Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer

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

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Chapter 3
Great Expectations 

“I want you to look for the imagery and the metaphors and list them in your jotters, said Mr Mingis. “Selby-Keam, I want you to read Herbert Pocket’s lines, Mr Newell you will be Pip—read slowly boy, Mr Dunstan I want you to read the narrator’s lines and Knight you will read Joe Gargary—I think you will make the best blacksmith out of the class, although I see you aren’t wearing your coarse boots today.”

There was a ripple of laughter and Stephen blushed.  It had been like this for a month.  Mingis had taken a dislike to Stephen and resented him as a scholarship boy polluting his class.  He found every opportunity to humiliate him and correct his mispronunciations in front of the class.  

His size and strength were turned against him and more than once he was referred to as an ignorant oaf.  His West Country accent which came through occasionally when he was excited or upset was ridiculed and Mingis quickly took such lapses as a sign of victory.  When Stephen answered incorrectly he was ridiculed and when he gave a good answer it was sneered at.

Thin-lipped Mr Mingis had a mouth made for sneering under its stained moustache and Stephen grew to hate the sight of his bald head that caught the reflections of the electric lamps as he paced between the desks the classroom.  Still Stephen persisted with literature because he liked it and it was a way of fighting back against his tormentor.  He wrote to Mr Destrombe who explained about Beowulf to him and with some effort on his part he caught on to early English and ended up doing well.  Now they were doing Dickens, which Stephen found easy.

Donald Selby-Keam was also a good English student and was widely recognised and hated for being Mingis’ favourite.  Selby-Keam could do no wrong, it seemed, and his answers were publicly praised for their literary insight and this son of Sir Maxwell Selby-Keam, a school governor, was prophesised by Mingis to become another Antony Vane-Gillingham.  Selby-Keam famously won a patented fountain pen as an English prize and wrote all his essays in violet ink, a kind the boys thought unmanly and there were many plots hatched to steal the swanking fountain pen and to destroy it or worse. All this did not make young Selby-Keam a popular figure, but none would have wished to be so well favoured by Mingis because it would involve lots of extra time having to be spent in the odious master’s company in special tutorials and in little chats after class and the occasional stroking of one’s hair as a mark of particular approval on the occasion of an especially right answer or laudable exam result.

“The fellows a funk,” said Christopher.

“Yes, I agree,” said Julian Newell, the captain of the cricket team, “if I see one more of his violet-coloured essays waved in front of our faces I’ll ram it down his bally throat.  How you must hate him, Knight.”

“Not really.  He’s quite a good student and it’s not his fault that he’s Mingis’ pet,” said Stephen as he adjusted his box and prepared for batting practice.”

On the other hand, living at Mrs Leybourne’s establishment was very pleasant.  Stephen was well fed and Mrs Leybourne had taken a liking to him. She invited Stephen and Christopher into her private sitting room to take afternoon tea or a glass of sherry on more than one occasion.  During these visits she often spoke fondly of the late Captain Leybourne who had apparently died of fever in West Africa and who was greatly missed both in terms of his financial support for his widow and for reasons of affection.  She was quite lonely, Stephen thought.  Often a second or even third glass of sherry would prompt a flood of stories, sometimes aired for a second or even third time and the boys fought to control their restlessness among the little tables bearing tribal pottery, Berber wall hangings and spears and shields arranged artistically, but somewhat anomalously, in her sitting room in Blandford Forum.

“Oh yes, Mr Knight, the Nigerian Police is terribly interesting you know. They have white officers with black privates.”

“How exotic Mrs Leybourne.  I would love to see that,” said Stephen.

Christopher suddenly had a terrible coughing fit and the boys took the opportunity to excuse themselves and tend to their homework.

Stephen and Christopher went to the pub on a few evenings, Christopher having contrived a wardrobe to elevate his age and in the company of Stephen and Julian, the swarthy Cricket captain who was nearly 18, and they chatted to the barmaid and gave cheek to girls in the street who often lingered in the hope the boys would walk them home.  Mrs Leybourne complained on one occasion of the boys’ noise on the stairs when they came home a bit ‘lit up’ as Christopher put it.

Stephen went home most weekends and stayed with his stepfather.  He still hadn’t told him of his decision to be adopted by the new Marquess, for fear of hurting his feelings.  When he wasn’t playing cricket he continued to help his stepfather on the estate, but made sure to visit the kitchen at Croome and Miss Tadrew in her cottage.  He hadn’t seen the Owens brothers much to his disappointment and he missed Martin terribly and looked forward to the half-term break.

One weekend Stephen had to stay in Blandford Forum.  He had maths homework to do and he had to completely rewrite an essay on ‘Waverley’ as Mingis said that he had failed to hand it in on Friday, although Stephen was almost certain that he had put it in his tray, and now he must redo it by Monday morning or Dr Davis would be informed that he was failing to keep up with the rest of the class.

Stephen had finished the mathematics and was lying naked on his bed pleasuring himself, thinking of Martin’s sweet cheeks and the look on his face when he spilled when the door burst open.

“Oh gosh!  I’m sorry Knight,” said Christopher, wide eyed and staring. I only came to borrow…I didn’t think you were…Oh I say I’m terribly….” He didn’t take his eyes off Stephen, although he was blushing furiously.

“Wait, Christopher, I’m so close, I’m nearly there.” Stephen was using both hand and had closed his eyes.  He gave a final upward thrust with his hips and spent his load over his chest.

“There!” he said, opening his eyes. “I say old chap, could you pass me that towel, I’m a bit of a mess?”

Christopher hadn’t blinked or taken his eyes off the bed.  He handed over the crusty towel as one in a trance.

“What?” Said Stephen, laughing, “Don’t tell me you’re not next door doing the same thing.”

“I well…I…I say Knight,” he stammered.

“You do pleasure yourself don’t you, Chris?”

“No.  Yes.  Well, I have once or twice and in the morning I sometimes find that I have…My father says…”

“What does your father say?” asked Stephen.

“Well, he says that if you do ‘that’ it will weaken you and make you go insane.  He is a doctor and showed me these photographs in books of men in asylums who…”

“That’s nonsense, I don’t care if was Sir Thomas Barlow who said it, Chris.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.  I do it all the time and I’m not weak (and here he flexed his biceps) and I don’t think I’m mad.  At any rate I’ll keep doing it until they commit me,” he laughed.  “Don’t you ever want to touch yourself or think about doing it?”

“Well I do, sometimes.  Can I show you something?”

Stephen nodded and Christopher dashed back to his own room and returned with a photograph.  He handed it to Stephen.  It was of a naked French girl in a provocative pose.  Stephen was slightly disappointed.  “Yes, she is something,” said Stephen.

“Where did you meet her?”

“I didn’t meet her, you chump.  I just bought her picture in London when I got some pictures of the stars of the stage.”

“So you’ve…touched yourself…when you’ve looked at Mlle Derriere?”

Christopher nodded. “But I’ve never done it like you were doing it. I never thought of doing it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I just haven’t and I suppose I think it’s wrong,” said Chris, still staring.

“My stepfather never told me any nonsense like that.  All he said was look at nature to see the Truth.  And that’s what I did.  I looked at the bulls and the goats,” he laughed, “and I looked at myself.  To my mind it’s natural and I don’t think it’s wrong at all.”

“I think about lasses a lot,” confessed Christopher. “The ones we see at the pub, the ones on the stage.  I feel I’d like to do things to them sometimes and imagine that I am.  Is that wrong?”

“Of course not, but if you do want to do anything with girls there is a lot to learn.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you have to think about the woman enjoying it too.  They like a man to take his time before he spills.  You should practice on yourself as much as possible.  They also do things to themselves like boys do.”

“Never!”

“They do.  Women like it slower than men to begin with.  You also have to be careful.  You don’t want a bairn and you don’t want to catch anything,” he said, here thinking of William.  He got up off the bed with dripping cock and balls swinging and found the box of preservatifs.  You put one of these on when you do it so you’ll be safe.

Christopher took one from the box and held it up. “How?  Show me.”

“Undo your trousers.”

The Prefect and vice-captain of the First XI slid off his braces and his trousers fell to the floor.  He slid down his underwear.  Stephen pulled off his shirt and vest. “It’s better like this,” he said. “Touch yourself until you are hard.” Christopher was circumcised and his cock was of a good size and projected from a soft, hazel bush.

Chris looked at Stephen’s big cock with its foreskin now covering the head. “My father believes in circumcision because he thinks it’s more hygienic and makes boys touch themselves less,” he said.  Stephen gave a disgusted look.

“Look, Chris, you can’t pull as much skin back as I can; your father had you cut pretty tight, so you’ll have to concentrate on your head and try rubbing your finger in little circles under here,” he suggested, pointing to the frenulum. “See, I can pull mine right back because I still have all my skin.” He demonstrated and Chris watched the pink wet head appear and disappear. “Feel it.”

Christopher reached over and put his whole hand around the silky tan flesh of Stephen’s cock and slid it smoothly backwards and forwards as it hardened. “I wish I could do that,” said Christopher.

When Christopher was hard he fitted the preservatif.  “Doesn’t it fall off, it’s a bit loose.”

Stephen grinned. “Well, these are the biggest size; I’ll get you some smaller ones from London, just in case you need to use them.  Try practicing with one on sometimes.”  The object was removed and Stephen demonstrated how it fitted him snugly.

“That’s amazing.  And you’ve used them?”  Stephen nodded.

“Do you have a sweetheart back in your village?”

“Yes I do”, replied Stephen. “Go ahead, pleasure yourself, I’ll show you how to do it.  Get on the bed.”

Both boys were naked and on the bed, next to each other, but not really touching.

“Try it with your other hand,” suggested Stephen.  “If it’s too dry it will hurt, spit on it or on your hand.  Better still….” he arose and got a small bottle of olive oil that had a dropping pipette with a rubber bulb, “Try this, keep the bottle, you’ll enjoy it more.  You might like to touch yourself in other places as you do it.  It feels good.”  Stephen demonstrated this wisdom on his own person by pinching and rubbing his nipples and cupping his balls.  Christopher dutifully copied, changing hands on his now slippery cock.

“Oh my God!” he cried suddenly, increasing his pace, and then he spent on his belly.

“That was a big load of seed waiting to come out, Chris, it’s a wonder your balls weren’t blue,” observed Stephen, stroking his own cock to hardness.

“With practice you’ll last longer.  Girls will like it if you can.” 

A laugh and a huff came from the boy as his breathing returned to normal.

“Now I suddenly feel terribly guilty for doing it.  What would father say?”

“You will have to think or not think about the guilt in your own time and, as for your father, why does he need to know?” said Stephen as he handed him the crusty towel.

Christopher was now overcome with remorse but was still able to say, “Stephen if I feel like doing it again, say by, Wednesday, is that too soon?  And will you show me some more ways to do it?”

“I feel pretty sure that Wednesday won’t be too soon,” said Stephen smiling to himself at the thought he was going to shoot a third load for the day as soon as Christopher was gone. “Why don’t we do it together after we’ve been to the pub, you’ll be more relaxed then.  I’ll show you some ways to make it more enjoyable.  Don’t worry.”

Christopher dressed again, taking the bottle of oil and his photograph. “Can I bring Mlle Derriere on Wednesday?” Stephen said he could. “And I nearly forgot what I came in for: Can I borrow your new fountain pen for a minute?” he said referring to the handsome new Waterman safety pen Martin had presented him with before he left for school.

“Alright, but be careful, it was a gift from my sweetheart.” 

*****

Nothing was said about Saturday night even though Stephen was with Christopher for meals, tennis lessons and Literature.  In Mr Mingis’ class an incident occurred.  Stephen had been asked to respond to a question and he said, “Pip saw the squalor of London when he walked athrough the town.”  Mingis leapt on him and said that he was an uneducated ignoramus and a bad influence on the others in the class who at least spoke like gentlemen and not rural oafs.  There was a hush in the classroom and the students were expecting a fight.  Stephen was furious but kept calm, merely replying that he was uneducated and would “try to follow your example as to correct behaviour, sir.”

“I think you would do well to sit up the front next to Mr Selby-Keam so that some of his education and breeding might rub off,” said Mingis.  Stephen merely moved his books.

The next day at the cricket pavilion Stephen was showing Julian and Christopher his English homework.  They had to agree that Mingis had marked it down savagely compared to their own efforts.  “Never mind.  We’re drowning our sorrows at the pub tonight, right?” Said Julian

Christopher was nicely relaxed after just a couple of pints when he came back to Stephen’s room.  He had also been bold with the bar maid who looked across to Stephen whose look seemed to indicate that it would be kinder to indulge the boy rather that swat him, which she did because he was quite nice looking, if a bit youthful, and she was a kind hearted girl.

“Have you touched yourself since Saturday?” asked Stephen shedding his clothes.

“No, I’ve been keeping my hands away and thinking about cricket instead,” replied Christopher.

“Look you don’t have to,” said Stephen, now helping him undress, “We all do it, even girls.”

“Even Mingis?”

“Yes, even Mingis, but I don’t want to think about his ugly face or I won’t get hard.”

They lay on the bed and watched each other. “Is it too dry?” asked Stephen solicitously.

“A bit, I forgot the oil in my room.”

“Here, try this,” said Stephen as he leant over and spat on Chris’ cock.

“Leave it for minute and play with your balls.  You’ve got a nice set of balls, Chris.”

“Thanks,” he said, “so have you.”

Stephen lifted them and waved them in a salute, grinning. “Here, try this,” he said and flipped over and started humping the mattress with his cock pressed up against his stomach.  Christopher copied the move and pronounced it wonderful.  Next Stephen took the pillow and made love to it for a few minutes before handing over for Chris to try.  He then lay on his stomach again and bent his cock and balls back between his legs.  Christopher got up to getter a better view.  “Does it feel good, Stephen?”

“Hell, yes,” said Stephen, “but I’m getting a bit dry.” With that he turned over and rocked back on his shoulders and tried to put his cock in his own mouth.  Christopher, wide-eyed at first, assisted by pulling on his kegs and the back of his head in an effort to make the twain meet.  Stephen was eventually able to lick his long foreskin but quickly unfolded, exhausted.

“That’s not one for beginners,” he laughed, “Give me some spit instead, Chris.”  He leant over Stephen’s cock and spat three times on it.  Stephen wanted to pull his head right down, but he resisted the impulse.

“Thanks,” he said as they resumed their stroking.  “Look you should be doing this every day if you feel like it, Chris.  I always feel like it.  Try walking around in your trousers, but with no underwear on.  The material rubbing your cut head and that wide slit should make you feel good all day.”

“What if someone sees?”

“What of it?  You should be proud of that cock.  They won’t see.  Don’t wear pyjamas in bed as the sheets feel good on it too and if you do ‘this’ during the day you won’t wake up with so many messy surprises.  Now come on, finish off.  You getting close?”

Chris nodded and Stephen fetched the photograph and held it in front of Christopher’s eyes. “Imagine sliding your cock up between her big breasts,” coaxed Stephen, “Imagine putting your hand….”  Whatever that hand was going to do became obsolete, for at that moment Christopher spilled across his chest.

When he regained his breath he was smiling.  “I feel wonderful.”

“You going to taste it?” asked Stephen.

“Do you do that?” asked Christopher, shocked.

“All the time, go on.” Stephen scooped up some from the boy’s pubic hair and fed it to him. He then tasted it himself. “Nice,” he said.

Christopher said “Yes, sour and salty, but nice.”

The towel almost proved too stiff to use. “Better bring your own next time,” laughed Stephen as he tried to wipe him down.

Stephen then told Christopher to watch closely how he pleasured himself. It was a good show and Stephen added a few extra shudders and curls of the toes as artistic licence and to reinforce the educative message that it was pleasurable.

*****

The next weekend the cricket season being over, Stephen went over to Croome to see how the new tennis court was coming along.  It had been fairly easy to convert the croquet lawn and the fence was nearly finished.  If successful, there was space for a second court.  

He took Job for a walk along with his own three dogs plus the puppy he had kept and stripped off his clothes and went for a swim, even though it was cool.  He worked on his bathroom plans and hoped that William and Martin would agree to the first ones being built as an experiment.  He turned his attention to the dairy farm.  It was tenanted by old Tidpit who milked a dozen cows but Stephen though that the farm could carry far more—at least 80—if fertilizer was applied to the pasture and he’d been reading about new and improved machinery, such as suction milking machines from America and Denmark. But, he reflected, Tidpit and his wife were old and not likely to take to new ways, even if the money could be found and besides, there was no electricity.  He wished Martin were here to talk to.

He was sitting in front of the fire with his stepfather talking about modern farming when the conversation steered round to Stephen’s remarkable education and the generosity of the Poole family to Stephen. “You’ve got thart scholarship all t’int your own efforts.  The other ’tis because they see what you can do for t’estate.  Tis only what you deserve my boy.”

“What would you say, Titus, if Lord Branksome took me as his ward—adopted me like?”

“I’d say that is what you deserve too.”

“Would you think I’m being disloyal to you, my only real father?”

“Would you feel disloyal?”

“No, I don’t think so.  I will always think of you as my father.  It is you who taught me all the important things and loved me.”

“I only taught you about whart I kin see about me.  I know knowt about t’wide world, Stephen.  You’ve seen some of t’wide world already.”

“There’s nothing the wide world holds that isn’t here, Titus.  All I will ever know about the wide world comes from knowing this little world.  You taught me to see it.”

“Aye, you and me is pretty close.  If his lordship wants you to be his son, tis alright with me because you and me know who belongs to who, right?”

Stephen told him a little about what it meant and explained that he would be—they both would be—provided for in William’s will.

“T’poor devil. Not long fur this world, poor lad,” said Titus.

“I would like to be Stephen Knight-Poole, Titus, if that sits well with thou, so I may pass the name along of the man who loved and raised me—along with the name of the man who has given such a great opportunity.”

“Aye, t’is fine, but t’is up to thee, Stephen”

When Stephen looked up he could see the old man was crying.  He came and sat at his feet and filled his pipe, which he passed up to him.  The old man gently put his hand on the side of Stephen’s face and pulled him into his leg and Stephen closed his eyes in sleep.

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 09/13/13