Date: Wed, 27 Nov 2019 16:32:15 -0500 (EST) From: Five Hole Punch Subject: The Poacher Please give to Nifty. The Poacher The poacher awoke groggily to the sound of approaching footsteps. He groped for his fowling piece, but he knew he was trapped. He had sat himself in a small stand of trees near the edge of the manor property to have a bit of whiskey while on the prowl. He knew it was unlikely that anyone on horse would come to this rocky area and he could make his way through the thicket faster than anyone could pursue on foot; that is if he hadn't passed out drunk. It must've been late morning judging by the sun. A light step rounded the mossy rocks. It was a boy. Not just any boy, it was the young master of the manor, Thomas Atherton Norridge, apparently alone. "Oh!" exclaimed the boy, halting his walk. The poacher regarded the lad. He had a round, slightly chubby face beneath a brunette page boy that was en vogue amongst the gentry. He had the same semi-dull look of his father. His pouty lips oped. "Who are you?" "Me? I am ... I am a scientist ... an ornithopterist to be exact," the poacher asserted, rising to his feet rather unsteadily, "I am looking for rare specimens in this wood." The boy eyed the gun. "You look like a poacher." "A poacher?" the poacher declaimed, "Me? Not me, my boy. No, I am a scientist recently returned from Borneo. I lived for a period of time with the wild cannibals whilst looking for the rarest of birds." The immature jaw dropped. "You did?" "Yes, my boy, I did. Would you like to hear the tale?" "Yes, most certainly!" was the animated reply. "Come, let us go sit on that rock and I will tell you the tale of 'The Secret of the Headhunters of Borneo.'" They made their way to a rock that was, for a poacher, conveniently near the edge of the grove. Putting his firearm aside the rock, the man sat. The poacher regarded the young squire. He was attired for a perambulatory outing: a fine blue jacket with gilt gold buttons, a burled walking stick, and high-ankled boots of brown leather. His woolen socks were of the same caramel hue and they rose to mid-calf. "Why don't you take off your coat, m'lad? You'll be more comfortable. Come sit here on my knee and I'll begin my tale." The poacher placed the youngster on his left leg, one arm holding the soft, linen clad torso. The boy's booted legs swung freely. Naked knees peeked from the tailored, coffee-colored cuffs. "It was a few years ago, when I was asked by the very Prime Minister himself, I'll have you know, to venture to the Southern Seas to seek a rare bird, the Borneo Eagle. It is a fierce bird, with long talons (it was here the poacher gave Master Thomas a squeeze) and a powerful beak that lives atop the highest peaks of the Bornean Mountains." The poacher's demonstration of the terrible maw of the height-dwelling Eagle of Borneo gave rise to an unexpected response. "Your breath smells like Harold's," declared the boy. "Oh? And who might this Harold be?" "The stable master. He tells me stories too." In a low aside the poacher diagnosed, "He likes his whiskey too, eh?" The youngster nodded. "Well, maybe he has seen terrible sights, as I have in my worldly travels." "I don't think so. He has never left the county," replied the young squire. "I see. Well, let us get back to Borneo" continued the interloper. "I had made my way to the island after a long sea voyage and, after a week slicing through the thickest vines and creepers into the deepest part of the jungle, I met the fiercest tribal leader of them all – Chief Picta Picta. His men took me to the chief bound in ropes (it is here the poacher demonstrated the tightness of the ropes by grasping his companion around the arms and chest). The chief was going to have me tied to a tree and speared to death!" "How ... How did you escape?" asked the captivated, in more ways than one, wide-eyed listener. "I told the chief I would give him `fire sticks.'" "You mean a gun?" "No, my boy, much simpler than that. I showed him a matchstick!" "A matchstick!?" "Yes. The power of fire was a great power to these tribes. I won my freedom with a box of matches!" Here the rustic and the young peer laughed as comrades at the naiveté of the primitives. The poacher clasped the delighted youngster in their shared mirth. "We became friends, the chief and I, and he offered to grant my wish, whatever it would be. I told him of my quest for the Borneoan Eagle. The chief became quiet. He frowned in deep thought. He then said to me, `I have promised to grant your wish. There is only one way to attract the Great Bird and this is a secret. I will reveal the secret, but only if you swear on your life that you will never reveal it except to the worthiest and bravest of men.' I agreed. Within three days I had gotten the rarest of specimens and within two months the King had the bird! It is hidden in Windsor Castle and is used for unknown purposes by the King himself." "The King?" asked the dumbfounded Thomas. "Yes, m'lad, the King. His Majesty gave me his personal thanks." "Did you tell His Majesty the secret? The secret of capturing the B-b-buh-Bornee-owen Eagle?" "No, I didn't," declared the poacher, "I kept the secret." Then, the poacher leaned in and whispered in a confidential tone, "Do you want to know the secret?" "Me?" "Are you brave?" "Y-yes ..." "Are you pure and worthy?" "Yes." "I will show you the secret, but you may never reveal it unless it is to win another Eagle for the King. Is that understood?" "Yes, I swear!" squeaked the boy. "Here is the secret, in the magic poem the chief revealed to me: 'To capture The Great Bird, the Brave One must use The Bird That Rises in the Morning; that will worship the Goddess in his life with salty tears. He must give his most precious essence, bravely and boldly. It is this that will capture The Great Bird.'" The youngster sat with a finger on the edge of his lips, eyes turned upward, thinking hard, without success. "I don't understand," he confessed. "You're but a lad." "That is what Mother and Father say! I am brave! I want to know." The man paused for effect. Then in a low, conspiratorial voice said, "Very well, I will explain, but it is a secret." "I won't tell, I promise." Young Thomas' eyes pleaded with eager ardor. The poacher fumbled with the opening to his breeches. Having a warm boy, agitated by the tale of adventure, on his thigh, had given rise to the legendary Bird of the Morning. Out came the dark, hooded denizen of the dank valley into the sunlight of the secluded grove. The youngster's mouth opened wide with surprise at the revelation. "This is The Bird That Rises in the Morning. The secret told by the Chief of the Tribe is to extract the essence it gives forth and use it as a lure to attract and trap the Great Eagle. I will show you how to get the essence ... if you are brave enough." The blushing boy stammered, "I-I-I am b-brave ... e-e-nough!" "That's a good lad!" exclaimed the grizzled forester as he gave a hearty-fellow-well-met slap on the back to his young knee-riding companion. "There is a very special way that must be applied to the task and it takes a strong grip. Show me how strong your grip is lad." The poacher held the boy's delicate right hand entwined with his muscled fingers. The youngster gave a feeble squeeze. "You've got to do better than that laddie! Give it a good, hard squeeze." The man took the boy's thin arm above the elbow. "Put y'er muscle into it!" Somewhat more weak pressure was delivered. "You'll have time to work on that, but it will have to do for now," declared the forester. "Here's what to do, laddie, yu'v gotta reach down and grasp that there root with your strongest grip." The rosy-cheeked boy eyed the obscene, stout organ with trepidation. The dusky, veined skin sat slickly upon the crab apple-sized head; a distinct, earthy odor arose. Barely visible, in a wrinkled ring, was a glistening pout. The poacher didn't wait for the youngster's initiative; he took the thin, smooth fingers and forced them upon his hot member. "Give it a good strong grip. That's it, good and hard." The poacher took pleasure in the velvety touch of the milk white hand; in the open-mouthed shock of the upper class scion; in the contrast of Youth and Age, Naiveté and Experience. "That's good there, lad. Now, you've got to give it a good churn, like you churn butter. Have you seen butter churned, lad?" "Yes, I have seen Elsie do so." "Good, good, my boy. Let's get to it. Give it a good churn." The poacher assisted the novice in sliding the skin of his engine up and down. The top half of his knob appeared and disappeared in a rhythmic cycle of glistening revelation. The plump face of the youngster exhibited a flush of fascination as well as a physical determination. The satyr freed the boy's hand to continue his ministrations which he performed well enough given his inexperience in the matter. The man's sack contracted with satisfaction. Soon, noticing a flagging effort, the stripling had the constitution of the Nursery, the man of the field pursued a different tactic. "You're doing a fine job, a fine job, my boy. But, I think it is time I give you a lesson or two on how you should apply yourself to the task. Do you wish instruction?" "Yes, please." "Let's get your britches down then, so we can practice." The poacher scooted the boy to his feet between his legs. The lad was intimately close to his engorged phallus. In fact, a small amount of clear fluid soiled the fine linen of the long chemise as the poacher turned Young Thomas to lower the cuffed, short pants. With this process concluded, the bucolic sybarite was greeted with the sight of a pleasantly erect twig, thin and delicate atop a creamy pink purse of paired pearls. "That is a fine, fine birdie, my boy! Fine, fine indeed." "Mother calls it my `pony.' Mother says I mustn't touch my pony except to make water." "I see," said the woodsman, "but ... but you do touch your pony at other times, don't you?" With downcast eyes, the young Master Thomas crossed one thigh partially over his boyhood. "I do," the abashed boy confessed, "but I mustn't." "Well, I certainly am not going to tell." "Collette says the same when giving me my bath, `Je ne dis pas, mon cher.' I like showing her my stiff pony," admitted the young heir. "She sounds like a most agreeable lass, she does. But, to the matter at hand." The trespasser took the soft nates of the young squire in both mitts, taking a moment or two to savor the tender flesh, before boosting him to his thigh again. As the lad's weight settled, the poacher placed his left hand beneath the boy, allowing his middle finger to find its way into the hairless cleft. "Let's apply ourselves, shall we?" The boy nodded. The poacher took the conical, tapering tip betwixt thumb and forefinger; it quivered. "Oooh! That tickles," exclaimed the pleased lad with a grin. The poacher gave a slight tug or two and, noticing the tightness of the boy's foreskin, decided to caress the prick with the back of his fingers. Young Thomas giggled and gave slight kick to his legs, pressing his hairless thighs together in a frisson of pleasure. The poacher smiled as he touched the quail eggs tucked tight with the very tips of his fingers. The cherub laughed and squirmed at the heretofore unknown pleasure. Young Thomas' warm bottom moved to and fro atop the woodsman's muscled thigh; his warm anus wiggling this way and that over the interloper's suffocated, centered digit. With his free fingers and thumb, the poacher gave a gentle squeeze to the soft buttocks, sensations of which were such as to elicit a deep twinge of satisfaction and a consequent, syrupy ooze drooling from the wrinkled spout of the satyr's engorged organ. "Now, lad, take your pony in hand, like this," it was here that the poacher grasped his own quite excited member and demonstrated the timeless technique, "That's it, move it up and down with a steady pace. Good ... very good." The instructor watched the novice `take the reins,' pausing once or twice to adjust the boy's hold upon his stiff boyhood. "Fine, fine ... fine indeed." The elderly woodsman gazed in admiration at the smooth, spread thighs of the pantsless boy; he felt the heat of the hot ring of the scion of the manor pressing upon the spatulate pad of his middle finger. Young Thomas mastered the motion and became flush of cheek. His cherry lips pursed. "Ooh ... Ooh!" The poacher, too, felt his stallion ready to gallop. He took a firm hold and spurred his steed. Eyes sparkling, the tip of his tongue poked forth between tightened lips; the slightest spittle formed in the corner of his mouth. "Are you ready, laddie?" Most preoccupied, the boy gave but the briefest nod. It was here that our Chiron gave our young Achilles an idea of the bulls eye sought by many an ancient archer. The centaur's bow finger flexed again and again, circling about, pressing repeatedly at the un-entered gate. Back arching, the young lord gasped repeated breaths of amazement. "Ah ... Ahh ... Ahh ... " The interloper neared his own acme. From the engorged purpled-head of his blunderbuss came a moist, squishing sound. The poacher pulled the trigger for the boy - a rude finger pushed in. Squealing, the young lad kicked his legs in ecstasy. "Eeeh! Eeeeeh!" As the leathered boots bruised the poacher painfully, pearly jets spurted, rolled and oozed. "Uhhnngh! There ... There it is lad. The essence ... the essence the chief spoke of." The poacher displayed the precious liquid; globules rolled down his calloused fingers. "That's the stuff there, lad." Seated Thomas panted. He eyed the poacher's messy, glistening, discharge dubiously from underneath disheveled bangs of auburn. Seeing the boy's uncomprehending expression, the woodsman wiped his hand across his outer thigh with a shrug. "You keep `training your pony' as I taught you and you'll come to know the full meaning of the secret in a year or two. But, you mustn't tell under any circumstance unless called on by the King." The lad gave a confirming nod to the wizened woodsman. With this, our sylvan sybarite lifted the lad to his feet, disengaging the tip of his finger from the squire's tight anus. "Let's get your breeches up." Turning Young Thomas by his smooth bottom, the man raised the fine linen and fastened it as best he could. Spun round, there was time to sample the fragrance of the flower of the gentry; tangy and sweet. The sated rustic moved the master of the manor a step or two and, under the youthful gaze, stood and stowed his crowed-out Cock o' the Morning. It was time to affect an escape. Placing a hand upon the boy's shoulder, the poacher gave summary, "Well, my young friend, I think it has been quite the morning for you. You have been given a great secret to keep. Keep it well, m'lad. Remember to practice the method I've shown you when you can do so without fear of discovery." Grabbing his fowling piece, the woodsman declaimed, "I must continue my work of researching the rarest specimens that dwell in these forests and must be off. You, too, must finish your perambulations about the estate, seeking and discovering the wonders hereabouts. Do not forget your jacket, lad." As the boy went to retrieve his blue coat, the traveler turned and headed towards a break in the copse. Stopping at the edge, the interloper turned and tipped his hat. "Farewell, Young Thomas, Adieu!" The boy waved and the poacher vanished. ------ Quite a number of years later, a constable apprehended a drunken, armed trespasser at the edges of the estate. He faced severe penalties until an unexpected attestation from the young Lord Norridge as to the rustic's ornithological focus was received (with a large degree of skepticism and bewilderment) by the sheriff of the county. Whatever was meant by "The Secret Eagle of Borneo" was attributed to the eccentricities of the upper class and accepted as reason enough to allow the old man to go free. Copyright 2019. All Rights Reserved.