saddle from the stable, a shirt he had left in my room, the pot of dubbin-I rescued and secreted for my lonely reveries, but even they could not satisfy me. I walked around the house and grounds in a daze of lust. Even Lebecque became attractive to me, much as I hated him. The man was, after all... a man. Sometimes, to my utter disgust, his face replaced that of Alexander in my dreams.
I took to swimming more frequently in the loch, hoping that the icy waters would give me some relief from the tormenting devils. The stretch of beach that skirted the estate was a favourite spot since childhood: fine, white sand, little dunes of coarse grass, bands of coarsely broken shells washed up by the tide. Jellyfish could be found on the wet sand after a storm; seals occasionally
swam close to land and watched me through huge round eyes. Other than that, the only company on the beach were the seabirds that wheeled overhead, catching the last few flying ants of summer.
Lebecque had swum with me once or twice shortly after his arrival, more to ascertain that I was not making secret assignations than for any great pleasure in the exercise, I suspect. To my amusement he left his long cotton shirt on in the water; as a priest, I suppose, he felt the need to suppress the body at all times. I delighted in stripping off all my clothes and running stark naked into the shallows. Lebecque said nothing, ploughed through the water with amazing strength, ran out, stood for a moment with his wet shirt dripping around his knees, then jogged back to the house to dry and change.
But throughout August and September I had the loch to myself, and spent all my available time out there once the summerâs midges had finally dropped from the skies. I swam and sunned myself, I studied my books, I studied nature and the beauty of my homeland. It was a sad time, melancholy rather, but the sharp misery of Alexanderâs departure had passed. Time had even dulled the edge of my curiosity. He had gone, I was alone, that was all that really mattered to me. Lebecque had told me Alexander was safe; there was nothing for me to worry about but that insistent devil in my loins.
So demented was I by the end of September that I was beginning to find erotic significance in Thucydides, Caesar and Cicero. It was impossible to study for long without some mention of a soldier or a slave tripping my mind into long, lurid reveries. I tried to cool myself in the loch, to diminish the number of times I made myself come, but too often I surrendered to the moment.
One warm afternoon in the dying days of the summer I was lying on my back in the sand, my head propped on a pillow of grass, allowing the sun to dry my naked body from a recent dip,
trying to concentrate on the book in my hand but dreaming instead. My cock was half hard; these days, it was seldom any less. I stretched my legs, ground my arse into the sand and felt my cock twitch a little. I felt agreeably aroused, relaxed, happy.
A crunch of foot on gravel alerted me to the fact that there was somebody behind me. The sun was in my eyes, and so no shadows fell across me to betray anotherâs presence, but the sound was unmistakable. Surely, I thought, it must be Lebecque. I pretended I had heard nothing, turned a page of my book and carried on reading. Silence for a minute or two, then, closer this time, another faint sound. The heat of the sun, and the interesting experience of being watched, worked together to bring my cock up to full stiffness. Well, if Lebecque would spy on me... knowing that I was a healthy nineteen-year-old boy... he would have to take his chances. I turned down the page in my book and lay it beside me, stretched my arms high above my head, ran my hands down my chest and stomach, and then gripped my cock and started to stroke it. I knew how to put on a show: Alexander had loved to watch me. I put those lessons to good use now, hoping to send a shamed Lebecque racing back to the house with a
I took to swimming more frequently in the loch, hoping that the icy waters would give me some relief from the tormenting devils. The stretch of beach that skirted the estate was a favourite spot since childhood: fine, white sand, little dunes of coarse grass, bands of coarsely broken shells washed up by the tide. Jellyfish could be found on the wet sand after a storm; seals occasionally
swam close to land and watched me through huge round eyes. Other than that, the only company on the beach were the seabirds that wheeled overhead, catching the last few flying ants of summer.
Lebecque had swum with me once or twice shortly after his arrival, more to ascertain that I was not making secret assignations than for any great pleasure in the exercise, I suspect. To my amusement he left his long cotton shirt on in the water; as a priest, I suppose, he felt the need to suppress the body at all times. I delighted in stripping off all my clothes and running stark naked into the shallows. Lebecque said nothing, ploughed through the water with amazing strength, ran out, stood for a moment with his wet shirt dripping around his knees, then jogged back to the house to dry and change.
But throughout August and September I had the loch to myself, and spent all my available time out there once the summerâs midges had finally dropped from the skies. I swam and sunned myself, I studied my books, I studied nature and the beauty of my homeland. It was a sad time, melancholy rather, but the sharp misery of Alexanderâs departure had passed. Time had even dulled the edge of my curiosity. He had gone, I was alone, that was all that really mattered to me. Lebecque had told me Alexander was safe; there was nothing for me to worry about but that insistent devil in my loins.
So demented was I by the end of September that I was beginning to find erotic significance in Thucydides, Caesar and Cicero. It was impossible to study for long without some mention of a soldier or a slave tripping my mind into long, lurid reveries. I tried to cool myself in the loch, to diminish the number of times I made myself come, but too often I surrendered to the moment.
One warm afternoon in the dying days of the summer I was lying on my back in the sand, my head propped on a pillow of grass, allowing the sun to dry my naked body from a recent dip,
trying to concentrate on the book in my hand but dreaming instead. My cock was half hard; these days, it was seldom any less. I stretched my legs, ground my arse into the sand and felt my cock twitch a little. I felt agreeably aroused, relaxed, happy.
A crunch of foot on gravel alerted me to the fact that there was somebody behind me. The sun was in my eyes, and so no shadows fell across me to betray anotherâs presence, but the sound was unmistakable. Surely, I thought, it must be Lebecque. I pretended I had heard nothing, turned a page of my book and carried on reading. Silence for a minute or two, then, closer this time, another faint sound. The heat of the sun, and the interesting experience of being watched, worked together to bring my cock up to full stiffness. Well, if Lebecque would spy on me... knowing that I was a healthy nineteen-year-old boy... he would have to take his chances. I turned down the page in my book and lay it beside me, stretched my arms high above my head, ran my hands down my chest and stomach, and then gripped my cock and started to stroke it. I knew how to put on a show: Alexander had loved to watch me. I put those lessons to good use now, hoping to send a shamed Lebecque racing back to the house with a
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