as I guided the bucket along the chalk-marked line. Gerry paced alongside, eyes scanning the freshly turned earth with the intensity of a hawk. Sweat beaded on his temples despite the wide-brimmed hat, and he kept adjusting his gloves, a nervous tic I remembered from our student digs. "Easy does it," he called over the engine noise, voice tight with anticipation.
It was hot, and as usual, I had worn the wrong clothes. Jeans are not recommended, and what did I decide to wear? Yep, jeans and a heavy t-shirt. Gerry, though, was dressed as the consummate archaeologist, shorts and a lightweight t-shirt and a hat.
Knowing it was just us two, I jumped off the digger and stripped down to my underwear and shoes. After all, who would care? Gerry raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. "I thought it a bit warm for denim, mate? Should've said, I would have brought spare shorts, but my van is parked a fair distance away," as he tossed me a water bottle. "Hydrate. Armitage will have my hide if you pass out before the trench is finished."
I took the water, saying, "Yep, got it wrong again, but nothing I can do now until this evening when you get your van closer."
I gulped the water down, the lukewarm liquid barely cutting through the heat radiating off the machinery. Gerry squinted at my makeshift outfit, grinning. "Those white briefs of yours won't stay white for long," he warned, gesturing at the soil clinging to my boots already. "This isn't a beach, it's ancient dirt. That stuff stains like henna."
"I get that, Gerry, but I have no choice. It's fucking hot and my briefs will be fine," as I jumped back onto the digger. "Perhaps you should follow my lead," I suggested, knowing Gerry liked seeing me in my white briefs. Over the years, seeing me like that had given him hard-ons, and sometimes, he would deal with me if privacy prevailed, but today, he didn’t seem interested much, to my dismay, and it wasn’t a privacy issue either.
Gerry laughed, "No chance. I'll stick to my shorts. Besides, I'm not as brave as you, stripping down to your underwear in a public place. Really?"
Muttering, "he's probably gone commando, again," I fired up the engine and resumed the task at hand.
With painstaking slowness, we continued, and the trench depth increased with every hour.
We stopped for lunch at 1pm, choosing to sit on the grass, eating our packed lunches while washing them down with some cans of cider, enjoying the peace of our surroundings.
Our surroundings were lovely, but the midday sun was becoming intolerably hot. Very little shade and constant exposure to the sun had taken a toll on me, hence why I had stripped down. But Gerry was sweating hugely, clearly, struggling.
"Steve, I don't suppose you've got any more of those briefs. It's fucking well hot and.....
"Knew it. I just knew," I exclaimed. You've gone commando, haven't you?"
Gerry grinned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. "Yeah, well, it's supposed to be cooler," as he shifted uncomfortably on the grass. "But all this digging is way too hot, and I'm feeling decidedly uncomfortable. I don't suppose you.... have you got a spare pair? This heat is murder."
I snorted, shaking my head as I stood. "Knew it. 100% knew it, " as I walked to my battered Volvo, rummaging in the duffel bag on the back seat. My fingers closed around a fresh pair of white briefs.
Returning, I tossed them underhand toward Gerry. "Here you go, mate. But perhaps we can have some fun before you put them on. After all, it won’t take long."
"Yeh, yeh," Gerry said, slipping his shorts off to stand there naked below the waist. I could see his groin and cock looking as good as ever, crying out for attention, although he remained semi-hard.
"You look great, Gerry," I felt compelled to mention, “but you would look even better with that in my mouth.”
"Thanks mate, but it’s too hot, if you know what I mean," as Gerry pulled my briefs on and resumed sitting next to me on the grass.
I pulled out my tobacco tin, as Gerry did, and we both rolled a cigarette. The heat made the rolling papers sticky as I licked one, fingers trembling slightly from dehydration and something else entirely. Gerry's thigh pressed against mine while we worked, the sweat making our skin cling. "Armitage will have kittens if he sees us smoking near the trench," I muttered, shaping the tobacco.
"Armitage will never know, but this guy will," Gerry said as a man was walking towards us from the woods.
The stranger was wearing a HiVi neon yellow outfit, including a jacket, trousers, and brown boots, suggesting he worked locally, maybe on the roads or a farm. I noted his face. His forehead and jawline were well pronounced, and his hair was short and grey. I could also see his facial hair, not quite a goatee, but ruggedly handsome. What attracted me most was his facial expression, relaxed and neutral, with a slight smile and calming demeanour. You might even say, my type of man.
"Who do you think he is, Gerry?" I enquired.
"I think we're about to find out. Maybe he takes exception to archaeologists wearing nothing but white cotton briefs," was Gerry's response.
I chuckled slightly while staring at him, waiting for a greeting or chastisement that we both knew would be forthcoming any moment.
The man stopped a few paces away, thumbs hooked casually into the loops of his HiVi trousers. His smile widened, revealing surprisingly white teeth against a deeply tanned face. "Hello, lads. I'm Simon, and I manage the woods around here." His voice was a low, pleasant rumble, like gravel under tractor tyres. "What brings you guys out here? Clearly digging, but digging for what?" His eyes flicked down to Gerry’s bare legs and the white briefs, then back up. There was amusement there, but no judgment as he scanned me, too.
Gerry scrambled to stand up, his cheeks flushing darker than his skin.
"Archaeology dig," I cut in smoothly, shielding Gerry's flustered state. "Professor Armitage's team. We're mapping a suspected Celtic barrow." I gestured toward the shallow trench where Gerry had been kneeling earlier. "Permission's logged with the Forestry Commission and the local council."
Simon nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the exposed dark earth at the trench edge. "Ah. The old mound near Badger's Holt. Always wondered what secrets that lump held," as he stepped closer, peering past us. "Found anything besides sweaty archaeologists?"
Gerry finally found his voice, though it cracked slightly. "Pottery shards mostly. Some flint flakes. Nothing spectacular yet."
Simon hummed thoughtfully, crouching down near the trench lip. He picked up a loose clod of earth, crumbling it between thick fingers. "Soil tells stories," he murmured, almost to himself.
"This patch... drains faster than the rest of the wood. Always thought that was odd,” as he glanced up, his calm eyes meeting mine.
"You digging deeper today?" The question hung in the humid air, simple yet loaded with an unexpected weight. Gerry nudged my boot with his bare foot, a silent question of his own. Simon’s presence felt less like an interruption and more like a shift in the dig’s axis.
"Probably another hour or so, and then we plan to pitch a tent and make a camp for the night," Gerry declared.
Simon brushed his hand over his stubble, the rasp audible in the still air. "Tell you what, lads," he offered, his low rumble carrying easily. "Why don't you make your camp in the woods close to the stone circle? A bit more shelter and softer ground." He gestured vaguely northwest, deeper into the trees.
"If you have no better offers, I would like to host a couple of brief clad guys. We can have a fire, cook a meal on it, and crack open some beers. Discuss all the legends that surround this old barrow and its Celtic heritage. Local stories passed down, some might surprise you." His calm eyes held ours, the invitation genuine, devoid of the suspicion we often faced. “I might even wear my briefs so you don’t feel different.”
Gerry’s face lit up instantly, the awkwardness evaporating. "Stone circle? Proper one? We saw the map notation but hadn't scouted it yet!" He nudged me again, harder this time. "That sounds brilliant, Simon. We've got sausages and potatoes. We might even get dressed."
I hesitated, glancing toward the trench where Professor Armitage’s meticulous grid markers lay. "Alright," I conceded, feeling a spark of illicit excitement. "The stone circle it is."
Simon nodded, satisfied. "Good man. I'll bring the beer and some venison stew I made earlier. You find the circle, you can't miss it, and the big quartz slab in the middle under the oak. See you at dusk, and mind the badger sett near the western edge and perhaps, reconsider the getting dressed bit. I sort I like the look you two are providing."
Simon's departure left a silence filled only by the drone of insects and the heavy thud of Gerry scrambling to pull his shorts back on. "Stone circle!" Gerry hissed, practically vibrating. "And stew! Let's forget Armitage’s bloody grids for one night!" as he started tossing tools into the crate with uncharacteristic haste.
“Gerry, did he say he liked the look of us in our briefs?”
“He did, Steve. Perhaps he likes men in briefs. You never know. Perhaps he likes male company or simply just being relaxed.”
I looked at Gerry, “Perhaps,” I said, thinking about the promise of firelight, shared stories, and Gerry’s infectious enthusiasm about ancient stones felt like uncovering a different kind of treasure entirely. The barrow’s secrets could wait. Tonight belonged to something older, perhaps wilder and more natural.
We found the stone circle easily, just as Simon had promised. Seven weathered granite slabs, each taller than a man, stood sentinel in a rough ring, their surfaces etched by centuries of wind and rain. In the middle was the massive quartz stone, gleaming faintly even in the late afternoon gloom beneath the canopy of the old oak tree.
I noticed that the air here felt charged, thick with the damp scent of earth and decaying leaves, a stark contrast to the sun-baked dig site as we pitched our small tent just outside the ring’s perimeter.
Simon arrived as dusk settled, wearing nothing but a fine pair of red Y-fronts with white trim, carrying a large cooler and a canvas sack slung over his shoulder. He moved with practised ease, navigating the uneven ground without stumbling. “Brought reinforcements,” he announced, setting down the cooler with a soft thud.
He pulled out a six-pack of local ale, condensation already beading on the bottles, followed by a hefty thermos. “Venison stew, kept hot.” The aroma of rich meat, herbs, and root vegetables immediately filled the clearing, making my stomach growl. He also produced a cloth-wrapped bundle: crusty bread still warm from a baker’s oven. Gerry practically bounced beside me, his earlier exhaustion forgotten.
Simon looked fabulous in his briefs as he knelt by the central quartz slab, clearing a patch of mossy earth with swift, efficient movements. He arranged dry twigs and kindling with the precision of someone who’d done this countless times. Striking a spark from a ferro rod onto char cloth, he coaxed a tiny flame to life, shielding it with cupped hands. Within minutes, a cheerful campfire crackled, its light dancing across the ancient quartz surface. Shadows leapt up the standing stones, making them seem alive.
The warmth was immediate and welcoming against the encroaching forest chill, as I remained clad in my dirty white briefs covered in oil and grease from sitting on the digger. Gerry, who was clad just like me, had kept his loan pristine white briefs, pristine, and was equally benefiting from the heat being generated by the fire as much as Simon was.
"So, Simon," I began, leaning forward slightly, the firelight playing across his rugged features. "That quartz slab... what's its story? Local legends mention it but don't suggest a use?"
My question hung between us, casual yet pointed, fuelled by Gerry's earlier teasing about the Celts.
Simon chuckled, a low rumble that echoed the crackling fire as he poured stew into tin mugs for all of us.
"Good question, Steve." His eyes, reflecting the flames, held mine without flinching. "Legends say it amplified moonlight for rituals. But..." He paused, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Locals whisper it's a fertility slab. Claimed couples desperate for a child would... dedicate themselves here under the full moon. Quite vigorously."
“You mean, having sex, Simon?” I asked.
“Yes, Steve, having sex on the slab.”
He took a slow sip of stew, gaze steady on me. "Of Course, some weren't waiting for children. Some just enjoyed shagging and sacrificing semen, if you get my gist,” as his thumb rubbed the smooth quartz edge beside him. "Hard to argue with tradition, especially considering some Celtic traditions involved homosexuality."
Gerry and I spluttered in unison, "What, gay sex?"
"Surely you academic types know that? Ancient Celtic warriors were open and accepting of homosexuality. Some historians suggest that same-sex relationships existed and were not necessarily taboo, especially within warrior groups or brotherhoods. For instance, some accounts describe male warriors who preferred relationships with other men and viewed rejection as an insult."
Simon paused to chew thoughtfully on a piece of crusty bread. "The slab here? Well, it's said that couples, any couples, would come here to... consecrate their union under moonlight. The quartz is said to amplify energy, fertility, but also passion and desire."
Gesturing again toward the gleaming stone with his bread. "Some reckon the vibrations soaked into the rock over centuries, making it... a potent place where dreams and hopes could be shared. Even now, village folks come here and shag especially during the full or new moons."
Gerry and I looked at each other. A silent conversation passed between us, half disbelief, half electric curiosity. Gerry’s eyebrow quirked upward; mine answered with a slow blink. We’d spent months digging up Celtic pottery, not pagan sex rituals. Yet Simon spoke with the calm authority of someone who’d walked these woods since childhood.
“Have you ever shagged on the slab, Simon?” Gerry asked.
Simon leaned back against the quartz slab, stretching his legs toward the flames. "Legends aren’t history textbooks," he said, swirling the stew in his mug. "But this place… It’s got a pull, and in answer to your question, Gerry, yes, I have shagged on this many times."
As I fantasised about Simon shagging on the slab, I noticed a faint, resonant vibration beneath my bare feet on the mossy ground. Gerry shifted beside me, his knee brushing mine. "Yeah," he murmured. "Feels… alive, doesn’t it?"
Simon chuckled again, softer this time. "Exactly," as he finished his stew, setting the mug down deliberately. "Perhaps you two should try it?" The suggestion landed not as a joke, but as a quiet invitation, his gaze steady on Gerry, then flicking to me. "See for yourselves what the fuss is about."
Gerry choked on his beer. "What?" His voice was half-strangled, half-intrigued.
Simon shrugged, the firelight deepening the lines around his eyes. "Why not? The place is private. The moon's bright enough, and I suspect you two have been an item for a long time. That’s what I liked about you when we met earlier today. Think of it as...practical fieldwork."
Gerry stared at the slab, then at me, his expression unreadable. "Practical Fieldwork?" Gerry finally echoed, a nervous chuckle escaping him. He ran a hand through his damp hair. "That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it, Simon?
“Might be,” he responded as he watched us, utterly calm, sipping his beer as if suggesting ritualistic sex on an ancient monument was perfectly normal fireside chat. "Steve, why don't you lie down on the slab and feel the vibe?"
“Gerry, I’ve been dying to get in your briefs today. Why not? I always enjoy practical fieldwork, as you know.”
Gerry’s gaze snapped from Simon to me, then back to the quartz, gleaming like captured moonlight under the oak. His earlier hesitation evaporated, replaced by a reckless grin that mirrored the flickering flames. "Yeh, I suppose," he breathed, the word thick with sudden decision. "But I don’t really like being watched, Steve. You know that."
“Just imagine I’m not here, Gerry, but you should know, I adore watching anyone making love on the slab. Regardless of sex. It turns me on.”
“I don’t know,” Gerry replied.
“I do,” I said as I scrambled onto the slab. “Come on, mate, do it, go on, do it. For me.”
The quartz cooled against my bare calves as I settled onto his back. The stone’s faint vibration appeared to intensify beneath me, a low thrum that seemed to resonate through my bones.
I stretched, arms wide, fingers brushing the rough granite edges. "Whoa," I murmured, my eyes drifting shut. "Feels... amazing. Like lying on a giant speaker playing bass," as my body reacted to the sexual tension embracing me.
Gerry remained seated as Simon reacted to my willingness for practical fieldwork. "That's what it's all about," he said, his voice low and steady as he stood up. “And, if Gerry does want you, I certainly do,” he stated as he positioned himself at my feet, his silhouette blocking the firelight.
Simon’s hand slid up my legs, his eyes wide with excitement. "You won't be needing these anymore,” as his calloused hands grabbed the waistband of my dirty white briefs, pulling the fabric down my legs easily.
“I’ve never had an archaeologist before. I guess a first time everything,” Simon said with a beaming smile.
Cool night air rushed over my exposed skin, raising goosebumps despite the fire's warmth. Simon tossed the briefs aside. Aiming for the moss but finding the fire instead "Feel it properly now, Steve," he instructed, his tone practical, like a craftsman assessing material. "Skin to stone."
"Gerry, Simon, I feel weird. I can't even control my body's reaction. There are feelings I’m getting that I can only describe as pure desire."
"We can see that, Steve," Simon responded as he pulled my legs towards him. “Your cock is yearning for satisfaction.”
Gerry watched, frozen beside the fire, his beer bottle forgotten in his hand as he saw Simon spread my legs. The firelight caught the silver in his stubble as he looked up at me, then turned his head slightly toward Gerry. "Desire isn't just a feeling, Gerry," Simon said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in sync with the quartz beneath me. "It's everything. The oldest energy there is. The Celts understood that, and you will very soon."
Then Simon leaned forward, his mouth closing over my erection with startling heat and wetness. I gasped, arching off the slab, the cool quartz a shocking contrast against my bare back. His tongue moved with deliberate, practised pressure, and my hips jerked involuntarily.
"Fuck," Gerry breathed out, the word ragged. He stood up and took a step closer, his eyes wide, fixed on Simon’s head bobbing slowly between my thighs. The campfire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows across the ancient stones. Gerry’s knuckles were white around his beer bottle. "Is he—?"
"Join him, Gerry," I managed to gasp out, my voice thick. Simon didn’t pause, his hand sliding up to cradle my balls, fingers firm and knowing."
Simon pulled back slowly, releasing me with a soft plop. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze locking onto Gerry’s frozen form. "Take him," he said simply, gesturing toward me with his chin. "Show him what he wants. What you want and…. I can watch."
Gerry’s beer bottle hit the moss with a dull thud. He took one staggering step, then another, his eyes never leaving me.
The firelight painted sweat-slicked lines down Gerry’s neck, catching the desperate flush spreading across his chest. He didn’t hesitate, taking my cock in his mouth to continue Simon's work.
Simon, though, with frantic urgency, slipped his Y-Fronts off to stand naked as I viewed him, breathing hard, his lean frame trembling, not from cold, but from the raw, vibrating energy humming up from the quartz slab beneath me. His erection was rigid, bobbing slightly with each ragged breath as he watched Gerry suck my cock with an energy he had never experienced before.
Simon moved behind Gerry, who was focused entirely on my cock. His head bobbed rhythmically between my thighs as Simon’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Gerry’s loaned white briefs, my briefs. With a sharp downward rip, the cotton tore cleanly from front to back. He peeled the ruined fabric away like shedding a skin and tossed the tattered remains into the heart of the fire. They flared brightly for an instant, consumed by fire, leaving us all naked as Gerry edged me closer to my climax.
Simon was now standing behind Gerry, his thick cock nestled firmly between Gerry’s sweat-slicked buttocks. His large hands slid forward, one cupping Gerry’s balls with possessive weight, the other wrapping around Gerry’s erection, pumping slowly in counterpoint to Gerry’s mouth still working me. Gerry groaned around my cock, the vibration sending sparks up my spine.
"I’m going to have such fun with you boys this evening," Simon murmured, his voice thick with promise, rough against Gerry’s ear. His hips pressed forward, grinding his shaft against Gerry’s cleft. I could see Gerry shudder, his own rhythm faltering as Simon’s grip tightened.
The pressure building low in my belly surged. My fingers scrabbled against the cool, humming quartz. "Gerry," I gasped, arching helplessly. Simon’s eyes locked onto mine over Gerry’s straining back.
"Take him all the way, Gerry," Simon commanded, his voice dropping to a guttural rumble. He squeezed Gerry’s cock firmly. "Do it. Taste him. Then," he added, his gaze burning into mine, "I’m going to fuck both of you."
Gerry’s groan was muffled, desperate. He sucked harder, deeper, his own hips jerking back against Simon’s cock. The combination, Simon’s hands manipulating Gerry, Gerry’s mouth devouring me, the relentless thrum of the ancient slab beneath my back, was too much. My climax ripped through me, a blinding wave of heat and release. I cried out Gerry’s name, hips bucking uncontrollably as Gerry swallowed convulsively, his throat working around me.
Simon watched, a satisfied predator’s grin spreading across his face as Gerry lifted his head, panting, lips glistening. Simon released Gerry’s cock and balls only to grab his hips firmly. "Good lad," Simon breathed, pulling Gerry upright against his own hard body.
He spun Gerry roughly to face him, their chests slapping together wetly. "My turn."
Simon’s hand slid down Gerry’s spine, fingers probing insistently between his cheeks. Gerry gasped, eyes wide and fixed on Simon’s face, his own arousal painfully evident. Simon leaned in, capturing Gerry’s mouth in a fierce, claiming kiss. Gerry melted into it, his hands clutching at Simon’s shoulders as Simon’s fingers pressed deeper, preparing him.
My own spent cock twitched hard against my stomach as I watched Simon claim what was mine. The quartz’s hum seemed to intensify beneath me, resonating with the raw, urgent energy crackling between the three of us, my erection continuing to respond to the vibrations from the slab even though I had cum.
Simon broke the kiss, breathing hard. "Steve, turn around and let Gerry see that hole of yours, and Gerry, get on your hands and knees over Steve," he growled, his eyes already flicking toward me. “I want you to fuck him while I fuck you.”
I scrambled onto my belly atop the humming quartz slab, its cool surface pressing against my flushed skin. Gerry moved with dazed obedience, positioning himself over me, his knees bracketing my hips, his hands planted on the stone beside my shoulders. His cock hung heavy and slick above my cheeks, swaying slightly with his trembling breaths. Simon climbed behind Gerry, kneeling between his spread thighs. I heard the distinctive snick of a plastic cap popping open.
"Lube," Simon grunted, squeezing a generous dollop onto his fingers, smearing the lubricant onto Gerry's cock. "Relax, Gerry," Simon murmured, his voice thick. "This'll feel good and help you enter Steve."
Gerry gasped sharply as Simon's slicked fingers pressed against his opening, then pushed slowly inward. Gerry's head dropped forward, his groan vibrating against my shoulder blades. Simon worked him with deliberate patience, his gaze locked on mine beneath Gerry's arched body.
"Gerry, you know what to do," Simon commanded, his voice rough. "Take Steve with that hard cock of yours."
I twisted my torso, reaching awkwardly backwards beneath Gerry's trembling stomach. My fingers brushed the hot, velvety skin of Gerry's shaft as I guided him towards my opening. He cried out, bucking against my touch, but my guiding him worked as he started to enter me.
I was in heaven as Gerry slid into me, as careful a lover as he could be. At the same time, Gerry whimpered, pushing back onto Simon's fingers and then his cock penetrated me deep as he moved forward again.
Gerry was inside me, deep and well seated, as Gerry prepared for Simon.
"Ready?" Simon asked Gerry, his voice tight as he positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against Gerry. Gerry nodded frantically, his knuckles white against the quartz. "Y-yes! Now!"
Simon pushed forward steadily, burying himself deep inside Gerry with a low groan. Gerry arched violently, crying out, his entire body tensing. His cock jerked inside me as Simon began to move, slow, powerful thrusts that rocked Gerry forward against me.
Gerry’s weight pressed me almost flat against the humming quartz slab, my face almost scraping the smooth quartz as I tried to remain on all fours. Each of Simon’s thrusts drove Gerry deeper into me, stretching me impossibly fuller.
Gerry gasped, his breath hot on my neck, his hips instinctively grinding against my ass, seeking friction as Simon stretched him.
"Fuck... Steve..." Gerry choked out, his voice thick with overwhelmed sensation. "Feels... so much..."
Simon’s rhythm was relentless, a deep, piston-like drive that shook Gerry’s frame. He gripped Gerry’s hips hard, fingers digging into flesh, using him as leverage. "That’s it," Simon growled, the sound primal. "Take it. Feel it."
The woodman’s thrusts accelerated, becoming sharper, more urgent. Gerry’s moans turned ragged, punctuated by sharp gasps as Simon hit his prostate. Gerry’s cock pulsed rhythmically inside me, responding to Simon’s assault as his cock punished my prostate.
It seemed the quartz beneath us vibrated fiercely now, a resonant thrum that seemed to amplify every gasp, every slap of skin. Gerry’s thrusts became frantic, uncontrolled. He was losing himself to the sensation, driven wild by Simon’s fucking. His hips pistoned against me, driving his cock deep with bruising force.
I cried out, “Fuck me,” overwhelmed by the invasion of Gerry filling me and Simon filling Gerry, and the stone’s maddening hum vibrating up through my bones. My own cock, trapped beneath me, throbbed free, inches above the slab, painfully hard again, dying for its own release.
Simon leaned over Gerry’s back, his sweat dripping onto my skin. "I’m going to fill you one at a time," he rasped, his thrusts turning brutal, jerking Gerry’s body violently against mine. Gerry screamed, a raw, broken sound, as he came inside me, his cock pulsing hotly. Simon roared, burying himself to the hilt, his body shuddering against Gerry as Simon's hot flood shot deep within Gerry, as Simon emptied himself.
It was all too much for me to control as my cock erupted, shooting my replenished seed onto the quartz slab as a tribute and gift for the ancient ones, who hopefully were delighted with the unfolding events.
Simon collapsed forward onto Gerry’s back, breathing harshly. Gerry slumped onto me, trembling, as I couldn't take the weight, and I collapsed onto my stomach.
What a view for any unsuspecting passerby. We lay like that for a while, until the quartz’s hum slowly faded, leaving only the crackle of the fire and our ragged breaths. Simon chuckled softly, a dark, satisfied sound. "Told you it was potent."
Simon then pulled out slowly, making Gerry whimper. Gerry slid out of me moments later, leaving me feeling achingly empty but humming with residual energy.
As Simon's feet became planted on the ground, he patted Gerry’s flank. "Now, who’s hungry for seconds?"
Gerry rolled off me, collapsing onto the moss with a groan. "Fuck me sideways," he gasped, staring up at the canopy where moonlight pierced through oak leaves. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "I think I need to recover from that. Properly. Like... medically," as his chest rose and fell rapidly, slick with sweat and Simon's release dribbling out of him.
I rolled off the humming quartz slab, my legs wobbling like a newborn foal's. Cum dribbled down my inner thigh onto the moss, warm and sticky. My cock, still half-hard, twitched feebly, a final bead of seed welling at the tip. "Beer," I rasped, voice raw. "Now. Or I might actually die."
Simon threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming through the clearing, a deep, satisfied rumble that startled an owl into flight. He stood tall, utterly unashamed, his thick cock still rigid against his thigh, glistening wetly in the firelight.
"Die?" he chuckled, grabbing three beers from the cooler. "Nah, lad. You're just getting started," as he tossed a bottle to Gerry, who fumbled it before clutching it to his chest like a lifeline, and handed another to me. The cold glass was bliss against my palm.
Simon popped the cap off his own bottle with a practised flick of his thumb. He took a long swig, foam catching in his stubble. His gaze, bright and assessing, swept over us.
"See?" He gestured with his beer toward the quartz slab, now gleaming peacefully under the moon. "Told you it had pull. Proper conduit, that stone," as he grinned, utterly at ease. "Now drink up. Venison stew's still hot, and I didn't haul that thermos all this way for you two to expire before finishing it."
Simon nudged Gerry's hip with his foot. "C'mon, professor. Fuel up. Night's young."
Gerry sniggered at that comment, Professor. “For the record, Steve and I are only PhDs. We do the donkey work while professors drink port and eat fine foods.”
I looked at Simon's arousal remaining blatantly, stubbornly present, a silent promise hanging thick and demanding. "Well said, Gerry and thank God we are only PhDs. Professors don’t get practical fieldwork like this, and I tell you guys, that's the best fucking fuck I've ever had, seriously, the best."
Gerry laughed out loud, nodding his agreement, and Simon, obviously wanting me, took another swig of beer.
How I managed it, I don’t know, but I managed to get up and threw more wood on the fire, my legs still shaky but functional. My cock, thick and flushed, bobbed stubbornly with each step, refusing to soften despite the recent intensity.
Simon watched me, his gaze tracking my movements with undisguised hunger. His own erection, long and thick, curved proudly against his thigh, glistening faintly in the firelight, a blatant denial of his claimed age and a potent confirmation of his vitality each time it twitched. Clearly, I thought, he comes here quite often.
"So big man, you think you can fuck me like a Celtic warrior, with that big hard wood of yours?" I asked as I pushed him backwards onto the moss and leaves. “I’m not finished yet, you know.”
"I think he wants you to ride him, Steve," Gerry said. “Just look at that thing. It’s almost terrifying, and it's got your name on it.”
"Too dam right I want you to ride me. They don't call me a woodman for no reason, but are you man enough to sit on this?" Simon demanded while chuckling.
“My, my, you two, you have found the vibe this evening, haven’t you?” I said, while looking at Simon’s cock demanding I sit on it and Gerry not quite rolling in laughter but close to it.
I couldn't resist. I looked at his cock standing proud and hard, dying to be ridden. My arse was still slick from Gerry's last visit, and so I straddled Simon's hips, the moss cool beneath my knees. "Prepare yourself," I growled, locking eyes with him. "I want your wood inside me."
That was it. I gripped his thick shaft, guided it to my entrance, and slid down onto him with a sharp gasp. He filled me, stretching me wider than Gerry had. Simon groaned, his hands clamping onto my thighs like iron bands. "Christ, mate," he rasped. "You're tight."
Then I moved. Not tentative, not gentle. Possessed. I rode him hard, driving myself up and down his length, my thighs burning with the effort. The quartz slab hummed faintly nearby, its energy a ghost echo in my bones. Simon bucked beneath me, matching my rhythm thrust for thrust. His calloused thumbs dug into my hips, guiding me, urging me faster. "That's it," he snarled. "Take it all."
Gerry watched, propped on one elbow, his own spent cock twitching with renewed interest. "Fuck, Steve," he breathed, mesmerised. "Look at you go,” as sweat dripped down my temples, stinging my eyes. Simon’s gaze never left mine, fierce and approving. "Ride me like you mean it," he commanded, his voice rough. "Show me what you've got."
I did. Leaning back, I braced my hands on Simon’s knees, arching so he drove deeper. The angle shifted, and Simon’s cockhead scraped over my prostate. Pleasure, sharp and electric, jolted through me. "Yes!" I cried out, my rhythm faltering for a second before I found it again, harder, faster. Simon grinned, a feral flash of teeth. "Found the spot, did you?"
“Oh God,” I responded as he thrust upwards sharply, hitting it again. I gasped, shuddering. Below me, Simon’s breathing grew ragged. "Close," he warned, his hips pistoning. "Gonna fill you deep even if you don’t want it."
Gerry scrambled closer, kneeling beside us. His hand wrapped around my cock, slick with sweat and pre-come. "Come on, Steve," he urged, pumping me in time with Simon’s thrusts. "Let go." The double sensation of Simon pounding up into me and Gerry’s hand working me was overwhelming. My climax tore through me with brutal force. I shouted, back arching, as my release pulsed hotly over Gerry’s fist and Simon’s stomach.
Simon roared beneath me, his hips slamming up one last time as he buried himself to the hilt. I felt the hot flood of his release deep inside me, pulsing in time with the aftershocks of my own. I collapsed forward onto Simon’s sweat-slicked chest, panting. His arms came around me, holding me tight against him. "Bloody hell," he rumbled, chest heaving. "You ride like a.....demon."
Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself up. Simon groaned softly as I lifted off him, his spent cock slipping free with a slick pop. He lay sprawled on the moss, utterly drained, a satisfied grin plastered across his face.
Gerry was still kneeling beside us, his hand moving slowly over his own cock. His eyes were locked on mine, dark with exhaustion and lingering heat. "Come on, Gerry," I murmured, my voice hoarse.
He nodded, biting his lip, his strokes quickening. Moments later, he gasped, his body tensing as thick ropes of his release spattered onto Simon’s hip and my chest.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and our ragged breathing. We sat up, shifting stiffly, sticky skin cooling in the night air. Simon passed around the beers again, the cold liquid a blessed relief. For several minutes, no one spoke. We just stared into the flames, processing the sheer intensity of the last couple of hours.
Simon cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. "Great evening, guys," he said, his voice rough but warm. He stretched, muscles rippling in the firelight. "Proper bit of fieldwork," as he took a long pull of his beer. "Perhaps we can do this tomorrow if you have no better plans, and perhaps I can bring a friend... but sadly, I've got to head off. Early start tomorrow."
Gerry nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah... of course," sounding dazed and tired.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I replied, thinking about another cock to devour inside me.
Simon stood, groaning slightly as he stretched his back. He picked up his Y-Fronts, tossing them carelessly into his pack. "Right then," he said, slinging the pack over one broad shoulder. He gave us both a final, appraising look, his gaze lingering on me for a heartbeat longer. "Don't stay up too late analysing the data," and with a final nod and a grin that promised future encounters, he turned, naked and natural, and melted into the trees, his footsteps fading quickly on the forest floor.
Gerry and I looked at each other across the dying fire. The clearing felt suddenly vast, empty without Simon's commanding presence. The moss where he'd lain was still damp. Gerry picked up his discarded beer bottle, took a shaky sip. "So," he said finally, his voice small in the quiet. "Armitage is going to kill us if we're knackered tomorrow."
“Yep, I know, but we can get up early, after all, he's not here and he will never know," I responded. "Let's hit the sack and......"I'm pleased I brought spare underwear because you and I need them."
“Why?” Gerry asked.
“I think they both ended up in the fire,” I declared. Gerry laughed, looking at the fire. I chuckled in response, and, standing up naked, I looked at Gerry. “Fancy a nightcap?”
Gerry looked at me. “Thought you would never ask. Your place or mine?
Looking at the tent, I thought for a moment. “Our place. Let’s go.”
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