Noblesse Oblige
Book One
Twilight of the Gods

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 3
 

The next day they found themselves on the train to London.  In spite of his new clothes, Stephen had insisted that they go second as he said his reputation would be ruined in the village if they saw him travelling first.  Martin had relented as this excursion was all about Stephen and the experience of travelling second was novel for him as well.

When they reached Winchester Martin leaned across and said in a low voice, “Today’s my birthday; I’m fourteen.”  Stephen looked genuinely distressed and desperately wanted to kiss him, but the carriage was full of people and he had to make do with a hearty handshake.

“I would have bought you a present.  I feel such a funk.”

“This is the best present I could ever have,” offered Martin quietly as the train rumbled on.

Martin watched Stephen intently staring out the window as they approached London, drinking in the new sights, even those of miles of dreary suburbs, conscious that this was his first time so far from home.  However, he seemed to cope remarkably well with the chaotic confusion of Waterloo and managed to find a porter to carry their traps to a taxi.  Martin didn’t like to ask if this was Stephen’s first ride in a taxi or indeed in any motor for that matter; he loved to stroke the pride in his lover and feared that many pitfalls and humiliations might await Stephen over the next few days and this thought pained him acutely.

They arrived at Lowndes Square and Martin let Stephen pay the fare from the pocket money he insisted that he have.  Aunt Maud’s house appeared to be a very large and elegant slice of wedding cake with black iron railings and a pair of great shiny doors reached by six steps under a pillared portico on which, in black, was enumerated the number of the house.  Across the road, also protected by railings, was a pleasant patch of greenery in this desert of brick and stucco.  There were some tall elms and gravel walks between shrubberies.   A nurse pushed a perambulator along one of these.

Kant was the improbable name of the butler who enquired politely after Martin’s father and brother and was introduced to “Mr Knight who is at school”—which was not a complete lie.  He took them straight through to Aunt Maud who embraced her nephew enthusiastically and shook hands with Stephen, studying him closely in his borrowed plumes.  Tea appeared and Aunt Maud (Martin had neglected to tell Stephen her name) announced there would be eight at dinner.  Stephen looked slightly alarmed and Martin said, “Aunt, Stephen and I are just down from school, we haven’t brought our evening clothes.”

“Yes, that is understood dear, it’s just family, don’t worry.”  And, turning to Stephen, said “My daughter, Sophia, will be dining with us first before going on.  She’s quite out and you are quite the best looking young man I’ve seen all season.”

Stephen blushed and wondered, ‘quite out of what?’ He also wondered about Sophia.

The boys excused themselves after being shown their adjoining rooms, Stephen casting a questioning look to Martin, and Kant was asked to hail them a cab.  A silver whistle fetched a hansom from the rank at the corner and Martin directed the driver to an address just off Hanover Square.

John Black was an ancient firm of tailors and the cutter, Mr Gibbons, recognised the Poole name and enquired warmly after the Marquis and the Earl.

“Mr Gibbons, my friend Mr Knight has returned suddenly to England…from Western Australia…(he added with a flourish of ingenuity) and needs some London clothes very quickly—by tomorrow evening if that’s possible.”

“Well sir, we do have some excellent suits that gentlemen—ahem—have failed to collect and I’m sure we could alter one to suit you sir,” he said, addressing these remarks to Stephen.  He whipped the tape measure from around his neck and began to run it over the boy, starting with his shoulders.  “And what part of Western Australia is sir from, may I ask?”

“Adelaide” replied Stephen.

“And now the inside leg and I see sir dresses on the left” Stephen looked over at Martin who did a frantic mime until he caught on.

“Ah yes, the left, nearly always to the left.”

Mr Gibbons brought in five suits and showed them to Stephen who thought them all splendid and, after a little deliberation, chose one that resembled a fashionable outfit he had seen in The Sphere.

“I think you may need two suits, Stephen, London is very busy this season” said Martin suddenly.  The three exchanged glances and Stephen, his heart beating wildly, chose another, which had a peacock blue lining. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” said Mr Gibson, “have you brought your evening clothes from Western Australia? I understand the climate there is not conducive to dressing and I do have an excellent tail coat on hand and all you’d need, sir, is a shirt, collars and tie which you could purchase in Regent Street at Messer’s Austin Reed who are open until late.  You could try the coat on this evening and if it doesn’t suit, sir, you could return it.  I know it would be a real pleasure to see you in it, sir.”

While the cutter was absent, Martin grabbed a handful of that which usually dressed to the left and risked giving Stephen a kiss full on the lips.

Thus in Aunt Maud’s dining room that night, Martin was the only one humiliated by having no evening clothes.  Stephen literally shone in his finery, the brilliant white of the shirtfront and waistcoat matching by his dazzling smile which he turned on and off like an electric lamp and all framed by the unruly mop of wavy black hair that threatened at any moment to tumble down over his eyes.

The guests assembled in the drawing room on the first floor and introductions were made.  Martin and Stephen stood close together.  “This is my daughter, Sophia,” announced Aunt Maud.

“How do you do, Miss Vane-Gillingham,” said Stephen as he took the pretty girl’s hand.  She kissed Martin, but looked back at Stephen.  Next was Honoria Orchard-Baird, a beautiful but hard young woman who looked like trouble to Stephen.  Her mother, Mrs Orchard-Baird, was presented next and then her husband who seemed mere accessory.  The most prominent person in the room, at least vocally, was an American who wore pinz-nez.

“This is Senator Buckwheet from Minnehaha in the United States,” explained Aunt Maud, “Senator, this is my nephew Lord Martin Poole and his friend Mr Knight.”

“That’s Minnesota, ma’am and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance young sirs.”

“What brings you to these shores, Senator?” asked Martin pleasantly.

“Your underground railway, my lord; I see investment possibilities aplenty in subway trains, sir,” and with that launched into a disquisition on subterranean communication.

“Come now Senator,” said Aunt Maud after about ten minutes, “talk to me about boring all those tunnels and let the young men talk to the ladies.”

When they went down to dinner Stephen was placed between Miss Vane-Gillingham and Miss Orchard-Baird. Martin was directly opposite, partly screened by an epergne.

Sophia began in a frosty manner but quickly warmed when she realised how handsome Stephen was and remained unaware that he was really two years younger than her.  Stephen cleverly turned the conversation to books, proving himself to be better read than the company, and avoided major social gaffs by copying what Martin did and covering up little solecisms such as plucking the grapes with his fingers by explaining he was a mere colonial and at a disadvantage in London society and went on to further embroider his past with inventions of his own about life in Western Australia.

The only fly in the ointment was Miss Orchard-Baird on his left.  She was much hardened by her three years ‘out’ in society with no marriage prospects as yet.  She suspected that Stephen was somehow a fake, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but remained interested when she thought there might be money there somewhere.

She began to play that tiresome came of names—“Oh then you must know so and so”—and Stephen batted away these deliveries as deftly as he had in the village test match.  Still, she lurked as a suspicious and threatening presence when the ladies at last withdrew.

As soon as possible, the two made their escape from the drawing room and the girls went on to a ball in Grosvenor Square, accompanied by Mrs Orchard-Baird as chaperone.

The boys said goodnight with a chaste kiss in the passageway before closing their respective doors.  Behind his Stephen took out his new silk pyjamas and debated whether to wear them.  In the end he compromised, putting on just the bottoms, which felt exciting on his hard cock.

The next morning, with his tea in his hand, Martin came into Stephen’s room to congratulate him on his success last night and to plan their day.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he said, imitating the senator’s accent.  “I had a visitor in the night!”

“Not cousin Sophia?” cried Martin in shock.

“No, the other one, Miss Orchard-Pear or whatever her damn name is.  She came to me after the ball and slipped in to my room in her nightdress.  She threw herself on me and wanted me to fuck her.”

“No!” said Martin.

“Yes!” retorted Stephen, his eyes shining, “And she got into bed with me!”

“Well did you?”

“No, I told her the truth and said that I was only fifteen but I made her suck my cock.” Stephen demonstrated his lovemaking to Miss Orchard-Baird with the aid of a cushion with a convenient pair of tassels, which apparently represented the young lady’s ears. 

“She gagged and shed plenty of tears.  Then I thrust my cock between her breasts and spilt my seed all down her night dress,” he added savagely.  “With that stain all down the front she’ll have some explaining to do.  I hope she has a maid that can keep her mouth shut.”

Martin sat back stunned. “I don’t suppose we’ll be invited to the Orchard-Bairds in the near future then.”

“Oh, I don’t know if she’s like the village girls back home she probably loved it.”

They left Lowndes Square before either of the two debutantes had breakfasted and did the London sights as promised.  Stephen rode on the tuppeny tube and they caught a bus.  On top of the bus, which was empty, Stephen kissed Martin daringly, sliding his hand down the back of the trousers.  The seats were level with the first floor windows, so the possibility of being seen added to their excitement.

On the way back from the Tower, Martin pointed out Branksome House in Piccadilly, explaining that the house was largely shut up since the death of his mother.  Nearby they alighted and Stephen spent a good hour in Hatchard’s perusing the new titles, coming away with a new one by E.M. Forster called ‘Howard’s End.’  Martin, who had disappeared for a time returned and announced that he had a surprise for Stephen.

Just off Piccadilly they encountered The Hammam Turkish Baths.  “What to try one?” asked Martin.

“Hell yes!” said Stephen.

They were greeted by handsome young boys in Turkish costume who showed them to wooden benches and produced a brass tray bearing strong coffee in little cups.  These boys, for all their costume, were obviously cockneys but still quite pretty.  Around them were men young and old, many obviously working off a hangover, and a small man, evidently a jockey trying to lose weight, emerged from the steam room.  Their clothes were taken and they were provided with large white towels.  The steam room was almost unbearable, but Stephen was as hard as a rock under his towel and he reached through the steam and felt Martin who was in a similar condition.  After about twenty minutes they repaired to the plunge pool, which reminded them both of their secret swimming place at Croome.

“Now for your treat,” said Martin and led Stephen to a private room with the word “massage” written in fake Arabic script above the door.  Inside, Stephen was greeted by two giant men, their hairy bodies and drooping moustaches proclaiming that they were indeed authentic Turks.  They bade Stephen lie on a table.  “Do you mind if I stay and watch?” asked Martin and Stephen agreed as he adjusted his towel.

The two giants began at once to pound and pummel Steven’s back and legs, kneading the muscles mercilessly and chopping at his flesh with the edges of their hands.  It looked painful.  Martin called out, “How does it feel?”

“It fucking hurts like hell but it feels marvellous,” cried Stephen, his voice vibrating with the pounding he was receiving.  The massage reached a crescendo of violence when suddenly the two giants flipped Stephen over on his back, whipping away the towel.  One Turk pinned Stephen’s shoulders to the bench while the other giant held down his feet and the same time accepted his hard cock into his moustachioed maw.

He proceeded, without a moment’s introduction, to furiously bob up and down taking all of Stephen’s large boy-member right down to its very root.  Stephen thrashed and squirmed on the bench but was firmly pinioned.  He let out gasps and swear words as the manic and unrelenting pistoning continued.  Finally Stephen spilled his seed into the Turk’s mouth and he swallowed it all, wiping his face with a towel tucked into the belt of his baggy trousers.

“That was fucking unbelievable!” gasped Stephen as he staggered to his feet, his legs collapsing beneath him.

“Here are your clothes, sir,” said the one that just a moment before had been holding Stephen’s shoulders.  Don’t forget your hat and stick, sir, he said to the numbed boy as he staggered to the door.

“Thank you,” Stephen managed to gasp as they left.

After riding in silence for a good fifteen minutes, Stephen asked, “How did you know about that place?” 

“Oh my brother told me all about it,” said Martin and turned to his friend with a broad grin on his countenance, “and I paid them a pound.”

That afternoon Stephen’s two suits arrived and he tried them on in the privacy of his room.  Martin admired his appearance extravagantly and he rang for a servant to carefully hang up the suits as Stephen dressed for dinner in his evening clothes once again.

The Orchard-Bairds were not at dinner this night and again Stephen was placed next to Miss Vane-Gillingham.  He talked to her of his day’s sightseeing, but left out the most exciting of the sights.

After dinner, the boys went by cab to the Empire in Leicester Square.  It was a marvellously funny show and the first time Stephen had ever been to a theatre—even if it was a music hall.  There were many pretty girls in the crush bar, but Stephen did not return their glances, focussing all his attention on his friend, which made Martin feel wonderful.

Outside, by the fountain, a group of odd-looking men loitered.  Stephen sized them up and went over and spoke to one weedy youth with a wispy moustache.  Martin noticed Stephen press a coin into his hand and then walk back.  “What was that all about?” he said.

“They’re boys waiting to pick up toffs.”

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, I can just tell the look.”

“We’re not going to pick up one?”

“Hell no,” said Stephen, taking his friend’s arm.

Martin’s next suggestion was the famous Café Royal, which was in the Quadrant in nearby Regent Street.  Stephen was not sure they would be admitted because of their age, but Martin was more confident and Lord Martin Poole and his older-looking friend were quickly found a plush red velvet seat at a marble-topped table beneath a large gilt-framed looking glass.

Neither boy had ever been to such a place and Martin boldly suggested that they order champagne, which they did.  They sat there soaking up the sight of a crowd very different from any they knew at Croome or Aunt Maud’s drawing room.

“Excuse me,” said Stephen to a waiter, “who is that small man with the moustache sitting over there?

“That’s Mr Forster, sir, a novelist I believe.”

“This is fantastic. I’ve got to talk to him,” he said to Martin

“You can’t, you haven’t been introduced.”

“Watch me.”

Martin watched Stephen purposefully cross the room, a striking figure in his evening clothes, and boldly interrupt the man.  He saw the man initially wave Stephen away then, looking up at him, apparently change his mind.  He observed them exchange a few words and then Stephen produced a menu, evidently with a request for an autograph, which he obtained.  He returned to the table elated.  “It was easy.”  He said, out of breath.

After a little while, a man in odd clothes approached their table: his beard, floppy silk tie and broad-brimmed hat all proclaiming the trade of artist.  “Excuse me, but you are Lord Martin Poole are you not?  I asked the waiter.  I have known your brother for some years.” Martin nodded waiting for him to go on. “My name is Tsindis,” he said.

“I am Martin Poole and this is my friend Mr Knight. I will tell my brother I have met you, Mr Tsindis”

“Sir, I was sitting over there with my charcoal and I drew this.” He produced a small piece of card with a very realistic sketch of Stephen on it; a very realistic likeness except he was totally nude.

Stephen took it in his hand and looked, blushing, but managed to say, “I think I can do better than this,” indicating the erect penis on the portrait.”

“If you would like I could do you in oils.”

“I’m very sorry,” replied Martin, “but we leave London shortly, but I would like to buy your sketch of my friend. How much do you want for it?”

“As you’re the brother of a friend shall we say two?”

“£2 then”

“Guineas?” pressed the artist.

Martin counted out four ten shilling notes and felt around for a florin.  He passed over the money and the portrait was handed to him.

“This is the most marvellous night, no most marvellous day of my life!” Shouted Stephen, “What has been your most marvellous day?” He asked.

Martin didn’t have to think, “The day I came upon you chopping the log.”

Stephen let his hand slip under the table and started to masturbate Martin through his trousers.  “My god! Stop that or I’ll spill.  Let’s go home.”

Back at Lowndes Square Stephen made a show of messing up his bed then slipped next door to Martin’s room. “What if Miss Orchard-Baird should return in the night.”

“Oh, I’ve left a note on the pillow telling her where to find me.”

He threw off his dressing gown to reveal his nakedness, which had only a few hours ago been so artistically imagined and rendered in charcoal.  He was hard.  He ordered Martin out of his pyjamas.  “You don’t wear anything when you sleep with me,” he snapped and with that bit down viciously on Martin’s neck.

The servants at 27 Lowndes Square had already been up for an hour when Stephen awoke.  The bed was a terrible stinking mess but Stephen loved it, putting his nose under the covers to savour it the better.  Martin’s naked white body lay sleeping, seductively half uncovered and Stephen realised that he had hogged all the blankets in the night.  He kissed his lover, without him waking, drew the covers over his slumbering form, and quietly returned to his own room in his dressing gown.

When Martin came down for breakfast at half-past nine, Kant informed him that Mr Knight had gone out early and would be back by ten.  Martin ate his toast and drank his second cup of Indian as he read a letter from his father that had arrived in the morning post, redirected from Croome.  The clock was just striking when Stephen and Aunt Maude entered the room.  They saw the letter and Martin answered the unasked question, “It’s from father.  He’s staying in Cannes for a bit longer—he didn’t say how long—and he asked after you, Stephen.”

“Any news of your brother?” asked Stephen, quietly.

“None, he replied.  Oh Aunt Maude, Stephen!” he cried, “I must go and see William.  Will you come with me to Bournemouth before we have to go back to school?”  Tears glistened on his blonde lashes.

“You could go by the evening train tomorrow and depart directly for school from Bournemouth the next day—that is unless you have to return to Croome first?  You could have your box sent on,” suggested his Aunt practically, combining this with a generous hug.

Stephen simply said, “Of course I will come.”

Aunt Maude smiled with approval and added, “Write to William today.”

The morning was spent in more sightseeing, Martin wearing a new tie that Stephen had purchased that morning.  They ate their lunch at Simpson’s and Stephen expressed a desire to visit Wren’s Monument, built on the spot where the Great Fire broke out.  An old-fashioned horse bus took them there—surely the last in London which was fast becoming dangerous with motors.

There were few other visitors on this cold and rather dreary day.  They climbed up the spiral staircase inside the column, Stephen observing that the exercise was good for them, and spent several minutes on the gallery surveying the great metropolis, picking out familiar landmarks.

Suddenly Stephen said: “I want you to suck my cock.”

“Now? Here?” Martin asked both horrified and aroused at the same time.

“Yes, right now!  On your knees!”  He ordered as he opened his overcoat (actually one of Martin’s) and there was an impressive swelling down his left trouser leg already when Martin pressed is nose to it.  They were alone on the platform and Martin knelt with his back to the doorway relying totally on Stephen’s doubtful concentration as a picket.

Martin fished out the horse-sized appendage and looked up at Stephen and giggled, “More beautiful than Wren’s” he said.

“And not much smaller.” Stephen boasted.

Martin set to work, shielded and enfolded by Stephen’s open coat, which he thought very intimate.  After about five minutes of solid progress, Martin felt a blow to the top of his skull.  He looked up and could tell by the alarm in Stephen’s eyes that people were approaching.  He quickly rose and pretended to be intent on the view, as did Stephen whose cock was still exposed in the gaping overcoat.  Stephen gave Martin a sidelong smirk and then actually pressed his shaft through the wire mesh that formed the balustrade.

Voices and footsteps came closer and at last two people emerged through the doorway that could only have observed the backs of two young gentlemen in overcoats intent on the vista over the Heart of the Empire.  A woman’s voice whined: “Ow father, do please let’s go down. I don’t like heights and me knees is all funny,” and, calling back to someone still evidently ascending, “Don’t come up, our Dora, ’else your liable to lose your lunch.”

The sound of retreating footsteps and the volley of complaints faded and the boys let out a sigh and laughed. “Now back to work.  Knees!” Stephen had withdrawn his penis from it dangerous position over Puddling Lane, it losing little of his metal despite exposure to the cold.  He now enfolded Martin completely in the coat.  His head was turned in the direction of the Bank of England but it was not on the workings of that great national institution that he was focussed when, with a shudder, his spilled his seed into Martin’s mouth. Martin arose from his labours and Stephen said “Let me taste!” and kissed Martin’s soft lips, inserting his tongue to taste his spent remains.

As they stood back, Stephen cried, “Look” and pointed down at Martin’s trousers. There was a dark stain; Martin had spilt in his trousers.

“Oh my God; I knew I should have worn combinations,” he sighed as he produced a handkerchief in an endeavour to clean himself up.

“Not when you’re out with me you won’t,” said Stephen who dropped to his knees and gave the fabric a lick before taking Stephen’s handkerchief and tenderly cleaning up his friend.

“I think I leave my cock out under my overcoat this afternoon.” said Stephen, jauntily, as they emerged into the street.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Martin laughing, “We’re meeting Aunt Maude in twenty minutes and after you have handed your coat to the waiter we might not be able to go back to The Savoy.”

The large, modern room was rosy with light that was reflected off the ivory walls and draped looking-glasses that substituted in the place of windows.  Their coats and hats were taken without any of the prophesised dramas.  Then they passed through a field strewn with countless small tables in the place of mushrooms, as it were, at which sat, in the stead of lowing cattle, stock of a more elevated pedigree.  The women in hats and feathers, their furs slung on the backs of the tapestry chairs, were beautiful, but none as beautiful as Stephen, thought Martin for the hundredth time, and none of the elegant young men looked as fine as Stephen in his new grey suit.

They found Aunt Maude and Sophia and they chatted pleasantly about the morning’s activities, at one point Aunt Maude saying that she hoped they weren’t sucking up too much culture at the expense of having an amusing time.  Her slightly vulgar choice of expression caused Martin’s teacup to rattle imperceptibly, but Stephen noticed and shot him a glace with an eyebrow raised.

Martin noticed what naturally good manners Stephen had considering his upbringing in a rural village.  He put this down to his doing well at school—he was far cleverer than himself—and to the influence of his stepfather who was a good man.  Then there was the fact that Stephen was exceptionally good-looking and shortcomings were often overlooked when compensated by physical, masculine beauty; which certainly made him an ornament to this or any room.  Stephen was a quick learner too from observing others.  Martin had to only whisper that it wasn’t necessary to stand whenever a passing lady addressed a remark to Aunt Maude or Sophia, only if they lingered and introductions were required, and Stephen would catch on.

“And speaking of amusement…” Aunt Agatha continued but was cut short by the arrival of an enormous hat from under which emerged Miss Orchard-Baird.  Martin’s eyes immediately scanned her magnificent afternoon dress for any suggestive dilapidations, but of course there were none.  Salutations were exchanged, Miss Orchard-Baird holding out her gloved paw to Martin, then to “Young Mr Knight,” although, she seemed, to Martin’s jaundiced eye, to address her greeting to Stephen’s groin.

Upon Miss Orchard-Baird’s arm was, curiously, attached Senator Buckweet.  The Senator was unusually stilled and finally Miss Orchard-Baird was moved to say, “You might as well know—you’ll read it in tomorrow’s Morning Post in any case—that Thaddeus and I are engaged to be married.”

The implications of this remark were instantly telegraphed around the table. “And do you intend to return to St Cloud after you are married?” enquired Sophia in the nick of time.

“Oh, no, Miss Vane-Gillingham, not right away at any rate,” answered the senator. “I’m thinking of living in Metroland—building a place at Sunningdale perhaps.”  

The aunt and her daughter exchanged a puzzled look and Martin supplied, “Metroland is the name given by the directors of the Metropolitan Railway to the new suburban districts of London.”

“But Thad, I thought we agreed to Belgravia?”

“Very well, Belgravia, my dear, so long as it’s close to the Sloane Square tube.  Do excuse us, but I see Mr Tyson Yerkes from Chicago calling to us.  “Be with you in a minute, Mr Yerkes!” he bellowed, and the soon to be hitched cars glided on to their next stop.

“That was quick work,” said Sophia bluntly when they had all recovered.

“Well he’s a rich widower,” said her mother, “and it is her third season out.  Now as I was saying,” she resumed after a further pause, “There is a ball to be given at the house of one of my good friends tonight; just a small affair really because fortunately her two daughters became engaged last season.  She sent a note around this morning saying that she was a couple of men short and wondered if my two house guests would like to attend.” Aunt Maude looked for a response.

“But Aunt, I’ve no clothes and I don’t know if Mr Knight likes dancing.”

“You mean can dance,” said Stephen, frankly.  “I can waltz.  You could always hire evening dress from Austin Reed.”

“Or from Moss Bros” added Aunt Maude, helpfully.

“If you’d really like to go…” said Martin looking at his friend.

Aunt Maude and Sophia both looked at this tender exchange between the two young men; Sophia comprehending somewhat less the depth of their relationship than her mother.

“Are you attending, Miss Vane-Gillingham?” asked Stephen.

“Yes I am.  But I’ll chuck my partner and say that I have to entertain my houseguest from Western Australia.  He won’t mind; we’ve been partnered six times already since January.  His feet could use a rest.  I’ll tell him it’s my duty.”

“Noblesse Oblige,” supplied Martin.

“I hate Latin expressions, Martin, why can’t people talk plain English,” snapped Aunt Maude.

*****

Evening clothes were procured and the boys found themselves in Martin’s bedroom by half-past four.  Stephen produced a cardboard box and told Martin to open it.  Inside were several curious objects.  “What are these and where did you get them?” asked Martin.

“From Soho, his morning,” replied Stephen answering the second question first. “I want to fuck you, Martin, I love you (he punctuated this declaration with a furious kiss) but it’s not so easy for me to be inside you.  It will need some help and some work—training. That’s if you want me.”

“Oh yes, more than anything.  Let’s start right away.”

Stephen locked the door and they both shed their clothes.  He fetched some soap and a damp cloth from the washstand and he gently, but thoroughly cleaned Martin’s arse as he lay back on a towel with his legs in the air.  He then proceeded to lick the crack that was lined with blonde hair and he concentrated on Martin’s tightly puckered hole, with occasional excursions to such Martin’s stiff cock, simply for variety.

Martin was in ecstasy and was torn between wanting to close his eyes in pleasure and wanting to see Stephen’s floppy hair gently caressing his groin.  Whenever he went to touch his aching cock, Stephen would knock his hands away.  He then opened a bottle of olive oil and spread it along Martin’s exposed cleavage with his index finger, the residue, to Martin’s distress being applied to his own member and not Martin’s aching erection.

Stephen continued to massage and gradually the sphincter relaxed enough for the tip of his finger to enter.  When he thrust a little deeper he felt Martin wince.  “I’m alright,” he said, “it just hurts a bit.”

Stephen took several minutes to probe any deeper and at one point removed his finger entirely and poured some drops of the oil directly into Martin.  He went deeper and Martin cried out under his breath, “It hurts a lot, actually.”

“Do you want me to stop?” asked Stephen.

“Would you?” asked Martin.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Stephen with a leer, “I love doing this!”

“Well then, you’d better keep going,” said Martin through ragged breaths, managing a bit of a grin.  Stephen leaned over and kissed him at the same time thrusting further into the enflamed muscle.

Soon the pain eased and Stephen could work his thick finger in and out and Martin quickly responded to the stimulation. He thought about adding a second when he remembered the box.  He drew out a tapering glass cylinder that he explained was a dildo. “Yes, I’ve heard the word,” said Martin, for the moment free from invasion, “put it in.”

With the application of more olive oil the instrument went in fairly easily and Martin even enjoyed the thickness of it. “But it doesn’t bend like a finger,” complained the prostrate boy.  A thicker one was produced from the box, it was smooth sided, but Martin noted a monster with a reeded profile in the box.  “Let’s try that one,” said Martin feeling adventurous.

Stephen held it against his leaking cock for comparison.  He smirked when it was observed that is was not as big in either girth or length, despite the doubtful advantages of its undulations.  “I’ll never be able to take your cock Stephen, it’s just too big.  You’ll have to service the mares at Croome,” he laughed with a little bitterness.

“You made the lacrosse team, didn’t you?”

“I guess I did, but I didn’t have to fuck them!  Shove that other bally one up there.  I’m ready.”  And so Stephen did.  Martin eventually took it all, aided by some well-placed kisses to lessen the pain.  As Stephen was sliding it in and out like a piston, Martin suddenly spilt his seed all over his chest, one drop actually landing on his parched lips. Stephen, leaving the dildo for a moment, finished Martin’s orgasm off with a few strokes. Martin then reached up and savagely grasped Stephen’s famous lock of hair and pulled him downwards to his chest.  “Eat it!”

Stephen pulled back for a moment and grinned at this reversal and, with eyes shining, proceeded to clean his lover with his tongue. Stephen then pleasured himself, spilling all over Martin’s chest, and again was directed to lick it up.

As they cleaned up the dildos in the water jug, Martin drew one last object from the box. It was of a curious mushroom shape and made of ivory inscribed with Chinese characters. “What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s a kind of stopper or plug.  You wear it for a few hours—or longer—to stretch your hole the man said.”

“Who was this man and where did you find him?”

“In Soho—do you remember the boy I spoke to in Leicester Square?  He told me of the shop.  It had all manner of things.  I was hard just looking at them.  I’ll take you there.  I say, you don’t fancy being tied up and flogged, do you?”

“No, sounds too much like school!” Martin said as he pulled Stephen to him and kissed him passionately.  Their intimacy of that afternoon fuelled his ardour and it was readily returned.

To be continued...

Posted: 07/19/13