The Celtic Sonata of Life

Nothing. But perhaps the intensity with which he was concentrating on the fuck should give me an indication how much he wanted it.

"Good. It's a good angle for me. I can stroke deep, long. Listen to the music. Feel the beat. This is the Dance of Life sonata. This movement is the primeval Dance of the Fuck." He laughed and I didn't know whether to take him seriously or not. His terminology was idiotic. It was just a fuck. But this was not a moment to give it any thought. "We will dance now, you and I. The Dance of the Fuck."

And then he began to pump me, pulling me back and forth on his cock, leveraging me with those beefy hands on my waist. He must have timed this with the music he knew was coming, because as the beat increased in the music and became louder and louder, his pumping kept up with the beat, fucking faster and deeper and harder. Pulling me further out now. Slamming me back down on the cock harder each time. He was shuffling his feet too, dancing in place, groaning and grunting now. Getting his rocks off. I was crying out with each deep thrust. He didn't care. Eventually I was crying out for each deep thrust. He laughed.

"It is good for you. I knew you wanted it hard. Keep the angle. The deep stroke is good."

I was lost to him and the music. Writhing under his power, begging him to slow down, to stop for a rest, to speed up, to never stop. No indication he even was listening to me. Babbling and digging my fingernails into his upper arms, unable even to break the skin as thick and tightly stretched as the skin was over his muscles. He was indestructible, unstoppable, unflappable, Supercocker; I was whatever he wanted me to be. Just a tight sheath for his cock, a vessel for his primeval need to fuck. And overwhelmed by the beat of the music, the pumping of the cock.

He fucked me for an eternity. Long, hard, deep. The thought racing across my mind: just like the cock wanted it.

Just like I was loving it, like never before. He had known what I wanted after all.

I ejaculated again, and he laughed. Then he slowed down the pumping to where he was just standing there, rocking back and forth on his feet. The CD was changing to different music. Softer, less primeval.

"Oh, god . . . that . . . was . . . I don't know what to say."

"It's not finished yet. I haven't come."

Oh, shit.

He revolved me on his cock, instructing me what to do with my legs and arms, so that, still plastered to his pelvis, I was hanging off the front of him, facing away from him, my ankles hooked on the tops of his calves and my fists locked behind his neck, him half crouching to make my smallness accommodate to his height. The beat of the music started going faster again and pushing into the foreground, and, holding my waist in his hands, he was pumping me again . . . slamming my channel up and down on his cock, all glorious primeval brutality now . . . eventually to his own ejaculation.

We held there for the longest minute, both panting hard, both animals of the farm, having expended the red-hot, uncontrollable heat of doing what nature told us we must do.

"That was a good one."

Simply that. Good? That was stupendous. I had never been so fully fucked before.

I had visions of me on all fours, like a farmyard animal, and him covering me and fucking me like a dog or a sheep. A horse. Yes, a horse, with that horse cock of his. A stud bull. Treating me just like any other animal he possessed. No condom in this vision. Strongly shooting off inside me, flooding me with semen. Breeding me, seeding me. Drowning in his hot cum. Just another day on the farm. But me loving every thrust of him. My eyes darting around the farmyard, looking for, yearning for his approach. Going down on all fours for him. Raising my "arse" for the long, thick slide of him.

"We will dance on the bed."

"Oh, god. I don't know if I—"

"Not right away. But later. Now we both rest."

"I can't, again, tonight," I murmured as he let me down and helped me to hobble to the bed and lay down. He sat on the bed beside me, moving a hand over my chest and belly, going to my nipples to tweak them.

"You were good," he said. "The best in some time. We dance well together. You are well used. The gut opens as needed."

I melted. Despite the bald, rude language, he wanted me. Me. Not just my ass. He was still here. Why was I trying to send him away?

"Anyone ever compare you to a stud bull?" I asked. I think I meant that as an admonishment, a jab at his self-possessed doggedness, a teasing of how much he obviously thought of himself. The basic animalism of him was flooding my brain. A character was forming to intrude himself into my current book. Primitive, powerful, a stud bull, one who took what he wanted, when he wanted it. A prime breeder.

I wanted to get at the computer keyboard. And yet that was just my brain. That's not what my body was telling me I wanted.

"Yes, often," he said, with a smile, the possible criticism of it flying right over his head. "I am the best you will have here. We start again soon. I think I cock you better than you have had. I think you don't have a stud bull in America like me."

As arrogant as he was about it, I could not naysay him.

"I can't anymore tonight. It was . . . terrific. Well, more than terrific. Beyond my wildest dreams of what I could have here. But I work at night. I fuck for inspiration. I have inspiration for two novels after that . . . remarkable fuck."

"You are here for two weeks. You don't have to write on the first night. We will dance on the bed tonight—and maybe in the morning too, before I go to the fields, before dawn. You are one sexy piece."

"I . . ." He was stroking my cock. And my cock was appreciating the attention. I looked and saw that his cock was already engorging again as well. Magnificent. A horse. A stud bull. And he had been inside me—to the root. And I had taken it all.

"We will take this night for cocking." It wasn't a question.

I moaned and stretched out on the bed, turning on my back and flexing my muscles, working the kinks out from the demanding positions already taken. I almost felt like I was purring. I wondered if he could hear me purring. My pelvis was moving with his stroking of my cock. I willed it to stop, but it wouldn't. He made a circle of his fingers, and my cock was slowly, sensuously stroking in the sheath it provided—on its own accord.

"You want me again. Now. You ache to have my cock inside you again."

Had I, in fact, been purring and he had heard it? Why couldn't I control my cock?

The music on the CD that had been muted in the interim was growing noticeably in volume and beat.

"I really can't." Fighting for some shred of control—over myself as much as over him.

He came up on the bed, stretching himself beside me. The beat of the music was picking up. He managed to trap my wrists in the powerful grip of one hand and pulled them over my head. The other hand, palm up, was pressing between my thighs. My body lost all loyalty to my intentions. My legs, on their own, spread, my knees went up, my heels dug into the bedspread, and my pelvis rolled up to him as two beefy fingers entered my ass, found my prostate, started to rub.

"I think I could get the whole fist up here now."

I froze, panicked.

"But such a sweet arse is for the cock."

I relaxed, but only a bit. The rubbing of the fingers was sending me over the moon.

Yes, fuck me again. Deep and hard. You know what I like. Better than I do.

I hadn't said it out loud, had I? No, I don't think so. He hadn't responded.

I looked wildly up into his eyes. His face was smiling, his eyes were flashing the totality of his control, his intention. His assurance that it was what I wanted. Looking away, my gaze went down the length of his achingly beautiful muscular chest.

How had he managed to get another condom on? I had seen him take the other one off and toss it on the floor, mesmerized by how bloated it was with creamy cum. Remembering shivering at the thought of him barebacking me, breeding me, the explosive ejaculation deep inside me and the lathering of my channel with all that cum. Aching for his cum, his total possession of me. Oh, shit. There were two more packets on the bedspread.

My eyes went back to his face.

"The Dance of the Bed," he murmured.

I started to weakly, unconvincingly object again, but his lips were covering mine, his tongue pushing them apart and invading. The music was getting louder, the beat more demanding.

He was turning me on my side, his fingers out of my channel now. He was raising my leg with a firm grip. The bulb of his cock at my entrance.

YES!

Again, I hadn't actually screamed that, had I?

I broke from the kiss, arched my back, and howled to the thatched ceiling above our heads, as he slid into me again. "Oh, god, you are so big. Oh shit. So deep so fast."

This time, though, I found it wasn't an objection. It was glorious. He had been right. We were ideal dancing partners. Now he fit me perfectly. Reamed to fit him.

"See," he said, full of his rightness, "the gut has its measure now. You want it. You want it big. You don't have a stud bull in America. You came here for this cock. You came to my farm looking for a stud bull. And you found one. It's all good for you."

God knows he was right. For two weeks he'd be going to his fields, whistling, and I'd be laying here, moaning, and not being able to close my legs. And loving every thrust of it.

He began to rock against me, moving his cock inside me, not pumping yet. I moved my hips too, realizing that it was to the beat of the music.

The beginning of the Dance of the Bed.

"Open your gut to me," he growled. I grabbed my butt cheeks and spread them as much as I could, doing everything I could to respond to his demands.