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"I swear, lad, if you don't put some effort into polishing those boots, I will beat you within an inch of your life."
Alistair scowled. The voice belonged to his new stable master, a relatively young man, but one who came highly recommended by his dear friend from school, Griffin de Mannville. Griff was recently inherited himself, his father passing on only a year or less previous, and he had reorganized his household staff much as Alistair did now, trying to be rid of many of his father's disapproving sycophants.
Still, recommended by a friend or no, Alistair did not allow anyone to abuse his stable hands, and he stepped into the gloom of the building, his eyes adjusting to the change of light, his mouth open to upbraid the man thoroughly.
His mouth stayed open, fell even more so, in fact, but no sound came out. None whatsoever. He could never have foreseen the scene before him, not in a lifetime of imaginings.
His best stable hand, Jack, was upon his knees on the straw and dirt strewn floor, naked as the day he was born, his hands tied behind his back with a set of reins. Mick Cole, the new stable master, stood with his feet planted wide, tall riding boots and buff breeches immaculate, while Jack ... licked and rubbed against the shiny leather of Mick's boots.
Mick had a riding crop in his hand, and was rubbing it between the firm-muscled roundness of Jack's arse cheeks, dipping every so often to lightly flick Jack's swinging ball sac.
It was at once the most disturbing and arousing thing Alistair had ever seen. Oh, he had played at things while in school, along with Griff and a few others, but he had gone on to do his duty. He had married, he hadproduced an heir, and he had determinedly forgotten the feel of a man's body.
This brought the memories back in force.
Posted March 7, 2011
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