The Ghost of Robert Bruce

By John Yager

The following story is a work of erotic fiction dealing with relationships between consenting adults. If such stories are not to your liking or if you are not of legal age to read such stories in your jurisdiction, please exit now.

This is a work of fiction and in no ways draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. Any similarity to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental. This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement and may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

Again, special thanks to Andrew for proof reading and for giving me the benefit of his criticism and advice. Andrew, your assistance is most appreciated. Any mistakes remain my own.

I also want to express thanks to Mac, who gave me the idea for this story, albeit in a rather different form.

This story represents a rather dramatic change for other stories I have posted on NIFTY and I will certainly hope to hear from readers with your reactions.

If you wish to receive e-mail notification of subsequent posting, please let me know by sending your request to the e-mail address below.

I'd always assumed that members of the titled British aristocracy were all wealthy. That certainly was not the case with Robert Bruce, the Eighteenth Earl of Heed. He was more or less penniless. He did own a rather sizable tract of land. To call it an estate would have been something of an exaggeration. There was one rather fine old house, also called Heed, on the property, but apart from that, nothing of consequence. Income from rent was out of the question. The property lay along some fair trout waters northeast of Fort William, but the land was unproductive except for grazing sheep.

Bruce was, however, a strikingly handsome young man. He never lacked for friends to visit or public events to which he could lend his presence for a small fee. Bank and shopping precinct openings were his speciality.

At nineteen, Bruce had entered Oxford, more on the strength of his name and title than on the merits of his academic record. At twenty he had left. He spent four or five years, as he said, "making the rounds and then, at twenty five, had joined a well funded expedition to explore the upper tributaries of the Amazon in search of indigenous flora thought to have medical potential. He had been rather attracted to the exploration aspect of the voyage but after three months he found that the real emphasis was on the rather boring research side and returned to Scotland in search of more pleasant pursuits.

He took up flying and became enamored with the restoration of a splendid bi-plane, a relic of World War I. The plane had been given to his grandfather, who had some interest in such things, but had been disassembled and stored in a barn near Heed for over forty years. Bruce sat about putting the plane back in flying condition, which took him over two years. They were the happiest years of his life. He took flying lessons, the first lessons he had ever taken seriously, and was said to show promise. In the autumn of 1988, on his third flight in the restored bi-plane, he crashed it in the hills just north of Loch Lochy. There was some discussion at the time as to whether Bruce or the plane were scattered further and in the most pieces. At the time of his untimely death, Bruce had just turned twenty-seven.

Robert Bruce was the eldest of three children and upon on his death, the title and property passed to his younger brother, Thomas. The youngest of the three siblings was a sister, Angela Ruth Bruce, a rather plain girl, who grew up to be an even plainer woman.

At the age of twenty, Thomas, who was two years younger and far less handsome than Robert, had married a girl from Oban, the daughter of a surgeon, whom he had met at a hunt party at the estate of mutual friends near Perth.

While their father had died when Robert was seventeen, their mother was still alive and objected rather strenuously to her younger son's marriage. She considered it below him but was silenced when Thomas confided in his mother that he truly loved the girl and that she was already two months pregnant with his child. Thomas had the good sense to take up land surveying and, with the help of his father-in-law, opened a successful company which within three years had offices in the three largest towns in the area. His mother was even more displeased with his choice of profession than with his marriage, but he was her younger son and not, at least at the time, the inheritor of the family title.

When their child, a boy, was born in early 1983, he was named Robert. It was not only his uncle's name, but his grandfather's as well, and a name of long history and association in the Bruce family.

In 1991, while on a motoring trip with his wife to the north of Scotland, Thomas succeeded in missing a curve on a rather curvy and hilly road. The car turned over four times and both he and his wife were killed.

Thomas, it was later revealed, had a history of near misses so far as his driving record was concerned.

Young Robert was staying with his grandmother and aunt at Heed and at the age of eight found himself an orphan and the new Earl of Heed. Of all the family, the boy's grandmother had a real talent for business. She had invested what meager resources were available to her with some success. She had also realized that with her sons' proclivity for dangerous hobbies and poor driving, sizable life insurance policies were in order. As a result, the new earl came into quite a significant inheritance, which would be held in trust for him and then, even when he had reached maturity, would be managed by conservative and responsible bankers on his behalf. True, he did receive a generous allowance and it would become even more generous when he reached the age of twenty, but he would never control his wealth. His grandmother, noting the poor history of the Bruce men where money was concerned, had determined that her grandson would be spared the potential for failure and poverty.

The boy's grandmother died in 1995 and his guardianship passed to his aunt and his maternal grandparents, whom he visited several times a year. While Angela Ruth was a rather plain woman who lived a simple life at Heed, she had proven to be a loving and responsible guardian for the boy. She had used their improved income to restore the old house and make it a comfortable home.

So how do I know the details of the Bruce family history? Quite simply, Robert, the explorer aviator, the incredibly beautiful uncle of the present earl, was my lover for three of the most wonderful years of my life. We had met when I was twenty-one and he was twenty-four. I had never loved another man but within three weeks of meeting him, I was in his bed. Our relationship only ended with his death. By then, however, I counted his entire family among my closest friends and it was as a member of the family that I mourned.

For the last five years I have been living back in the United States, progressing through the ranks at the corporate offices of the banking company with which I've worked since graduation from the University of Pennsylvania in 1984. Within two months of my employment I had been sent to England, assigned to work with our corresponding banks throughout the UK. It was on my first business trip to Scotland in September, 1984, that I had met Robert. Significantly, I later realized, it was three years later to the day that Robert was killed.

Robert and I met at a dinner party given by the managing director of a bank in Fort William where I was working at the time. I had never met anyone like Robert Bruce and was swept completely off my feet. Before that evening was over he invited me to visit him at Heed. I couldn't on that trip, but returned to Scotland as soon as I could take a few days off.

I had no idea that Robert held a title. I only knew that he had caused turmoil in my life. How could I be having such feelings about him, about any man? I had never considered loving another man. I had certainly never considered having sex with another man. But on the long train ride to London I found that Robert Bruce was completely monopolizing my thoughts. Back in my flat in London I lay awake night after night thinking about him, remembering every snippet of conversation we had shared, the details of the day we'd spent together, the day after we'd met. We'd walked along the banks of Loch Eil, had lunch in some dismal pub, then sat together in the Fort William Rail Road station until it was time for me to board my train.
In the intervening days we wrote every day, I to him, he to me. We talked by telephone several  times a week. All those words, written and spoken, planning my trip to visit him, telling me about Heed, a smattering of lore and gossip about his family, anecdotes about his life in Scotland, the Lochs and the moors. In all those words there was really only one subject and all those words ultimately came back to that one thing - that Robert wanted me and that I would give myself to him. It was never said, the question was never asked, but in the undercurrents of his written words, in the resonance of his voice over five hundred miles of telephone lines, the questions were always there. "Will you come to me?" "Will you give yourself to me?" "Will you be my lover?"

And in my words, written and spoken, in the trembling of my voice when I picked up the telephone and heard his voice, when I tried to write my thoughts in some sort of understandable sentence, there was only the answer, no matter what the ostensible subject might have been, and the answer was always, from the very start, the same. "Yes, yes, yes."

I returned to him, to the cold, gray autumn days and the damp, cold nights. Heed, despite its romance and its raw beauty, was a miserable hovel. Robert met me at Fort William. He was on the platform when my train from London arrived. It was early evening but already nearly dark. Robert had driven in to meet me. Riding back in his little sports car was icy cold. We stopped at a pub on the way out of the town and had hot pork pies and cider.

By the time we got to the old house it was after ten o'clock and the place was completely dark. Dogs were barking someplace beyond the huge old house. There was one meager lamp burning in the cavernous entry hall.

"Everyone's gone to bed," he said. "You'll meet them in the morning."

We climbed the huge stairs, up one flight, then along a dark corridor to another narrower flight, and up again into some sort of ancient keep and finally to his room.

Even in the dark Robert's room seemed to be very large, probably more than thirty feet square and with very high ceilings. It was cold and damp and the walls seemed to be of some rough stone which was weeping with the cold, with a century or more of wet. "There's a WC just there," he said, pointing to a little alcove which served as a sort of dressing room. "I'm afraid the bath is back off the main stairs but there's water here." He pointed to a huge basin and a pitcher. "If you want a wash I'll get hot water."

"No," I said, wishing there was a shower, wishing for torrents of hot water to rinse away the smell of the train.

"The girl will bring hot water in the morning, or if you prefer, we can bathe," he assured me. "Shall we go to bed?"

"Yes." It was, after all, what I'd come for.

The bed was huge, an ancient four-poster hung with thick drapes over and around it. Robert pulled back the hangings on one side to reveal a mass of coverlets and pillows. It reminded me of a playhouse my father had built for my sister and me when I was seven or eight years old. I knew that, once in the confines of that large bed, Robert and I would be in a world of our own, a world where only he and I existed.

"It's too cold to get undressed out here," he said. "I usually just crawl in and pull off my togs as I slip under the covers. I'd recommend you do the same."

We sat cross legged like children playing wild Indians on the quilted coverlet, pulling off shoes and socks, jumpers and shirts. As we shed our clothes they seemed to scatter to either side of the bed, dropping between the drapes and the bedding to accumulate on the cold floor. Robert's body came into view and I was awestruck by his splendor. In the meager light his body shown like burnished bronze, dispelling the myth of pale Englishmen.

"I'm not English," he later said when I commented on his glowing tan.

Soon enough, in our rush to get under the covers, we were both in only our underwear, I in very American jockey shorts, he in boxers of some dark paisley.

"Well, the moment of truth," Robert smiled as he lay back, lifted up his hips and slid off his shorts, revealing his beauty.

I froze, not from the temperature, although it was quite cold, not from some sudden sense of modesty. I froze because I was confronted by the most beautiful human form I had ever seen. No woman, and certainly no man, I had ever seen rivaled Robert's beauty. His physique was classic, like some ancient ideal, the perfect human form. He embodied masculine perfection. His skin, as I'd already noticed, seemed to glow. Now completely revealed, I saw that he was almost unnaturally smooth. Only a little golden hair was visible under his arms and in a thick but confined bush above his generous natural cock. Even his arms and legs were so smooth that I wondered if they had been shaved. I had remembered his hair, from our first brief meeting, as auburn, a light, glowing auburn. Now in this light, it seemed to be an infinite blend of gold, burnished copper and a slightly darker bronze. I was frozen in complete awe of this man who had courted me with such persistence and persuasion.

"You'll freeze if you don't get under the covers," he smiled, sensing the reason for my immobility. I suppose if you've grown up with such beauty you become accustomed to the reactions it causes in mere mortals.
I pulled off my jockey shorts, suddenly horror struck to find that I was fully erect. This could not be happening to me, I thought.

"I hope that means you like what you see," Robert smiled, sensing my embarrassment. He rolled under the thick coverlet and held it up so I could join him. Once under the covers his arm came around me and drew me to him. There was no hesitation on his part, as if it was the most natural gesture imaginable. I, for my part, felt completely undone. I had never lain with another man is such intimacy. I had certainly never felt my own nakedness pressed against the body of another naked man.

"There," Robert said. "Now we'll warm up." His body radiated warmth and, despite my embarrassment, I pressed into him.

Robert's right hand held me to him, clasped behind me, circled my chest and stroked my side. With his left hand Robert began to explore my body, running over my chest, stroking my arms.

"This is new to you," he said. It was not a question, just a simple statement of fact.

"Yes," I whispered. My voice seemed to have failed me

"Don't worry. I'll be your guide." He leaned over and kissed my clammy forehead. "Right now just let me help you warm up." His left hand continued to circle my chest. With his palm pressed flat, he stroked my nipples, sending little waves of energy down the length of my body. My erection could grow no further. I realized I was beginning to produce a steady stream of fluid.

Robert's hand moved down over my stomach, pressing into me, generating warmth by the friction of his touch and by the sexual energy he was causing to permeate my body. There was a steady groan, a murmur of need and desire. It filled my head and caused my mind to go into some sort of sensory overload. Suddenly I realized that the sound was of my own making.

"Just relax," Robert said. "I want to take care of you."

He pulled the covers up just enough for him to move his head onto my chest, then pulled the covers up again over his head and mine so we were both enfolded in the growing warmth of our bodies, trapped and held beneath the heavy coverlets. His lips moved with excruciating slowness over my chest, kissing me, leaving my skin tingling with a host of new sensations.

The trapped air under the coverlet grew warmer as our bodies radiated their heat into the enclosed space. My head was growing light from the heat and from the stimulation Robert was causing with his mouth and tongue. He reached my stomach and kissed his way on down. The head of my cock was throbbing and wet just below my navel, wanting, needing, yet filling my conscious mind with trepidation, even fear. The fluids being excreted by my pulsing cock puddled in my navel filling it to the point of overflow. Robert's tongue lapped at it, then reached out to touch just the tip of my cock.

My moaning was constant now. I couldn't breath in the tight, warm space. I felt as if I was breathing exhausted air, mine and his. Robert took my cock in his hand, steadied it and consumed it in one swift motion, thrusting the throbbing head deep into his throat. My moans had turned to gasps. My brain was reeling. He swallowed, causing his throat to constrict around the head of my cock.

"I can't hold back," I gasped, knowing I was seconds from orgasm. Robert swallowed again and I erupted deep in his throat. At that very second he reached out and threw the coverlet off our bodies, exposing us both to the frigid night air. My sweat covered body was jolted by the sudden change and I cried out from the shock of it. My cock shot again, pulsing some part of myself into him, making us one, making me a part of Robert, the most beautiful human being I had ever seen.

He moved up along my chest and lowered his head against me. Slowly he pulled the coverlet up again, not over our heads this time, but just high enough to give us warmth. "Sleep now," he said. "We'll make more magic in the morning."

Within a few minutes I felt his body relax against me, felt his muscles slacken as he slipped into sleep. A clock somewhere was tolling midnight as I too slept.

"Quietly," I heard him whisper. "Don't wake my lover."

He was talking with a serving girl. He called me his lover!

Robert shut the hangings which enclosed the huge old bed and rolled back against me. He kissed my neck.

"You're awake," he said, his voice soft as the dawn. "I wasn't finished watching you."

"Watching me?" I asked.

"Yes, watching you sleep, watching your chest rise and fall with each breath. I was drinking in your beauty."

"I'm not beautiful, Robert. You're beautiful and you're making fun of me."

I realized that he had turned down the covers, exposing our nakedness. The enclosed space of the bed, separated from the real world by heavy drapes, was warm from our body heat alone. He rolled onto his side and began to run his fingers over me.

"You need to see yourself through my eyes," he said. A single finger caressed my left nipple sending shock waves to my cock. "I'm glad to see your body is as solid as I thought it would be. You must do sports."

"I swim," I moaned, barely able to form words while he touched me.

"A good bit more than that, I think. You must spend some time at a gym."


"I love your body. I want to possess it."

I said the only thing which came to mind, which was the truth. "You already have."

"No, not fully. Every atom of your being will be mine."

"Nothing left for me?"

"Nothing. Only my death will release you." His words later haunted me.

"I'll do anything you ask."

"You mustn't say that unless it's absolutely and completely true."

"It's true."

He continued to stroke my chest as he looked down at me from about a thousand miles away.

"Then take my cock."

I was shocked by the abruptness of his command but willing to do whatever he decreed.

"Like you took mine last night?"

"Yes, for now."

I rolled over in the bed as he lay back, spreading his legs. He locked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. I was on my own.

I knelt between his widespread legs and lowered my lips to his hard chest. I kissed him and felt a trembling in my lips as they made contact with his magnificent body. I worked my way down a little and then back up again. I rose just enough to bring my lips to his and kissed his mouth. He opened his eyes and smiled at me.

He made no effort to return my kiss but there was no sign of objection. I kissed his lips again, opening my own mouth slightly so my tongue could run over his lips, pressing just a little, asking for admittance.

"Not yet," he said. "I'll let you kiss me as deeply as you wish when you bring an offering to my mouth."

"An offering?"


"What can I offer?"

"My seed. When I've given it to you, I expect you to share it with me."

I understood. He had said an offering and I understood; this was an act of worship. I never doubted it.
His hands had not moved from their position behind his head and now his eyes slowly closed again. I returned to kissing his chest, finding one hard nipple and sucking it, loving it, adoring it, then moving to its twin. I worked my way down the sharply defined cleft between his pectoral muscles. Even with his hands locked behind his head, they were imposing.

I ran my lips further down over his magnificent body and felt the muscles flex beneath my touch, each ridge and valley of his hard stomach exhibited beneath my kisses. Yes, I thought, I did want to worship him.

When I reached his throbbing cock I raised up to see if fully. It was bigger than mine, as I had guessed it must be. I had not seen many uncircumcised men and was in awe of its huge, hooded head. It was at least two or three inches longer than my own penis, which I had always thought of as large, at least above average in length. The real difference in its size was its girth. It was thicker than my wrist, its hood covering all but the very point of its head, which pulsed and drooled as if it had a life of its own, independent of the magnificent body, the magnificent man of which it was a part.

There was no way I could take it in as Robert had taken mine the night before. I wondered if I could even stretch my lips wide enough to accommodate some small part of its gigantic head. For now all I could consider was to kiss it, to run my willing tongue over it, to taste the mystery of it.

"Grasp the shaft an inch or two below the head," Robert advised and I did as he said. "Now just see what you can do with the head. Since your own cock is trimmed, you may enjoy just exploring it."

"Um," I moaned.

"You can run your tongue under my foreskin if you like."

"Um," I moaned again.

I ran my tongue over the hooded head, leaving it wet and shinny. Then, feeling a little more daring, I let the tip of my tongue slip beneath the hood, exploring that dark space between the interior surface of his foreskin and the huge head of his cock. The taste of him which I found waiting there went straight to my brain. It seemed to cause a chemical response, my own sexual desires increased a hundred times by his pungent taste and smell.

I gently pulled the hood back to free the crimson head, so much larger and so much darker than my own. I ran my tongue over it again and felt Robert's body tense beneath my touch. I opened my lips as wide as they could go and pressed forward, trying, with only some vague hope, to take it into my mouth. It pressed against my lips and would go no further. I backed off and wet it and my own lips again, wet them to the point of dripping. My saliva mixed with the salt sweet fluids which now seemed to flow continuously from its slit.
I tried again with greater success. Now well lubricated, the head slipped into my mouth, filling it from side to side and front to back. I had not managed to take even the least bit of his shaft but the point of his head already pressed against the back of my mouth, threatening to gag me.

"Slowly, lover," Robert murmured. "We have all the time in the world." Would that it had been true.

I backed off just a fraction of an inch, finding that I could barely keep the head of Robert's cock in my mouth while also relieving the pressure on my throat which was causing me to gag. I had never experienced anything like the sensations it was causing. I realized that my own cock was as hard as it was possible for it to get and it too was drooling a steady stream of clear fluids which ran down over my belly into my pubic hair, continuing on around the base of my cock and then down over my balls before dripping off onto the bedding.

I ran my tongue around and over the pulsing head of Robert's cock, loving it, worshipping it. I worked up a little courage and pressed just a little more of it into my mouth. I gagged again, so severely that I had to back off completely, letting the hard won prize slip from my mouth. Tears were running down from my eyes, leaving wet paths across my cheeks. The salty tears crept over my lips, into my mouth, mixing with the other salty taste I now found I could not live without.

"Slowly," Robert murmured again. I looked up at his magnificent torso, his arms raised and his hands locked behind his head, his eyes still closed.

I moaned in frustration and tried again.

When I again had the head of his cock deep in my mouth, again approaching the point where I had gagged before, Robert whispered one word. "Swallow," he said.

I did as he said and felt the muscles of my throat relax just a little. I pressed forward a little more until I knew I was about to gag again, and again swallowed. The head of his cock pressed into my throat!

Progress was excruciatingly slow but I was certainly motivated. I don't think I'd gotten it an inch further when I gagged again. "Pull off a moment," Robert said. I was somewhat reluctant, not wanting to give up ground I had fought so hard to capture, but did as he asked. "Turn around and straddle me," he said. "There's just a bit of a curve in my monster." I had noticed. "In that position you're fighting the curve rather than using it to your advantage. Besides, this way I can play, too."

I knelt over him, my legs spanning his deep chest, and my lips returned to their task. The position brought my butt into rather close proximity to Robert's face and he immediately began to play with it and with my hard cock and with my balls.

For my part, I licked my lips, then licked the head of Robert's cock until it glistened. Once I felt I had it properly lubricated, I opened my lips as wide as possible and quickly regained the terrain I had given up. This time when the head of his cock pressed against the back of my mouth, I began to swallow, not once, but a number of times. As I swallowed, I pressed on and found that the head was progressing down my throat.

At the same time I was working on Robert's cock, he was playing an alternating game, first with my ass, then with my cock, then back to my ass again. He placed his mouth over my ass and began to lick and bite. I moved my lips down over his cock again until I suddenly realized I had taken all of his length into my throat.

I was moving into a state of sexual overload when I felt one wet finger probing the entry to my ass. I was very tight, resisting his attempts to push his finger into me, despite my desire to admit him. In that state it didn't take much to put me over the edge. My cock began to swell and my balls drew up, preparing for the inevitable end of the match. Robert read the signs and quickly took the head of my pulsing cock back into his mouth, leaving his finger, still making very little progress, in my ass. I came hard, and as I shot my streams of seed into his mouth, I swallowed again and again, which put Robert over the edge as well. The first bolts shot down my throat but I quickly pulled back so that the succeeding shots hit my tongue. Remembering Robert's command, I held them there.

"Don't forget to share," he beckoned.

I moved around on the bed until I could bring my lips to his. "That's it," he whispered just as my mouth met his. I felt his tongue move over my lips, press in, thrust into me. I opened to him, feeling a cascade of his seed and my own saliva run down my tongue from my mouth to his.

We were both moaning now and I felt his tongue, hard, ridged, pressing deeply into me, fucking my mouth just as his cock had done moments before.

Our bodies were pressed together, my full weight on him. I eventually rose a little to move my mouth from his, and then lowered my head to his shoulder, breathing into his hot flesh.

"Your ass is very tight," he eventually observed. "I couldn't even work one finger into you."

"Um," I responded, feeling so fulfilled at that moment that his comment was of only the mildest interest.
Over the next few days I met each member of Robert's family. His mother was the archetypal matriarch, the obvious ruler of this strange world. I liked her despite her tenacious energy and her demanding personality. One by one, each of them was introduced. After his mother, I met his sister, a quiet, plain young woman who seemed to stay in their mother's shadows and made little impression on me. Robert's brother and sister-in-law and their beautiful son came for two days over the long weekend of my visit and seemed to accept me at once.

No one questioned the fact that I was sharing Robert's bed. No one made any comment or asked any question about the nature of our friendship. But to the maid, he had said, "Don't wake my lover."

Each day Robert took me away from the cold old house. We went off in his car to see distant villages then, the next day, on horseback to ride along the loch and find the ruins of an old church.

Each evening after we had eaten with the family, he would rise and say goodnight for both of us, then, putting his arm around my shoulder, he would lead me off to his chambers in the tower. Each night he took me deeper into the sexual wonderland he had opened before me. Each night we lay in each other's arms after sex had exhausted us, and he would stroke me like a dozing child until I fell asleep on his shoulder.

And each time he took my waiting cock into his mouth, his hands would roam over my ass, his fingers caressing me, probing me, but each time finding me so tight that he could only insert his finger a fraction of an inch. But when his attempts became painful and I moaned in discomfort and the muscles of my ass clamped down even more tightly on his finger, he would stop. Most nights as I lay on his shoulder and sleep crept over me, he would say, as he had said that first morning, "you are so tight." And then again, "Your ass is very tight." It seemed to be almost an obsession with him.

By the end of that first visit to Heed I knew I was in love with Robert as I had never loved anyone before in my life. On that last afternoon he took me in his cramped little car, back to the railroad station in Fort William. We arrived just moments before my train was due to leave for London and said our good-byes on the crowded platform after he had passed my bag to the porter in my train carrage.

"Can I come to see you soon?" he asked, standing rather stiffly, as if he was going to extend his right hand to shake mine.

"Oh, yes," I said, suddenly catching a glimpse of my life alone in London and already longing for him.
"Would next weekend be too soon?" He asked, as if he'd read my thoughts.

"It would be wonderful if you could come then."

"Good," he said as he moved from his formal stance to take me into his arms.

We stood there embracing on the hectic platform as the crowd ebbed and flowed around us.

"Until Friday, then," Robert said as he stepped back from me.

"Friday," I agreed as I stepped onto the train.

I had told Robert where I would hide a key and when I got to my apartment that evening, he was there. He had shopped and prepared a meal, not really cooked it, but gotten together an assortment of things, a hot meat pie and salad and rum truffles for dessert. There was a bottle of very good wine open and breathing. It was clear we were not going out that evening.

Robert himself was naked and asleep. He had turned back the covers on my double bed, large enough for two, but still small compared to the huge four-poster in his chamber in the tower at Heed. I undressed and pulled back the covers just enough to slip in beside him. The heat from his body had warmed the sheets and I snuggled against him, causing him to rouse.

"Come here," he said, his voice gravelly with sleep, and drew me into his powerful embrace. My body pressed against him and I was back in that kingdom of sexual bliss which surrounded Robert and radiated out to fill all available space.

He held me until my own body had been warmed by his, then turned me so I lay on my back and rolled over me, pressing his weight into me as his lips found mine. I pulled him to me with my legs and arms, wanting all of him, wanting to be completely his.

Robert's tongue ran along my lips and I opened willingly to him. His tongue slipped into my mouth and made its rounds, as if he was surveying his own property, a part of his estate. I moaned as his tongue pressed beyond my mouth, into my throat. Yes, I wanted to say but couldn't. Yes, press in to me, fill me, claim me.
Our cocks were hard and trapped in the tight space between us, pressed against his ridged belly and mine, weeping clear fluid, smoothing the path so they could move in concert, wanting release, wanting climax. My body rocked against his, his pressed into mine, matching my rhythm, propelling me into some new place, some new height of awareness and ecstasy.

I could not have lasted long, minutes at the most, before I felt my balls pull up against my body and my cock explode, followed almost immediately by his. Our tongues were dancing in each other's mouths, our bodies urging each other on.

A deep rumbling cry escaped my mouth. My chest rose and fell under his weight. In one graceful motion his mouth left mine and he rose to tower over me, kneeling between my wide spread legs. His head come down and his lips kissed my throat and chest. He moved further down until his tongue encountered the wet mix of our seed. He didn't hesitate, but began to lick and suck it from my belly, his tongue following each valley and sweeping over each ridge. When he was finished he came back up to me, kissed me with a firm and demanding kiss. I opened to him immediately so he could share the treasures he'd collected, sucking on his tongue as if it were his cock. Yes, I thought, yes. I want this man, want to be his.

When he had finished his task, he rolled over again and rested beside me, slipping his arm under me and again pulling me to him.

His voice became a drone, a soft murmur of his recital of his love. It was raining outside now, a typical, cold, autumn London evening, and Robert's voice, deep and rich, merged with the sound of rain and wind and with the murmur of the city around us.

"Do you love me as much as I love you?" he asked.

"Oh, yes."

"You know then,  how much I love you, how much I need to be with you?"

"No, I can't guess."

"I haven't stopped thinking about you all week. I couldn't sleep, longing to be here with you tonight."

"I know, my week was the same."

"My mother teased me. She said I whimpered like a pup. `If you can't live without him, go to him,' she said."

I tried to draw him into a still tighter embrace but our bodies were as pressed together as they could be.

"I want to ask you something," he said, his lips against my ear.


"Don't answer till you're sure."

"All right," I whispered back,

"You do love me?"

"Yes, Robert, with all my heart."

"Do you trust me?"


"Do you trust me enough to let me hurt you?"

I was silent, thinking about the question as he'd told me to do. After some time I said, "If you love me, Robert, why would you want to hurt me?"

"Because it's the only way I can help you reach new levels of pleasure, of rapture, beyond the pain."

To be continued.