Date: Wed, 14 May 2014 14:00:25 -0400
From: sharp Harper <sharper@inorbit.com>
Subject: WHEN I CAME TO THIS LAND

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WHEN I CAME TO THIS LAND

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WHEN I CAME TO THIS LAND

When I came to this land (god, tired from the war) it was dry, desiccated
and dead.

It took me some time to get started on the hard earth. I did nothing here
for months, preferring to lie naked on my sun bed, thinking of nothing,
driving away my nightmares with the penetrating force of pure sunlight. I
would gaze up at the blue sky, following birds, letting my thoughts empty
upwards. When I lay on my front the sunshine burnt between my thighs,
heating my balls, and up the sharp fold of my asscrack, toasting my moist
hole pleasantly. I masturbated into my towel.

I was naturally tanned, deep ruby brown, and, from my soldiering's
training, strong. I started to do some moderate exercises in the morning
and, as the mood took me, a little during the day. It was enough to
gradually build my muscles back up following my long hospital stay. I
started to dig and lift. I wanted to be fit. I wanted to feel good again,
like a soldier. Alive. Soldiering is more about physical fitness than
anything. Fitness and discipline. As I made progress, progress came easier
- I was pleased with myself. I faced the mirror and posed. My handsome
strong body looked cool. Lying in the sun I could make my muscles tighten
and relax, each in turn, giving me the feeling that, after all, I hadn't
lost it. I looked good. My chest and arms started to expand back to their
previous size. My stomach flattened and became sharp. I started to run the
hills around the house: Soon my legs were a detailed map of sinews and
meat. I could feel the tense swelling of my buttocks. This was good, this
training.

I missed the companionship of other men. During the war we had been a
tight-knit band, always looking out for each other, always joking. The mess
tent, where we would hang out to relax, was like a home to me. It was like
my real home. Now I drifted about like Robinson Crusoe. I wanted the
companionship of men, but I was all alone. I occupied myself with my
training, working the land, laying in the sun, and wanking.

I kept my eye on the surrounding houses, but they were empty. The nearest
house, nearly overlooking mine, was tall with a large balcony on the top
floor. It symbolised for me my isolation and privacy, my safety and
aloofness, all the comfort and loneliness of my ageless recuperation.

Across the lake I saw activity in the distant village, too distant to
affect me. I had a boat. I might go there and enter their tavern. But, much
as I craved the company of others, I feared not fitting in. My proud and
active soldier's body would set me apart from most. Either intimidated or
attracted, they would make me feel unpleasantly peculiar in a crowd of the
ordinary. My mind was still full of violence and combat. They would want to
talk about interests I had not experienced. The idea of these other men
coming on to me repelled me. They would be soft, effeminate and lewd. My
mates were tough, dependable and up for anything. Me and my mates in the
war had fought harder and fucked harder still. Our cocks were as stiff as
our rifles. We meant what we said, and we meant what we did too. I was sick
of other people. I wanted my men back again. I wanted to be surrounded by
their smell like in the old days when we killed together and got killed
together and got fucked together and fucked together. That was what I
wanted. I cried with my cock in my hand as I dreamed of them holding me and
holding me up, supporting me manfully and manfully supported by me, arm in
arm and side by side, killing and cutting, eating and loving, strong in the
iron hug of discipline and fortitude.

Well, that was all over now. That was in the past. I was invalided out and
no hours of physical exercise could get me back to the life I yearned
towards. I had blown it. Where were my mates? Mostly dead. The rest were
like me, forgotten. They had given everything they had in them. Now they
were empty and masks of their former glory. Their inexpressible memoirs the
last trace of the wake of our departed histories.

Suddenly I awoke. I had been dreaming. As I entered that same imagined
distant drink house I immediately noticed and was welcomed by the grinning
faces of my lost comrades. They advanced towards me and hugging me dragged
me in, roaring with delight, cheering their dear lover, saluting our shared
bravery, toasting our live heroics. We kissed and screwed and set our
bayonets to slaughter. The smoke from our fires drifted out across the
water signalling our mastery of everything we could touch with our
voices. And that was the war we fought. And that was the fire I had
lost. And then I woke and it melted away. And that was the memory I tried
to grasp as it fled from my grip, the thread of my complete happiness that
could never be replaced.

I stood from my bed and stretched, filling my chest with night air,
touching the roof beams with my finger tips. I stepped through the dark
shapes to my window. There on the opposite bank lights flickered orange and
white. They would be carousing and fondling in a place apart, my mates,
now. They would be screwing in a place I had not the key. They had gone
ahead apart and left me. That tavern on the opposite bank was filled with
idiots.

I turned to return to my bed. The fields around were illuminated by
moonlight but the window above the bed was in shadow. That was the great
house behind. The one with the balcony. I stood looking at it large and
black against the clear moonlit sky...

... was that movement?

On the balcony a form barely outlined in the white reflected glow of the
midnight terrain stood either facing or with its back to me. Man or woman
or ghost I could not tell. It swayed gently to left and to right like a
guardsman balancing. As my stare continued I could make out white hair and
a beard, a paunch like Jupiter and stout arms holding the balcony rail. It
was indeed a man. I watched him for some time assured in the darkness that
he could not see me. He seemed to be regarding the landscape like a
surveyor his kingdom, or a naval watchman holding out for the return of his
fleet. He could not see me, but did he not know I was there? Could I be
sure that he was not at this moment looking directly at me, directly into
my eyes, directly into my soul? And how long had he been there, holed up in
that house unseen, watching my nude calisthenics and sweaty agriculture?
Had he spied on me as I lay in the sunshine wanking myself off? Had he seen
my tears, my despair at the life that had gone and the trials of the life I
now encountered? Had he pitied my suffering? Was he embarrassed for me, or
envying my beauty, or display? I hugged my balls in my fist. My cock was
full and pleasant. I wanted to jerk off. Could he see me?

When I looked up again, panting, a thick puddle of cum in my palm, the
figure was gone. I lay me down and fell into a deep and refreshing sleep. I
woke full of energy, exercised and went to the field determined to address
a longstanding problem of irrigation. There was a channel to be dug and
others to clear. I sweated all morning in naked labour, the sun branding my
skin. I lifted rocks. I cut trees. I scythed tall grasses and gathered dead
vegetation and built a fire mound which I lit. The smoke rose in a wide
white cloud high into the pristine air. It would be seen for miles!

Now the waters flowed easily and for the first time I could imagine my work
rewarding me with prosperity. Bleeding with sweat and layered with earth
and fire-smuts, I raised my arms in triumph, rotating on my heels, the
majesty of my labours around me, the smoke tower attesting to my
achievement. I swooned at its height and looked towards its peak where
hawks competed with it for space and then glanced at the house nearby with
its balcony so much higher than my house and there he was, again, the white
haired man, leaning forward and saluting me!

I faced him in my nakedness and waved both hands above my head.

"Young man," he called, his broad bearded smile clearly visible to me, and
the mature chest and stomach through the balustrade upon which he leaned
with strong hairy arms. I waved again.

"You may come up here!" He called.

I showed him that I would.

"But I must wash first," I shouted.

I doused my body from the stream I had built. My skin was steaming. I was
joyous at having human contact at long last. For as long as it took me to
cleanse myself the man, I noted, watched from his perch. It turned me on to
be admired and I posed my body to its best advantage, grinning at my self
and grinning at him and grinning at the moment and at the joy of the water
flushing my burned hot skin.

When I was done I ran still wet and still naked, and still erect, or semi,
over my field to the gateway to his land. It opened onto a verdant
flourishing garden. How had I never seen it? How had I never seen its
gardener? A path led to his entrance and I pushed the door. It opened and I
was in a cool hall with a curling carved stair of white polished marble,
leading to the roof. I bounced up the cool steps in double time and arrived
shortly at the door to the attic room from where the man had spied me.

There he was, a masculine figure of age and strength. About my height. He
stood nude in the doorway, outlined in sunlight, and spread his arms out.

"Look at you," he said. "Aren't you beautiful!"

I laughed.

"You know it!" I said.

"Oh, I do. Come here," he said, his thick penis bobbing in front of
him. Mine too. He held out his large arms and I stepped into his embrace,
our cocktips joining like kissing birds.

"You are happy to find yourself once more in the arms of a man," he said,
kissing me. I was so happy, indeed, that I gave him my whole tongue,
searching out the sweet tastes of his mouth. His hands stroked my skin
appreciatively.

"All those hours of painful work have made a man of you," he said when we
released our mouths. "You were pale and thin when you first arrived! Now
look at you. A man strong and beautiful. Ripe and clear honey skin. Firm
and broad. Lithe, able, unjaundiced. Don't blush, don't look down. Look at
me."

My eyes were filled with tears.

"Torment has aged me," I said.

"That's as may be. But turmoil is the wellspring of youth.And what is
this?" He flicked my stiff penis. "Full of life, aren't you?"

I laughed with embarrassment, staring at his.

"What do you think of me? I'm an old man aren't I?"

"Not so much older."

"You guess?"

"What is your name?"

"My name is Peter. And yours is... Janusz."

"Janusz is not my name," I protested.

"A new name for a new thing," he said, seriously. He took my hand and led
me through a room with a big bed, out to the balcony. We surveyed my land
and the lake and the village beyond. As we stood there he fondled my
backside. He stood behind me and pressed his stomach against me and his
erection between my legs gently against my asshole.

"This makes me very happy," he said. "Men are made for pleasure, not to
live their lives in pain and unhappiness."

His beard tickled my neck. I listened to his voice, and the birds
chirping. Far below, the water in the channels I had dug and cleared
twinkled through the vegetation. He held me against the balustrade, one arm
to either side and rubbed himself against me. His breathing was slightly
laboured.

After a while he released me and went back into the room. He sat on the
bed, his cock standing up.

"There's lemonade," he said, indicating a jug on a table. "Pour some,
please."

I did so and handed the glass to him.

"Take a sip. You must be thirsty."

"I am," I said and took a sip.

"Seat yourself," he said, "here, on the floor in front of me so I can look
at you. No, keep the drink."

I did as I was told, sipping at the lemonade. I knelt on the ground. This
was my natural place: the ground, the battleground, the earth.

He spread his legs apart and I was amazed by the size and strength of his
purple cock.

"Would you like to come closer to it? Would you like to kiss it?" He said.

I went on all fours and advanced closer to him. I kissed the tip and looked
up at him, my lips poised above it. He nodded. I opened my mouth and
lowered it onto him. He pushed it up slightly into me and I was soon
serving him energetically, plunging forward to drive him onto the back of
my neck, pulling back with my lips and tongue caressing the shaft and the
head as it just departed before pushing back down again. He raised one hand
and held it just over my hair so that he touched it each time I came back,
gradually gradually letting me come back less and less and drive down
further until I was simply rubbing his glans quickly inside my throat. I
was breathing as best I could through my nose.

"Do not touch yourself, please," he instructed. "Best to keep your hands
behind your back, or, yes, hold onto the shaft, and my ball-sack. That's
right. That's good. Well done."

His grey pubes in my eyes, I tried not to let my excitement mount too
much. I could feel his scrotum tighten in my hand and his cock as it grew
bigger and harder. I was pounding my face on him when I felt the hot spurt
of release and his cum pumped into me, long hot spurts that I swallowed had
him cry for joy. As he leaked his final jism over my chin he patted me on
my head and lay back on the bed.

"Lie next to me," he said with a sigh.

I crawled up into the crook of his armpit, my head on his chest and my
solid quivering knob pressed up against him.

"You are hard boy. That's good. Stay hard."

We lay like this for some time though my desire to ejaculate was so
powerful and I wasn't used, of late, to delaying.

"So, tell me how you come to be here... Where are you from?"

His hand tickled my ear.

"I came from here," I said. I mean, before the war... my family... I went
away to fight. When I returned... everyone has gone."

"I am here."

"I don't remember you from before."

"I was always here."

"In this house?"

"Always here."

"I don't remember you."

"You went to fight? You were a Partisan?"

"I was."

"They committed many an atrocity."

"There was a war on."

"Is that an excuse?"

"Isn't it?"

Peter sighed and kissed my forehead. He did not say another word for some
time. When he did it was to ask if I would like to see the house. I wanted
sex more than anything else but Peter ignored me.

"I'd like you to see the house, " he said. "I have a suggestion to make."

We walked first to another room on the same floor, with another balcony
exactly similar but facing the opposite way, away from my house and up
towards the mountain. Below us there was another garden, fabulously
lush. Peter had his hand around my waist.

"How do you manage all this?" I enquired.

"I don't. I had a gardener but he left me a short while ago. This will all
go to ruin, unless..."

"Unless?"

"You are a gardener, are you not?"

===

And that is how I became a gardener.

Managing Peter's garden and my own land was not difficult, but he also
needed me to cook and clean. He had no staff. They had all fled following
the end of the war, fearing reprisals.

Peter had once sat on the balcony looking towards the mountain. That's why
I had never seen him, apparently. Now he often sat watching me at work in
the field or the garden. It's like I was his servant, serf or slave. I
never dressed, and, though I had little time for my exercises I grew
stronger and more strong working the land, running up and down stairs,
lifting supplies, doing the many physical things Peter demanded of me. As I
darted past the many mirrors in Peter's house I noted with satisfaction
that I was becoming a better and better example of manhood every day. My
muscles filled, my skin grew dark, I felt alert, vital, optimistic and good
humoured. Previous to Peter taking control of me, that had all but
completely gone. I had entered a new life driven by Peter's whims and
needs, simultaneously fulfilling my needs as his servant.

I slept easily and deeply by Peter's side, his arm around my neck and my
hand on his junk, squeezing it gently as it filled and relaxed during the
night. In the morning I would suck off his morning hardon and he would
empty his bladder into me. In the evening he would lay me on my chest, lick
my balls, play with my anus and fuck me against the bed like a dog. At
lunchtime I would come up to his room with food, watch him eat, and then
rest with him in his bed, wanking our twin cocks together, eating the
products for my meal. And in addition during the day, even if there was
much to do, Peter would insist I make the time to service him if he wanted
it. His demanding appetites ordered my day like the seasons call up each
their various activities throughout the given year. Thus ordered, my life
took on the tranquility of a ticking clock in the slow afternoon.

When I kissed him it was with the obedient gratitude of a domestic
pet. Peter has taken control of my life effortlessly, like it had always
been so and would always be. And sometimes I wanted him to fuck me so much
that when he called I would drop my work instantaneously and race up the
white polished marble stairs to his room and jump astride him and beg him
to let me sit on it and drive it deeply in. I had to leave my work and run
to him and get it inside. I wanted it so much. All the time. I wanted so
much to have his cock pumping me with his cum. And when I left at his
orders to return to work, his juices were running out of my anus and down
my legs and leaving splashes on the white polished marble.

===

I'm this way some months passed. It was the longest, hottest, most
contented summer of my life, but the winter in these parts starts
early. When the cold air floods over the mountaintop it drowns the valley
in damp distemper til spring breaks like dawn in a rush of brilliant warmth
from the ocean; like a corpse suddenly reviving, an intake of breath, a
choking moment and then the eyes alert and the sitting up and the demands
to be fed, the year commences and the hard work once more begins.

We lasted the cold months on stockpiled supplies. We crept round the ground
floor kitchen wrapped in rugs, trudging in boots. There was nothing to
do. We sat together in front of a well fuelled fire, me crouching at
Peter's feet. I told him boastful tales of my manly exploits and partisan
heroics during the war. Peter listened intently. When he got bored he would
say, "Lick my balls, Janusz", and I would lick his balls with the war
forgotten.

But with the relief of spring came trouble.

I was kneeling in front of Peter, his large legs encircling me, my throat
fully occupied with his prong and my ears stroking his thighs. Peter was
gently pushing the back of my head so that as I pulled back I would be
halted just before I could catch my breath, and as I went down I was forced
just that little bit past my gagging point, so that as he pushed me he
could feel himself pushing against the soft wall at the back of my throat.

With my head thus down and his pubic hair filling my face there was a sound
outside in the road, the roar of a vehicle as it screeched to brake. Peter
kept his hand on my head, pressing and holding me down while we
listened. Boots hit the earth and marched to the door. The front door
wasn't locked. It opened and hit against the wall. Boots marched in and ran
about. They ran to the next floor and explored. Peter slowly let my head
come up and withdrew himself from my lips. I fell back on the floor, my
erect prick aching in my thighs, my lips running with his juices.

"Take a look, see who it is," he ordered. I stood up and ran to the
balcony. There was a military vehicle below with several men around,
shirtless, smoking, spitting and scratching themselves.

I ran to the stairs. Here was the figure of a young man running up towards
us. He was looking up and saw me.

"Hey!" He shouted.

I ran back to Peter.

"Partisans!" I said. "Many men."

"You must hide," said Peter, pulling a gown over himself.

"They have already seen me!"

"Hide in any case!"

"Where?"

But at that point the young man appeared and stopped in the doorway, his
bare bronze chest glistening with sweat and heaving slightly from the
stairs.

He shouted out, "Hey!!" and, "Duncan! Two up here!"

A voice from below called out, "Hold them!"

Peter stepped forward and the young man held up a hand.

"Wait!!" he ordered.

Peter looked at me and the young man followed his gaze. I was naked. The
young man swallowed. And then he grinned.

"Duncan, come quick!"

"I'll get a towel," I said.

"No need," the young man said. "You'll do."

"Come here," said Peter pointing to the ground beside him at his feet.

I threw myself down and knelt next to him. Just then the sound of boots
running up the staircase, echoing the hall, many men. The young one stepped
aside and they rushed in. Four men in Partisan gear, holding guns, all
looking much the same, all looking much the same as me, rushed in and
halted before us. One spoke up, the leader.

"So here you are, Marek. We've found you."

It was Duncan.

"Duncan," I said.

"Marek. We have have come to get you. Who's this?"

Peter took a step forward holding his gown together with one hand placed
over his groin, and he said, "My name is Peter, and this is my property."
With that he placed his other hand on my head, now bowed.

"Duncan," I said. "I belong to Peter now. "

Quite rightly, Duncan ignored what I had just said. He stepped forward,
holding out a hand to the man standing behind him. The man handed Duncan a
collar and lead. Duncan put the collar around my throat, pushing Peter's
hand away, and then tugged me forward so that I lost my balance and my head
fell forward colliding with his lap. My face hit his fly, the firm ridge of
cock beneath, and I nuzzled against him. I could smell the ripe stink of
piss and sweat in his trousers.

Duncan put a hand on the back of my neck and pushed my face hard into his
crotch, gently but firmly enveloping me in him.

"That's the end of the argument," he said. "Joseph," he said, and he handed
my lead to the young man who had first entered the room, "take him down and
wait for us there.

Joseph took the lead and Duncan released my head. Joseph gave the lead a
quick tug. I hesitated.

"Let's go," said Joseph quietly.

I stood, and without looking round I left the room. Joseph followed me,
holding my lead. I descended the stairs, with Joseph following me. When I
got to the bottom, I left the building, with Joseph, and climbed into the
back of the vehicle. Joseph did not enter, leant on the side still holding
my lead loosely, watching the building. I felt numb. My knob was rock hard.

After some minutes there was a strange noise, like a thump, coming from
outside the building, above our heads. Joseph looked up and did not smile.

A few minutes later Duncan came down and jumped in the back with me. Two of
his men got in the front and the rest of them piled into the back with
us. As the motor started up, Joseph, still holding the lead, jumped in and
sat next to me. As we drove away Duncan grabbed the lead and pulled me into
the floor to make more room for the others. I knelt between their legs
awkwardly, buffeted around by the movement of the vehicle. I rested my face
on the bulge of Duncan's penis once more.

"I said we would come to get you once things had calmed down and you were
recovered," he said, gently stroking my ear. "You understand now. Or had
you forgotten?"

I had forgotten.

He gave me his fingers to lick.

When we were quite far from the building, I glanced back and saw Peter's
body hanging dead from the top of the house. I did not ask Duncan why he
had done it. I did not have to. This was war.

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WHEN I CAME TO THIS LAND -- THE END