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 8

The summer half at Martin’s school began at a gallop.  He was now a permanent fixture in the lacrosse team, having moved up the hierarchy as several of the boys who had been so encouraging on Parents’ Day were now gone up to Oxford or were training at Sandhurst.  Still Martin loitered in the Craigth Pavilion shower baths in the hope of learning new things and seeing some action that neither of these great institutions ostensibly prepared its young men for.

It was in the first few days of term that he received a letter from Stephen.  In it he gave an account of how well he was doing at school and this made Martin feel guilty, but he vowed to work harder for Stephen’s sake.  Stephen was looking forward to his first proper boxing match that was to be held in the village with the publican from The Feathers as referee.  Mr Destrombe had come to see Stephen in an agitated state and said that the verger must have failed to lock the Women’s Institute Hall because Miss Plainsong had complained that the ladies had found the hall in considerable disarray and that she had ruined a pair of new gloves when she picked up a soiled Indian club.  Stephen had been out to inspect the drainage scheme with Blake.  The Marquess was still in France and he wondered if Martin had heard anything of William.

Martin hadn’t heard anything and was feeling rather depressed and lonely.  He decided to call on The Plunger.  When he arrived, his chum’s room, which had so lately been in le style Rothschild he found it was again miraculously transformed.  In an alcove, guarded by a pair of decorative wrought iron gates, a ‘lady chapel’ had been arranged in the Spanish baroque taste.  There was a heavily carved prie-dieu on whose shelf was a number of leather bound volumes that may have been religious works and, over one end, was draped a large collection of costly embroidered lace vestments.  Next to a stoup stood a tall pair of Italian candlesticks carved like barley sugar.  The Sargent that had been so unfortunately a victim of an accident had been replaced by a large and rather gory crucifix.   The Plunger, the school had heard, had become an Anglo-Catholic and had arranged for a Roman priest from a nearby town to cycle over on Wednesdays to say mass, which he pronounced ‘marse’.

“Hullo, Poole,” he said, removing his monocle and putting down the Robert Benson novel he’d been reading.

“I say Plunger, what’s that awful pong?”

“Poole, you sound like a non-conformist.  It’s incense,” he said, pointing to an elaborate silver censer that hung from a hook on the wall.  

“What do you think of my chasubles?”  Martin didn’t quite know how to reply so Archie said, “Have a toffee,” offering one from an aspergillum.

“I’ve got a photograph of Stephen that I thought you’d like to see.”

The Plunger’s green eyes lit up and he pulled a curtain modestly across the chapel so that they could concentrate on more secular matters.  They sat on the bed and Martin removed the unframed portrait from beneath his jacket and handed it over.

The Hon. Archie Craigth drank in the photograph.  There was Martin’s village lad stripped to the waste, apparently waiting on the ropes to re-enter the fray.  His heroic body seemed to glow from exertion and his jet back hair had come loose and was plastered over one side of a handsome face, with its square jaw subdivided by an attractive cleft.

His eye was lead down past the exposed and vulnerable nipple to linger on the silken boxers’ drawers, which showed the pugilist’s all too evident virility tenting the fabric for some considerable distance toward its hem.

“He’s magnificent.  So deliciously working class.”

Martin looked annoyed but let him continue, “He represents all those vanishing traditions of rural England, don’t you think?”  Martin wasn’t sure.

“Do you think he’d teach me to box? I mean boxing is a noble art, Lord Queensberry and all that; agricultural labourer and his lord, all equal in the sight of God and all equal in the ring; nothing like skiing or golf, thank goodness.”

‘Well you’ve got the reach for it,” admitted Martin as he considered The Plunger’s aptitude for the sport.  The Plunger stood up and flexed his muscles and then did a little jig on his toes in the manner of a fighter preparing himself.  Martin couldn’t help noticing The Plunger’s ample cock bouncing beneath his trousers with their knife-edge crease.  He felt The Plunger’s biceps and chest. “It might be fun,” he said, unsure of whether he was referring to the boxing lesson or to something else.

They sat down and resumed their study of the photograph while Martin related the story of its commissioning.  They were both rubbing their cocks through their clothes, when The Plunger said, “I say Poole, help a fellow out?”

Martin quickly took off his trousers and let The Plunger more carefully remove his own garment to preserve the crease.  Both boys were wearing silk drawers rather than combinations and when they had removed their shirts they stood and sparred for a bit and tried to imitate Stephen’s ringside pose.

Martin was keen to taste a ginger cock and so he slid down The Plunger’s underwear and pushed his nose into the attractive red bush and sniffed the expensive, clean scent of his friend.  It didn’t take very much for The Plunger to become fully erect.  His long cock with its smooth bell-shaped head was in pleasing proportion to his tall frame, and the contrasting red and white elements reminded one of the tower of Westminster Cathedral, which had in recent years become such sight in London, although was considerably less attractive at this moment, Martin thought.

Martin pleasured The Plunger with a skilful combination of hand and mouth.  The Plunger looked down in fascination as his cock slid across the full lips of his beautiful friend who even now was paying extra attention to the underside with his protruding tongue.  The Plunger grasped two handfuls of Martin’s golden hair in his frenzy.  Suddenly, he pulled Martin to his feet and lightly kissed him and asked him quite sincerely if he liked his cock.  Martin nodded.  They then moved towards the prie-dieu and The Plunger placed Stephen’s photograph on the slope so that he might contemplate it while Martin resumed his devotions on his knees.  The pace and vigour increased, Martin just using his wrist now and, invoking the name of our Lord and with an expression on his face that only Caravaggio could have captured, The Plunger spent his white seed all over his own chest.

Eager to return the favour and prudentially in the hope of more to come, The Plunger knelt on the prie-dieu while Martin stood and placed his cock through the gothic trefoil where there was a convenient gap level with The Plunger’s eager mouth.  He could suck well, thought Martin, as he felt a tight vacuum form around his thick cock and The Plunger’s lips gripped tightly enough to pull the loose skin on his shaft backwards and forwards. The Plunger’s tongue stimulated the slit in the opening and he swallowed the clear liquid that flowed from it like a benediction.  This tight and thorough action brought Martin to a state that Bernini could have sculpted in marble, and the first ropes of his seed were just pumping down The Plunger’s throat when the door opened and the housemaster walked in.  The visitor did not see into the Lady Chapel immediately, giving time for Martin to pull the pile embroidered vestments over the top of himself in concealment, all the while continuing to pump his load into the kneeling Plunger’s mouth through the Prie-dieu.

“What are you doing, Craigth?” demanded Dr Mitcham 

The Plunger did not answer or look up until the last of Martin’s seed was consumed.  After a long pause he replied, head still bowed, “I was just saying my prayers, Dr Mitcham and I had a rather long litany to recite in Latin.”

At this, the housemaster gave a disgusted look and then said, “Very well, but why are you naked?”

“I was reading about penance, sir, and I was contemplating mortification of the flesh to atone for my sins.”

Dr Mitcham was lost for words and so merely turned on his heel, reminding The Plunger that he had geography prep to do, and shut the door. 

***** 

The very next day Martin received two communications.  The first came when Dr Mitcham called Martin to his study:  “Poole, there is a telegram for you.  Please sit down, sir, if you want to open it here.  I will just be outside.”

Martin’s heart sank and he felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he opened the ominous Post Office envelope with numb fingers.  It took him a few moments to understand the combination of letters that made up the brief message, but when the words at last made sense, he let out a schoolboy whoop that brought the housemaster back into the room.

“It’s good news sir, about a friend of mine, sir, in our village school: he’s won a scholarship to the grammar school in Blandford Forum!”

Dr Mitcham was genuinely relieved and thought it noble that young Lord Martin should take such a personal interest in the education of his tenants, although he’d be more pleased if he took the same pains over his own.  He saw the beaming boy to the door, and sent him away with several pats to his golden head and a slight valedictory gesture with his palm to his equally attractive rump shown off to such advantage in his tight school trousers. 

Martin was on his way to tell The Plunger when he passed the post rack and saw there was a letter for him in his brother’s hand.  He stuffed the telegram into his pocket and tore the envelope open and read with delight William’s note informing him that he was having ‘a good spell’ and would be happy to see him in Bournemouth.

So overcome was Martin that he just managed to get into The Plunger’s room before he collapsed into tears.  Unable to speak he simply handed over the two missives for his friend to read and the equally delighted boy swept him into a hug.  When sufficiently recovered, Archie suggested they might take a walk over the fields as it was a sunny afternoon.  This they did: the tall and immaculate figure of The Plunger oddly swinging a shooting stick and, when he was sure they were unobserved, puffing on a briar pipe, with Martin talking excitedly.

Behind a convenient hedge, they were pleasuring each other, but Martin was really too excited and kept breaking off to give expression to some thought concerning recent matters.

“It will mean that Stephen will have to go and live in Blandford Forum because, although it’s a good school, they take only day boys.  He could come home at weekends and in the holidays, of course.  It is only what he deserves, will all his brains.”

“But hasn’t he a father or something?  And will the scholarship be enough for him to live on; he’ll have no family to support him like the other boys will?” cautioned The Plunger, not wanting to particularly dampen his friend’s joy.

“Yes, I suppose that’s right,” he said and, after a silence of some minutes during which he resumed stroking the long, ginger cock of the Hon. Archie, said:  “And I say, isn’t that topping news about William.  I wish I could see him.”

“Well, why don’t you?” said The Plunger, buttoning his fly when he realised that he was going to remain unsatisfied this afternoon.  “You could ask Mitcham if you could have a leave pass to go down to Bournemouth, say next Monday when its Founder’s half-day.  You wouldn’t miss much.”

“I say, Plunger, do you think he’d let me?” said Martin in surprise.

“I think he might, for he likes you.”

And so Martin found himself on an early train south after having spent the previous day writing to Stephen, William and his father.  He watched the fields of England speed by and wished Stephen was here with him.

When he saw William he rushed, as usual, across the room to greet him, Dr Alexander standing in the doorway, smiling.  William seemed greatly improved and even suggested that they might go for a walk along the front as it was such a nice day, although he cautioned that the bath chair should be also taken.  Progress was slow because William was weak from his months of inactivity so when they reached the pier William had his brother push him in the chair to the end where they had tea.

They fell to discussing Stephen and the welcome news of the scholarship. William made the suggestion that they should provide Stephen with some funds to enable him to not be at a disadvantage among the other boys because of his humble origins.  Martin was delighted and offered a £100 from his Father’s allowance and was stunned when William offered £400 from his own.  “That’s very handsome of you William.  Do you think Stephen will take it, though; he’s very proud?”

“Then it will be up to you to convince him, won’t it?” said the Earl.

Back in William’s room the paintings were examined; the ones from his recent bout were distressing sights.  Martin then asked his brother if there was anything he could do to help him.

“No, thank you Martin, but I look forward to seeing you and Stephen in Bournemouth at the earliest opportunity, and besides, it’s Monday, and the gardener’s boy had just left before you arrived.” 

***** 

Back at school Martin applied himself to his studies, with The Plunger giving him help with his French.  The Plunger’s rooms were now redecorated in the style that a rural squire might have found comfortable had he been in a play at the Aldwych Theatre: gone were the high church trappings (the little priest having been sent away on his bicycle having failed to convert another Newman) and the walls were now adorned with framed scenes of hunting and boxing with a number of antique loving portraits of bloated cows that were such popular subjects in the Shires a hundred years ago.  The Plunger put down Surtees’ ‘Jorrock’s Jaunts and Jollities’ in order to unbutton Martin’s trousers.

After he had finished pleasuring his friend and had looked over his irregular French verbs he said, “I say Poole, do come and watch me box in the gymnasium tomorrow after prayers.”

Martin attended the boxing exhibition and marvelled at how good his chum was.  It was no surprise that The Plunger held an elegant upright stance, with his chin held high, however Martin was impressed by his muscular frame and by the power of his blows, delivered coolly and disdainfully by his long arms.  Even with his monocle removed he kept his eye firmly on his opponent (a sixth former) and maintained an unperturbed balance.  When the older boy was knocked to the canvas for the second time there was some cheering from the small crowd of boys who had gathered and Martin called out, “You’re a natural, Plunger!”

It was following one of these matches that Martin joined The Plunger in the shower baths.  They were soaping themselves up under the hot water, Martin having given The Plunger’s shoulders an appreciative lick, when they were joined by four boys from the sixth form and Cave-Jones, the lacrosse captain, of the upper fourth.  The boys congratulated The Plunger on his pugilistic skills and gathered around under the spray to feel his biceps, encouraging him to make a fist.  Cave-Jones performed his party trick of opening his mouth wide and accommodating The Plunger’s whole fist in it and the others, having seen this many times before, urged him again to go on the stage.

The appreciative rubs were extended to Martin who, in all honesty had not been boxing at all and, quite soon, he and The Plunger were being pleasured by the eager seniors.  Two of the boys were kneeling before The Plunger and working over his cock and balls while a third was dividing his time between the lips of The Plunger and Martin’s own beautiful mouth, with somewhat painful twisting attention being paid to his boy nipples.  Cave-Jones was doing an encore on Martin, taking the entirety of his cock and ball sack deep into his mouth and throat without gagging while Rogers was busy tonguing Martin’s fair arse trench.  There were some alterations of personnel and swapping of positions that Martin could not remember clearly afterwards but he did remember spilling down Cave-Jones’ acrobatic throat and the next thing he knew he was lying on the floor of the Craigth Pavilion shower bath covered in the seed of the five boys who were even now dressing and preparing to return to their respective houses.  He looked across at The Plunger who was lying similarly slumped under the running water looking as if he’d just done ten rounds with ‘Gentleman Jim’ Corbett. 

***** 

“Will you have another, Stephen?” said Elsie the barmaid at The Feathers. She had stepped from behind the bar in the absence of the landlord and any other customers and had one arm around the waist of Stephen who was stood there in his shirtsleeves and was using her other hand to rub up and down the length of his hardening manhood beneath his trousers.

Stephen had emptied his mid-day pint and was reading Martin’s latest letter, which contained, among other news, his successes in lacrosse and French syntax.  “No thank ye Elsie love.  I’ve got to get over to Miss Tadrew’s to mend her parlour door,” said Stephen and the disappointed girl had to be content with one of Stephen’s more radiant smiles.

The Marquess had returned and had seen that the estate was prospering in his absence.  He toured the drained fields with Blake and Stephen and marvelled at the ripening grain growing there.  He also listened patiently to Stephen’s dissertation on motor tractors while remembering how he loved the sight of a team of beautiful horses ploughing and always wished he had the artist’s skill to capture it.  He turned suddenly to Stephen and said that he hoped that he and Martin would find time to join him in Cannes during the summer as it was intention to return there, despite the Riviera’s reputation for oppressive heat in the season, and that he would send funds to Martin should he desire to accept the invitation, adding that it would help his French syntax.

“Merci, mon seigneur. C’est un invitation plus genereux,: said Stephen, “Je n’ai jamais ete en France. J’aime nager .”

“Avez-vous un maillot de bain?” inquired the Marquess.

“Non. Je vais en avoir un.”

“Quel dommage,” replied the aristocrat, looking at the lad.

A few days after this, Chilvers sent word to the cottage that Stephen’s new clothes had arrived and that he might find it convenient to come to the house to try them on.  Steven arrived at the kitchen entrance and was greeted warmly by Mrs Capstick and the rest of the staff who were relieved, but hardly surprised, that the village boy was not too proud to visit them.  He was congratulated on his scholarship that would see him schooled well beyond any other village boy and many of them marvelled at the changing times they were living in.

Chilvers escorted Stephen to Martin’s room where the new suits were laid out for inspection.  Stephen was delighted and Chilvers looked at him trying to determine whether he felt unmanned by accepting the gifts.  Stephen caught something in the servant’s look and said, “Mr Chilvers I know some in the village and in this house may not think it proper for a boy like me to accept gifts like this and for me to get above my station.  I have thought about it long and hard.  I don’t think I’m just a ‘kept woman’ (and he gave a short laugh) and I intend to earn my place if I can.  I can’t help where I was born, any more than his lordship can, but I’m man enough to know I can better myself, even without his lordship’s help.  But it’s more complicated than that for I feel for his lordship something that makes every other consideration pale into insignificance.  I actually couldn’t manage to better myself without his love.  I would be just as happy if he came to live in my cottage— and that would mean you’d be laying out very different clothes on this bed right now,” he laughed. “I could ruin our relationship if I made the clothes and such into a matter of my pride.  They are only things.  I hope you don’t think any the less of me for accepting them.”  Stephen knew he had said the right thing by the look in the servant’s eye— the sort of eye with the support of an eyebrow that was unusually eloquent.

He said: “His lordship’s happiness is one of two the most important things to me, sir; the second being the future of Croome.  I believe, Mr Stephen, that you are the key to both of these.  You are a young man, but have never disappointed me, sir, if I may say so, and I hope that you never will.”

Stephen was moved by his words and said, “And I hope I never shall, Mr Chilvers.”

For the next half hour Stephen, modestly wearing some silk drawers, tried on the new clothes which fitted well, Chilvers paying particular attention the fit and to the side Stephen ‘dressed’ on, and a new list was prepared of things that had been forgotten or might be required for the Riviera.

*****

The train steamed into the station at Blandford Forum, which, like the market town itself, was sheltered under the picturesque ruins of Blandford Castle that dominated the hill on to whose skirts the town clung.  Stephen got the impression of a town of grey stone and brisk inhabitants who went about their business in a manner quite different to the slow and gentle ways of Branksome-le-Bourne.  This stimulated Stephen rather than alarmed him and he thought that this was the place where he’d be sure learn more about the wider world over the next two years of his schooling.

Stephen walked to his new school, which stood a little apart from the town and sought out the headmaster’s study for the interview that had been arranged.  Dr Davis was a rotund elderly man with white hair who wore a normal suit rather than his academic gown.  He was serious as befitted his position as principal of one of the best schools in the county, but Stephen could also detect the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth and in his bright blue eyes that spoke of a kindly human being and not of a tartar.

Dr Davis congratulated Stephen on his scholarship and on his school results from Croome.  “I hope you do not find us too different here or the work strange.  I would imagine it is a big step for you, sir.  Have you thought anything about the direction in which you’d like to go and of the studies you’d like to undertake here at Blandford?” he inquired.

“Dr Davis, I am very keen to keep up my mathematics, sir, as I have an interest in engineering and in farm management,” said Stephen.

“Well, mathematics we certainly have, but this is a grammar school and we do not offer business or agricultural studies, I’m afraid, although some of the school governors are keen for commercial subjects to be introduced.  A good grounding in mathematics, however, will enable you to take these subjects elsewhere in the future.  What other subjects were you thinking of?”

“French and Latin and Literature, sir, and I’m a keen cricketer and I am learning to box.”

“Indeed.  Well, we offer all these things; now tell me about the cricket.”

And so Stephen gave an account of his captaincy of the local side and the successes that had crowned it over the last two seasons.  Dr Davis seemed impressed.  Just then there was a knock at the door and a man in a gown appeared.

“Ah this is Mr Mingis our Literature Master.  Mingis, this is Mr Knight who you will have heard will be joining us next term.”

The two shook hands, Mingis forgetting why he had come to see Dr Davis. Mingis was a thin-lipped man with a moustache that strove to compensate for his baldness.  His gimlet eyes fixed on Stephen as Dr Davis continued: “Mr Knight has expressed an interest in taking Lit, Mr Mingis.”

“Is that so, Mr Knight?”

Stephen nodded.

“Well, you may like to think carefully before you say yes because the standard here is very high; you’ll find it very different to where you have come from.  You’re the scholarship boy aren’t you?”

Again Stephen nodded.

“We’ll be studying Beowulf.  Have you heard of Beowulf, Mr Knight?”

“No sir, I haven’t.  Is he a British writer?”

Mingis rolled his eyes and said, “Of course he’s British.  And Scott, we’ll be studying the works of Sir Walter.  Have you heard of him?”

“Yes I have, sir,” replied Stephen becoming annoyed, “but I have only read ‘Ivanhoe’ and ‘Rob Roy’.”

“No doubt they were Sunday School prizes,” sneered the Lit Master

“‘And Heart of Midlothian,’ I forgot I have read that.”

“Our Dux last year is now studying at Oxford.  He is specialising in modern literature,” said Mingis proudly, “Anthony Vane-Gillingham has done this school proud.”

“I believe I have met his sister sir, in London, at his mother’s house.”

“You were a servant in Lady Vane-Gillingham’s house?”

“No sir, I was a guest.  I also obtained the autograph of Mr Forster the novelist.”

Mingis looked incredulous.  “He was at Lady Maud’s house too?”

“Oh no sir, I met him at the Café Royal.”

Mingis was speechless and during his pause to regroup Dr Davis led Stephen out into the hall where a lofty, brown-eyed schoolboy was waiting. “Mr Knight, this is Mr Tennant our head prefect and vice-captain of our First XI. Christopher, this is Mr Knight. I want you to show him around the school.”

Stephen liked Christopher at once.  He was tall and athletic with an easy-going manner.  There was a ready smile beneath a pair of liquid brown eyes that were framed by long brown lashes.

“I say Knight, did Mingis cut up rough?  He’s a bit of a bastard.  Don’t let it worry you.  Dr Davis is alright and so are most of the other masters.”

Stephen did look a little shaken but quickly fell into easy conversation with this country doctor’s son who had a love of cricket.  The tour revealed to Stephen a school that, while not large, had pleasant old buildings dating back to Queen Anne’s time.  Christopher concentrated on the games room and the cricket pitch.  They took turns in bowling and batting, sizing up each other’s skill.

“By Jove, we’ll have to get you onto the team, Knight.  You’re a bit of an all-rounder.”

Stephen modestly admitted that he was. “Do you have lacrosse here?” he asked.

“No, that’s the game with net-things isn’t it?  Do you play it?”

“No, a friend of mine does at his school.  Is there a tennis court?”  Tennant took him behind a laurel hedge where the gardener was at that moment mowing a pair of courts.  “I need someone to teach me tennis.  There was no court in my village or even at the Big House.”

“Your pa is an estate labourer, is that right?”

“He is. He’s my stepfather; my parents are dead.”

“Oh I’m sorry old chap.  It’s just that I meant you must be terrifically brainy to win that scholarship here and all.  I’m not all that good at lessons, but my father wants me to do well.  He’s not all that flush with funds as his practice is in a poor part of Northumberland and so he sent me down south and I’m trying not to disappoint him.  He was awfully proud when I made prefect.  I can teach you tennis, if you like.  Do you know anything about maths?”

The tour of the school was completed and they were walking back to Dr Davis’ study when Christopher suddenly said. “I say, Knight, where are you lodging?

“I was going to look for board this afternoon.”

“Well, if you can’t find anything you’d like better, I believe there’s a room at Mrs Leybourne’s.  That’s my digs. It’s all right there.  Food’s good.  It might be rather jolly to have a chum there.”

Later that afternoon saw Stephen, escorted by the excited Christopher, arrive at a narrow house about fifteen minutes’ walk from the school.  Christopher opened the street door with his key and bellowed into the hall, “Miss-us Ley-bourne!  There’s someone here I’d like you to meet!”

The summons drew a fleshy woman of middle age out into the passageway where she lightly admonished Christopher for his lack of manners and shook hands with Stephen when he was presented.  Mrs Leybourne was a gentlewoman and a widow.  She made both these facts clear in the manner of her dress and in her feigned reluctance to even acknowledge awareness that she had a spare bedroom in want of a tenant; all designed to confirm she was no keeper of a common lodging house.

Stephen’s circumstances and requirements were outlined as Mrs Leybourne formed a favourable assessment of the handsome, well-built sixteen year-old who looked much more grown up.  When this was combined with the bone fides of Stephen’s modest income she had already determined to let the room even before Stephen had seen it.  The room proved to be clean and light.  There was a bathroom just off the half landing and it was next door to Christopher’s.  Stephen’s good appetite would be well satisfied assured Mrs Leybourne, who kept a good plain cook, and various nods and interjections on the part of Christopher were testimonials to this fact.

Therefore Stephen agreed to take the room after the summer, but paid a deposit so that it might be held until the new term began and Mrs Leybourne made an appropriate little speech about her “two young gentlemen” and departed for her own apartments on the floor below.  The boys were left alone and surveyed the room with its few pieces of furniture and a number of curious African curios arranged over the striped paper and then Christopher invited Stephen to his own next door.

Christopher was excited and Stephen caught something of its contagion as they planned the new term.  Christopher spoke of his friends whom he was sure Stephen would like—especially if he was an asset to the First XI.  He showed Stephen photographs of his family and his collection of music hall programs and photographs of actresses because Christopher was a budding stage door Johnny.  Stephen related some of the details of his visit to the Empire Leicester Square and the boy was amazed that someone so young could have had such an adventure— he had only been to London once himself.

By this time Stephen was getting tired.  He said, “I say, let’s go up to that pub on the corner for a pint before I have to catch my train.”

“But we’re too young,” said Christopher.

“I always have one or two in the pub in my village.  Look, change out of your school uniform and come with me.”

Stephen observed how good-looking Christopher was when he took off his school clothes and stood there in his combinations.  His legs, for their length, looked sturdy and muscular and there was a small tuft of light brown chest hair visible above his vest.  His shoulders attested to his prowess at cricket and his buttocks looked slender but firm.  Stephen stood and messed up Christopher’s soft brown hair, to make him look older.  His Sunday trousers and a not particularly clean shirt suggested some other occupation.  He tried on Stephen’s coat but it was too big and made him look younger again.  After several adjustments, the young men strolled to The Nelson and parting the doors fronted the public bar.  Stephen paid for the pints with the money he had left over, handing one to Christopher, while he flirted with the barmaid, making sure that they would be served in the future.

At the end of the day, the two new friends parted, Christopher remarking with a chuckle that he was being led astray and Stephen hoping that this might be so.

*****

The term ended and the long summer holidays stretched out before Martin and Steven.  Martin found Stephen in a state of excitement as his first two boxing matches were scheduled for the day after tomorrow.  Stephen elected to stay at his father’s cottage to prepare for the bouts and Martin was disappointed that Stephen was avoiding all sensual pleasures as he had read that this was essential even though the Owens brothers had expressed their doubts.  As a result, Stephen was feeling unbearably frisky and agitated and complained that his balls were aching.  Martin had twice been to watch him prepare himself in the Women’s Institute Hall where the Owens boys were acting as his trainers.

The ring was set up outside The Feathers under the long summer twilight. There were to be several amateur bouts and Stephen was to have two before the professional fighters came on.  The first was against Greenoak, a brick carter from Wareham.  He was a very large middle-aged man, clearly a heavyweight and much older than Stephen.  Martin was worried that Stephen would come off badly against this hairy oaf and thought that the whole thing had been poorly arranged.  He felt sick in the stomach.  When Stephen climbed through the ropes he looked determined but nervous.  The first round passed with few blows being exchanged, the combatants merely sizing each other up as they danced around.  Martin breathed a sigh of relief when the bell rang.  In the second, Stephen landed a few blows on Greenoak’s hairy body and Martin wondered if he was going to beat him.  However Greenoak suddenly sprang to life and landed two hard blows on Stephen’s head and shoulder, which unsettled him and another blow, not nearly as hard, sent Stephen to the floor.  Stephen got up quickly but never regained his balance and a few more blows from Greenoak saw Stephen on the mat once again and the match was over.

When Martin found Stephen he was surrounded by the Owens brothers and Elsie who were all congratulating him and lamenting on the unfairness of the match.  Stephen was dripping with sweat and his chest was heaving.  A small cut on his eyebrow and a little bruising was all the damage that was noted.  Stephen insisted that he would fight in the second match in about an hour’s time.  This time the match up was fairer.  The lad was about five years older than Stephen but didn’t have Stephen’s reach or build.  This time Stephen kept his coordination better and landed six punishing blows on his opponent before the match was called off, the two boxers embracing.

After the congratulations had died away, Martin put his coat over Stephen’s naked shoulders and started on the long walk up to the big house.  Stephen put his heavy, tired arm around Martin’s neck as they walked.  Despite being towelled down, Stephen was still gloriously sweaty and Martin put his head underneath the coat to inhale the scent of victory.  They were just passing the vicarage when Stephen said, “I’m sorry I can’t possibly wait another moment, Mala, I’ve got to have you right now.  I’m dying.”  He placed Martin’s hand on his half hard cock by way of confirmation of his arousal and then kissed Martin and practically dragged him by the head into the shadows of Mr Destrombe’s summerhouse, where he tore off Martin’s clothes and slid down his own silk boxing trunks, the material agonizingly caressing his sensitive cock.  He was hard in an instant and said, between pants, “All the time I was boxing all I could think about was fucking you. Every punch made by cock quiver.”

“But we don’t have the olive oil, Derby,” said Martin in a panic.

“Yes, you’re right.  I don’t want to rip you open, which I might just do,” said Stephen wildly looking around.  He almost threw Martin onto the tea table and, parting Martin’s cheeks began to tongue his crack and hole, filling it with his spit.  He inserted his own index finger after placing it in Martin’s mouth to lubricate it with his own juices.  When he saw that Martin was opened up he spat repeatedly into the gaping hole, over and over again, at the same time as pleasuring his own aching cock.  With a second finger sliding in easily, he scissored them to increase the diameter, again hawking up saliva with which to irrigate the conduit.  Martin was panting in pleasurable expectation and kept spreading his cheeks and tilting his arse to desperately increase the opening.  At last Stephen put his cock in Martin’s mouth saying, “Get it nice and slimy or it’s going to hurt but I’ve got to be inside of you, Mala.”

At last, wild with passion himself, Martin passed control of Stephen’s mighty organ back to its rightful owner and leant back.  Martin was anticipating a rough entry, but Stephen was suddenly tender and caring, kissing Martin and intoning endearments.  He entered very slowly, with frequent pauses so Martin could relax and only on the last inch did he push with his usual cheeky arrogance— just to let him know he was in control and had a big cock.  

However this is where it ended: Stephen gave Martin 18 rounds of pounding, deep and hard, and Martin was lost in the sensory world of sweat and pleasure.  Martin cried out for Stephen to go deeper and harder and Stephen had to cover his mouth with his hand lest Mr Destrombe wonder what was taking place on this warm and windy evening in his summerhouse.

By now Martin had been turned over, not caring that fragile cane table must host the Hon. Eudora Plainsong and her daughter the next afternoon.  In this position, Stephen could spit on his cock as it entered Martin’s hole to keep the friction down and, with Martin opened up with such abandon, he was able to thrust from just his athletic hips, leaving his two hands free to pleasure him.

Stephen timed the bout to perfection; Martin spending just moments before Stephen’s own eruption and giving him the added pleasure of feeling the contractions around his cock as Martin spilled.  Stephen’s climax was shattering and he stayed still for a long time inside Martin until his several days’ worth of seed was completely sown deep in the bowels of his lover.

Punch drunk and not heeding the gong, Stephen wanted to continue, but Martin persuaded him to fight another day and they dressed as best they could and resumed their trek up to the house.

*****

When Chilvers’s opened the blinds and laid the tea the next morning he was delighted to find the two beautiful boys still asleep, Martin cradled in Stephen’s left arm, with his cheek to his chest.  The rattle of the teacups stirred the boxing champion first and he opened his eyes.  “Good morning Mr Chilvers,” he said, with a grin.

Good morning, Mr Stephen, sir, and congratulations on your tournament. Daisy told me the news; she was very excited, sir, and the servants would be delighted if they could offer their congratulations.”

“Thank you, Mr Chilvers, I will go down directly.”

“May I take a look at the cut above your eye, sir,” said Chilvers with concern. “I will fetch some antiseptic and bathe it before it turns nasty, if I may.”

“Thank you Mr Chilvers”

The butler returned with some cotton wool and a saucer of liquid and Steven sat up in bed, his torso on full display.  Chilvers’, with loving care, dabbed at the wound above the eyebrow and a bruise on his chest.  Steven lay still and grinned.

“I say Mr Chilvers, I’m afraid the sheets are rather a mess again, I’m sorry.”

“Are you sir?  He replied, with his own eyebrow raised.

“Well, actually not awfully, apart from the work it makes.”

“I will sponge them before the maids see them, sir” said Chilvers as he put the saucer down and fetched the tea.

Stephen shook Martin awake and they both drank their morning tea, Martin reading his post.  They fell to the pleasant task of planning the summer.

“The first thing we must do is go down to Bournemouth,” said Martin and Stephen nodded.

“We must swim and go to the Women’s Institute every day,” put in Stephen.

“I’d like to have Archie Craigth visit.  Would that be alright with you?”

Stephen was unsure.  He wanted it just to be the two of them.  He didn’t know if he liked the sound of the Hon. Archie and felt that he might look down on him in front of Martin.  And then there was the nagging feeling of jealousy.  He looked at Martin.  “Would I like him?”

“Well, he’s a perfect ass, but we could have fun.  He adores you already and he’s taken up boxing just because you have.”

“Really?” said Stephen trying to assess matters.  “Well let’s have him down if you think it would be alright and I’ll try and be on my best behaviour.”

“Oh no, just be yourself.  I don’t want you to behave,” said Martin, stroking Stephen’s cock under the blankets.  While he was doing this and while Stephen was trying not to spill his lapsang souchong, he said, “And father has written to us again asking us to come and spend some time with him in Cannes.  Would you like to go to France?”

Stephen tried to curb his excitement and simply said yes, but was unable to contain his joy so he threw the blankets back and pulled Martin’s head down to his cock just as Chilvers re-entered the room to collect the things. In one swift movement his lordship was concealed beneath the blankets and so all the butler saw was the rolling ocean swell of satin counterpane and the grinning, naked top half of Stephen. 

*****

The Bournemouth visit was arranged for a few days hence, the preceding time being taken up by meetings with Blake and some of the duties of being the squire that now fell to Martin.

William seemed to be having a good spell and once again they went out on the pier with William in his chair.  Back in his room the boys put on a show for the invalid, the Earl getting to taste both their cocks, with a special emphasis on stretching Stephen’s long and attractive foreskin.

When they had cleaned up, having fed William, the Earl turned to serious matters.

“Stephen, as you are to go away to school next term, Martin and I have set up a small bank account for you.  The money is yours to do with as you wish, but you will need to sign these papers so you can draw upon your bank in Blandford Forum.”  Martin smiled while Stephen looked stunned.

“In addition—and I’ve done this without consulting you, Martin—I’ve made you an allowance of ten pounds per week.  I’m doing this because I want to. I’m a dying man and money is going to be no good to me after I’m gone.  The pleasure of your visits —ahem!—and the knowledge that I might be able to give both of you some pleasure is very important to me.  I look at the money as an investment in your future and I think the future of my father’s estate.”

Both boys looked stunned.

“Will you take it?”

Stephen looked at Martin.  There were tears in his eyes.  He nodded, “Oh thank you, William that is more than generous.  It will change my life.”

“I hope it does, money is no use unless it can change one’s stars,” said William, “but you are a fine fellow as you are.  Martin loves you, I love you, so don’t ever change in the essentials.”

“I don’t know what I can ever do to replay you.”

“You can’t.  I’ll be gone.  But you can take your clothes off again if you think you might be able to manage another offering; the gardener’s boy has gone off to a blasted ‘jamboree’ with the Scouts and won’t be back for a fortnight.”

So Steven was undressed and his private parts were inspected once again. With his muscular legs spread wide, he pleasured himself in front of William with Martin standing behind him kneading his chest muscles and William pulling on his low hanging ball sack until Stephen felt that he couldn’t take any more pain.  Nevertheless, he had little trouble producing another generous offer of his own for the peer.  

*****

Stephen and Martin leant over the basket in the cottage kitchen.  One of Stephen’s dogs had produced a litter of adorable black-and-white puppies and they were wondering which one Miss Tadrew would select as her own. Steven had spent two nights at his father’s place so that he might nurse one of the pups; the smallest of which was all black save for the tip of his tail and his paws which were dipped in whitewash, and wasn’t feeding.  The little fellow seemed to be better now and Stephen gently placed him on the nipple of the contented bitch, removing one of the other puppies, who had already had his fill.

Martin gladly offered to help Knight and Stephen prune a few storm broken limbs in the orchard and then the old man sent the boys into a coppice of willows on the bank of the brook to pick ‘withies’—the supple branches with which Knight was going to weave a new basket for the dogs.

They were just returning with their bundles of withies under their arms when Miss Tadrew called to them and asked them if they would like to take tea with her.  Stephen replied on his lordship’s behalf and said they would, but asked to be excused because they weren’t properly dressed and a bit grubby from their labours.  Miss Tadrew made a dismissive noise and so Martin found himself with Stephen in the tiny parlour of Miss Tadrew’s cottage a few minutes later.

Miss Tadrew’s parlour was very pretty.  Chintz curtains hung at the diminutive casements, which were open to a small front garden that divided the cottage from the street.  There was no fire in the little black stove that sat in the fireplace as the day was warm but the chairs were gathered around the tea table in a cosy huddle.  Martin noticed the vases of summer flowers gathered from her larger garden at the rear that ran down to the brook and the bunches of dried lavender that hung from the ancient ceiling beams. There were some framed portraits, one of which showed two ladies one of whom was Miss Tadrew evidently a few years previously and the other, an older woman with short grey hair and a determined expression, which Martin thought he recognised as Miss Tapstowe.  Stephen’s large form filled his chair and seemed to overflow it and threaten, at any moment, to knock over one of the many small tables which supported doilies, vases and Dresden shepherdesses; however such a disaster never eventuated.

Miss Tadrew was very happy to have her two visitors and they chatted about local affairs such as the Croome Agricultural Show, which was less a week away.  An invitation for dinner to welcome The Plunger on Tuesday was extended and accepted.  Miss Tadrew, as had others on the estate, began to sing Stephen’s praises which made Stephen blush and look sheepish and she then related a number of embarrassing stories of things Stephen had done as a child which made him redden some more, but delighted the other two.

After Miss Tadrew had made the tea herself and admitted that her crab-apple jelly was to be entered in the forthcoming show, Stephen was sent to fix a pump handle that had become stiff and Miss Tadrew settled down to a heart-to-heart with Martin.  

She told him something of how Miss Tapstowe and herself had been like mothers to Stephen and suddenly she looked squarely at Martin and said, “It is the worst thing in the world to be lonely and I miss Sarah very much.  It was only ever she and I.  How she would have loved to see our boy grown into such a fine young man and to have found someone so that he won’t ever have go through life alone.”

Just then Stephen returned into the room and Miss Tadrew took both their hands in between her own and smiled up at them.  Then she withdrew her own hands leaving the boys united.

Now she said brightly, “Let’s have a look at these puppies.”  They walked to Stephen’s cottage and cooed over the wriggling litter.  Miss Tadrew bent and picked up the coal black runt that Stephen had been nursing and held him aloft and said, “His name will be Coker.”

***

Towards the end of the afternoon the boys decided to exercise.  At the Women’s Institute Hall, Douglas Owens raised his cap to Martin and said hello to Stephen.  He was as pleased to see the boys as his impassive face would allow.  He was alone as his brother was required to help his father.  There were three other lads using the equipment that afternoon and they shared the barbells, speedball and the rowing machine.  Mr Destrombe dropped by and expressed delight in see his lordship back from school and that the gymnasium was being so well and responsibly utilised.  He discussed parish business for a few moments as Martin rested on his oars and Martin told him to expect an invitation to dine at Croome next Tuesday.

When they were at last alone, Douglas and Stephen exercised with the skipping ropes while Martin watched on from the rowing machine.  Martin was amused at how the boys’ cocks bounced and flopped about madly as they jumped, Stephen’s especially as he was unrestrained by anything beneath. The action soon made Stephen half hard with the result that his cock, sticking out, performed manoeuvres that in fencing have elaborate French names while his balls continued uncontrollably to jiggle like a pair of dice.

Stephen took off his boxing trunks and had Douglas do the same.  Soon their privates were performing the same St Vitus dance and Martin began to laugh and the contagion quickly spread to the other two, Douglas’ doughy face becoming almost attractive for the first time.

The exhausted and sweat-drenched pair were now terribly randy and laid their ropes aside and presented their armpits to Martin who licked them, inhaling deeply as he stroked their cocks.  Stephen begged Douglas to lick his arse crack and Douglas, without comment, obliged, dropping to his knees and prized the muscular cheeks apart.  Martin came around to watch this skilled master at close quarters, with Douglas occasionally halting to share the taste on his pointed tongue with Martin and letting his lordship try a few licks of Stephen’s sopping cleavage for himself.

Douglas, assisted by Martin when his arm tired, pleasured himself until he spent with a grunt on the floor, pushing into Stephen’s buttocks hard and mashing his nose into the wet black locks.  Greatly animated today, Douglas had both the boys stand and sucked them for a comparatively short duration until they spilled, one at a time, into his mouth whereupon he swallowed their seed, making sure to run his hardworking tongue around his own mouth so as to not waste any.

“Ar that be right beautiful y’lor’ship, Stephen.  That be right beautiful,” he said.

“What does mine taste like?” inquired Stephen.

“Well, Stephen,” he replied slowly, thinking, “ ’tis an awful lot, mind you, but it tastes of sob apple when t’ baint quite ripe wi’ little bit o salt and smells like’t chestnut flower, all creamy like.  But t’your clear stuff thart you drips such a might, tastes sweet t’like nectar t’ little red sage flower that you can pick in t’summer if you min’ t’out for t’bees.” And he went on to describe the habits of the old-fashioned cottage plant Salvia grahamii.

Martin was fascinated.  He had never heard Douglas say so much.  “What does mine taste like?” he asked.

“Your lor’ship’s tastes o’ strawberries: t’ wild little ones what grows in summer by t’brook, but not’ t’berries, but t’leaves- t’little green leaves— sharp and wi’ just a faint smell o’ t’berries what will ripen by St Anselm’s day.

“But t’sweetest o’ all be Reuben’s,” he continued.  “Reuben’s tastes of t’ haws o’t wild bramblethorn in t’autum w’ just t’hint of t’ soursop.  Ar ’tis a beautiful taste is Reuben’s,” he concluded with a faraway look in his eyes.

“That’s beautiful, Doug!” exclaimed Stephen.  You’re like a Michael Fairless.”

“I don’t know no chap by t’name o’Fairless, Stephen,” he said.

“Michael Fairless is a women, not a man,” explained Stephen.

“I baint no Nancy, Stephen, I tol’ you tha,’ ” replied the poet, as the boys headed to The Feathers for a pint and a chat with Elsie.

To be continued…

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

To be continued…

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

Posted: 08/23/13