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 7

The Daimler groaned its way along the deep, narrow lanes of Dorset, the rain still falling. The boys sat in the back seat trying to keep themselves dry as well as the luggage which they had brought inside from the elements on one of the occasions that Jackman had stopped the vehicle in order to ask for directions to Bournemouth.  In the pile were some mysterious and heavy boxes whose contents Martin refused to disclose.

At last they saw the sea, grey and choppy, over the crest of a hill and soon they were settling into their rooms at Stewart’s Hotel, with Jackman dispatched for home again.  When the hotel servants had unpacked for them and had tidied things away, Martin locked the door and took Stephen into the bathroom.  They enjoyed the warm water, made fragrant by scented soap as they washed each other in the large tub amid the tiled and steam-heated accoutrements of modernity.  Martin paid special attention to washing Stephen’s magnificent hair, lathering the loose curls with shampoo and rinsing it repeatedly with the soft Dorset water that came abundantly from the impressive nickel taps.  Both boys had aching cocks and balls, Martin thinking Stephen would die, but they agreed to save themselves for the visit to William in the late afternoon.

While they were dressing Martin produced a flat box from his case.

“Happy birthday, Stephen!” he said, handing it over.

Stephen took the box and, thanking Martin but remarking that his birthday was not until the day after tomorrow, opened it to reveal a handsome silver picture frame in the Tudoric style made by Liberty.

“It’s beautiful!” said Stephen, “but what shall I put in it?”

“This is only half your present.  Come with me.”

Martin led the soon to be sixteen year-old from the hotel and through the wet streets to a shop that declared that it was the Studland Bay Art Photographic Studio. “You’re having your portrait taken,” he declared simply.

The proprietor was a fussy little man of about thirty-five who was busy combining deference to his lordship’s patronage, repeatedly assuring his lordship that he had come to the right place, and complimenting his lordship on his artistic acumen, all the time sizing up Stephen as he paced about him, finger and thumb on his chin beneath his pursed lips, tilting his head the better to capture some artistic perspective of the beefy lad.

They were taken through to the studio behind the shop where, according to Martin’s elaborate instructions, a remarkable transformation in the usually predictable furnishings had been affected.  In the corner, a canvas had been stretched tightly over the floor and a turnbuckle and ropes, as for a boxing ring, had been mocked up, the illusion only requiring a small portion of the real thing.  On the wall was a painted backdrop showing a crowd of cheering and energised spectators, men with cigars and women in feathered hats, all intent on the spectacle before them.  Stephen was amazed.

He was led behind a screen to get into costume, the little man putting his head around the corner to unnecessarily inspect Stephen’s progress on several occasions and presently Stephen emerged, stripped to the waist in a pair of silken boxer’s trunks and laced boots, holding a pair of gloves which the two tied on.  Stephen was a magnificent sight for a lad his age.  The illusion was furthered when an oily mixture was applied to Stephen’s skin to simulate sweat (both client and proprietor taking great pains in its application) and water sprayed on Stephen’s shiny mop of hair to flatten it, with his lordship himself making several attempts to arrange the errant lock of loose raven curls correctly over Stephen’s left eye.

Next Stephen was manipulated like an artist’s lay figure into various poses.  The one universally preferred was where Stephen stood leaning slightly backwards into the turnbuckle, as if in fatigue, with his legs wide apart and with his elbows resting on the top ropes, his gloved fists momentarily poised over his chest, but not touching, in readiness for the fight.  Fine adjustments were made so that the flex in his biceps was shown off effectively in the electric light and that at least one nipple was visible as a point of focus on Stephen’s chest, as the photographer explained.  Lastly, the artist, with the approval of his patron, personally improved the arrangement of Stephen’s half-hard cock trough the silken drawers in order that it too should be a point of focus in the composition and this appeared to meet with the mute approval by the mob of painted faces on the backdrop.

Several exposures were taken before at last the boxing champion was sadly allowed to dress and the customers were ushered out with a promise that the proofs would be ready on the morrow, a point of artistic focus being clearly visible, along with a damp spot, on the trousers of the artist. 

*****

An afternoon visit to Braemar was made and they were met in the hall by Dr Alexander who exchanged pleasantries, enquired after Martin’s father and confirmed that the mysterious boxes had been delivered to the Earl’s room as instructed.

Upstairs, Martin rushed across the room to kiss his smiling brother who was seated, as usual, on the chaise before the gothic window.  Stephen made a more formal greeting to his lordship until Dr Alexander was gone and then kissed William too, not being put off by the black teeth or decayed features of the young Earl.  William had explained that while debilitated, at this stage of his illness he was not infectious, which was a great irony he said bitterly.

William, however, seemed improved today and was helped to his feet that he might show them his latest paintings and to move to the table where the boxes had been placed.  Leaning on the table for support, he watched with interest as the larger box was opened by Martin to revel its contents: a talking machine made by the Victor Talking Machine Company in a remote place called Camden, New Jersey.  The smaller box contained a selection of wax cylinders for the machine to play, the whole object being to give amusement to William in his enforced seclusion.  William had to be returned to his seat, but was able to view how the horn was attached and how the mechanism was wound and the cylinders fitted.  The first one, chosen at random, was a music hall favourite; ‘After the Ball’ and the three swayed their bodies in time to the tune and declared it miraculous.  A second recording: Miss Clara Butt throatily intoning ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ was also appreciated, although none wanted it repeated. 

They rang for tea and the servants were also delighted at the music the machine produced and ventured that it would help Lord Holdenhurst pass the hours and be a stimulus to his brush.  When the things were being removed, the Earl declared that they had some important family business to discuss and weren’t to be disturbed.

Martin suggested that William might like to conduct the business in his adjoining bedchamber, in view of the absence of locks and the presence of such a large window looking out onto the front.  However, William would not hear of it, although he did allow the screen to be stood before the doors once again.

He motioned the boys to stand before him, which they did, and he commenced to run his scabby hands all over their bodies, feeling their muscles, pressing into hidden recesses and reacquainting himself with the dimensions of their youthful cocks and balls.  It took little to have both boys straining at their trousers, but William still commanded them to kiss, assisting in this endeavour by pushing their bodies together and grinding their groins.  “Take your clothes off, Martin, and then undress your lover,” said the Earl. When Martin was naked, William ran his hand over his brother’s blondness and said to no one in particular “My brother is well hung.” And Martin, had he been paying attention, would have been pleased and proud.

When Stephen was naked he stood directly before the seated William, hairy legs akimbo and hands defiantly on his hips.  His cock obscenely arched out ahead of him as he leaned his marbled shoulders back and it was dripping a steady stream of clear liquid onto the dressing gown of the heir to Croome.  Martin knelt down and took the head in his mouth and ran his tongue under the long, brown foreskin to sample the sweetness therein.  He then pulled the foreskin right back to expose the pink head which he tongued to gather the clear liquid before it was wasted.  William craned his neck so he could better see the cock going in and out of his brother’s full lips.  He leaned forward and took the back of Martin’s skull in both hands so that Stephen could fuck it, occasionally assisting in this by pressing his brother’s head forward until the sick peer’s arms became too tired and he leaned back on the settee once more, liberating Martin’s blonde head.  William then beckoned Martin over for a kiss so that he too could sample the tang of this working class boy, whom he decided, was far from common but best put to work straight away.  “I want you to fuck my brother,” he declared.

To affect this, Stephen knelt behind Martin while Martin leaned over, supporting himself by planting one arm either side of William on the settee.  Stephen began to lick Martin’s blonde crack and hole, painfully pulling his sweet cheeks apart and working his tongue inside with some of the movements he had learnt in the Women’s Institute Hall.  Thus disposed, William was able to kiss his brother who was panting just inches from his face.  “Get right in there!” encouraged the Earl.

For want of something better, a bottle of hair oil was retrieved from the bedroom to be used as a lubricant and this pomade was worked into Martin’s hole and slathered on Stephen’s cock.  The boys arose from their postures so that William might inspect these and then they took up their positions again.  Reaching around for a quick kiss as if to wish each other luck, the fucking began.  Stephen slowly entered Martin’s hole after his oily fingers were finally removed and Martin let out a howl.  However he bravely accepted the intrusion with just moans and groans until the stretching became just too painful and he began to cry out.  Stephen slowed his assault until Martin became used to his girth, despite William’s urging to keep pushing.  When at last Stephen was all the way in and his silky, back public curls were silhouetted against the fair flesh of Martin’s buttocks, both boys lost their looks of deep concentration and managed a smile.  Thus joined they shuffled a little sideways so that William might enjoy the sight of Martin taking all of Stephen’s big cock.  William slid his fingers through Stephen’s bush and touched the base of his cock that was hard against his brother’s buttocks.  With his brother satisfied that it was no conjuring trick, Martin placed his hands either side of William on the settee once again and lowered his face to rest in William’s lap in the deep silk folds of his dressing gown.

Stephen began to move in and out slowly and then with increasing speed when he felt that Martin could take it.  He tried to vary the angle of attack to further increase the pleasure.  He began to grunt and perspire profusely, sweat plastering his dark hair over his forehead, running down his face and through the cleft in his chin to meet the moisture glistening on his chest and abdominal muscles.

Martin’s moans and sobs were muffled in William’s lap and all the while his brother affectionately stroked his golden hair and soothingly whispered, “There, there.  There, there.” 

Stephen increased this pace terrifically and with a spare hand William reached below his brother and pleasured his stiff cock, which was leaking profusely from the anal stimulation.

William marvelled at how his younger brother maintained such an erection through this ordeal.  Martin now stood high in his estimation.  There had been, he reflected as he stroked the cock, Pooles at Agincourt, at Bosworth Field and Edge Hill (on both sides) and his father’s brother had seen action up the Khyber Pass (here he almost giggled), but none were so brave, he thought at this moment, as his fourteen year old brother who was taking it up the arse like a real man.

Stephen’s lovemaking increased in its terrible violence and Martin was crying out in an alarming fashion and moaning like a calf.  Fearing that Dr Alexander would burst through the doors at any second, William picked up his stick and struck the talking machine on the table.  It sprang at once into voice and through the trumpet blared the well-known prelude to the third act of Richard Wagner’s ‘Die Walkure’ as performed by an enthusiastic brass band from a northern colliery in the Albert Hall.  Stephen seemed to fall in with the rhythm of the composer as his assault redoubled.

Suddenly, just as the gates of Valhalla were in sight, Stephen decided to pull out, leaving Martin suddenly empty, but Martin quickly understood the choreography and rose to stand beside Stephen.  With their spare hands locked around each other’s waists, they stroked their slimy erections with increasing frenzy in the direction of the Earl.  Stephen, released Martin’s waist so that he might pleasure himself with both hands, as he was want to do.  William was lost in wonder at their facial expressions and he noted with pleasure Martin’s blonde balls starting to rise.  All of sudden Martin erupted all over his brother, drenching his face and shirt with his seed.  The last rope had just landed when Stephen’s pent up balls exploded with considerable force, the first volley hitting the window behind the settee and the second shot stinging the Earl’s right eye, while another hung lewdly from his nose like an icicle as the needle idled at the end of the recording and the spring wound down.

Stephen started to laugh as he stood panting, then Martin joined in and finally the Earl.  Martin went to the bedroom to retrieve a damp cloth with which to clean up his brother, but his hand was stayed until William could lick up as much of the boys’ seed as his tongue could reach.  A towel was produced and the boys wiped each other down.  William watched them.  They dropped the towel and embraced each other for a kiss, Stephen with his strong arms around Martin in a bear hug and Martin with his golden arms around Stephen’s neck.  It was a beautiful kiss, thought William, not just a kiss of lust but one of pure and incorruptible love, such love as had eluded in him in his truncated life and perhaps was only to be found rarely.  And here it was, as clear and naked as the boys themselves in this Bournemouth sitting room.  William began to weep.

The boys, now dressed, made their adieus, promising to return the next afternoon.  In the hall they encountered Dr Alexander who said: “I’m a great admirer of Wagner, myself and have had the privilege of having been to Bayreuth twice, however the machine seemed to be making some odd sounds, if I may say so.  If your lordship would like me to take it to be repaired I would only be too glad to for his lordship.”

“On the contrary, Dr Alexander, I have never heard The Ring so well played as right here in Bournemouth and the machine is fine,” said Martin, “Good afternoon.”

The next morning found a distressing note delivered to Martin.  Dr Alexander wrote that the Earl of Holdenhurst had taken a turn for the worse and, while being cared for, must have no visitors.

Martin was inconsolable.  It was a terrible blow after such a promising improvement in recent times, a bitter blow.  He wrote to William expressing his sorrow in not being able to say goodbye, but held out the hope that he would recover soon and that he would return.  Stephen enclosed his love too.  He also wrote to his father in Cannes.

Stephen did what he could and let Martin cry when he felt like it.  In an effort to cheer him up, they returned to the photographer for the proofs.  Stephen was especially pleased at the result.  The photographer asked if he might place a copy in his own window by way of a sample of his art.  Martin said no, wanting this to be a personal thing between them, but when he saw Stephen’s look of disappointment he relented.  Stephen felt it only natural that others would want to look at him too—and, after all, it was his birthday present.  They decided to have a copy made for each other and one for William.  Martin feared that if too many were produced Stephen would be presenting them to Elsie at The Feathers and his other admirers.

“May I show it to The Plunger at school?” he asked Stephen.

Stephen was thoughtful for a moment.  “I don’t see why not.  Yes, show me to him.”

*****

When they arrived back at Croome, Stephen returned to spend the night with his father who had come home in a brake from Corfe Mullen and Martin relocated to the house.  It was lonely there.  He rang for Chilvers who sent a footman to help him unpack.  When Michael had left the room, Martin had Chilvers remain.

“I want to buy Mr Knight some clothes so that he won’t be placed at a disadvantage when he comes to dine at the house, Chilvers.  What do you think?”

“Mr Knight would hardly be at a disadvantage in any gentleman’s home in England, your lordship, but I take your point.”

Martin was pleased at Chilvers’ gracious compliment to his friend and the two fell to pleasant task of planning a wardrobe.  In addition to the London clothes, including the evening dress which was purchased after all, they decided Stephen needed some tweeds and some suits of a less splendid cut than Mr Gibbons’ but more suitable for daily life in the house or for assisting Blake, for example.  A list was drawn up.  Some things could be purchased in the village while others required Stephen’s measurements and must come from a nearby town.  At the end of this, Chilvers’ cleared his throat.  “Milord, your father may be absent for some time I gather.”

“Yes, I suppose so, Chilvers”

“And Mr Knight might be staying at the house more often, especially when you are home from school?”  This was a difficulty Martin had been wrestling with and had yet to broach with Stephen who, after all, had his stepfather to consider and may well be wanting to leave school to seek employment on his own account.  Martin looked at Chilvers squarely.

“I hope so, Chilvers, very much hope so, but as you know he has his stepfather and his own life to lead.”

“Indeed sir.  I was just thinking that while he is staying here ‘in your dressing room’ that you might find it more convenient if I were to personally attend you sir—bringing your tea, laying out your clothes and making your beds and so on.”

“But that’s work for a valet and a maid, Chilvers; you have your other responsibilities in the house.”

“That is indeed true sir,” said Chilvers’ reflecting on his lofty position at Croome and the godlike status of the butler below stairs, “but it would only be during the holidays and I could have Michael or Paul or one of the others take over some of my duties and without your father here there is less to do— especially as the dining room is not in use.  I could manage quite well and it would be a pleasure to serve my two young gentlemen and I think you could rely on my being cognisant of yours and Mr Stephen’s domestic arrangements, sir,” he concluded in a level voice.

“Thank you Chilvers, thank you very much.  I will discuss it with Mr Knight tomorrow.”

It was Stephen’s sixteenth birthday and a small party had been arranged at the cottage. Knight had invited Miss Tadrew, the Owens, Elsie from the pub and two boys from the cricket team and the sweetheart of one of these cricketers.  Martin had sent over some sherry for Miss Tadrew and Knight had supplied some bottles of ale and sausage rolls. Mrs Capstick sent over a big hamper, which contained, among other things, a splendid birthday cake.

When Martin arrived on his bicycle he could see Stephen was excited.  The men and Elsie all stood when Stephen entered the cottage and he told them quickly to sit down.  He took the hands of Miss Tadrew and Elsie (who bobbed) and shook the hands of the others, Stephen’s being heartily wrung.  After the spread of victuals, crowned by Mrs Capstick’s cake, had been duly admired, Martin sat by Miss Tadrew and the others fell into quiet conversation in small knots.

Miss Tadrew was a small, thin gentlewoman with grey hair that must have once been blonde.  She was of an age somewhere between 45 and 60, Martin supposed.  She was one of those brave women, seen in every community, who battle to keep up appearances on a fixed or diminishing income: making do, mending clothes, putting a new feather in her old hat rather than buying a new one.  In her tiny cottage she cooked and cleaned her own few possessions with just the help of a char as the parlour maid had been let go some years before.

One of her chief attributes in Martin’s eyes was that she loved Stephen as her own son. She and Miss Tapstowe, Martin learned, had practically brought Stephen up and even today, since Sarah Tapstowe had died, leaving Miss Tadrew sadly alone in her cottage, she still fussed around the boy, checking he was doing his school work, mending his clothes, minding Stephen’s dogs and brushing his unruly hair from his eyes before she allowed him to kiss her.  Stephen, on his part, kept her cottage in repair, dug her garden and was invaluable in lifting down heavy things from high shelves and moving furniture about which are the frequent wants of ladies who live alone.

Martin was just about to ask about Stephen’s mother when he saw Elsie approaching. Martin was nervous about seeing this girl since Stephen had related their history, but he kept his nerve.  Elsie was a buxom lass with chestnut hair worn up.  She had a good figure, fine skin and a sly smile.  She was, thankfully, not raucous or vulgar.  Martin couldn’t help but try to imagine what she and Stephen looked like fucking and was suddenly amazed at the thought that Elsie, of all the people in the room, had the most in common with himself—at least in this one important aspect.  Elsie, however, came over merely to suggest that after the party, his lordship might like to join the others over at The Feathers.

The party started to go more with a swing when the beer started flowing and even Miss Tadrew had a second glass of sherry, served to her in a tumbler.  Martin could hear Stephen talking about cricket to the others who occasionally broke into peals of laughter at some funny incident Stephen was relating; Martin suspected it was at the expense of his own dignity and injured toe and this was confirmed when he saw Stephen hopping about on one leg in imitation of his own recent agony.  All eyes were on Stephen who held court, however Martin noticed two pairs of eyes were more intent on Stephen’s full trousers:  There was Elsie, whose eyes drifted in that direction while still engaged in conversation with Miss Tadrew and there was Douglas Owen who licked his lips, ostensibly to remove the beer froth.  No, there was another pair too: Smike the cricketer—the one who had brought his sweetheart—was definitely fielding at deep fine leg and surreptitiously massaging his own popping crease.  Well, well thought Martin, I’m becoming good at detecting inverts; I have my “invert indicator” in operation.

Soon the party broke up, but not before the Rev. Destrombe and Mrs Capstick and one or two other villagers had popped in to congratulate Stephen.  Miss Tadrew returned home and the younger ones repaired to The Feathers.  The inn was a democratic institution and, although Martin was respectfully greeted, no one stood, of which he was glad, as this was Stephen’s night.

Stephen was quite drunk when they headed for home.  Martin was determined that Stephen should sleep with him at the house and so he began the long walk up to Croome, somehow pushing his bicycle and holding Stephen up at the same time.  Chilvers was woken and assisted in getting Mr Stephen up the stairs and into the bedroom.  Making no comment at all, Chilvers began to remove Stephen’s boots, tie and shirt, as Stephen lay beached on Martin’s bed.  When it came to the trousers Chilvers took a glance a Martin who gave a slight nod, holding his breath.  The trousers were skinned and Stephen’s more than half hard cock sprang free.  Chilvers said nothing and simply swung Stephen’s heavy legs into the bed while Martin, kneeling on it, tried to drag his shoulders to the pillow.

“Thank you, Chilvers, you were a great help”

“A pleasure milord,” he said with a glint in his eye, “Goodnight.”

In the morning there was a soft knock at the door and Chilvers appeared behind a trolley that held two breakfast trays.  The curtains were opened and Chilvers said, “I thought you would like to sleep late milord” Martin felt a bit groggy, but reached over and shook the snoring Stephen who spluttered, looked up and said brightly “Good morning Mr Chilvers,” apparently and irritatingly unaffected by last night’s libations.

Chilvers silently set one tray across Martin’s lap and added the morning’s post to it.  The second tray he attempted to lower over Stephen who was now also sitting up but found that he couldn’t make it balance because Stephen’s large erection was tenting the bedclothes.  Chilvers kept trying to position the tray but it could not settle.  All the while Stephen just sat there grinning stupidly as the butler struggled with his hopeless task. At last Martin looked up from his post (which bore no good news of William) and saw what was going on. “Stephen!” he said in disgust and, moving his hand under the blankets, managed to leaver aside the impediment.

“I’m sorry Mr Chilvers,” said Stephen, not sorry at all.

“That’s quite alright sir.  It happens to all young gentlemen, sir, and I was young once myself.”  And with that he was gone.

Martin and Stephen looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Stephen returned to the cottage and Martin set out to visit some of the villagers, including those in the workhouse.  When Martin appeared alone, the deserving were invariably ungrateful because he hadn’t brought Stephen with him.  After the third visit where old Oakapple had said “Arr, where be the young lad wot plays cricket, your lordship?” Martin admitted defeat and cycled back to collect Stephen who was helping his stepfather with a rabbit hutch.

The remaining visits were more successful and Stephen then suggested that they might like to exercise at the Women’s Institute Hall as it was the Owens' half-day from the flour mill.  The brothers were already sparring when they arrived and the success of last night’s party was raked over.  The weights, barbells and the rowing machine were all employed.  The three boxers then used skipping ropes, amazing Martin with their speed. All the three had their stiff pricks stimulated by the by the action against their shorts, Stephen’s tenting terribly.

Without any preliminaries the jumpers removed their clothes and Martin did too.  Douglas declared he wanted to “taste thine arse, Stephen” and the latter bent over, leaning on the vaulting horse, in eager anticipation.  Reuben wanted to kiss Martin, for whose soft, full lips he had such a sentimental weakness.  Martin allowed this, although was not so keen.  The obscene sounds of Douglas’ slurping and Stephen’s moans were getting Martin terribly excited.  He asked Reuben if he would like to feel his lips on his cock. Reuben made some agricultural sign of assent and Martin saw action between the lad’s hairy, sweaty legs.  He had a good thick cock and nice balls in a sack that was high and tight. Martin was able to lick the underside of Reuben’s cock and mouth his ball sack in convenient conjunction.

Martin looked over at Stephen who was in ecstasy from the ministrations of Douglas’ long tongue.  “Would thee like to try sum tha’ your lordship?” suggested Reuben looking over as well. “I bin have a tongue just as good as Doug, baint I just don’t get t’practice as orfen as Doug’s bin getting on your Stephen.”  Martin thought this was an excellent suggestion and the two pairs were lined up so that Martin and Stephen (who was nearly unconscious) could kiss and the two brothers could compare samples of musky arse through endearments of their own as they knelt on the Women’s Institute floor.

Reuben was indeed as good as his brother but was very concerned that Martin’s hole was red and inflamed. He tried to sooth it with his tongue. “You bin be more careful bint his lo’ship, Stephen,” he called out “’tis like a baboon’s backside down here,” he admonished.  It was meant kindly and Martin chuckled.  To repay Reuben’s kindness he had Reuben sit crossways on the horse and pleasured him with his hand and occasionally moistened matters with his mouth and tongue.  With a shudder, Reuben finally spilt, the offering, Martin made sure, coating the blonde hair around his own nipples.

Douglas finally spoke: “Your lordship, Stephen needs sommat in’t mouth an’ I baint had my fill o’ his rump.  I got a real passion fores it t’day, t’ be sure.”  So Martin sat himself longways on the horse with Stephen’s hands either side of his body and, by lifting himself up slightly, was able to shove his cock into Stephen’s mouth, which was lolling idle. Stephen sucked furiously; Douglas had been right.  Martin grabbed two hunks of Stephen’s hair and pulled his head downwards until he took him deeper. Reuben meanwhile lay on the floor on his back under his brother and took his cock into his mouth where his sucked furiously.

First Martin spilled, before he even realised it, into Stephen’s mouth and he saw him smile around his cock.  Some minutes later Douglas spilled his seed down Reuben’s throat, Reuben explaining that his brother’s tasty load was small on account “of being behind t’pigs practicing this morning.”  Stephen was still unspent despite Douglas’ unremitting labours.  A plan was hastily improvised and thought appropriate in view of Stephen’s sixteenth birthday: Stephen was straightened up, though Douglas still kept is eye on his buttocks, on one occasion actually sinking is teeth in to the muscle, and Reuben and Martin knelt themselves either side of Stephen.  Doug returned to his labours, inserting his pointed tongue well up inside Stephen, while Stephen’s own double handed stroking was assisted by Martin and Reuben who relieved him at times when is arms ached and, more particularly, aided by licking his low-hanging balls and nipping on the delicate flesh down there.

Stephen’s pace continued to increase and Martin now stood to pull at Stephen’s left nipple and draw the soft black locks that curled about it through his teeth.  With a cry the over stimulated village stud suddenly erupted, his seed flying across the room and landing with soft splats on the barbells, vaulting horse, the Indian clubs and sundry other equipment in the way, and with lesser emissions falling on the floor or into Reuben’s grateful upturned face.

Stephen was stunned.  The other three were stunned.  Stephen’s mouth was open and his eyes were wide and shining.  “I can’t believe it!” he cried, looking wildly around at the mess.  He pulled Douglas to his feet and planted a kiss on the surprised boy’s lips an then, as if hit by a sudden idea, converted the kiss into something more passionate, wrapping his arms about Douglas’ head and mashing into his face, pushing his own tongue in to taste that which just before had been pushed into his own person.

Douglas pulled of and said, with less conviction that he would have a hour ago:  “Now don’t ago akissing me like thart, Stephen, I baint no Nancy, I tole you.”

“But you should!” said Stephen in elation, “You’re a good kisser,” and turning to Reuben said, “Practice thine kissing behind t’pigs.” Douglas looked less than convinced but perhaps Reuben could show him something, he reflected.

The triumphant Stephen would not let them clean up and they dressed and departed hoping to meet again for exercise before Martin returned to school for summer half.

That night, as the boys sat quietly by the fire in Martin’s sitting room.  Stephen put down ‘Kipps.’  “Can I show you something?” he said to Martin who was reading an Ethel M. Dell. Martin opened a cardboard portfolio that Stephen placed before him on the table.  Inside were drawings—architect’s sketches—with measurements and costings annotated on them.  There were some perspectives of what looked like small pavilions for shelter in municipal parks.

“What’s all this?” said Martin, looking up at him.

“These are my ideas for bathrooms for the cottages on the estate.”

“Bathroom’s in cottages!” said Martin with some incredulity (Mr Plainsong having been returned).

“Aye,” said Stephen firmly (the Liberals having caused a considerable erosion of Mr Plainsong’s majority)

And not wanting another row, Martin listened while Stephen explained the sketches he had carefully made.

The plans were ‘standardised’—Stephen explaining this word—and could be adapted and reversed easily so that bathrooms could be added on behind most cottages, behind the kitchens where the woodsheds routinely stood.  They were actually pairs of bathrooms to suit the paired cottages.  There were certain economies of construction such as the adoption of only one type of window and in the use of breezeblock concrete which could be lime rendered by unskilled labour to resemble the cob from which most cottages in the district were made.  The small pavilions actually stood a few feet apart from the houses and to whose kitchen doors they were connected via porches whose walls and doors were extensively glazed.

“Glass doors in a cottage! I like traditional ledged doors,” said Martin, but Stephen continued.

The glass, although more costly, would allow light back into the kitchens and would provide dry places for boots and coats.  With the addition of a little more glass in the flat roof, each porch could be a miniature hot house for tender plants and Stephen went on to explain the slight adjustments required for cottages of differing aspects.

The bathrooms themselves were properly two rooms, the farther one being a washhouse with a boiler and cement trough. “How will you get the fuel inside to light the fire to do the washing, will you have to bring it through the bathroom?” questioned Martin.

“No, see here is a hatch from the new wood bin and another for the ashes, but one day there may be gas coppers or even electric ones.” Martin doubted these would ever find their way Croome, and thought Steven had been reading Mr Wells.  He was also doubtful that villagers would take to flushing toilets connected to septic systems, even if these could be largely dug by the villagers themselves.

“But you’ll have to carry the wash out into the yard through the bathroom,” observed Martin.  Stephen admitted that this was true but went on to talk about the clever arrangement by which water heated on the kitchen range (most cottages would require a new range) could pass through short sections of pipe to the bathroom and laundry, additionally passing close to where a clothes airer could be raised to the warm ceiling.  Under the pyramidal roof was a water tank that supplied the kitchen and bathroom. This had to be filled every night by a few minutes operation of a hand pump but would be of great convenience.  The final flourishes were sketches of alternative ideas for the roofs in thatch, tin and tile, and of finials in various ornamental designs such as found on weather vanes.

“I haven’t quite worked out the cheapest roof; we have plenty of thatch on the estate but it’s more costly to put up.  Maybe the other two will be cheaper.  What I like best is that it doesn’t spoil the look of the cottages from the front and I think actually improves the backs,” said Stephen.

“How much will they cost?”

Oh about £120 per pair, which includes a new range but not the septic, but less if we order the materials in bulk and get some of the villagers to do the labour.  Some cottages have a range that heats water already.  I thought we could start off with just one pair to get it right and then maybe do ten pairs per year.  In less than a dozen years all the cottages on the estate would be done.”

Martin loved Stephen’s enthusiasm and admired his skill.  He had thought of everything and the drawings were quite beautiful.  Most of all he loved how he just naturally fell into using the word “we.”

“Father will never agree to it.”

“Yes, I know,” said Stephen and sadly slid the drawings away.  “It’s been a wonderful Easter—apart from William’s relapse hasn’t it?  He said, changing the subject.  We went to church an awful lot.  I won’t have to go for six months.”

“Oh yes you will, you’ll have to represent me,” said Martin.

“Do you know the part of Easter I liked best?  Said Stephen suddenly, “the story of Jesus washing his disciples’ feet.  I want to wash your feet,” he declared, simply, as he brushed Martin’s golden hair with his lips.

When Chilvers came in at around 11 to turn down the bed, he found the lamps had been lowered and in the dim light the black-haired village boy was naked and kneeling before the equally naked fair-haired lord and whose soles he was gently soaping and massaging with his strong hands as he sat in a chair, his feet in a the deep china dish from the washstand.  Such was the love that shone in their eyes as they stared intently at each other that they didn’t even hear Chilvers leave or the slight sniff from the family retainer who had to fight back a tear.

To be continued…

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

Posted: 08/16/13