|Sold by:||Barnes & Noble|
|File size:||465 KB|
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Men of the Manor
Erotic Encounters Between Upstairs Lords & Downstairs Lads
By Rob Rosen
Cleis PressCopyright © 2014 Rob Rosen
All rights reserved.
A consoling wife was the last thing I wanted.
"Do as you must, Preston," she said. "We've survived other difficulties and we shall survive this."
I hadn't wanted agreement. Quite the opposite, I wanted argument. I wanted a plea not to sell Hambly Hall before it bankrupted me. Generations had managed to keep it going, and the last thing I wanted was to be the one who failed. I counted on Sylvia to make the stand I could not.
"I'll give it more thought," I said, turning from her and walking out onto the terrace. She was kind not to follow.
Gazing upon the vast lawns and gardens, I saw both paradise and hell: the paradise of childhood consumed by the searing reality that modern times could not provide the resources needed to maintain such an estate. Stepping from the terrace to a path below, I attempted to leave such concerns behind, but they clung to me like sticky paper on my shoe.
Two possibilities loomed: sell part of the land and attempt to maintain the balance of the estate on the proceeds or sell the whole damned thing while I could still hold my head high, then take up residence in some seaside cottage and disappear into commonality. The boy in me wanted to hold on while the man was forced to face a cruel reality: it was time to let the place go.
I hurried my step, as if I could outrun the awful truth, and when I reached the upper garden, I fixed upon its burst of color and accompanying sweet scent, finding, as always, that they soothed both man and boy. Bees buzzed among the blooms while birds chirped approval from nearby trees. I savored the sunshine while behind me the house loomed like some black shroud.
Hambly Hall's manor house was an imposing three-story structure of forty-two rooms. Surrounding it were sculpted gardens, lawns, orchards and, on the eastern side, a maze. I walked there now for no reason but that of the boy seeking solitude. The maze had been a childhood refuge when things in the house upset me or, as I matured, when I sought the privacy a young man requires to address certain physical aspects. At five I'd imagined the place a magical castle filled with knights to protect me. At ten it was a forest where lived a friendly unicorn.
At fifteen it was the private place where I explored the sexuality that had burst upon me and become so rampant that I could scarcely contain it.
I knew every inch of the maze and could reach the center without calling up the mental map I'd made as a child. Now, as I reached the sacred place, I couldn't recall my last visit. So many years had passed without my seeking refuge among the tall and crisply maintained hedges that I felt a certain loss, and so, as I entered, I looked to embrace the comfort once known amid its confines.
Gardeners kept the estate grounds in fine shape, spending much time trimming the maze to crisp edges. It didn't matter how little it was used; I insisted it be kept up at all times, and so a man was usually working there, the steady clip of shears always welcome.
I paused at the entrance and looked back at Hambly Hall, where I wondered if Sylvia watched my progress. Dear woman, she truly had no concept of the things that drive a man, the depth of the responsibilities that hound him, and the need for respite. She had only to plan meals and order servants about, leaving her husband to shoulder all else. At times I envied her.
Entering the maze, I automatically turned left and at the first juncture went right. These steps warmed me, and I felt much the child having no greater concern than finding a unicorn. On I went, turning this way and that without having to pause and decide which path to take. The route was imprinted on me and, if circumstances forced me to leave Hambly Hall, I'd take that imprint with me.
As I went along, I ran a hand against the hedges, eight-foot-high privets thick with age. Their core was woody and hard while the outer layer was soft and green, giving off a familiar scent I inhaled to excess. Turning and turning again, I moved along steadily but without hurry, knowing I'd soon reach the heart where sat the iron bench on which I'd indulged in unicorns and other things.
I encountered no gardener this morning, but the hedges looked trim, so the men were likely working elsewhere. Then, as I made the next-to-last turn, I heard sounds of a man in distress—or so I first thought. Grunts came through the privet, as if someone was being tugged on or perhaps a man had fallen from a ladder, was injured and unable to summon help. I hurried around the next turn to the center, but stopped at the entrance when I saw there was in fact no distress.
Stepping back so I wouldn't be seen, I kept close enough to have a good view because I was stunned far more than had been the boy by his unicorn. Standing behind the bench and clutching its back was Knox, the young gardener's assistant hired mere weeks before. His trousers were down and he was bent to allow Doyle, the head gardener, to fuck him. Doyle, a big and rough man I seldom spoke to, had his trousers open to allow his cock up the boy, and it was from him that the grunting issued in time to each thrust into the young bottom. Shocked at the sight, my first thought was retreat, but this quickly gave way to my own cock stirring. I made no move to turn from the spectacle. Instead, I put a hand to my crotch, as I was coming up hard.
I knew of such activity between men, but had never witnessed it, nor considered it might take place on these grounds. Unlawful and certainly immoral, I thought that it should be stopped here and now and that it was I who should intervene. But I made no such move. As the fuck continued, I undid my trousers and put a hand inside.
I held my swollen member as Doyle allowed his prick to escape the boy and then ride back up between his buttocks like a great fleshy sword. He thrust as such for several strokes, and I noted how big the cock was, flushed bright pink and wet with his juices. Then it went back up the boy who had now gotten a hand on his own prick and was going at himself with a fury. At this I pulled my cock free of its confines and began working myself, my entire being caught up in a depravity so overwhelming I could not help but indulge.
I'd brought myself off many a time as a grown man, so that was nothing new. Sylvia often wouldn't have me, and I'd retreat to my dressing room where I'd gain relief by my own hand. She knew I did this, and though she never spoke on it, being a lady, I'm sure she approved, as it spared her what she thought a messy and intrusive practice.
Pumping away, Doyle's grunts became louder until at last he growled like a bear. His face reddened and, as he took on the grimace common to all men when they come, I let go my own spurts, a climax of great proportion sweeping over me. As Doyle and I simultaneously emptied, the boy gave a cry, his stuff spewing onto the bench.
Spent, I attempted to regain my breath while slumping from the joyous release. In this state, I did not immediately notice that Doyle had withdrawn from the boy and was looking at me. I had, in my throes, it seemed, moved out where I could be seen.
My cock had softened upon its completion, but I still held on, unwilling to let the moment pass. Doyle let go of Knox, and while the boy scampered to pull up his pants, Doyle made no move for cover, and neither did I.
Once buttoned up, the boy ran past me, and I said not a word while Doyle took a few steps my way. His prick had lost its stiffness, but still possessed some girth and appeared naturally large. As I kept my gaze fixed upon it, Doyle took it in hand. "It's a big 'un," he said, and I looked up. He was coarse, as are most outdoor men, well over six feet and thick of build. Plain featured, brown haired, and ruddy from the sun, he nevertheless gave off an appeal that kept me stirred, no matter I'd just come.
"You want me to fuck you?" he asked with a leer. "I can get it up again, as I'm a virile sort, having more spunk in my balls than do most stallions." He took a couple of steps my way, and I drew back, as if distance could quell the flame he'd ignited. "Ever had a cock up you?" he then asked. "I'm thinking not. You've got milady, and while a cunt ain't a bad place to stick your cock, true satisfaction is gained only by taking one up the arse." Here he wagged his thing. I noticed it was quickly regaining size. "That's right," Doyle continued. "I can get it up right now, so drop your trousers and I'll break you in. Nobody need know. Just you and me." The leer rose on his face.
My mouth went dry and my heart raced as I fought the urge to engage in depravity. I wanted to take hold of that big prick, fondle and play with the thing, maybe suck on it. I hadn't touched any cock but my own since school, where all young boys experimented. Now, here before me was a man's own specimen, large and eager. I could almost feel it in my palm.
"Well, come on then," prodded Doyle, stepping closer.
It struck me then that he meant to put it up me, and I caught myself, for the lord of the manor showing his prick to a servant, or worse, the servant thinking he might take advantage, would never do. Appalled at this turn, I stuffed my cock into my trousers, buttoned up and fled, but by the time I reached the house I'd shed the panic in favor of recalling Doyle's massive prick.
I sought my study, as I could not possibly face Sylvia in such a state. I sat at my desk and attempted to review accounts while knowing it futile. At last, I gave way and turned to look out the window, grateful the view was not that of the maze. This didn't matter, of course; the incident was seared into memory, driving off all lesser images. After some minutes of turmoil, I decided there was no need to resist what was so thoroughly upon me. I brought to mind Doyle fucking the boy, the image of which sprang up like he was going at it there in my study. I'd never seen men fuck, and found it intoxicating, a cock up a man's bottom instead of a woman's well-guarded cunt. Men would have no such guard, welcoming all that was offered, the need constant. It was a wonderfully filthy idea, and it instantly began to rouse me.
When I sought my dressing room and found my valet there attending my suits, I felt much the boy caught with prick in hand. "You may go, Hodge," I rasped. He passed me a questioning look, though I'm certain I gave not a hint that my cock was stiffening.
"Very good, sir," he said as he retreated.
Once alone, I stripped naked, need upon me as never before. This surprised me, as a climax with Sylvia always brought on sleep; this time it fueled me anew, and so, once bare, I stood at the mirror and handled my prick while revisiting the scene in the maze. As I saw Doyle's heavy prick going up the boy's bottom, a craving came over me so powerfully that it had to be addressed. I turned my backside to the mirror and with my free hand put a finger up my exposed hole.
There came no disgust at this. Rather, a wave of pleasure washed through my passage, my cock thickening in my hand. I then began to prod myself while pulling my rod and knew near ecstasy until I realized the penetration inadequate. What I wanted was something cock-like. Popping out the finger, I looked around for some long implement with which to spear myself and found it in a walking stick. Old and seldom used, it was unadorned and bore no rubber tip; it was simply rounded on the end. Imagining it a wooden prick, I grabbed hold of it, squatted at the mirror, and eased it up myself while watching it go in. A cry of pleasure attempted to escape me, and I had to work at remaining silent.
It quickly became obvious that I needed lubrication for this effort, so I left my dressing room, crossed the bedroom, and entered Sylvia's dressing room, after knocking to make sure she was absent. Alone among her pots and jars, I took up a large gob of cream and hurried back to my sex grotto. I smeared the stuff on the stick and ran some up my hole, then squatted and inserted the stick once again, imagining it was the cock of an aroused man who was urgent in his need to have me. I then proceeded to fuck myself while pulling my rod to a massive come, and it was then that I got what Doyle meant about having something up the backside. As I fucked and came, I watched it all in the mirror, which only increased the pleasure.
Once spent, however, shame fell upon me, and the sight of the stick in me became revolting. I withdrew it, wiped it with a towel, and put it away, then cleaned my spunk from the floor, lest Hodge find it. Once the evidence was gone, I was left to face myself in the mirror, and what I'd done did not sit well with me, the lord of the manor having fucked himself. It was appalling, and I immediately dressed and went down to Sylvia, who I found reading in the front parlor. "Dearest," I said when I reached her. I kissed her cheek, then took up a newspaper and settled in a chair opposite, life now as it should be.
I understandably avoided the maze from then on out, though one time I did glance that way. Sight of a ladder set up against it aroused me to such extent that I approached Sylvia in bed that night. She was good at her wifely duty, allowing her gown removed, but once I was fully possessed of a throbbing erection, I asked her if we might progress in our lovemaking.
"Of course, dearest," she cooed. "In what way?"
"I want you to put a finger up me while I'm aroused."
She stiffened in my embrace. "Up you?"
"My bottom hole. It's a highly sensitive area for a man. Just put it in and work it around, maybe in and out as well."
She pulled away. "That is disgusting," she declared, and before I could say anything more, she pulled on her gown and fled to her dressing room. I lay there expecting the familiar shame a man inflicts on himself when he makes reasonable demands on his wife that are seen by her as unreasonable, but this time there came no such shame. What I found was a relief of sorts, so I fled to my dressing room, sought my stick, applied cream that I'd now stocked, and proceeded to fuck myself to a most satisfying come. I decided then that I need not trouble Sylvia with further demands.
The next day, when I again saw a ladder at the maze, I ventured there. I wanted to see Doyle's cock again, but not as he went at a boy who couldn't possibly appreciate what he received. Making the usual turns in the maze, I feared Doyle might be absent, the ladder simply not yet put away. My prick, however, thought otherwise, and by the time I reached the center bench, I was fully erect. Much to my disappointment, I found myself alone.
I paced the little garden square that was no bigger than a parlor, my arousal unrelenting. Finally I sat, undid my pants, and got out my cock. Eyes closed, I sat working it until I heard a voice. "Come to call, did you?" said Doyle.
I opened my eyes to see him in front of me.
"Brought me something, I see," he added, nodding at my prick. He began to undo his trousers, and once open he pushed them down so I might enjoy not only his formidable cock, but the black thicket from which it sprang.
My gaze fixed upon the sight as I continued to work myself. In response, Doyle began to pull his rod with one hand while the other fondled his balls. "You'll have to get them trousers down if you want it," he said as he moved closer.
The cock was so much fatter than the walking stick that it scared as well as excited me. As if to read my thoughts, Doyle said, "Don't worry. It'll fit up you. The arsehole stretches for a fuck as it welcomes such a thing. A man's true center is up there, and once it's attended by a cock, it sets up a craving you cannot deny. Now, get your pants and drawers down, as I'm in need of a fine old fuck."
He continued pulling his cock, and I found myself on my feet, removing first my coat, as it might impede things, then undoing my trousers. When I pushed them down along with my linen, Doyle grabbed me and pulled me to my feet. "Lean against the back of the bench and stick out your bum," he commanded.
I looked around, which was silly as we were truly alone, then hobbled around the back of the bench and took hold while thrusting my bottom at him like some bitch in heat. When he parted my buttocks, I issued a little cry.
"Okay then," he said, and I felt his wet knob poke at my puckered hole. Even this thrilled me, the awful place now part of sex play. He nudged and pushed, then gave a good shove and popped it in, at which I cried out, pain shooting through me. "Won't hurt for long," he said as he began to fuck. "Pleasure will take you over, I guarantee."
He was right. Amid the pain, I found a feeling beyond any previously known, the cock now well inside me and addressing places most sensitive. I grabbed my prick, as I wanted to come with him fucking me.
"Good, ain't it?" he said.
I nodded a reply. He laughed, never breaking stride.
"You've a tight passage, milord," he declared. "Makes for a fine fuck. Yes sir, fine indeed."
I was beyond ecstasy, and when a climax beckoned, I began to utter the gibberish of a man lost to his most intimate function. I could not remain still, either in body or voice. I squealed and moaned as his cock went in and out, sending my passage into a throb that saw my prick ready to fire.
"Fuck the stuff outa ya," growled Doyle.
Excerpted from Men of the Manor by Rob Rosen. Copyright © 2014 Rob Rosen. Excerpted by permission of Cleis Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
The Maze Dale Chase, 1,
Finnias Laredo Alex Stitt, 16,
Finsloe Xavier Axelson, 35,
Booting Salome Wilde, 54,
Seducing the Footman Brent Archer, 68,
Folly's Ditch Felice Picano, 81,
Manor Games Michael Roberts, 97,
Brass Rags J. L. Merrow, 110,
Mutable Memories Michael Bracken, 132,
Front Door, Back Door Logan Zachary, 145,
Chauffeur's Hole Landon Dixon, 166,
Master Jeffy Learns a Lesson Sasha Payne, 178,
Bohemian Rhapsody Rob Rosen, 202,
About the Authors, 215,
About the Editor, 218,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Men of the Manor is full of stories that involve entertaining banter that leads to steamy stories of erotic encounters. Characters like masters, lords, and servants create interesting dynamics within each story which heightens the intensity. This book will take you back in time and keep you entertained.