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Low Farm Chapter 6

A few days later, Jonny was awoken by a large fist grasping at his
solid cock. The fist gripped it so fiercely he was initially frightened
until he heard Ben’s voice announcing that the first builder was coming
in 20 minutes to give his quotation.

He blearily came to properly, aware of gentle Malian kora music
playing somewhere, and the smell of warm croissants. Coffee was nearby
too; a kiss followed, but still his cock was ensnared ! A sublime, yet
slightly painful start to the day.

“Well ?? A re you getting up or what ?” Ben breathed, inches from his face.
“ I am up – what are you going to do about it ??” Jonny whispered as a reply.
The grip loosened a little as Ben pulled back the duvet and proceded to
work Jonny’s foreskin. A knock at the door and the dog’s very audible
bark stopped him in his tracks.

“That’ll be Wilson and Kemp, the first builders!” Ben disappointedly announced.

He withdrew from his lover’s room, looking pissed off.

Winter’s icy grip was also in place at Low Lane. The first serious
frosts had attached themselves to everything shortly after Christmas,
creating stunning, sparkling landscapes and tracks which crunched
underfoot. One morning even the Land Rover’s brakes had frozen solid –
at about minus 15 degrees, leaving them virtual prisoners of the ice.

Snow then followed from the east – and it settled. For once the
permanently damp ground at the farm had frozen, allowing a white
landscape to be created. Long walks resulted in their Wellington boots
coming back sparkling black – almost in showroom condition.

“This won’t last – don’t worry ! You’ll soon be back in the mud” Jonny reassured.

He dressed quickly and grabbed a croissant, before joining Ben and
Mr. Wilson out in the farm yard; his old white van was parked close to
the door. They jumped into the bench seat of the Transit and bumped
their way the half mile or so up to the old barn. Initial plans had
already been discussed over the phone, so the man knew vaguely what to
expect.

He was no oil painting, but Jonny knew the quality of his work was
good – they needed a builder after all, not an underwear model. They
didn’t elaborate about the exact use of the barn, mentioning vaguely
about a survival fitness center attached to a camp site.

“My nephew would like that,” Wilson muttered, “He’s in the T.A.” It was the most he’d said thus far !

Ben’s Armasol boot nudged Jonny’s Bullseye as he shot a knowing look .

They arrived and climbed down into the gateway and walked steadily through the deep snow the 50 yards to the barn.

“Nice spot!” muttered Wilson.

“Get’s a bit boggy in the autumn” Ben announced as an aside.

“Roof’s sound – that’s one thing, good old doors too,” they heaved
the barn doors open allowing bright sunlight to fill the cavernous
interior. He kicked at the floor in his old rigger boots, made a few
estimated measurements on a scrap of card and checked the walls. “You
mentioned a pit. Like a swimming pool, do you mean ?”

“After a fashion,” Ben jumped in, “it’ll be part of the assault course – mud and water, you know ?”

Mr. Wilson looked at him as if he were mad, then said “if it’s 4
feet deep, and half the area of this ‘ere barn, my quotation is £2500 –
all in. How’s that for you ?”

The guys looked at each other, not intending saying anything
definite until the other two companies had been, due that afternoon and
the next day.

Promised phone calls were arranged for the Thursday, and they
parted company back in the farm yard. Ben and Jonny returned indoor,
shook off their Wellingtons and went back to the kitchen for the now
cold food. Fresh coffee was made – but Jonny’s cock had to wait, no
matter how much Ben nudged it with his seaboot-socked foot, under the
table !

Woodpeckers and bullfinches came to the feeders outside, and even
buzzards screeched and mewed close to the farm, so cold had it become.

The second builder arrived a little after 2 p.m., just as the grey
clouds were amassing again for more snow; it would be dark soon so they
had to get a move on. He came in an old Polo, so he joined them in the
Defender.

“Excuse the mess” Jonny said over his shoulder.

“No problem,” the youngish man, whose name was Dermot ,called back;
“I’ve got boots on !” Ben gave another knowing glance, but said nothing.

This man was in his early 30s and had replied to their call for a
quotation promptly; he was amiable and seemed more at ease than the
first man.

They repeated the “tour”, with Dermot making similar remarks to his
competitor. Jonny liked him immediately, feeling he was O.K. with gay
guys and would be fine to work with. His quotation matched Wilson’s
too, give or take.

The third man arrived the next day, a little late because of the snow and other hold ups.
His estimate was by far the most expensive, which allowed Ben and Jonny to make up their minds that night.

Two men were “let go” on the Thursday, with polite apologies, the middle firm was hired – much to the delight of all !

“It’s not always a winter wonderland, you know, it gets mighty
muddy up in that part of the farm…” Jonny’s voice trailed off a little.

“I’m used to a bit of mud – goes with the job !” Dermot quipped back.

“This might be more than a bit…”

Jonny wanted to be perfectly sure they weren’t going to be left high
and dry ( or the sodden equivalent) when the going got difficult,
because when the thaw came things would be bottomless and Dermot and
his newly employed “lad” would find themselves slogging in nothing but
mud for days on end.

“Honestly, it won’t be a problem !” Dermot reassured them before they hung up.

The thaw came, as they knew it would. A sudden overnight change in
the wind, veering to the south-west brought temperatures above zero,
and drizzly sleet. The snow started to disappear, allowing the already
saturated land to reappear.

In no time at all, the whole of Low Lane was a sea of mud – and
especially around the old barn. “I hope Dermot’s got some waders – I
think he’s gonna need them !!” Ben joked as they squelched across a
setaside field which had turned to pure wet clay, his massive Armasols
having picked up a ton of thick mud around each foot which he proceded
to kick up Jonny’s back ! Jonny’s Bulls looked about size 13s too – as
his overalls started to tent, struggling to face Ben, six inches deep
in the mud. They were quite simply sinking into the field

“We’ll be needing waders too, I reckon!”

“Good job there’s a few pairs in the shed then !!” Jonny smiled
back, as their mouths met firmly. Ben backed him wetly up against a
tree, spun him round as best he could, making him stumble to his knees
once, splattering fresh thick clay up his blue overall legs.

Almost instantly Ben had kicked Jonny’s Wellingtons apart and
produced a thickish rope. “Stand still !!” he snarled, knowing Jonny’s
feet were sinking with ease into a patch of sandy clay. Ben darted
behind the tree, tied Jonny’s wrists together tightly and wallowed back
to rip open the back of the shorter guy’s overalls.

Ben’s cock was so hard, he thought he could fuck through a barn
door; but Jonny’s smooth arse was there for the taking. The
mock-protests and squirming effort to escape turned him on even more.

“Stand up you fucker !!” Ben all but shouted.

“I AM standing !!” Jonny groaned back. He had sunk almost to the
tops of his Bullseyes now and had made quite of pool of glue like clay
around his lower legs.

Ben reached down at an angle to ram his cock up Jonny’s arse; he
had produced so much pre-cum he didn’t need any more lube. He tried to
keep his feet still and parallel to Jonny’s boots, but the mud had
other ideas. He slithered and squelched around trying to grip,
stumbling a bit more and ramming Jonny harder than he had intended to.
Jonny wailed and Ben apologized.

Jonny tried to stand up straight again, but failed; Ben continued
pounding like a piston engine rhythmically giving Jonny’s arse the
servicing of its life !!

Jonny was loving being fucked so roughly – and knowing he couldn’t
escape this hunk of a man. He also knew his feet were feeling strangely
cold and wet. He looked down to see that the glutinous mud had
completely claimed his old gumboots and was engulfing him. He tried to
lift his right foot – without hindering the steam engine behind him –
but couldn’t. Even his feet were stuck in the boots which were totally
planted.

Ben’s heavy moaning triggered Jonny’s cock to explode in his
overalls, that and the knowledge of the thick mud also making him a
prisoner. He shot 7 or 8 violent spurts which smeared across his
stomach and soaked into the thick cotton. Ben was aware that Jonny had
started leaning even further forwards as his energy ebbed away. Ben
tried hauling his feet back a bit , almost losing his left Armasol in
its bogged position – the boot was totally plastered in thick clay,
unrecognizably so. He’d never seen it so filthy – and that was all the
trigger he needed to fill Jonny with red hot cum !

It seemed an age before either of them spoke.

Ben noticed the angle Jonny was now at, and that his wrists were
chafing. He stood as quickly as he could, and hauling his boots with
every step, rounded the tree to untie his mate. Jonny would have fallen
forwards, but was unable to move his lower body.

“Are you alright ?? I’m sorry if I……….”

“I’m bloody marvelous” whimpered Jonny, looking adoringly up at Ben. “The best sex yet…”

“Let me get you upright” Ben suggested.

This proved to be easier said than done.

Ben squelched heavily inbetween the tree and his lover, planting his
Armasols heavily into the pool of gooey clay.. Very gently he guided
Jonny to being vertical again. All four hands reached down to seize
Jonny’s Wellington boots but all their hauling was in vain. They were 3
or 4 sizes too big for the lad and a great deal of mud had slowly
glugged inside them as they anchored themselves in the churned clay.
One of Jonny’s feet slowly appeared – albeit in a massively sodden
sea-boot sock, unrecognisably plastered. He tried to find his balance –
but ended up thrusting his right foot straight into the pure mud. The
cool temperature made him shudder a little. The thick, cream wool
slowly became a drenched brown as Jonny wriggled his toes. He really
didn’t care how muddy he got, no harm would come of him there.

With his arse dripping cum, his boots trapped and his body cooling
down, Jonny knew he had only one choice. “I’ll leave the boots until
later…”he suggested hoarsely.

“Stay there,” Ben ordered, “ I have a plan !” Ben slammed his
gumboot down on Jonny’s abandoned boots – making their retrieval even
harder !!

And with that, Jonny watched the hot man yomp off through the
churned, oozy clay back towards the farm buildings, which mercifully
weren’t too far away.

Ben jogged through the 12 inch deep mud as if it were a lawn. He
knew he would never need a gym, with such sucking mud giving him free
muscle development ! His enormous Wellingtons pounded the ground,
splattering ever more clay up the shafts, and making the feet truly
enormous. Each boot weighed about 8 or 10 kilos, as they became more
and more unrecognizable too.

He carried on loping until he reached the yard. By the time he
opened the boot shed door, his Wellingtons were just pure mud – even
above his knees was caked. Thinking he had done a serious cross-country
run, Ben felt very pleased with himself, and bloody horny all over
again.

He entered the slightly dark boot room and glanced around. He
wasn’t as familiar with it as Jonny, but the heady aroma of rubber and
canvas hit him like a body-blow. He located his extra-high Bullseyes
instantly – nothing else in there was as sizable …and shook off his
Armasols. The weight of mud meant they fell from his huge feet easily ,
one of them stood upright, the other fell on its filthy side. The dried
soil on the floor claimed its victim happily.

Ben thrust his slightly grubby socks deep into the massive Bullseye
waders. Steam wafted upwards from his Wellingtons in the stillness of
the shed. He yanked the thick, black rubber upright, not caring about
the mud from his trousers mucking up the cream canvas. He knew it would
see worse. He fastened the short, rubber belt buckles to his trousers
and set about finding something suitable for Jonny.

The size 13 Westgate chest waders seemed most appropriate ! Roomy –
yes; only 4 sizes too big – fine; in need of a new mudding – a
certainty !!

Ben hauled them from the drying rack, and landed them across his left shoulder.

Anyone seeing him would have been captivated by a tall guy almost
100 % rubber-made. Only his head wasn’t covered in rubber, and his
right shoulder, of course.

He slammed the feet on the enormous waders through the thickest mud
he could locate, whilst not ignoring Jonny’s plight. He gouged and
kicked his way, whilst romping through the ooze – gradually his waders
started to get so splattered with mud he knew he had to cum again.
Soon……

Jonny had hauled both feet from their mud-anchor. He stood
precariously on one of the few remaining tufts of grass in the field,
his toes were damp. Normally he would have retrieved the boots and got
on with the day – but he had a willing man to help now. A man who had
looked so fucking hot as he wallowed away along the field edge, that he
thought he’d let him go and be the brave warrior!

And here he returned ! Who needed to go to Glastonbury ?? All the
mud any guy could need was right there ! Low Lane ought to open its own
rock venue ! Jonny could think of more than a few singers who he’d like
to see mud-bound…

Ben sploshed to a halt wearing the waders Jonny knew were spotless just after Christmas. What a Christening !!!

“You’ve made me fucking hard again!” he announced.

“All I’ve done is got you some boots !” Ben replied, looking
innocent, as the drenching mud slowly glugged back to the churned
ground, deeply implanted in which were Ben’s feet.

Ben threw the sagging, massive black lump which was the chest waders, down onto the wet ground.

“Get dressed !!” ordered the taller man. He knew full well that
Jonny couldn’t possibly reach the waders from where he perched. Ben
crossed his arms and waited !

Eventually Jonny waded to the boots, seeing as the boots wouldn’t come to him.

Ben watched keenly, shifting his weight from boot to boot,
shuffling slightly and creaming up the ooze. He nonchalantly rested one
massive foot on the other, smearing clay as he did so. He loved
watching Jonny struggle, nearly moving to assist when his lover fell
into a sitting position…

The shorter guy planted his dirty arse into a pool of ooze to help
with the procedure of hauling on the heavy toe-capped waders. His
filthy socks were hanging off his feet, his trousers sodden, as he
attempted to lift the chest waders. Ben waded over and stood on the
enormous feet, driving the steel toes way underground, picking up 2
handsful of gloopy mud and flinging then at Jonny as he tugged at the
rubber.

It took just a little more taunting before Jonny reacted.

He hauled himself to his feet unsteadily, sinking precariously into
the thickening porridgy sludge all around, and took a lunging run at
Ben.

The latter was knocked heavily off his feet, landing with a backward slide in a pool of liquid silt.

“Right, you fucker…….” Jonny seemed to be getting riled. Ben knew a good tussle would follow !

Ben felt the material of his trousers get damp – not just from the
outside…his waders had picked up quite a scoop of runny mud each as
Jonny had landed him horizontally and he knew he was about to get
plastered again.

Laying in a sea of deep ooze, Ben let Jonny have his way – after
they had rolled over and over a few times, and Jonny had tried to lift
the bigger guy to dunk him deeper. Ben had made Jonny a mud monster –
not a square inch of him looked other then brown sludge. His head had
been dunked, his body thrown and his cock grabbed. He had lost one sock
completely and the other was hanging way off his foot. But he wasn’t
beaten.

He knew Ben’s ticklish places.

Thrusting his left hand beneath Ben’s shirt, smearing even more mud
with the grab, Jonny started making Ben submit by attacking him below
the rib cage.

The 6’3 man started to squirm becoming more and more powerless,
giggling like a school girl. The more he thrashed, the more Jonny’s
fingers penetrated – until the Mudboy was on top in all ways.

Ben’s waders had half filled up with mud, he was heavy through
soaking and laughing until he could hardly move – a plastered, grounded
hunk. A considerable amount of mud had worked its way into his gear too
– and especially around his massively aroused dick. He knew he wasn’t
exactly deep in mud – but it had been a long time since he was
literally stuck fast. He loved the feeling – and couldn’t but submit to
Jonny’s left fist…

Jonny dragged his wretched-looking body up Ben’s legs and wetly
splattered to a halt. Their clothes glued together by ooze. He tore
open Ben’s buttoned trousers and revealed the enormous cock – damp
beneath its sheen of clay. He worked it HARD until Ben almost screamed
with release. His cum splattered across both of them, and onto the
thickening mud – leaving him exhausted and almost too heavy to move.

Jonny unleashed his magnificent tool and started to wank – and
within seconds his own stream of silver jism had sprayed across Ben’s
chest – one wild drip hitting his nose !

Ben hugged his lover and pulled him down on top thrusting his tongue deep into his mouth.

It took almost an hour to haul all the boots from their stuck swamps and get home.
The boot shed looked like a bomb had gone off, the back passage one
Hell of a mess too – and then the shower-room…they knew it would all
get sorted – it had to: the following day the builders were due to
start the enterprise, and everything had to appear “normal”

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