by Josan
Somehow, his hand slipped to the rein that he had never thought of grabbing
and he quickly wrapped it around his hand. Not that it was really going to
save him—nothing was—but the ride would surely last longer now.
He pressed his body closer to the galloping horse, knew enough to keep his
head low and let the animal continue on its hazardous plough through the
forest path.
Now and then the branches of the trees that formed the ceiling to the path
protested their coming through and dumped their load of snow over them. That
was why he had nearly fallen off. Even the horse had staggered at the sudden
weight that had dropped on both of them.
He managed to raise his head and look over his shoulder. The Tsar's cavalry
was in close pursuit. Even had he been any kind of rider, he would not have
been able to outride them. They hadn't yet caught him because he had seized
the General's steed; he had taken them by surprise and the horse was fresh,
in need of a run.
But they would.
And he would pay the penalty.
He turned to rest his face against the muscular neck and found a sense of
peace in the sweaty heat next to his cheek.
The path had been sculpted through the forest for walkers, not riders.
Russian serfs did not ride and the path had been worn so that only the low
branches had been cleared. The horse was beginning to slow, not liking his
encounters with the bristly pine.
An angry shout made the horse slow even more. Another brought him suddenly
to a stop and the rider found himself falling off, hitting the ground, the
rein still wrapped around his wrist.
The soldiers wasted no time. He was slapped, hit as they pulled his arms
behind him and bound them tightly, not the slightest concerned for the torn
and bleeding wrist, or for any other injury he might have gotten in the fall.
He was dragged, still stunned from the fall and the blows, to another of
those big horses—this one not as fine as the black dynamo he had stolen— and tossed face down onto the rump of the animal. A few minutes more and the
troop turned to make their way back to the manor where the General stood
waiting for the return of his favourite stallion.
The rider did not have to worry about falling this time: his feet were tied
to one of the soldier's stirrups, the rope around his neck to the other.
The General was not pleased.
He had followed his orders and come to see if the rumours about possible
treasonous activities in the area were true. The local landowner, a man whom
he found personally repulsive, with his smarmy welcome, his offer to the
General of whichever of his serfs caught his fancy as bedwarmer, his
ubiquitous cigarette, had reacted to the inquiry with exaggerated shock and
surprise that anyone in his select community would even be the slightest bit
involved in any action against his holy majesty, Tsar Nikolai, first of that
name.
The General was no fool. He knew that there was something going on in the
area, but all he and his troops had come across in their search were dead
ends. In public, he had to admit that there seemed to be no basis for his
visit. Privately, he would be reporting to his superiors that the area bore
careful watching.
And now, just as he was about to leave, some idiot boy had come out of
nowhere, jumped on his horse and taken off. This particular stallion was one
he had brought with him to add to his training. The animal had a mind of his
own and they often butted heads over who was actually in charge. If anything
had happened to the beast, he would personally skin alive the culprit.
The landowner, and therefore owner of the serf who had taken the horse, was
nervously smoking by the door. The damned boy was going to pay for this delay
in the General's leaving. And pay severely.
When the troop pulled into the yard, the General's first concern was for his
horse. There were one or two scratches on his face, from striking the
branches, but apart from that, he obviously had enjoyed his burst of freedom.
Damn, thought the General, he was going to be a handful until that released
energy was back under his control.
He turned to the culprit, now lying on the ground where he'd been thrown.
The boy was struggling to get to his feet, tied though they were. At a sign
from the General, one of the soldiers grabbed the boy by the hair and hauled
him to his feet.
The General expected the boy to cry out at the treatment, but apart from a
gasp, the boy made no sound.
The landowner hurried forward, trying hard to appease the angry officer.
"You need not concern yourself, General. He will be punished. I," and he
turned to the boy, face malevolent, "will see to it personally."
The General was more interested in examining the serf who had had the gall to
steal his horse.
Not a boy after all. A man. A young man. Probably in his early twenties.
His slimness had been deceiving. Probably, thought the General, didn't get
much to eat.
Now the General was a man renown for his intelligence, his ability to look at
dead piece of information and make it confess its sins. Two things bothered
him about this situation.
One: the landowner was just a bit too desirous in his offer to take charge
of the man.
Second: the man's skin was too pale for a serf's. True, it had taken only
one glance to conclude that somewhere in the man's past, one of his ancestors
had not been a serf. The bone structure was too fine. The nose too refined.
But this man had not seen much of the outdoor life that was the norm for a
serf.
And that chin was up too high, the eyes met his too quickly—though they
also dropped quickly enough.
"You think I should hand him back to you?" the General inquired casually.
Under his breath, yet loud enough for the General to hear, the prisoner spat,
"Pimp!"
The General reached over and forced the man's chin up. The green eyes, cat in
colour and in shape, met his. For a flash, he thought they were asking him
for something, then nothing. The eyes blanked and he saw nothing of the man
in them.
"I think not," said the General. The landowner began to protest. "No. He
may belong to you, but the horse he stole was a Military horse. That places
him in our hands. For our justice."
"What will happen to me?" The man's voice was low, his accent certainly not
that of a serf.
The General smiled at him. His men knew that smile and stiffened: the
officer was not in a good mood. "You will be brought to Headquarters, tried.
Then shot."
The man closed his eyes, swallowed. Then, to his surprise, the General heard
a soft "Thank you."
Because of the events of the morning, they were late in leaving the manor and
therefore spent the first night in a tavern that was still on the landowner's
domain. The man was roughly taken to the cellar, there to be confined. The
General had noticed that, on seeing the prisoner, the tavern keeper had
cursed and spat on the ground. For a moment, the officer had thought the man
was going to challenge the presence of the prisoner under his roof—after
all, his troops were camping in the yard—but wisely the man held his
tongue.
So, when he was being served his supper in the privacy of his room, the
General brought the conversation around to the prisoner.
"One of the Master's catamites," the tavern keeper spat. "Father Nicholai
says such creatures are the devil's spawn. That they should be burnt at the
stake to rid Earth and Heaven of their foulness."
The General raised an eyebrow at the tone of disgust. He doubted Father
Nicholai had dared preach such a sermon in the presence of the landowner.
Still, it answered some of his questions. But not the ones that were to him
the most puzzling: why would the man who had obviously no experience with
horses steal a horse in the presence of a full troop of soldiers? And then,
why thank him for a death sentence?
He finished his meal, re-read the report he was going to hand in on the local
situation, making some slight changes here and there to the language he was
using. The landowner had powerful friends in some circles and it wouldn't do
his career much good if he offended them.
It was late when he decided to pay his prisoner a visit. The presence of his
troop meant that the tavern's usual customers either had stayed away or were
sitting very quietly in a corner. Some of his men were still there when they
saw him at the door of the drinking area. He shook his head, informing them
that he didn't need them, knowing that they would probably finish what they
had in their glasses and then return to the camp. The men knew better than to
drink to excess when under his command.
It was dark in the cellar. No one had thought to leave a light for the
prisoner. The General set the candle holder he had requested from a maid
onto a lidded barrel so that its light shone on the man curled up against the
wall. His right hand was manacled high to the ring in the stone wall.
He waited to see what the man would do. He doubted that he was sleeping.
The head slowly raised and eyes squinted in the light.
"Do you have a name?"
"Whatever your honour wishes it to be," replied the man.
The General's tone sharpened. "I want to know what you are called."
"What I am called?" The man spoke almost dreamily. "Again, your honour, it
depends on who is calling me. I answer to Whore, Catamite, Bitch."
So, thought the General, he too had seen the tavern keeper's reaction.
"But once I also answered to the name Alexei."
"Alexei, why did you steal my horse?"
Alexei smiled and the General felt a small stirring within himself. There
was beauty under the bruising. "I've always wanted to ride one. I promised
myself that before I died I would ride at least once."
"Now you are going to die because you have."
The man uncurled his legs from under him, stretched them out, rested his head
on his upraised arm. "But it will be a clean death. A fast one. Not like
the one he had planned for me. And I got to ride."
The General rubbed a hand tiredly across his face. "Who had planned for you?
The landowner?"
"The landowner." Alexei gave a soft laugh of derision. "My sweet cousin."
He looked up into the face of the officer. "We share the same grandfather,
though not from the same side of the bed."
That answered some questions. "Why would he be planning your death? What
have you done to him?"
"I've gotten old."
The General's eyebrow reacted.
"Well, too old for him. He likes his bed partners to be younger. He's only
kept me around this long because it pleased him to be fucking the one he
thinks was favoured by his... our grandfather."
"Favoured in what way?" The General spied a stool and brought it over. He
sat, back straight, like a judge.
"It seems that just before his death, my cousin's mother overheard the old
master saying that it was a pity he couldn't make me his heir. Because it
was obvious that his other grandson—there are only the two of us—was
playing the kinds of games that would put the family reputation in jeopardy."
"Games?"
Alexei closed his eyes. His body ached and now that he had set his life on
the way to death, he wanted it over.
"Some of them you came to investigate. You didn't find anything, did you?
He's very good at playing that game."
The General didn't comment on that. "And the others?"
Alexei shrugged. "There are many unmarked graves in one of the back
pastures. I understand the priest has refused to bless them."
The General could guess why.
He suddenly realized that the bowls at the man's side were untouched. He'd
been given water and food, some sort of stew. The General did not believe in
starving his prisoners. He wanted them to face justice in a fairly healthy
state.
"Are you so intent on death that you refuse to eat?"
"And here I was, wondering if this was some subtle form of torture." Alexei
nodded to his left arm. "One of the reasons my cousin felt it was time to be
rid of me. He was going to sell me to the man who is responsible for the fact
that I have no use of it."
"Who is?" And the General hid his disgust at the name of the lord spoken.
He got off the stool, crouched in front of his prisoner. The man was wearing
an old grey tunic, rather worn, held closed by a couple of buttons. Holding
the man's eyes, he undid the buttons, pulled the tunic far enough off the
left shoulder to see the lines of scars that decorated the upper arm to the
elbow. "Is it like this all the way?"
"To the fingers."
The General was not a physician, but he hazarded a guess that the ligaments,
the tendons had been cut several times. He buttoned the tunic closed. He
reached for the bowl with water and held it to the man's mouth. Alexei's
gaze told him more about the man's life. He knew for a fact that Alexei had
had nothing to drink since he'd taken the horse. Almost twenty hours ago.
He had to be thirsty. "Not a game. I don't play games. Drink."
The stew had no spoon so he used his fingers to feed the man who kept
watching him all that time, warily, as if expecting some kind of trick.
The General used his handkerchief to wipe his fingers, the mouth of the man
he had fed.
"Thank you, your honour."
The General shrugged.
"I can thank you differently, if it pleases your honour. I have been
well-trained. The last officer who was sent out to investigate was quite
complimentary on my skills."
The General's stare would have frozen even the thickest of his men. Alexei
merely met it with a small smile. "You have enemies, your honour. Enemies
who know all about you to the most insignificant detail. Enemies who don't
consider it dangerous to speak in front of the catamite they have shared.
Why do you think boys were included among those who were paraded for your
choice?"
"I chose no one."
Alexei laughed. "No, you didn't. You'll be happy to know that confused
them."
"Yes, I suppose it would. I prefer sharing my bed with one who comes to it
voluntarily." He picked up the candle and started up the stairs. "I'll tell
them to leave your right hand free from now on."
In his room, as he prepared for bed, the General remembered that in the pouch
of mail given to him to bring to Headquarters for further delivery was a
letter that had been handed over just as they were finally leaving. It bore
the name of the lord who had maimed his prisoner. He sorted it out from
among the other letters, fingered the landowner's seal and, with a heated
knife carefully slipped under the seal, opened the letter.
In it, the landowner offered his abject apologies about the delay in
presenting his lordship with his new plaything. He suggested that for a few
coins the man could be bought from the prison where he would be held until
his certain execution. He, the landowner, would be more than happy to
compensate his lordship the cost and the expense. He would just remind his
lordship of the pleasure he had had with that particular plaything and that
it was a fine and strong specimen, with the stamina to last for many of those
games his Lordship so enjoyed.
It took them ten days to arrive at Headquarters. The General, apart from
instructing that the prisoner's right hand be kept free at night, paid no
attention to him. But he also ordered that the man was to ride tied to one
of the pack horses so as not to hold them back. And he did notice that when
they arrived at their final destination, the man had quickly learnt—he
assumed from watching the soldiers—how to hold himself on a horse.
The General presented his report to the proper authorities, discussed his
findings and his observations with his true superiors and went on about his
duties.
Within a couple of days, the serf Alexei was tried along with ten other
prisoners who had committed various crimes and, like them, was summarily
sentenced to death by firing squad.
The night before the order was to be carried out, a man made his way to the
cell in which the prisoners were being kept. The smell of the place was
overwhelming. The visitor kept a scented handkerchief over his lower face.
Some coins quickly changed hands and a man who had recently died in some
other part of the prison was placed into the cell as another man, gagged and
bound, was removed.
The body of the dead man was dragged out the next morning at dawn, tied to a
post and shot along with the other prisoners. There was less paper work
involved in shooting a dead man than reporting the man dead for whatever
reason before execution.
"Sit back and let the horse's rhythm dictate your seat. Hold the reins
firmly. If you let him have his head, he'll run away with you. Again."
The General, wearing his glasses now that he was on his own territory, nodded
approvingly as the rider followed his commands. He never wore the things
when he was officially on duty: it was a weakness that his enemies need not
know about. He wore them here, at his home, mostly to read. Or when he
wanted to see something clearly, without a blur. Such as the rider who was
carefully putting the big, black stallion through his paces. With a fair
amount of confidence for a new rider.
No, the General didn't intend wasting any of the rare free time he had
squinting at his lover. He made too beautiful a picture for him to place
vanity before vision.
The rider was wearing a pair of black riding pants that tightly molded his
thighs, the legs tucked into high black riding boots, so polished they
reflected the sun's rays. His emerald green shirt, cut cossack style,
darkened his eyes as he concentrated on the General's instructions. He and
the horse had butted heads often but he was bound and determined that the
horse would not win this encounter.
The General nodded approvingly as the rider controlled the spirited horse
with only his right hand. The physician who served the family had initiated
a series of exercises that he hoped would gradually give the rider some use
of his left, but it would never be strong.
"All right, now give him his head."
And, with a whoop of pleasure at the reward, man and horse took off. The
General laughed as the rider crouched over the stallion's neck and they
became one. From the high porch that girted the house, he watched with his
telescope, just to be certain that man and horse stayed together. The rider
had taken a few hard falls when he had finally graduated to this horse.
When the horse slowed, the rider directed him back to the house and the man
waiting for them. He slid off, handed the reins to a stableboy and gave the
horse a loving pat. Then he ran up the stairs to accept the tall glass of
iced lemonade.
"You're doing well for a novice rider, Alexander," said the General, watching
the man's throat work as he gulped down the drink. With a grin that
revealed the confidence and security he felt, Alexander put down the glass
and walked into his lover's arms. He smelt of sweat and horse and the
General thought it the scent of nectar.
He knew the taste of lemon mixed with the flavours of Alexander's mouth
definitely was.
"A novice rider?" challenged the man who warmed not only his bed but his
heart.
The General laughed. He used his hands to smooth the sweat-wet strands of
sable hair off the man's face to check the eyes. Eyes that spoke for the man
who often didn't have the words to express what he felt.
Like the night when, bound and gagged, he had been tossed onto the floor of a
carriage and had looked up, fully expecting to see the face of the man who
would slowly kill him. Looked up with fear, resignation and courage. Only
to find a different face looking at him with its own expectations.
That night, the man had left behind Alexei, catamite serf and horse thief, to
become Alexander, free man. And a man who had freely chosen to share the
General's life and his bed.
"A novice rider, eh." Alexander shook his head sadly. "I probably do need
more practice. Will you let me ride you tonight, Sergei? Just to improve my
seat."
"Hmmm." The General, Sergei Sergeyevich, pretended to give the request
serious consideration. Once, not that long ago, he would have seen
uneasiness creep into those cat eyes now brimming with laughter, awaiting his
answer. "I suppose that could be arranged. In the name of practice, of
course."
Alexander smiled, rubbed his cheek against his General's face like a cat
scenting its territory and throatedly purred his happiness.
Part Two—At the Beach
Sergei Sergeyevich looked around him and sighed with pleasure. Life was
good.
His enemies would be livid to know that the posting they had arranged for
him, far from the society of Moscow or St. Petersburg, was not exactly the
exile they had sought for him.
His true superiors realized that some of his activities against those who had
delusions of grandeur had now put his very life at stake. He was too
important to them to be thrown to the wolves.
They made a show of capitulating to the demands of his enemies and sent him
to ........., on the Sea of Azov. Only temporarily, they assured him: only
until they had finished rounding up those who threatened his holy majesty,
Tsar Nikolai, the first of that name.
They apologized for the location of the posting, but surely he understood
that it had to look like a real punishment.
He accepted, with grace: they congratulated him on the dignity with which he
accepted. Little knowing that it took all his training to keep his face so
carefully neutral when what he wanted to do was shout with joy.
"Where would your honour like to rest?"
The General looked around the beach and pointed to a dry section in front of
a high, partially grassed dune. Silently, the serfs expertly set up a
sun-screen, a large piece of heavy canvas on four posts they staked into the
ground, the back portion low to the sand, the front almost six feet above it.
A heavy, beautifully woven rug was laid on the ground and then several
large, gaudily coloured cushions were piled, to be used as their honours
wished for their comfort.
Lastly, two large wicker containers were set up under the screen, in the
shade but not on the rug. One of them contained ice and the run-off would go
into the ground, not on the rug which could disrupt the pleasure of the day
for their honours.
Not, thought the servant who was directing the whole thing, that these
particular honours would order the entire household beaten if something went
wrong with their plans. Though strict—the soldiers at the post were quite
in awe of the General's temper and the officers had certainly learnt to be
wary of his tongue—the servant had to admit that, on the whole, the
household had never been better treated.
Oh, the General had his "quirks". Like his insistence that his secretary be
given the bedchamber next to his, the one with the connecting doors. As if
they couldn't guess what went on behind those doors. But the food for the
household had also improved: no one had been ordered beaten by the
disappointed wife of the latest commander in disgrace. The household was
more than willing to turn a blind eye to the goings-on.
"Shall we return at sunset, your honour?"
The General nodded, dismissed the servant and the serfs with a negligent wave
of his hand, all the while watching the horizon.
He waited until he was alone to find shelter from the morning sun under the
screen.
That he was alone at the moment was his own fault.
Towards the end of his second leave, a few days before he was to return to
St. Petersburg, Alexander had asked to speak to him. Quite formally. Not as
his lover, but as a member of his household.
"Please. Is there something I could be taught to do here while you are
gone?"
The General thought and realized that apart from riding and waiting for him,
Alexander really had nothing with which to occupy his time. "Would you like
to learn to read?"
"I can already read," Alexander informed him, hesitantly. "I can write a
little as well."
And with those words, Sergei Sergeyevich realized that he had won more than
Alexander's love: he had also won his trust. The Law considered it to be
an offense, punishable by death, to teach a serf to read and write. Both for
the student and the teacher.
"Show me," he said, handing his lover the book he had on his desk. And
Alexander read, slowly at first, carefully sounding out the words he was not
familiar with, but with more and more confidence. His writing was not as
good, but before he left, Sergei Sergeyevich had instructed the retired
teacher who acted as his sometime secretary to train Alexander in his
profession.
And of course, his Alexander proved to have the intelligence, the ability to
serve as his secretary by the time of his next leave.
Not that he could take him with him to St. Petersburg. There he had his own
military secretary. Nor to the house he supposedly maintained with his wife.
Her foibles and his were kept out of that edifice. Not that he even
pretended to live there: he usually resided in the officers' quarters. He
presented himself only for important family gatherings, such as the
presentation of his elder daughter.
His lady wife had not been pleased with this new posting of his, his supposed
exile. Still it was well known that they had not lived together for many
years, so it should impose no great hardship on her social life. Moreover
her money would smooth out any bump that would have the temerity to interrupt
the flow of that life. And his elder daughter was already safely married
off, soon to make him a grandfather.
He shook his head. At 36, he did not feel old enough to be a grandfather,
still he was growing as bald as he remembered his had been.
So, since arriving at ......., Alexander had taken over the role of secretary
and done so with proficiency, dedication. And damn his bloody dedication,
thought the General: who cared if the reports went out on this mail or the
next? Nobody bothered to read the damn things anyway.
It crossed his mind, as he made himself comfortable on the cushions, if this
were how Alexander felt, waiting for him to find the time to allow his lover
into his life? It made him understand all the more Alexander's enthusiastic
response to his offer to come along with him on this posting.
"For a great General, you should be paying more attention to your
surroundings. For all you know, I could be some assassin hired to dispose of
you."
The General shaded his eyes and grinned up at the man who was watching him,
smiling. "Don't be ridiculous, Alexander. I have been exiled to the ends of
the earth. Even an assassin wouldn't bother coming all this way. Don't you
know that this post is known as a living death?"
Alexander laughed, dropped to his knees next to the General. "I can think of
another kind of death I would rather experience."
The General rejoiced that besides allowing Alexander a chance to show off his
training, this posting also seemed to have stripped off the last of his
vestiges of serfdom. In public, he was the General and Alexander his
secretary. In private, they were equals, each meeting the other on a level
field. Before Alexander had waited for him to indicate the time for
intercourse: here, Alexander often took the lead.
As he did now.
And then the General went away and Sergei was left to enjoy the way
Alexander's mouth was playing with his.
Alexander nibbled on Sergei's mouth while his hand went to the buttons at his
lover's shoulder and pulled back the flap. His mouth wetly slipped its way
down the muscular throat exposed for his attention, playfully sucked on the
protruding adam's apple before leaving a line of bite marks along the part of
the collar bone it could reach.
Sergei's hand was also carefully busy with the buttons on Alexander's tunic.
He loved this particular shirt on his lover. It was white as his was, but
the seamstress who had decorated it had a sense of humour. The heavy green
embroidery on both collar and cuffs was that of an endless line of cats, in
various poses: stretching, curled up sleeping, hissing with arched backs,
washing themselves.
They took their time, slowing ridding the other of his tunic, exposing skin
to the warm air. Alexander nuzzled one brown nipple and then the other while
Sergei's hands caressed the long back, leisurely making their way down the
line of the spine, coming up by way of the rib cage.
Alexander's mouth moved up to claim another of those devouring kisses that
left Sergei breathless and hungry. Eyes holding, he deliberately rubbed his
lower body against Sergei's, watching with one of those satisfied cat-smiles
of his as Sergei's eyes closed, as his hips pushed up against his lover's.
They were both hard. Alexander revelled in the fact that he was the one who
could make the General forget who he was; make him aware that all he was, was
the organ that rose between his legs.
And he rejoiced that this man made him feel the same way. That he had no
need to pretend to feelings, to reactions. To force his body to accept what
was being done to it. He knew too that if he asked, he would be allowed to
leave. Not that he wanted to. But the freedom to do so imbued all this with
so much more meaning.
"A...lex...an...der!" Sergei wanted more than just the rubbing of cloth
against his cock. And lost even that as Alexander raised himself off the
body he was tormenting. A hand quickly loosened his riding pants and he
returned the favour. They were both still wearing their boots so that the
most they could do was draw the other's pants down past his hips. But it was
enough.
Sergei reached between them and caught both erections in his large callused
hand. Alexander groaned loudly. He supported his weight on his good hand,
raised himself enough to pump his hips faster as that deliciously painful
friction on his highly sensitized cock sent him over the edge. His cry was
followed by a long low moan from the man under him.
They lay, arms around each other, while their hearts gradually stopped
pounding.
Sergei played lazily with the silky hair that tickled his face. Alexander
licked at the bite marks that remained on his lover's collar bone.
Sergei's hands made their way down to this lover's ass. They caressed what he
thought was one of Alexander's best features.
"HEY!" Alexander rolled off as his ass tingled from a slap.
Sergei grinned, unrepentant. "We wasted a hour of our holiday while you sent
the mail on its way."
Alexander rubbed at his sore ass. "Every day has been a holiday since we
arrived. All I did was see to it that all the letters in the village were
included in the pouch, not just those 'official' reports that we both know
will end up in some filing cabinet."
That was another reason the General knew that his lover was accepted in local
society. Mail service between the village and the outer world had been
minimal at best. No longer. Reports were to be sent on a monthly basis to
the Department of War. So what if the pouch now contained more than the
compulsory monthly report? If a soldier wished to send a letter home to his
mother, he now could. If the mayor's wife wished to write to her sister in
one of the communities the military served in, she could. She might even
receive an answer.
Sergei passed a loving hand over his lover's torso. "You're sticky."
Alexander lay back on the rug. "You're not?"
Raising his hips, Sergei reached down and pulled up his pants enough so that
he could stand. "Give me your leg." With some difficulty, he removed
Alexander's boots. Who shimmied his pants off. Who then rose to his knees,
took one of his lover's boots between his thighs and managed to rid him of
it, then the other. Sergei hurriedly stripped his pants off. Laughing,
together they ran into the still cool Azov.
The family physician had been pleased with the progress he was getting with
the exercises he had developed for Alexander's left arm. But he had been
delighted to know that they were being posted by the sea. "Swimming. As much
as possible. The best exercise for the muscles that are left."
Alexander had had no knowledge of swimming. Their first time in the water,
Sergei knew it was only the great trust and love he bore him that allowed
Alexander to follow him into the choppy waters. Sergei had repaid that trust
by never being more than an arm's length away from the man who would follow
him into Hell if he asked it of him.
As everything else he did, Alexander threw himself into learning this skill.
It was harder since he really had very little use of his left arm. He
couldn't lift and carry it overhead, or push with it. It meant that he was
often off course though he did acquire enough ability and confidence to enjoy
the activity. But he went only if Sergei were free to go with him, never
alone, never with anyone else.
They idled the day away. In and out of the water, letting the sun dry them.
Snacking their way through the wicker container of roasted chicken, fruit,
breads and cheeses. Through the one with ice-chilled lemonade, champagne.
They napped under the sun-screen, against the cushions, heads on each other's
shoulders: lazily talked about insignificant things; sometimes just kissing
because here, in the open, they could.
They were awakened in late afternoon by a snort and a wet, bristly kiss.
"What?" Sergei rubbed the drool off his face. He looked up to see the
pleased expression on what had to be one of the local farm horses. An animal
who seemed more interested in the contents of the wicker baskets now that he
had some attention.
Alexander merely grunted and went back to sleep.
Sergei propped himself up on his elbows and examined the huge stallion. He
wasn't in the first blush of youth: the grey whiskers were proof of that.
But he seemed healthy enough. "So, taking the day away from work too, are
you?"
Sergei stood up and carefully checked the temperament of the horse. Apart
from looking over his shoulder to see just what the man was up to, the horse
continued happily eating the melon rind he had found in a bowl. He allowed
the man to pick up his feet, to gently pull on his tail, to scratch under his
chin. To rub under the bridle he was wearing.
Sergei checked the sun, calculated the time.
He smiled.
"Alexander. Come on, Alexander, wake up. We have a visitor."
Alexander sleepily turned, yawned and stretched. "Visitor? What visitor?"
Sergei and his cock both responded to that stretch: they always did. "Open
your eyes and you'll see."
Alexander lazily opened his eyes part-way, checked out the massive black
beast and sat up. "Radishchev's prize stallion. He uses him for breeding."
Sergei grinned. "Of course. How could I not recognize him?"
Alexander laughed. "You're too busy trying to turn those incompetents they
send out here into a real troop." He got up, scratched the horse between the
ears.
"Alexander, let's go for a ride."
"A ride? On him?"
"Yes. A ride. On him. He's big enough to bear both our weights. Along the
beach. There's something I want to show you."
Alexander shrugged, reached for his pants.
"No. We don't need any clothes. It's not that far away."
Alexander looked at the curiously innocent expression on Sergei's face. He
looked to the horse. "No reins. How are we going to lead him?"
"Do you doubt I can control him?" Sergei allowed just the merest bit of
hurt, but pulled one of the straps that had held a basket shut and looped it
around the bridle.
Alexander shrugged. With some help from Sergei, he managed to get up on the
broad back, just over the horse's shoulders. He pulled Sergei up behind him.
"Now what?"
"Lean forward." Sergei reached around Alexander, tugged on the strap
sharply, causing the horse to raise his head, and with a couple of kicks, got
the animal moving. It took a few more minutes before he got the animal to
understand he wanted him to make his way along the wet part of the sandy
beach.
Alexander laughed at Sergei's attempts but once the horse began walking in
the path directed, Sergei nudged him. "Here, you hold the strap. You're
closer to his head."
Alexander groaned. "This had better be a short ride or we may both end up
with a pair of sore balls."
Hands now free, Sergei rubbed his lover's back. "Not too long, I think."
Slid his hands teasingly across the sensitive skin of Alexander's groin.
Bent over and caught an earlobe with his mouth, sucked on it.
"Sergei?"
"Hmmm?"
"Are we going to do what I think we're going to do?"
Sergei moved his mouth to nibble on a particularly sensitive spot just under
his lover's ear. "Any objections?"
Alexander bit his lip against the sensations his lover's mouth was arousing.
"If we fall off..."
"Ah, if we do, it will be your fault. You'll have stopped holding on.
"And try not to pull: you'll steer him off the beach. If we do fall, I for
one would prefer the sand to the rocks up there.
"Careful. Now lean forward. Onto his neck."
Alexander's cock had already climbed to attention at the tone in Sergei's
voice. His new position, the movement of the horse caused it to rub back and
forth along the animal's velvety rough skin. He groaned at the sensation.
Behind him, Sergei took a moment to appreciate the view. The forward angle
of Alexander's body had raised his hips; the width of the horse had caused
his ass cheeks to separate. Sergei's target was in full view.
He used some spit to slick the way in, causing more groans from the front.
He used the pre-cum leaking from his cock mixed with more spit to facilitate
his way into his lover's asshole. Then, he carefully pulled Alexander back,
fully staking him onto his cock. He used one hand to hold Alexander close.
"Spit." And Alexander spat onto the other hand which took loose possession
of his cock.
And then nothing. Neither man did anything. But the gait of the horse, the
fact that they were sitting joined...
Sergei waited until they were both comfortable with the rhythm before he gave
the horse the gentlest of kicks, just enough so that he picked up the pace.
Alexander bit his lip. Sergei tightened his grip on his lover. He also
tightened his grip on the horse with his thighs, not knowing that the animal
was used to being ridden by children whose legs did not reach far down the
broad back. The horse responded by once more picking up the pace.
The horse didn't often get to run along the open beach and he decided that
since his riders were not complaining—at least those didn't sound like
complaints—he would take advantage. He hurried a little faster.
The rhythm of the horse's movements caused Alexander to bounce up and down
along Sergei's cock, caused Alexander's cock to slide back and forth in
Sergei's hand.
Alexander threw his head back, unconsciously gripping the makeshift rein with
all his strength. Sergei had no idea why the horse was speeding up, had just
enough brains left to know that he had to stay on the animal.
The horse wasn't sure which command he was to follow: whether he should turn
or go faster. Their shouts of completion startled him into wondering if he
should slow down. The dead weight that fell on his neck told him it might be
a better idea to stop. Besides, there were some nice grasses there that
needed sampling.
Slowly, Sergei raised himself off Alexander, carefully wriggled back and out
of him. He slid off the grazing animal and pulled Alexander off, quickly
checking him for damage.
Alexander lay with his arm over his eyes.
Sergei joined him, propped up on an elbow, snagged a piece of grass to stroke
his lover's face.
"To think that once," sighed Alexander, "all I wanted, was the experience of
riding a horse. Today, I can truly say that I've ridden two stallions at the
same time."
Sergei Sergeyevich roared with laughed.
or a moment, he nearly lost his grip on the horse's black mane. In that
tiny passage of time, he could see himself hitting the ground streaking under
them, his body breaking under the pounding hooves.
