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That didn’t matter to Allan. He’d never been a farmer. The field stood idle. In the barn beside the ranch, the tractor and harvester gathered cobw...bs. The old Bellamy farm was merely his retirement home, where he hid more or less comfortably from the world and its reminders of his failures. Allan didn’t bother much about the field or the barn. When the mood struck him to be outside, he invariably went to sit on the front porch. Traffic on NY 231 was too sparse to annoy him, and the Compton farm. I opened my eyes to see that he was staring back at me. He held my gaze as he picked up speed; his breathing getting heavier from the exertion. Every thrust became deliberate, punctuating his love and desire. I strained defiantly against the rope. I wanted my hands all over him. I wanted to scratch my nails down his back and pull him harder against me. But, at the same time, I loved this sensation; the helpless feeling of not being able to move how I want, but trusting him to give me what I. More

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