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 6

“Well, what do you think, Poole?”

Martin was standing before a large gilt-framed portrait that that only minutes before had been concealed beneath a dustsheet as two tradesmen carefully hung it above the absurdly small fireplace in the Hon. Archibald Craigth’s school bedroom.  The boys were not encouraged many personal touches nor were they supposed to decorate their rooms with foreign furniture.  The Plunger and his Mater, however, had caused more than one van to arrive at the school from which emerged objects gleaned from antique shops and auction houses and these gradually came to replace the meagre sticks supplied by the school, until The Plunger’s room looked more like one in Clivedon than a boys’ public school.  The portrait, however, was possibly a step too far.  Despite the fuss it received in the press when it was picture of the year at the R.A. the school governors politely declined it as a gift for senior common room, arguing that new shower baths were one thing but this was a different matter entirely, and so now it was hung in Archie’s own room.

Martin read from the cutting that The Plunger had given him: “… Mr Singer Sargent’s skilful brush has accurately captured all that noble and fine in the English race whose essence he distilled in this portrait of a youthful aristocrat, whose cool demeanour speaks of the sublimation of the grosser passions through the cultivation of certain unspoken and ancient inheritances of blood and tradition, whose fruits nourish and guide that class which naturally assumes the mantle in this sceptred isle and its dominions beyond the sea.”

“Gosh, Plunger, it’s you!” said Martin as The Plunger produced a silver box from his yellow waistcoat and took a pinch of snuff.  Indeed it was The Plunger, revealed full length in hunting pink, the artist having caught just nicely, by the use of Chinese white, the glint of light on the shiny boots (which almost seemed to be made of patent leather) and on The Plunger’s monocle which was fixed in his eye and seemed to peer down at the viewer from a lofty eminence by way of a long straight nose and tilted chin.  For some reason The Plunger appeared to be standing in his mother’s drawing room in this costume, whose windows were thrown wide giving onto a park that might or might not have been their estate near Dorking.  He also, it seems, had carried a small riding crop into this room for purposes that remained obscure.

When the topic of the star of the R.A. had at last been exhausted, The Plunger asked eagerly if Stephen had written again.  Martin handed over a letter and again Archie noted the remarkable bowling figures down the sides of the pages, amazed that cricket was played with such frequency in Poole’s county.

The major item of interest was that, as Martin already knew from his own letter from his father, that this gentleman had at last returned from Cannes.  He had also made some visits to Bournemouth and reported that William seemed well enough and had actually been taking some short walks, on fine days, trailed by a nurse propelling an empty Bath chair.  Martin’s heart lifted at this.  Job, Martin’s, dog was also well.  His father had then alluded to the fact that he had seen Stephen and this was more fleshed out in Stephen’s recent letter which The Plunger now read, having come to sit right next to Martin so to do.

It appears that Blake had told his lordship about Stephen’s suggestion for the drains and this, combined with a curiosity to see again at close range the boy—the Latin scholar—who was well-known and universally liked on the estate and whom Martin had introduced so unorthodoxly to his sister-in-law in London, caused Stephen to be sent for.

Stephen had arrived by the separate entrance to the estate office and thus avoided the dilemma of whether to use the front door or the servants’ door.  He wore his Sunday best, the London clothes being carefully laid away.

Blake reiterated the story of the drains, which were even now were nearing completion with the prospect of now planting grain where none would grow before.  The lord took stock of Stephen who was slightly intimidated and kept thinking of the things that he had done to the peer’s son—indeed both sons.  His lordship saw before him a fine-looking boy who appeared much older than his years and whose steady gaze spoke volumes about his character and pluck.  When complimented again on the drainage scheme, Stephen blushed then managed one of his magnificent smiles, the first in this interview, which did the trick for Martin’s father.

Stephen was asked if he had any further ideas for the estate.  When Stephen replied that he had, the two men expected that it would be a modest scheme like the drains on the Home Farm but they were surprised when Stephen, pressed to be forthcoming, spoke, and it was this that formed the bulk of the letter that The Plunger was now reading.

Stephen outlined a scheme to convert part of the estate, a portion of relatively useless rough grazing land on the downs near Lesser Branksome, into a golf course.  Stephen gave an account of the popularity of this sport and instances where resort towns had profited by the construction of links and accommodation for the well-to-do devotees.  He pointed out that the land, while useless for agriculture, would appeal to golfers if laid out by a professional.  He went on further to suggest that younger persons on the estate could find work in the construction of the links and later in their running. Greater mechanisation on the estate, which would also bring greater profit but may throw some out of work, would be thus compensated for.  The construction of a hotel, perhaps near Lesser Branksome halt, which he knew from experience (here he blushed again) had a fine view of the sea, would surely be a profitable venture.

The two men were stunned at the speech.  After some minutes his lordship said, “You mean you think we should sell off our land, sell part of Croome?”

“No, your lordship we should lease it to a company who would construct the course and manage the hotel—one company or two, I don’t know which is best.”

“I don’t fancy that, young man.  I don’t want some bally outside fellow taking over part of Croome and throwing his weight around, even a small part.”

“What if you formed the company, with your lordship as chairman and invited investors—perhaps people you knew and trusted—and you could keep a controlling interest. It wouldn’t be putting anything into the hands of strangers.”

“But it would mean outsiders would be coming here, tourists, because the locals have no interest in staying in hotels and paying this fashionable game.  We’d be vulgarised, like Margate.”

“Or like Cannes?” suggested Stephen at which the Marquess’ face froze and Blake quickly ushered Stephen out the door.

When they were alone, Lord Branksome, smiled.  “Cheeky bugger!” he said.  “Damned clever lad for fifteen and damned fine looking too.  But we don’t want golf courses and pier amusements and motor tractors at dear old Croome, do we Blake.”

“No milord,” replied the manager, with the slightest of sighs.

The Plunger had been trying to imagine the scene described in Stephen’s letter to Martin and reconcile this with the Tsindis portrait.  All the while he had his right hand in Martin’s trouser pocket and was tweaking up and down the length of Martin’s attractive cock making it plump and warm, occasionally sliding the skin backwards and forward under the pocket lining between his thumb and index finger.

“This is bad form, Poole.  He’s a clever chap to be sure, but our sort of people don’t go in for this sort of thing and golf’s a cad’s game and the people who play it are awfully middle class.  These ideas are generated by people who don’t know about traditions about noblesse oblige; it’s just grubby trade,” which he pronounced “twade.”

Martin banished The Plunger’s right hand from its pleasant labours and stood up.

“Craigth’s Caledonian Ale” was all he said.

The Plunger rose to his full height before the fireplace, screwing his monocle into place and gave Martin an icy stare.

Martin went to the door and looked back at the offended Plunger who was even now was “sublimating the grosser passions” of his fine and noble race under the portrait, which at this moment, he indeed greatly resembled. 

***

Hot on the heels of his father’s letter came an unprecedented visit from the correspondent himself.  It was Parents’ Day and the Marquess made a distinguished contribution to the throng at Martin’s school.  Martin was greatly chuffed at this sudden display of interest in his younger son and proudly showed his Pater around the school, his father marvelling at the modernity of the shower baths and antiseptic food preparation, undreamed of in his day.

Martin was overjoyed to be playing in a lacrosse match with his father in the audience.  The team was largely composed of boys of the senior classes, Martin at fourteen being the youngest, but he played with great strength and agility, showing off his fine muscles, which impressed his father along with the general violence and bloodthirstiness with which this game was typically conducted.  In the baths afterwards the sweaty team showered together, many of them congratulating Martin on his game and several of the older ones combining their plaudits with good-natured and generous rubs of Martin’s soapy body, one beefy prefect actually giving Martin’s erect cock half a dozen strokes, while others of the sixth watched on, making approving comments about Martin’s qualities as a ‘team player’ and about the beauty of his body in particular.   However, Martin could not linger as he was to walk with his father to the town to have lunch at his hotel and he arrived at their meeting place not greatly less flushed and sweaty than before he showered.

At the White Hart his father talked of affairs at Croome, although made no allusion to the audience with Stephen.  Martin said he was looking forward to coming home at Easter and that he would certainly be making a trip to Bournemouth to see William, especially as he seemed so improved.  With this change in direction, Martin noticed his father withdrew, looking older than his sixty years.  Martin pressed on however and said that he might take Stephen Knight with him, as William seemed to find him cheerful company.

“Knight!” said his father, looking up, “He is a fine young man, Martin,” with the undoubted implication that he was being contrasted favourably with his school fellows, especially with The Plunger whom he had introduced to the Marquess when Lady Eudora Craigth insisted that they had to all come to Archie’s room to inspect the Sargent.

“I think so too, Pater,” replied Martin.

“Have him come up to the house at Easter, I’d like to see more of him.  Damn fine cricketer too.”

“Archie Craigth thinks so.”

“By the way, Martin, I must tell you, I’m thinking of returning to Cannes after Easter. Can’t seem to stand it here anymore.  England is going to the pot.  Pensions for indigents.  Being crippled by taxes on property.  Closing public houses to appease the non-conformists.  And I miss your damn mother.  It’s different for you; the future belongs to the young.  I’m only in the way of … golf links.”

Martin digested this miscellany of woes and sensed a little something of the grief his father was bowed under, but the knowledge that he would be alone at Croome for most of the holidays only lightened his heart.

*****

Martin arrived at Croome on Ash Wednesday and was glad to see his father still in residence.  They dined alone and had a pleasant evening.  On the following day Martin was out early with Job, determined to see Stephen, perhaps for a swim or for exercises of one form or another at the Women’s Institute Hall.

At the cottage door he was greeted by Knight who was all smiles and deference.  He looked eagerly about for signs of Stephen and was told that the boy had gone out early with the dogs and seemed out of sorts.  He hoped that he would return before the morning was over because he was to help his stepfather with several jobs on the estate because the old man was heading over to Corfe Mullen in two days to spend Easter with a niece who had written, unexpectedly, desiring her uncle’s company for this Christian festival.  Martin smiled and said he would go and look for Stephen and tell him he was wanted.

Martin was a little perplexed and uneasy at Stephen’s absence at a time when he surely knew Martin would be coming to see him.  Such was Martin’s heightened anticipation of being reunited with his lover that he’d been running images of Stephen smiling as he bounded down the cottage stairs into his embrace, or coming up to the house because he couldn’t wait a moment longer, so that this seeming lack of interest was doubly wounding.

He did find Stephen at the swimming place where Stephen, in his naked magnificence, was swinging from the rope and dropping into the cold stream.  For a moment Martin wished he could be held like that manila hawser, wrapped tightly in Stephen’s well-developed thighs.  Stephen saw Martin but completed another drop before he swam ashore and greeted him less than enthusiastically.  Martin felt like he would die.

“What’s the matter; didn’t you receive my letter saying I’d be by today?”

“Yes, Martin, it came two days ago.”

“Then what is it?”

“We’re apart more than we are together, aren’t we?” began Stephen ominously.  “I was lonely.  Were you lonely too?”

“I was very lonely, Stephen, you must know that I was.”  He suddenly felt a pang of guilt about The Plunger, but that couldn’t be it.  Could (the loathsome) Custard have something to do with it?  “Have you been speaking to Custard?” he asked Stephen, who returned him at blank look.

“It’s what you told me in your letter, Martin,” and he retrieved the document in question from his jacket pocket—he was stood there naked—and handed it over.  Martin scanned the pages in a panic and found nothing, the only reference to The Plunger being his report that the Sargent had been tossed out the window and completely ruined in a rag by some sixth-formers whom the housemaster refused to punish.  Martin looked wildly at Stephen thinking he was surly going mad.

“What? What have I done?” He almost screamed.

“Here,” said the older boy, and snatched the letter back: “‘I had spotted dick for the second time this week—filled me up.’ ”

Martin let out a strangulated cry and then was violently ill on the ground.  When he arose he was laughing so much he couldn’t speak at first.  “Spotted dick is a type of pudding you ass.  You know the only dick that fills me up is that one,” he said pointing; “It looks like it belongs on donkey but it really belongs to a silly ass!”  He screamed with laughter.

Stephen didn’t immediately see the humour.  “The trouble with you public school boys is that you have a language all your own—boys named after desserts like Custard and Kish and naturally I thought Spotted Dick was….”

“Kish?  But a Kish is—oh never mind.  Now come and greet me properly—no armpits first—then I might kiss you and I will certainly taste your spotted dick, two helpings if you’ve got a supply please, steward.”

“Oh I think so, milord,” said Stephen with a swagger, laughing himself now.

Martin did indeed bury his face in Stephen’s fragrant arm pits, pulling at the long black hair with his teeth in the manner that one eats artichoke leaves in polite society, and thus recaptured the redolence of his lover that he missed most of all.  After came the lips, with Stephen leaving Martin’s puffy and bruised in his ardour.  Then came the pudding and indeed the village stud hadn’t been boasting when he said there were two helpings and he thought there may have even been three, but he turned his attention to Martin’s body which he spent some minutes admiring first, feeling it all over and commenting how much he had grown in the Lent half and how well his arms and chest were developing, but noting, aloud, that his cock was still smaller than his own and he swiped at Martin’s like a conker as if to prove the point.  Martin laughed at his arrogance, which he loved.

It was indeed close to the dinner hour when they returned to the cottage, Knight happy to see his boy smiling again.  Martin gratefully accepted their offer of bread, cheddar and a slice of cold game pie and asked if he could help in the tasks of the afternoon, as he had been partly responsible for Stephen being so late—which he said with a straight face, not daring to glance at Stephen.

“That’s right generous of you, your lordship. I baint insult you by sayin’ that the work ’tis a might dirty and hard as I kin see you’ve developed quite a bit o muscle y’sel since you bint away from Croome. An hextra pair of strong hands will be a help.”

The work in the April sunshine was pleasant indeed.  Martin and Stephen had to dig two new postholes for a five barr’d gate.  The boys, with their shirts off, enjoyed challenging each other in a digging competition.  Stephen won easily, despite encountering a stubborn rock in his shaft but was proud of Martin’s effort, especially as he was unfamiliar with the operation spades and shovels and indeed of their distinction.  When no one was in sight he put his arm around the naked shoulder of the young lord and gave him a hug.  Mending a rock wall on the main road was lighter work, the stones having merely toppled, but several of the villagers noted the odd sight of the younger son of the Marquess hard at work alongside the village lad and his old father.  Some muttered that these were changing times.  The third task was shovelling a pile of dung, which was dirty but accomplished swiftly.  Lastly the three men were to set traps for voles (Martin forgot to ask why) by the stream as it flowed past the cow pasture.  It was an education to see how knowledgeable Stephen and the old man were in the ways of wild animals and the delicacy with which they were able to make intricate traps with their large agricultural fingers.

Finally they went for another swim and removed all the traces of the dung and when they returned to the cottage Knight told Stephen that a note had arrived from the house.  Stephen opened it.  It was an informal invitation for Stephen to dine at the house that night.  They would not be dressing, the note ran, and that the guests would include the vicar and Mrs Destrombe, Mr Plainsong (the local Member of Parliament) and his wife the Hon. Margaret and their daughter, Prudence and Miss Tadrew a gentlewoman from the village that Stephen knew and liked, as well Martin and Lord Branksome himself.

Martin was mightily pleased with his father’s initiative and noted the consideration with which the invitation was couched.  He told Stephen what to wear and promised that he would sit close by.  He reminded him of how successful he’d been in London (though he doubted there would be any visits by a Miss Orchard-Baird this time) but suggested that the Western Australian gambit would not so useful on this occasion.  Lastly, Martin repeated his father’s assessment of Stephen from the White Hart.

Indeed the dinner was a success.  Stephen was modest and let others do the bulk of the talking.  He was attentive to the ladies and had his brilliant smile in operation, often to cover where words failed.  The guests went away with a picture of a quiet boy, well-mannered but no fop, and with a good head on his shoulders.  Miss Plainsong also heard it rumoured in the village that he had a good cock between his legs, and being seated on his left, she had no evidence to contradict this from the six occasions on which she dropped something that she must retrieve, the last one causing her to collide heads with Stephen himself who had also stooped to retrieve her careless fan.

The next day, Martin attended cricket practice with Stephen’s team.  There was quite a crowd of villagers gathered on the green, which was conveniently located by The Feathers.  Several people pressed Martin to take a turn in the nets.  He faced Stephen’s deliveries.  The first one passed on the leg side and Martin chose to ignore it.  The second one also broke to the leg side and Martin tapped it away.  There was polite applause.  The third delivery was pitched well up, almost a Yorker, and it landed right on Martin’s left boot causing him to yelp with pain.

The crowd saw how his lordship was injured (in a noble pursuit) and how grief stricken was his friend from the village, young Knight, who had caused the injury and should have gone easier on a non-player; and how the assailant was required to half carry Lord Martin to the doctor’s house where the injury was treated and impressively bandaged.

Later that evening, in Martin’s room, the boys unwound the bandage and examined the wound.  There was nothing broken but it was painfully bruised.  Martin did need some assistance in walking.  Therefore, it was only natural that at Midnight Mass that night and again on Good Friday and again on Easter Sunday that Stephen should sit by the injured Lord Martin after assisting him to the Poole family pew, taking care of his prayer book and hymnal, assisting him to the communion rail (except on Good Friday when there was no sacrament) and poking the small fireplace at the end of the family pew that Martin’s grandfather’s had caused to be installed in the more feudal days of the Prince Regent.  By the end of Easter, the village had become quite used to Stephen sitting with “the family.”

On Holy Saturday, Knight went to visit his niece and Martin eagerly looked forward to spending some days and nights in the cottage.  They thought it best that Martin be not too obvious as to his place of residence so he went to the cottage after dark, not really needing any assistance from Stephen because his toe was already healed, however it would provide an excuse for him not to be seen about.  They sat by the fire and Stephen played with Martin’s cock with one had while he held the toasting fork in the other.

When it was time for bed, as promised, they were to sleep in Stephen’s quaint attic in Stephen’s narrow bed.  Martin was absurdly excited as he was led up the ladder-like miniature staircase once again and into the little world where everything spoke of the boy he loved.  In fact he began to hum that music hall tune to the effect that “the boy he loved was up in the gallery.”

“Right,” said Stephen, “Take those clothes off.  If you want to sleep with me, you sleep naked or you can sleep downstairs with the dogs!”

Martin was thrilled with this command, although he never had any attention of doing otherwise, but it was just part of Stephen being in control.

They attacked their bodies with tongues and hands.  Eventually Martin said, “I want you to fuck me!”  Stephen, pausing, told him that he too would like to try being fucked and then swiftly outlined his experiments with the dildo.  Martin was both shocked and pleased.  But for now Martin was to be done-over first, he begged, and the Soho box was produced from its sequestered location.

Martin began by lying on his stomach on the bed where his nose pressed into the blankets that smelled of Stephen.  Stephen gently kissed and kneaded the boy’s buttocks, occasionally delivering a nip when they looked just too irresistible, then he lapped as gently as a cat along his crack, so invitingly lined with the palest gold hair, and finally all round his hole until it opened like a flower before his tongue.  The gentle lover then stood a gave such a resounding slap to Martin’s left cheek that it caused the dogs to stir from their slumbers in alarm before the fire downstairs.

“Ow!” cried Martin and looked around at the grinning Stephen and then giggled himself.

Stephen then applied the olive oil to Martin, but noticing that his own cock was not fully erect commanded, “Get me hard first!” which Martin did, pushing himself upwards with one hand and taking Stephen’s member in his mouth, assisted by the other hand, as Stephen half squatted to line matters up.  When Stephen began to feel good he went back to Martin’s arse and inserted an oiled digit, quickly followed by another.  He pistoned them in an out, applied more oil, and felt Martin relax and open up.  Martin was positioned on his back, propped on a pillow, and with his legs beyond the bed wrapped around the standing Stephen’s waist

When Stephen, in an excited state, brought his penis to the opening he hoped things would go (or go in) better than last time.  For all his gruff play he didn’t want to hurt Martin and wanted him to be pleasured.  However, the initial entry was still traumatic and Martin howled and thrashed so much that a worried Stephen said, “Do you want me to pull out?”

“Oh would you, please, it hurts?”

“No!”

“Oh well, you’d better get on with it then: more oil and another pillow under here!”

However Martin did accommodate Stephen’s cock in the end (in both senses) and both boys were smiling like idiots at their accomplishment.  Martin said, “I feel so full, as if the head were up here somewhere,” he said, indicting his sternum.  I feel so stretched.  I’ll never be able to fart again, he giggled!”

“That’s vulgar.  Where were you brought up?” said Stephen.

“You sound just like The Plunger,” said Martin, almost to himself.  “How does it feel to you?”

“Tight.”

“Oh really?” said Martin sarcastically.

“You know I love you, Mala,” declared Stephen.

“I know you do.  Do you think you could show me your pits while you fuck me?” Stephen clasped his hands behind his head, which gave Martin a fine view if his boy pits, the hair already attractively foetid.  “Now let’s stop all this badinage before you go soft.  Fuck me!”

Stephen slowly pulled himself in and out with a motion something resembling that of a steam engine on a Cunarder beginning its Atlantic crossing.  With his hands behind his head it was up to Martin to hold himself still on the bed, but this novel arrangement had to be abandoned when Stephen’s increasing pace and the inability of the transported Martin to be given any responsibilities made it necessary for Stephen to place his hands elsewhere.  Thus he clutched at Martin’s arms and legs for leverage, pulled on Martin’s nipples, wrapped his arms underneath Martin to drive in deeper and even pushed himself off the wall directly behind him.

Martin was a mess.  His eyes were rolled back, he was making incoherent noises, he had spilled twice on his chest and his cock was achingly hard again.  His nose and mouth drooled unattractively and he was covered in sweat and worse.

Stephen had already spilled in him once but kept hard and continued, without a pause, for another 15 minutes until his spilled again.  He slowly pulled out, panting.  Martin returned from the dead like Lazarus and grinned as best he could.  “That was wonderful,” he said and added pleasantly, “Might I have something with which to clean myself up?”

Stephen’s answer was to roughly turn Martin on his stomach, then draw him up on his knees, leaving his ravished hole exposed to Stephen who mounted him as if the younger son were a mere farmyard bitch and then fucked him again for some minutes, spilling a third load of seed, which Stephen had suspected was there all the time.

This time Martin did not ask to clean up, but instead pulled Stephen down into the bed and they fell asleep, as they were, with Martin’s head on the triangular patch of raven hair that was the chief adornment to Stephen’s impressive chest.

When the April sun rose on Easter Sunday, its first slanting rays illuminated a once tidy room that contained two very attractive and naked boys on the bed—well, almost on it; Martin who woke first found that he was practically off the edge as the narrow cot was fully occupied by its broad shouldered owner who was not only snoring abominably but had taken all the blankets. Martin lifted these, revealing that Stephen was as hard as a rock, and pulled some over himself.  He ached all over but had forgotten all about his toe.  He was marvellously happy for he had long dreamed of waking up in just this situation.

Casting caution to the wind, he shook Stephen several times until he ceased to snore and awoke.  They shared a wordless kiss.  “I want to fuck you,” Martin said.

“Charming greeting my lord; and good morning to you too, lover.”

With little further ado, Martin knelt on Stephen’s chest with his thighs somewhere near the latter’s ears and thrust his cock into Stephen’s mouth.  Stephen bobbed his head to meet the thrusts of young Martin’s groin.  A couple of thrusts went too deep causing Stephen to splutter.  “Sorry!” said Martin with transparent insincerity, which was met by a black look from Stephen that was unable to be rendered vocally.

When Martin thought himself sufficiently rewarded, although not fully revenged, he pulled out and had Stephen assume that undignified position which was lately associated with female dogs in agricultural establishments.  Stephen’s young arse was a beautiful sight.  It was covered in a dusting of dark hair, which grew more thickly along the trench.  Martin dived in and gave his lover a treat equal to his own.  He found that Stephen’s hole was quite puckered and made it his mission to try and nip the proud flaps with his teeth.  He tried for several minutes, painfully spreading Stephen’s muscular cheeks so that he might get in closer.  He was just about to retire in defeat and come up for air when he remembered the indignity of the slap.  He pressed in harder and at last managed to nip his hole with his front teeth, causing Stephen to yelp.

Martin appeared from below the horizon of Stephen’s buttocks, just as Stephen turned to see his grin, which he returned it with a scowl.

Martin applied the olive oil and made a note to buy some more.  He then spent several minutes making Stephen moan as he inserted an oily finger into the village stud.  Martin had thought that Stephen was relaxed and open but, when he tried, he could not force his cock past his sphincter, even though Stephen urged him to keep trying.  The dildo was employed with some effect and Martin marvelled how Stephen was hard and leaking.

Stephen then suggested that Martin lay on the bed while he tried to lower himself onto Martin’s cock.  This was more successful as Stephen could use his weight to force himself down, but at his own pace and perhaps with more of a sense of control over their lovemaking.  For Martin it had the advantage of having his head in his lover’s aromatic groin area and being able to watch his cock and balls or, by looking up, his chest and face.

Nevertheless the initial entry hurt because Martin had a big cock and Stephen was unused to being buggered, not having had the advantage of a public school education.  Stephen shed some tears, which affected Martin greatly.  But then Martin found himself all in, with Stephen’s beautiful set of balls resting near his own and the arch of Stephen’s cock coming to earth somewhere on Martin’s chest.

Stephen began to bob up and down on his powerful haunches and, when in the swing of it, encouraged Martin to raise his buttocks off the bed so as to push in more deeply. Stephen’s hole felt velvety on Martin’s cock and the muscles that tried to push him out were as ardent as their owner.

“Don’t spend yet!  Don’t spend yet!” cried Stephen over and over as his own cock slapped repeatedly on Martin’s chest.  On his own initiative, Martin used both his free hands to pleasure Stephen and was actually able to take the tip of his cock in his mouth though when Stephen rose up, he lost it every time.

Finally Martin cried, “I am going to spill!” and Stephen sat down hard, grinding with his hips, forcing Martin to spill into the deepest, most secret recesses of his body, which he did.  At the same time, Martin was able to now take Stephens’s cock securely into his mouth where skilled manipulation caused Stephen to spill into his lover’s eager throat. 

Time was desperately short as the morning service was at 10 and Martin was expected to read the collect this Easter Sunday.  To make matters worse, the kitchen fire had yet to be lit for hot water and in Martin’s seeming abduction from Croome he had not thought to bring his clothes nor offer any explanation.

When there was some water, the boys took turns in standing in the tin tub placed in front of the range while the other rubbed a soapy rag over his body, scrubbing fairly hard where necessary.  They inspected each other’s abused holes; Martin’s looking particularly violated and a tiny trickle of Stephen’s three sowings could be detected finding its way down to the rolling sea.  Stephen licked it up.  “Do you think you can hold it in there until after church?”

“Oh God!” moaned Martin, “but I’ve got to read the collect!  I’ll try if you really want me too.”

Stephen nodded his woolly head vigorously like an excited child, his eyes shining.

Some of Stephen’s London wardrobe was hastily pressed into service to provide Lord Martin with Sunday clothes, and it being a Sunday, the number of garments required was one less than on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays and the consequent saving in time was useful as the young lord, assisted by Stephen, limped pathetically into the Church just as the bell ceased tolling.  The congregation stood respectfully as the pair made for the family pew and the welcome warmth of its thoughtful grate.  Stephen had covered Martin’s ill-fitting costume with an overcoat and the brilliant substitution of a crutch for the stick all added to the intensification of general sympathy elicited from the congregation for this most pious young peer.

When Martin, aided by only his crutch, rose to the lectern and sincerely read:

“O God who didst to make this most holy night to shine…” he couldn’t help but think of a more recent night and mentally corrected Thomas Cranmer’s spelling by silently adding the eleventh letter of the alphabet.”

Lord Branksome at this point nudged Stephen to poke the dying fire and, as Stephen leaned across Martin’s empty seat, he noticed a certain familiar stain on the oak and smirked, noting that Martin best wear his overcoat even though the day was warming.

As the congregations departed for their Sunday dinners, Chilvers, who had been sitting with the servants, caught the boys attention and quietly said: “Begging your pardon, milord, but it might be more convenient for your lordship if I send across some more appropriate clothes the next time you ‘go out for a very early morning walk in order to personally ask Mr Knight to luncheon.’ I have taken the liberty of anticipating your invitation by informing your father, sir, and Mrs Cadrew, who are delighted of course.

“Thank you Chilvers,” the boys chorused in unison.  And the butler gave the pair a hard stare at which Stephen, like the sun appearing from behind a particularly dark cloud, smiled radiantly.  Chilvers pursed his lips, perhaps in an effort to repress a smile of his own and, cocking an eyebrow, said no more.

“What did all that mean?” asked Martin.

“I’m not sure, but I think he’s our friend,” said Stephen as he anticipated another meal at Croome.

In the afternoon the sun did come out like Stephen’s smile and the boys decided to swim.  They lay on the bank on this perfect afternoon and had their first row.  A general election was looming and Stephen had expressed support for Tatchell, a Liberal candidate for Croome.  “But we always vote for Mr Plainsong, he is father’s friend and is never opposed,” said Martin.

“Well it’s about time he was.  Tatchell is a good man, 20 years younger, and full of new ideas.”

“But he is that factory-owner from Warrham; he makes brass things and lives in the town,” bemoaned Martin thinking of the ruthless Birmingham man who, with a rich wife’s fortune, had made a successful business in this town just beyond Croome and won some lucrative contracts to supply the navel depots along the south coast.  “He’ll not understand our ways and want to change things.  Father won’t allow it.”

“Some things need changing, Martin, in your world; you are just blind too it.  And your father can’t do anything about it.  And he can’t tell the villagers who to vote for.

“Can they vote?” Asked Martin in genuine surprise.

“Yes, except for servants, and that will come too.”

“Servants vote?  And I suppose you want women to be able to vote as well!”

“Why not?  Isn’t Chilver’s worth just as much as your friend (the loathsome) Custard?”

This was a convincing point but Martin surprised himself at how hot he was getting.

“Do you want people like Tatchell to be able to just take away Croome and to build horrible factories on it and make people work in them making terrible things like so many ants…and turn us all out to make golf courses for clerks, bookmakers and scullery maids to play on?”  This was a low blow and Stephen retorted by telling Martin a few home truths.  Both boys had begun to regret the courses they had embarked on, but by now it was too late to turn back.

Stephen had the better arguments with which he attempted to demolish the feudal walls of Croome.  Martin’s arguments lacked organization but were compensated by his local examples of the benefits of the old order and the drawbacks of the new.  These were backed up by his genuine distress.  He was nearly in tears, Stephen saw.  Stephen still pressed on.

“…people want to be free, Martin, that’s the most important thing, to be free; free to be whatever they want to be without some lord telling them ‘this is the way its always been done’ and trying to keep them down.”

“No its not!  Your sort can only achieve what they want to be at someone else’s expense. That’s not right either.  What about those who aren’t as strong as Mr Tatchell?   What can they achieve?  Don’t the meek deserve something just as much as the strong?  Aren’t there some things—some people—that should be kept even if they have no use?   People also need to belong to somewhere, Stephen, to have a place, to be loved, not just free.”

Stephen was much shaken by unexpected violence of this sudden storm and by the force of Martin’s last argument, which he admitted to himself presented an aspect he hadn’t properly considered.  He reached across to the red and heaving golden-haired aristocrat and hugged him to his chest until the clouds lightened.

“You’re right about belonging being important too.  I’m sorry.”

“All I have ever wanted was to belong to someone,” said Martin quietly, “if I was free I’d be the unhappiest person in England.”  He let out a final sob and then collected himself.  “I will inherit Croome someday and I will belong to it and the estate will belong to me.  I will have to see that all the people whose home it is too are well cared for in cottages that aren’t damp,” and here he glanced up at Stephen, “and that the estate can provide jobs enough for those that choose not to go into Mr Tatchell’s mills.”

“Or out play golf?” interjected Stephen.

“And the old and the poor, the vicar, the chair bodger and poor Miss Tadrew on just 100 a year, they’ll all be my responsibility.  I can’t just tell them to go and be free.  I also want to make sure that there are opportunities for those who are strong and clever like you Stephen.  The school has to be improved.  Noblesse oblige.  Even if I didn’t want to, I have to belong here at Croome and, most of all; I want to belong somewhere and to someone.  That’s all I ever wanted really; I want to belong to you.  I want to marry you.

“You want to be my wife?”

Martin laughed, “No I’m a chap not a lass, I want to be your husband.”

“But I’m no lass!” said Stephen, wounded.

“Aye, you baint be no comely village luss but t’village stud!” mocked Martin. “On your knees before his lordship, vassal.  “I want my husband to crawl here and suck his wifey’s hard cock.”

*****

Lord Branksome departed for the Rivera the following day.  The boys went to the hall and exercised with the Owens brothers who were pleased to see his lordship and also commented on his gains in height and muscle, confirming their impressions with their large hands for several minutes.  This inspection was curtained by the arrival of two other village lads whom Martin did not recognise and he saw Stephen give a slight shake of his head in his direction.  The exercises consisted chiefly this day of sparring practice and the Owens boys informed his lordship that Stephen was becoming almost as good as they were at the noble art, although Martin had never seen him in a match.  When the vanguard of the Women’s Institute arrived, the company cleared away their equipment and departed, leaving the hall to the ladies of the parish for their meeting.

At the cottage Martin unpacked some clothes that Chilvers had sent across.  He was wearing only a shirt as Stephen said he wanted to have him naked from the waist down all afternoon and, at regular intervals, would look up from ‘Tono-Bungay’ to make sure Martin had not dressed and would occasionally, as Martin passed his chair, lift the shirt to expose his lover, bestowing a kiss or a lick on some favoured portion that lay revealed.

In late afternoon the sky darkened and it came on to rain.  The boys retired to the attic and in the half gloom lay together listening to the beautiful sound of the muffled rain on the thatch, with periodic tattoos as it lashed the tiny casement.  This was background to the more throaty gurgling of a drainpipe somewhere and the pizzicato of drops landing on tin pots, old buckets and sheet iron out in the yard.

“It’s a pity about the Women’s Institute today,” said Stephen at last.

“Yes, Reuben did look disappointed, didn’t he? I would have loved to have done something with them,” said Martin.

“I say, you don’t mind me having some fun with them when you’re at school, do you?  I wouldn’t do anything—or I’d try not to do anything,” he prudently qualified, “if you didn’t want me to.  I don’t love them or anything— you know that—although I love Douglas’ tongue on my arse.”

“Gosh no, I just wish that I was here to watch!  Do you want to do things with other boys —or girls?”

“I do like lasses too, but not like I love you.  Elsie at The Feathers is pretty keen on me,” he said with a slight swagger in his voice, naming the pert barmaid at the pub, “and I fucked her once—just before I met you actually—and I know she’d like to walk out with me.”

“But you’re walking out with me,” completed Martin.

“Aye,” said Stephen and planted a soft kiss on Martin in the grey light.

“What was it like?”

“A gentleman bain’t supposed to tell,” said Stephen with a smile, “n’ you’re bin atryin’ t’ make a gent’man tout of village lud.  It was good actually.  She can suck well for a lass. The village call her a slut, but she isn’t really.  She just likes men—and boys—like you and I do. She did moan and wail when I put it inside her.  But she loved it all the same.  Just like some other lasses I know.”

“Shut up,” said Martin, half amused.

“But I won’t be going near Elsie or any other lasses or lads while you’re away.”

“Except for the Owens.”

“Aye, ’septing t’ Owens of course.  Unless its’ an emergency.”

“Oh yes, emergencies are different,” admitted Martin, resigning himself to the uncertainties that came with walking out with the village stud.

“Derby,” began Martin, broaching a subject that had been on his mind, “That boy Archie- The Plunger—that I have mentioned; he seems to have quite a pet for me at school.  He’s a pompous ass, but he’s funny and I really like him as a friend—not like I love you—and I wondered if I should allow him to—you know—do things with me?”

“And you to him?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

Stephen considered this as Martin sketched a description of The Plunger, which did not help.  He enumerated his sporting abilities and knew Stephen would not be jealous of a hurdler.

“And he’s a ginger?”

“Yes, a he has a red bush above his cock.”

“Not as big as mine?”

“Heavens no!” exclaimed Martin, diplomatically, but nevertheless rolling his eyes in the dark.

When Martin told him how interested The Plunger was in him and how his eyes popped when he saw the Tsindis drawing, Stephen started to see matters in another light.

“Well, yes I think then it would be alright for you to pleasure each other—but don’t let me hear of him making you do anything you don’t want to.  And don’t let him fuck you. That’s special between you and me.  He can be like the Owens.  Ginger, did you say?” And Martin went on to give a more fulsome description of The Plunger and promised to invite him to Croome, but demurring when Stephen suggested that he might like meet the chair bodger’s sons.

Then he grabbed Martin and kissed him deeply, “Just remember Mala, your sweet arse it mine alone,” Stephen said, causing Martin’s heart to swell, along with his cock.

To be continued…

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.

Posted: 08/09/13