Hot Valley by James Lear Page A

crouching at the furthest of the three stalls, picking at the horse’s hoof with a small knife. He was half naked; his shirt was hanging over a saddle rack, presumably to protect it from the muck that inevitably comes with horse husbandry. For a moment, I could study him unobserved. He was a strong lad, perhaps 19 or 20 years of age, with curly brown hair that could do with a trim, a snub nose, and freckles across his face and neck, extending over his broad upper back. There was a patch of hair on his chest and a little on his stomach, standing out in stark relief from the milky whiteness of his skin. As he delved away with his knife, the muscles bunched and extended under that skin; his lower arms were sunburned to a brick red. It was obvious that he was well fed, and could look after himself in a fight. But he was, I reckoned, shorter than me by a good six inches, and if it came to a simple trial of strength, I could overpower him in a second.
    I had no desire to harm him, however, not least because I was enjoying looking at him so much. Where you, Jack, are smooth and slender, with blond hair and a skin that tans gold, this lad was stocky and sturdy—a worker, rather than a student of life. And he was good at his work; with a final, deft twist of his knife, he shot a jagged stone the size of a walnut out of the horse’s hoof, and stood up, patting the beast on its big brown behind.
    I thought it better to announce my presence, not least because he had a knife in his hand, so I coughed gently. He didn’t jump. Instead he just looked toward the door, shielding his eyes against the light, which was behind me and put me into silhouette.

    â€œBen, is that you?”
    â€œNo, it’s not Ben,” I said, taking a step forward. When he saw me more clearly, his hands went to his sides and he adopted a defensive posture. The muscles in his chest bunched up, with two pink buds on top of them that looked good enough to eat.
    â€œWhat do you want? Who are you?”
    â€œI just wondered if you were interested in maybe selling me one of your horses.”
    â€œSelling? You were planning on stealing one, more like.” He relaxed a little, and rubbed a hand across his torso, where a trickle of sweat ran from neck to navel. His hand left a dirty track behind it.
    â€œAnd could you stop me if I did?” I asked, smiling.
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œAnd maybe not.” We stood facing each other, and I became aware of the scent of his sweat above the smell of the horses—a rich scent, like wood smoke. I was already half-hard from watching him at work, and that smell finished the job. I saw him glance down toward my swollen crotch, and his body relaxed.
    â€œWe don’t have to fight,” he said. “You can take one of the horses, as far as I’m concerned. They’re not mine, and I don’t care what happens to them. But if you do take one, you can do me a favor and take me as well.”
    â€œYou want to ride with me?”
    â€œI want to get out of here.”
    â€œWhy would I want to saddle myself with a boy like you?” I said, liking the idea very much indeed.
    â€œYou want the horse?”
    â€œYes, I want the horse. But do I want you?”
    He looked down again and smiled. “Looks like you do from where I’m standing.” He laughed and licked his lips.
    â€œSo—do I have a ride?”
    â€œI’ve never ridden a black stallion before,” he said, his hand straying back to his chest and finding one of his nipples, which he unconsciously played with till it was stiff.
    â€œYou better have a good seat if you’re going to ride this,” I said, squeezing my cock.
    In answer, he turned around and dropped his pants. “How does this look? Good enough for you?” He bent forward slightly, and parted his ass cheeks with his hands. Through the dark hair, I could see his pink hole. My head swam, and all the frustration of the last