Chapter 23 - The Farmer Wears Some Tights

It was a beautiful midsummer evening. The sun cast a warm, golden glow across the undulating hills of the English countryside. Alexander dismounted from his fine black stallion and drew in a deep, satisfied breath. God, it felt good to be alive!

He unfastened his saddle bags and made his way into the inn. It was a homely affair with crude wooden furniture. But it was clean, and the smattering of locals already established in their regular corners raised a welcoming smile to the traveller. Alexander returned their welcome with a nod of his head. They were farming folk, and for once, he was relieved that it seemed he would be able to keep his sword sheathed in its scabbard. Meaner hostels usually contained a rough element who, emboldened by ale, decided to try their luck with the elegant, well-dressed stranger.

The innkeeper bustled out of his kitchen to welcome the illustrious guest, clearly impressed by Alexander’s embroidered riding cloak, long leather riding boots and luxurious grey hose. Alexander negotiated a room for the night, ordered some food and a flagon of ale and then settled down for the evening.

It had been a successful trip. He had only been in Lord Geoffrey de Montford’s service for a few months, but had already earned his master’s trust. Geoffrey had expensive and specific tastes. Rumours would circulate of a new fashion in clothes or food, and his Lordship would demand to have the latest on display at his castle in the north. And whom could he trust to send on such important matters? Why, Alexander of course. And now, his packs full of such expensive luxuries, Alexander was finally on his way home.

Home. The very thought of it conjured up images of the wide-eyed junior page boy, Henry. How Alexander longed to get his hands on that enticing youth: innocent and virginal-looking in spite of his sixteen years. Alexander’s cock twitched in his tights as he fantasised about seducing the lad. One day, he thought to himself. One day, I’ll get my chance. Nicholas – the Steward that Geoffrey had inherited from his crusty old father – could not go on forever. And when the old man vacated the position, Alexander was determined to take his place. And when he did, would there be some changes at Castle Montford!

Young Henry wouldn’t be wandering around the castle in the plain, drab costume that was his current uniform: thick grey woollen hose under a beige sack-cloth tunic which hung down to below the lad’s knees. No, Alexander would personally see to it that all the pages would be dressed in the finest silken hosiery, best to accentuate every curve and bulge of their legs and arses: their perky cocks framed in their tights and on permanent display. He rubbed his own bulge idly beneath the inn table and thought how very much he would like to have young Henry here at this moment.

He was roused from his reverie by a noise at the door. He glanced up to view the new arrivals. Just some farm workers, he thought to himself. And then he looked again. Three young men. Grimy and weary from their day in the fields. The first two Alexander dismissed instantly as being of little or no interest, straw-haired bumpkins with peg-like teeth and cauliflower ears. Probably inter-bred, he thought. But the third was a different matter.

This one was tall: as tall as Alexander himself. And the first thing that Alexander noticed was the young man’s wide and dazzling smile. His skin was brown from his time working outdoors and he had a strong, square jaw. A mop of curly brown hair adorned his head, and his good-natured eyes glowed a piercing blue. He must have been about twenty-three, mused Alexander, and as one might expect, his arms were well-developed and muscular from working in the field. The newcomer was laughing heartily as he strode over to the bar to order.

Alexander silently cursed the rough peasant smock and baggy cotton trousers that concealed the detail of the well-proportioned body that surely lay beneath. If only, he mused, he could find a way to liberate the handsome stranger from his unprepossessing garb…

“Allow me to get these.”

The farm workers protested but Alexander insisted, and soon the three of them had joined the suave and well-dressed stranger at his table. Introductions were made.

“I’m Peter Davenport, Sir. Lived here in Mickelsfield my whole life. These are my best friends, Martin and Rodney…”

Peter went on but Alexander was barely listening. He had no interest in the two friends, after all.

The barmaid brought over the four tankards of ale to their table, and Alexander noted with interest that Peter and his fellows were transfixed by the blonde girl in her lacy, low-cut blouse. All the better for me, he thought, as their total distraction meant that he was able to pour a fine, white powder into one of the tankards.

The barmaid lingered flirtatiously: clearly the attraction between her and the manly Peter was mutual.

“That will be all, girl” said Alexander peremptorily. But as he dismissed her, he took a silver shilling from the velvet purse at his waist for her tip. With some satisfaction, Alexander noticed all three of the farmers’ eyes widen at his generosity.

A lingering disappointment in Peter’s eyes as the girl withdrew was soon replaced by the prospect of ale, and Alexander pushed the drugged flagon towards the alluring young farmer.

They idled the time in chat for a while. The initial nervousness of the village lads soon dissipated as the ale flowed down their gullets. Alexander rapidly appreciated that Peter was something of a local hero: his handsome face, fantastic physique and good nature attracting all those around him. Had I more of a conscience and given what I plan to do, I might even feel sorry for him, Alexander thought to himself.

Another round of drinks and he suggested a small wager based on the outcome of the roll of a die. There was reluctance at first.

“We are poor farm workers, Sir,” pointed out the amiable Peter. “And we cannot compete with your wealth.”

Alexander dismissed the objection. “Certainly I shall bet with my cash, but it would not be fair for you to wager an equal amount given the difference in our status. Let us say, rather, that if you were to lose, you would perform a small forfeit instead.”

At this, Peter brightened. That seemed a fair proposition. A drunken night with his friends in the village invariably degenerated into a game of forfeits: holding a boulder above your head for a minute, balancing on the narrow bridge across the stream, stealing a kiss from the barmaid, the delightful Griselde.

“Besides,” added Alexander morosely. “I have deuced bad luck with the dice. Lady Fortune rarely smiles on me, I’m afraid. More often than not, I find I leave a game of dice with a much lighter purse than I came with.”

This clinched it. Peter’s two friends took up ring-side seats, as Alexander faced the farmer as his opponent.

The game began, and all proceeded precisely as Alexander had intended. His special weighted dice were produced, and to begin with, his prediction about his own ill-fortune at the game seemed only too precise. The grin on Peter’s face spread wider and wider as the pile of little silver shillings accumulating in front of him grew ever greater.

However, then, almost imperceptibly, the tide began to turn. Before long, Peter found that his shiny winnings were dwindling rapidly. One of his friends started to urge him to stop.

“Come now,” cooed Alexander. “Would you be such a poor sport as to quit when you’re winning? Surely you would not be so underhand as to deny me the chance to draw level with you! Besides, I am sure this little victorious streak of mine will – as it always does – prove merely temporary.”

“Shame on you, Martin,” admonished Peter. “Do you want this fine gentleman to think we in Mickelsfield are bad sportsmen?”

And so he ploughed on. And surely, soon enough, he had lost all he had earned so far. And, were he to lose, the next throw of the dice would for the first time plunge him into Alexander’s debt.

The two cubes skittered across the table – and a groan escaped from Peter’s two friends as their hero lost yet again.

“So, my good man. You must pay a penalty,” said Alexander with a sorrowful shake of his head. “And as I know you are an a good sportsman and an honest fellow, I’m sure you will not try and shirk the forfeit.”

Ruefully, Peter shook his head. His reputation in the village would never recover if it were known that he had broken his word.

“Let me see…” pondered Alexander, deliberately prolonging the young man’s agony. “What do I have here in my packs?”

He rooted about in his saddle bags, and eventually, he produced one of the fine garments Lord Geoffrey had charged him with procuring.

“I think we would all be highly amused to see you stripping off your peasant garb and wearing these…”

Peter’s eyes widened as he saw a pair of long, silken tights draped over Alexander’s arm.

“You may go outside to change. But the forfeit I give you is to come in here wearing nothing but this canary yellow hose…”

His friends were stunned at the prospective loss of Peter’s dignity, and yet all knew that he had no choice but to carry out Alexander’s command.

“Please, my lord –“

“Come now,” tutted Alexander. “Surely you will not shame yourself by grovelling to try and avoid what you have earned yourself. Take your forfeit like a man!”

The handsome hunk trudged miserably to the door. A low chatter of anticipation ran around the inn, all of its denizens having been attracted by the drama of the game.

Alexander waited patiently for Peter to return. And finally, the inn door creaked open. There was a stunned silence, and then a great guffaw of laughter as Peter stood in the doorway.

Alexander Courcey was not disappointed. The farm worker’s shoulders were broad and tanned, his upper body muscular and lean. And then – oh joy! – Peter’s legs were as hot as he had anticipated. Thick, well proportioned thigh muscles, nicely turned out calves, all encased in bright, bright yellow. The tights clung to every part of him, indecently highlighting every scrap of strong masculine flesh.

Gleefully, Alexander noted that the aphrodisiac powder he had been using to drug Peter’s ale had done its job, and that Peter’s prick stood swollen and proud in its constricting yellow cage. The look on the man’s face said it all – he could not have felt less sexually aroused, and yet his cock seemed to have a will of its own, and was hard and throbbing for all to see. Vainly, he tried to cover the considerable bulge in his tights, but his clasped hands across his groin served merely to draw attention to his state of excitement.

“Turn around, my friend,” called Alexander. “Let us all enjoy the spectacle you’re providing!”

Slowly and reluctantly, Peter rotated on the spot. Alexander nodded appreciatively as the globes of the hunky farmer’s bum came into view, the delightfully sensual yellow tights pulled up so that the material disappeared into his arse crack and the two butt cheeks separated – hard, smooth and round. He was a bit more muscular than the type Alexander usually preferred, but there was no denying that he had a certain unique charm. Peter’s whole body seemed to flush scarlet at being exposed in this way before his friends and neighbours.

“Come join us at the table!”

Eyes cast down on the floor, still attempting, unsuccessfully, to conceal his erect cock, Peter shuffled over to join his half-stunned friends.

“Don’t look so upset,” comforted Alexander. “You’re not the first lad to get turned on by being put in a pair of tights. And I’m sure you won’t be the last. Feels good against your skin, yes?”

Peter the farmer just looked up, helplessly at him, confused as to how he’d ended up in this humiliating predicament.

“Come along, now,” Alexander continued cheerfully. “You’ve been a good sport – so how about I return the favour? What if I give you the chance to win my purse of silver here?”

“No, no more dice,” stammered the bare-chested hunk.

“No, no, no. My luck seems to have turned in my favour after all this time. I was thinking of something that would give you a big advantage. You’re clearly a strong young man. What if we were to arm wrestle? If you win, you take the money fair and square.”

Peter’s sidekicks began to nod eagerly. Their friend was the strongest in the village. And whilst there was a lean muscularity to the wealthy stranger, they had no doubt that Peter would best him.

Equally, the curly-haired farmer himself needed little time to think over the proposition. “It’s a deal,” he said forcefully, barely contemplating what would happen if Alexander were to win.

“And if you lose – which I feel sure is most unlikely given your youth and vigour – then you must submit to whatever I choose to do with you for the rest of this evening.”

“Yes, yes,” said Peter, impatient to get his hands on Alexander’s purse and out of his humiliating yellow tights.

Alexander removed his riding cloak and his jerkin. His bare arms were lean and sinewy. However, Peter remained confident that he held the advantage.

Both men placed their elbows on the table between them, and at a signal from the innkeeper, the contest began. Both tensed and began the effort to defeat the other. Peter was surprised to find his opponent stronger than he’d anticipated. He gritted his teeth, mustered his strength and pushed against Alexander’s arm.

It was to no avail. The saturnine Alexander’s arm resolutely refused to budge and indeed, it was Peter’s which seemed to start to give way. Had he known that all evening he had been imbibing a drug which sapped all a man’s strength from the rest of his body only to focus it all on his genitals, he would not have been so surprised.

Sweat burst in droplets from the farmer’s brow as his anguished friends began to realise that Alexander was slowly forcing their hero’s arm to the table. Peter gave a strangled cry of despair as his knuckles finally came to rest against the oaken surface. He had lost.

Alexander, displaying no sign of exertion whatsoever, looked at him with mock sympathy.

“Well, my friend. It seems that you are mine for the evening…”