Mick tried to put it out of his mind. He had to stay focused, ignore the heat of the sun blazing down upon him, the sweat gluing his shirt to his back, the weight of his heavy boots as he pounded the earth...
Reaching the crest of the hill, he stopped and scanned the terrain. The land swept away from him, green and glowing with life. The Baron's estate was vast, big enough that you could run for miles through it and see no sign of civilisation anywhere. More than ample for the purposes of the Hunt. More than big enough for the quarry to hide in, to evade capture.
He leaned against a sycamore, relishing the shade it offered. Part of him ached to sit down and rest against the bark, take off his big heavy boots, unclip his belt with all the equipment hanging off it, peel off his sticky shirt and battered leather trousers, relax his aching muscles... But he could not give up. He had to make a good impression on his new employer, and that meant tracking down the runaway.
He stood still, forcing his breathing to return to normal, scanning the vista before him. There was no sign of movement. Rolling green hills, clusters of young saplings reaching up towards a cloudless, intense blue sky, a glade of vibrant bluebells... but it was like a photograph, alive but frozen. Nothing moved.
Mick judged the distance to the horizon. It could not be more than two miles, and he had a panoramic view. The quarry could not have travelled beyond his sight in the given time. He had to be here, hiding somewhere...
The kestrel dipped low, somewhere a little over half the distance between Mick and the far tree line of the forest. It was beginning a long, graceful descent, having spied some unsuspecting mouse or vole. It fell towards a wide patch of purple bracken.
And then it did a swift turn, pulling out of its nosedive, curving away through the summer air, back up into the blue.
Mick's military training kicked in. Something had spooked it.
Fixing his eyes on the bracken, he made his way down the crest and across the swathe of grass. Sweat dripped down his face but he fought the urge to blink. He was aware of the loud pounding of his boots on the ground but now was not the time for subtlety.
Sure enough, he was heard. When he was within forty feet of his target, the quarry leapt up from the undergrowth and began sprinting for the forest.
NO you don't, boy! Mick thought grimly. He ran faster, pushing himself towards his limit. The quarry sped out across the open ground, totally exposed now.
Exposed indeed. The naked boy stood out starkly against the green, his tanned back and buttocks glowing with sweat under the fierce June sunshine. He chanced a quick glance over his shoulder at his pursuer, dark blond hair bouncing over eyes that were shining with fear.
Mick couldn't help smiling. The boy had cost himself a second or two of valuable time, and for no reason. He raced away across the grass but with every footfall, with every heartbeat, Mick started to close the distance.
The boy was fast, of course. All the Baron's boys were excellent physical specimens, and no more obviously so than when they were running. Mick admired the view as he closed in, close enough to hear the boy's laboured, desperate breathing.
He pulled the rope from his belt as he came within reach and flung it forward, looping over the boy's head, across his chest, trapping his arms as Mick pulled, tugging his quarry to him as they both stumbled, falling to the ground, the sun wheeling a burning arc across his reddened vision.
The boy cried out in pain and struggled violently, kicking and wriggling, but it did him no good. Mick pulled the two ends of the rope together behind the boy's back, pinning his upper arms to his sides, squeezing the breath and the fight out of him.
“I've GOT you!” Mick said, gasping. “Stop struggling!” But the boy was plucky and would not give up, twisting around even as Mick hooked a leg over the boy's waist, trapping the squirming body with his superior weight. 185lbs of mostly muscle was more than enough to hold down the lean young quarry, whose grunts of defiance soon became moans of frustration.
Mick secured the rope, tying a double knot. Giving in at last to exhaustion and his captor's greater strength and size, the boy lay quivering on his front, gasping for breath. Mick took out more rope and secured the boy's hands, hitching the second bond to the first. Only then did he allow himself to relax for a minute, his fist maintaining a firm grip on the rope as he took in lungfuls of the sweet summer air.
Very sweet. The boy's sweat filled his nostrils. It coated the young, leanly muscled back like oil. With his free hand Mick stroked the smooth skin, now slippery beneath his rough fingers. He caressed the glossy tanned shoulders and hips. He felt the boy stiffen as he stroked the firm, rounded buttocks. He felt something else stiffen as well. His own excitement was rising.
He flipped the boy over onto his back. Those bright eyes stared up at him, alert with fear and... something else. The boy was breathing raggedly, gasping, his stomach rippling, his chest straining. Mick's eyes moved across the captured form, down to the boy's crotch. His glistening body was covered in blades of grass, glued to him when Mick had pressed him into the earth. Springing free from a small golden thatch of public hair was the boy's small but raging hard prick.
Mick chuckled and saw a mixture of anger and embarrassment in the boy's eyes. Even with his tan, the pinkness in his cheeks was visible. Looking away, the boy said “All right, you've won. No need to gloat about it.”
“Oh, I disagree,” Mick said, still catching his breath. “I love the gloating.” He caressed the boy's thighs, his finger probing beneath the soft balls. “Though that's not the best part...”
The boy grunted as Mick's finger found the moist, tight opening and slipped inside. “Oh, I see it's been a while. Has the Baron got so many boys that he's forgotten about a beauty like you?”
The boy sighed with indignation, but Mick noticed that the hard-on did not falter. The humiliation in his face was all the hotter because of his attempts to hide it. As if he wasn't beautiful enough. His accent matched his features: cultured, educated, another curious middle-class twenty something who had come to the Baron's Stable seeking the kind of excitement that Daddy and Mummy couldn't buy him. Handsome as a prince, with the body of a gymnast.
“What's your name, boy?”
He looked up at Mick and swallowed. No defiance left in him now. “Jonathan.”
“Nice to meet you, Jonathan. Now let's get you back to the Manor where you belong.” Mick took out a third piece of rope and tied Jonathan's ankles together. Then he stood and lifted the boy, hoisting him over his shoulder. With one hand holding the boy's legs and the other resting on a smooth, firm buttock, he made his way back the way he had come.
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