Stonegate Stables - 1. Chapter 1

The day passed, as most do, with a variety of miscellaneous bullshit. The worst thing that happened – Alejandro finding moldy hay in the latest delivery, requiring all 103 remaining bales to be unstacked and inspected before being piled back up again – made evening feeding late. That meant I had to spend an extra 45 minutes scooping grain, measuring out vitamin and joint supplements, and weighing hay flakes before hopping on Zena bareback and loping out the gate for home.

The quickest route to my place ends at my back gate, and as we trotted up the little hill to my barn I could see that the kitchen lights were on. That meant Vincent was in my kitchen, and Vincent meant home made Italian food, and hot Latin sex. My dick gave a happy twitch as I fed and blanketed Zena, and by the time I got to the house, I had a nice boner going, so I greeted Vincent with a full body hug from behind so he could enjoy it, too.

“Mama Mia,” he growled when I bit the side of his neck, rolling his eyes as he stirred red sauce and sipped a glass of wine. He tipped his head back to my shoulder and kissed me, rubbing his butt into my crotch in bump and grind fashion. “You’re late. Tough day?”

“Moldy hay.”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust, and stuck out his tongue in a gagging motion. “Aaagghhh.”

I giggled at him. “Yeah, that’s about what the horses said.”

We’d met eight years ago when I was still riding professionally, before the accident. I'd made reservations at one of his parents’ restaurants - Corleone’s - and showed up only to find that they didn’t have me on the list. Vincent had come out from the kitchen to see what the problem was, one thing led to another, and we ended up dining nude in the middle of his king sized bed between rounds two and three of the hot Latin sex I mentioned earlier. My friends had shaken their heads and gone elsewhere.

Vincent D'Ambruzzo is classic Italian, dark eyed, olive-skinned, with long black hair, which I realized early on was his emotional barometer. Tonight his hair was freshly washed and hanging free past his collar so I knew we would make love for hours before and after dinner. He's 32 to my 30, taut and wiry at 5’11”/152, with a runner's physique of long, lean muscles. His back is nice, not too wide at the shoulders, tapering down to narrow hips and a tight ass. His body fat is low enough that you can see the vertebrae, one by one, down the furrow of his spine.

He had a sprinkling of black hair across his chest, trickling down to a small manicured patch in his groin. His cock was pinkish brown, and when fully aroused, stood out thick and straight at a 45 degree angle from his flat belly, its dark head slightly pointed with a pronounced flare, overhanging the most beautiful scrotum I’ve ever seen. Soft as velvet and hairless, the crinkly dark brown skin was seamed down the center with a firm oval hanging low in each half. His balls were very sensitive, and I loved lying between his legs tracing a finger over them to watch the skin react to my touch.

He had a security code for my place, and usually showed up unannounced three or four nights a week, joining in whatever/whomever I had going that night. He was a favorite with my friends, not only for his amazing tongue, but also for the Italian pastries he frequently brought with him from the restaurant. I have no idea what he did on the evenings he wasn’t with me, but early in our relationship he'd sometimes stay away for several days. When he'd return, I'd notice what appeared to be ligature marks on his wrists, but he didn’t try to take me there, so I never asked him about it and quit looking for them.

He turned to me and kissed me deeply, gazed lustfully into my eyes, then took me by the hand and pulled me into the library. As we entered the room, he stepped behind me and began to pull my shirt over my head while he steered me to the piano, shedding clothes along the way. Pushing me forward till my chest rested on the lid, he licked, nibbled and kissed his way from the back of my neck, along the center of my spine, down the valley of my ass, and ended up kneeling below me with my balls in his mouth.

Now, that’s a welcome home.

While Vincent’s tongue worked its magic on me I hung there with quivering knees, sighing and moaning, squirming back into his face when he did something particularly wonderful. By the time he stood up and pressed the dripping head of his rock hard cock to me, I was dizzy with arousal, and sank back onto him with a deep groan of pleasure. He lay over me, the soft hair on his chest tickling my back as he kissed my neck and ran his hands down my thighs.

In this mood, Vincent is a tough act to follow, and it’s how I like him best. He is gentle, perceptive, patient, and strong, able to go for as long as I want him to - the perfect top. Other hair styles bring with them other moods. Hair gelled and wild, he can be a little rough, more concerned with his own needs than mine, and requiring my active participation. Hair tied back, he is quiet and remote, and sex with him is almost spiritual; no words, few sounds, just sensation after amazing sensation. In any mood, he is someone I enjoy being with, and I love him. It is only his unknown darker side that prevents me from developing serious feelings for him. That, and the knowledge that he doesn’t feel those emotions for me either, no matter how much he cares for me.

Vincent fucked me slowly, long strokes alternating with short ones during which he tilted his hips to graze my prostate, bringing me to my toes as I fogged the glossy piano lid with my moans. Eventually he built up a rhythm, stroking me in time with his thrusts. We came together, him in me, and me in the kitchen towel he’d thoughtfully brought along. We lingered for a while, kissing and hugging, but hunger drove us back to the kitchen, and soon we were eating spaghetti with meatballs, garlic bread, and salad, naked at the counter, washing it down with a bottle of wine.

We tidied the kitchen, and wandered up the wide staircase to the master bedroom, grandly situated at the back of the house. It overlooked my acreage, the stream that meanders through the estates, and a few miles distant, the steeple atop the big barn at Stonegate. Tonight it was clear and the sky was filled with stars. If you lie in bed and tip your head back a little, that’s all you see. Our shower was leisurely, more foreplay than necessity. I love playing in the shower, and Vincent was in the mood to indulge me. We slicked each other up with the shower gel, and explored all the nooks and crannies we could find, lingering when a certain spot drew a particularly enthusiastic moan.

While preferring to top, Vincent occasionally likes to be fucked; it happens only in the hair loose and flowing mood. When we reached the bed, he took his arm from my shoulders and crawled forward, dropping onto his stomach in the middle of the big mattress, arms and legs spread, cock pointing toward his toes. This was my cue, so I knelt between his feet and began to run my hands lightly over his skin, licking the spot behind his knees that I found the first time he asked me do this (a story for another time). He moaned softly as I worked my way up, ruffling the hair on his thighs, pressing my thumbs lightly between his legs while I squeezed his ass, running my tongue here and there, teasing him.

I’m pretty versatile, enjoying either side of a good fuck, but when I top, I feel like a different person entirely. It is much more an act of control combined with desire than being taken. When I’m being fucked by a familiar partner, I lose myself in it, trusting them to take care of me. But when I top, I must do the taking care, paying attention to the feel, the mood, of my partner, and his comfort and pleasure become my temporary universe.

My cock was leaking precum to spare, so I wet two fingers and worked one slowly into him, feeling the warmth of his body envelop me. He’s always very tight, but soon loosened enough to take my other finger easily. I know that he allows only me this privilege, and I honor that trust, concentrating fully on him, wanting him to enjoy every move I make. I enjoy fingering him almost as much as I enjoy fucking him. My sensitive fingertips probed him gently, inside and out, and the smooth heat of him was very arousing. When he was clutching the sheet in his fists and moving restlessly, I removed my fingers and slid forward. He lifted his hips slightly for my entry, and I eased into him, awed as always at this joining of one man to another in the most intimate way possible.

He was very relaxed and accepted me with only slight resistance, grunting softly as I sunk deeper into him. When I could go no further I leaned over him, bracing myself on my arms, and let him adjust to my friendly invasion. After a minute he shifted his body under me, reached back for my hands, laced our fingers and pulled them out to our sides so that I slowly slid down onto him, my chest to his back, rising slightly as he breathed. I began to thrust slowly with just my hips, rocking in and out of him. It’s almost hypnotic, and we can do this for long stretches of time, neither of us building to climax, just enjoying the quiet of the night and the feel of each other.

Laying there on him, buried in his body, I couldn’t think of any place I’d rather be. The house was quiet, the room dark; it seemed as though we were the only two people on the planet. I nuzzled my face into his neck, breathed in the smell of him, kissed that soft spot just below his ear, nibbled on the muscles of his shoulder – loved him. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was curved in a soft smile. He made little mmm sounds now and then, tightening his fingers in mine, arching his back to bring me deeper into him. Heaven should be this good.

After a while I pushed one of his knees up the bed, and rolled him onto his side, straddling his lower leg. This is his favorite position because the penetration is very deep and I can touch both sides of his body. I stroked his cock, and circled my other hand low on his back, all the while fucking him deeply. My perineum rode his thigh with perfect pressure. We didn’t speed up as the end drew near – it took me months to develop the control to be able to do this for him – just kept a steady pace, so that our orgasms built very slowly. When we finally came, it was within a stroke or two of each other. I always pull out of him, and wrap both our cocks in one fist, his hand closing over mine, and we ejaculate on his belly. We’ve done this hundreds of times; it is special for both of us, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

We settled down to sleep, Vincent on his back with me draped over him. When I stirred a couple hours later, Vincent ran his hand reassuringly down my arm. I was surprised that he was awake, so I watched him as I drifted off. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, his face sad, and I felt a flutter of unease in my stomach, though I couldn't have said why.