Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer

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 4
The Mighty Pen 

When he returned to school, Stephen faced an important hurdle.  It was an essay on ‘Great Expectations.’  Stephen had gone over his notes and reread certain parts of the text in preparation.  On the day of the test he thought he wrote well and was confident.

The following night Julian and Stephen went to the pub for, what turned out to be, several pints while Christopher reluctantly had to stay home and work on his maths.  Two of the girls who loitered in the vicinity tried to pick them up.  Stephen made an excuse to leave and Julian left in the other direction with both girls on his arms.  Stephen wondered what Julian would look like fucking both girls at the same time; it might be a very attractive sight, thought Stephen, as he imagined, from what he had glimpsed in the changing sheds, that he would be pretty vigorous and have a big cock with lots of black body hair.  He rubbed himself through his trousers at this speculation.

Back at Mrs Leybourne’s Stephen fell into bed.  He was awoken sometime after midnight by a soft rapping on his door.  He pulled himself up on the pillow by the elbows to find it was Christopher in his dressing gown and looking very excited.

“I say Stephen, sorry to wake you but I was feeling all—you know—and couldn’t sleep.  I hope you don’t mind awfully.”

Stephen rubbed his eyes and flattened his erection and said, “No, old chap, it’s alright anytime.  What time is it, by the way?”

“Oh, about half past one.  I’ve been doing that maths prep and I can’t sleep.”

“Because of the maths?”

“No, you chump, because of this!  Let me light the gas so you can see it.” Christopher handed him another photograph, this time of two women. “It came from London with some pictures of Evelyn Nesbit and Florence Brady I bought.”

The girl with the tongue bore a passing similarity to Miss Orchard-Baird, thought Stephen who said “Do you really think there are many twin sisters in French convents, Chris?”

“I don’t know or care, but these two are awfully ripping and I’d love to be there!”

“Would you like to be doing that?”

“I don’t know.  Would girls like a fellow to do that to them?”

“I think they would Chris.  Are you hard?” Christopher opened his dressing gown to reveal that he was both naked and excited.”

“The sheets were driving me crazy,” he said, “just like you said.”

“Come on; get into bed with me before you freeze.” He moved over as Christopher threw off his dressing gown and slid under the covers, letting his cock slide against the fabric.  Stephen folded back the covers so that Chris’ cock and balls were exposed.

“Well, go on, start pleasuring yourself.  Do you want me to hold the photograph for you?” Chris nodded.  “Gently Chris, you’ll hurt yourself.  Did you oil-up first?” Again he nodded.

When he was fully hard, Stephen inspected him.  “You’ve got a nice head shaped like a bobby’s helmet, Chris.  The girls will love it.” Chris beamed under Stephen’s praise.  “You’ve got a nice wide slit.  Here, try this.”  He produced a silk handkerchief from somewhere and dragged it across the sensitive head where it teased the edges of the opening in an almost unbearable fashion.  Chris’ eyes rolled back.

“I don’t need the photo anymore, Stephen,” he sighed, “Keep doing it, please!”

Stephen knocked his hands away from his cock when he tried to touch it and continued to trail the silk across Christopher’s erection.  “You need to make yourself last before spilling; girl’s like that and so will you.”

Stephen took the handkerchief away and got Christopher to stretch his skin back and hold it there. “That makes it harder—well it makes me harder.  I like to pull on my balls.  Do you do that?”

“No that would hurt, wouldn’t it?  I don’t think I’d like that.”

“It hurts but feels good too.  You’ve got to stretch slowly but not crush anything.  Here let me show you.”  Stephen uncovered himself.  He was hard and leaking. He tasted his clear fluid and passed some to Chris. “Tastes nice, doesn’t it?”  Chris agreed.  He pulled first on the bottom of his scrotum, initially with one hand and then with two, making his sack resemble a leather purse.  Then he reached above his balls and pulled downwards as if he were milking a cow.  “Oh, yes, that feels very good.  You pull on them Chris.”

Chris was tentative but knelt on the bed and grabbed Stephen’s balls, being careful not to squeeze.  He pulled steadily downwards.  “Harder, Chris, I can take it.”  Chris continued to pull and Stephen’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat.  He placed his free hand on Stephen’s chest for leverage.  At last Stephen said, “That’s enough!” and Chris released his grasp, amazed that he hadn’t caused any damage. “Don’t worry, that felt good.  You’ve got big balls, Chris, they could take it too” said Stephen cupping the boy.

“I really don’t think I’d like that,” replied, Christopher.

“Right, now try something else; something from last time,” said Stephen. Christopher rolled onto his stomach and started frotting the mattress with his aching cock.  Stephen assisted by placing both hands on his buttocks and driving the boy’s groin harder and harder into the bed.  Stephen whispered into his ear:  “Just imagine you’re on top of Mlle Derriere.  She’s moaning and telling you to go harder.  Imagine the nuns, pulling her away and telling you that they want you to fuck them both.  They want you Chris. They like the way you do it to them.”  Chris was moaning into the mattress.

Stephen now lay beside him and also frotted the mattress, with powerful thrusts, keeping up his encouraging dialogue and setting the rhythm.

“I’m going to spend, Stephen!” cried Christopher.

“Keep going. Don’t worry.  Don’t stop!”

With a moan Christopher spilled somewhere beneath his body.  Stephen kept going and now his legs were spread wide and his arms clasped either side of the bed.  Christopher assisted by pressing down on Stephen’s buttocks, just as Stephen had to him.  It took quite a long time, but Stephen spilled too, making a very loud grunt.

Both boys were exhausted when they rolled over.  Stephen examined his cock, which was raw from the friction.  He showed it to Christopher. “See, always use plenty of oil.  Was that good?” he said as he reached up and turned out the gas.

“I’ll say.  I never knew it could feel like this.  You’ve taught me a lot.  I’m going to make sure I enjoy myself.”

“You do that,” said Stephen, in the dark.  “Maybe we can go up to London and meet some of these girls.  Would you like to go with a girl or are you waiting until you’re married?”

“I don’t think I can wait, Stephen.  It would be fun going to London with you.  Wouldn’t your sweetheart object?”

“Oh my sweetheart would have to come too.” 

“Oh,” said Chris.  There was a long pause.

“Do you—you know—with your sweetheart, if that’s a fair thing to ask?”

“Yes I do.”

“And you’re not worried about having a baby?”

“No.”

“You miss your sweetheart when you’re at school?”  There was another pause.

“Very much.”

“Stephen?”

“Yes,”

“Does it hurt the girls when you go inside them?”

“It can, if you’re inexperienced.  That’s why the oil is good.  You mustn’t rush matters.”

“What do they say when they see your big cock?”

“They say it won’t fit and that it will hurt.” said Stephen smiling in the dark, “but it always does fit.”

“How does that make you feel when they say that?”

“Like a man,” said Stephen quietly, still smiling. “But you’ve got a cock and balls to be proud of, Chris, and with some practice…”

But there was no reply for Christopher had fallen asleep snuggled next to Stephen on the sodden mattress.  Stephen just let him sleep.  He liked Chris, but having him there made him only realise how much he ached for his Mala.

Christopher, his dressing gown and his artistic photograph were gone when Stephen awoke in the sticky bed the next morning.  However he saw him, his usual smiling self, at breakfast.

“Sorry about last night.  I was tired,” he said.

“All that maths prep—terribly wearisome,” said Stephen as Mrs Leybourne came and sat down, telling the maid to bring some more bacon for her two young gentlemen.

The English Literature class was mid-morning.  Stephen was already at his desk at the front when Christopher entered and smiled secretly to him, with a strange expression on his face.  Stephen grinned when he looked down and saw the prefect’s cock clearly outlined in his black school trousers and, upon closer inspection, there was a small damp patch on the coarse material.

Mr Mingis was handing back the essays.  When he came to Stephen he said to the class. “Mr Knight has made the most common mistake of the fool.  He has written four pages but has simply retold the story to me, instead of addressing the question.  Do you think I’m an ignorant oaf, Mr Knight?  Do you think I’ve never read the works of Charles Dickens?  I don’t need you to tell me the story.  I’d rather have Mr Dickens do that in better English.  I did foolishly hope that you might have had some thoughts on the question I so obviously wasted my time in positing before you.”

He flung the paper in front of Stephen who read the mark: 29%.

“Mr Selby-Keam, however, has written as well as Mr Vane-Gillingham—have I told you, class, about Mr Vane-Gillingham who is now at Oxford?”

The class had indeed heard of this savant and let out a groan.  Mingis continued: “This is an excellent essay and attacked the question, bringing out some points I hadn’t thought of myself.  Well done my boy,” he concluded with a stroke to Selby-Keam’s bonce.

“But this isn’t my essay, sir.  That’s mine you’ve given to Knight,” said the scholar.

The colour drained from the master’s face.  “What are you saying boy?  Of course it’s yours.  It’s your violet ink and it is initialled ‘S.K.’ on each page.”

“S.K. Stephen Knight, sir and I asked if I could try out his new Waterman pen.  This one is mine, I’m afraid, sir,” he said taking one so recently reviled from in front of Stephen, “See my name is on the last page—that is if you read down to there.”

“What!” exploded Mingis as he looked from essay to essay then boy to boy in disbelief.  There was nothing he could do.  He picked up the Waterman and with a curse impaled the deceitful instrument into the desk.  The class erupted with glee, except for Stephen and Selby-Keam who were mute.

Stephen was of course the hero of the hour, but he disappeared in the direction of Dr Davis’ study and knocked on the door.

“Mr Knight,” cried Dr Davis, “I was just thinking of you.  How well you batted the other week.  I look forward to your performance next season.  That is if you are still with us.  I hope you will be.”

“I hope I will be too, sir.  I have enjoyed this term.  I hope I have fitted in to Blandford Forum.”

“Indeed you have, sir.  Your masters have given you glowing reports; err, except for Mr Mingis who seems to think that you are likely to struggle with literature.  You could drop it if you like; pick up another study.”

“I like literature, sir.  However, I am having a small difficulty sir—but not with the books sir,” said Stephen, brushing back his hair from his left eye.

“Eh?” said Dr Davis.

“Well, it must be my poor memory, sir.  Mr Mingis finds that I often neglect to hand in my homework or do an essay on time or that I will lose a page out of work that I thought I had handed in.  Perhaps careless stapling.”

“I was wondering sir, if I might hand the work to you, sir, and that you would pass it on to Mr Mingis.  That way there could be no mistakes.”

“Does this happen in History or any other subjects?”

“Apparently not sir.”

“Well this is an unusual request, Mr Knight.”

“My guardian would be very pleased if you could assist me, sir.  He is anxious for me to do my best.”

“Your guardian? I thought you had a stepfather, Mr Knight.”

“I do sir, but I also have a guardian.”

“Who is your guardian?” asked Dr Davis, preparing to note the name.

“The Marquess of Branksome, Dr Davis, and I will soon legally be Stephan Knight-Poole.”

Dr Davis dropped his pencil and sat back in astonishment.  “The Marquess of Branksome is your guardian, Knight?”

“Yes sir.”

“But I thought you were a scholarship boy?”

“I am, sir, I was awarded the scholarship, I hope, on my own merits and before I was adopted by his lordship.”

“Well, well, I hope his lordship will pay us a visit.  We’d be honoured.”

“Unfortunately he is an invalid, Dr Davis, but his brother the Earl I will ask to visit.  I hope you will keep this in confidence.  And do you think I could hand my work to you, sir?”

“Yes, yes, of course, my boy. And Knight…”

“Yes sir?”

“Write your name and the date and the number on every page and pin them together securely.  I will initial the work when you give it to me.”

“Thank you, Dr Davis. I have enjoyed this term. Thank you for accepting me.”

“Enjoy your half-term break, Mr Knight-Poole,” said Dr Davis as he showed Stephen out the door.

Martin’s school broke-up a day after Stephen’s.  His train had stopped at Winchester when, to his surprise, he heard his name being called from out on the platform.  He pulled the window down to see Stephen hastening along the platform, peering into every carriage. “Here Stephen!” he called and swung the door open.  He pulled Stephen inside just as the train began to move.

“Oh Mala!”

“What is it Stephen?  Whatever’s wrong?  And what are you doing here?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” replied Stephen, out of breath and then he kissed Martin, wrapping his arms around his neck before he saw that Martin was not alone in the carriage.  A parson was sitting in the corner, but he was fast asleep.

“What on earth are you here for, then?”

“I just couldn’t wait to see you so I came to Winchester to surprise you.”

“But how did you know I’d be on this train?”

“I didn’t.  I’ve been here for hours looking for the right train.”

“Oh Derbs, you chump, that’s so lovely.  Thank you.  I couldn’t wait to see you either.  It will be fun to travel together.”

They talked excitedly, both boys finding it difficult to keep their hands off one another and to keep quiet enough so as not to wake the clergyman.

“Do you think he would wake up if I sucked your cock Mala? I’d be quiet.

“I think he might,” whispered Martin, “because I know I’d need to make a lot of noise.”

When they reached Branksome-le-Bourne Stephen realised that there was no way to get to the house. “I came on my bicycle. I didn’t stop to think there’d be two of us.”

“Never mind, I’ll have my box sent up and you can take me on the cycle,” said Martin.

So once again, Martin found that he was wrapped between Stephen’s strong arms and he leaned back into the comforting shield of his chest.  Stephen laboured his way up the hill, panting and perspiring, Martin thinking that all journeys should be as pleasant and unpredictable as this one had been.

The novel mode of arrival amused Chilvers when he greeted them at the door.

“His lordship is very tired, Mr Chilvers, could we have a tray for lunch in an hour or so?  We’ll ring when we’re hungry,” said Stephen.

“Very good Mr Knight-Poole,” replied the butler, using his new name for the first time.

Stephen practically propelled Martin upstairs and tore at his shirt. In an instant they were naked and on the bed, Stephen grinding their erect cocks together as he kissed Martin hard.

“I haven’t touched myself for three days, Mala, I think this is going to be rough.” Martin did not reply audibly as he had his face buried in Stephen’s black armpit, “And I haven’t washed for two days. I was saving it for you, Mala. I became quite sweaty on the bicycle too.”

“Fuck me, Derbs,” said Martin at last, but open me up first; I don’t want it to hurt. I’ll get on top of you to keep you in hand.”

Stephen though that this was a good plan and began by kissing Martin’s buttocks and hole, saying how sweet he tasted.  He worked his tongue in, trying to copy the techniques of Douglas Owens.  He must have been effective because Martin was moaning with pleasure and reaching backward in an endeavour to press Stephen’s face in more.

Next the olive oil and Stephen’s fingers were employed and soon the ragged mess that was Martin was pronounced ready.  As promised Stephen laid on his back with his enormous cock oiled and at attention.  Martin straddled him and lined matters up, keeping one hand pressed down on Stephen in case he tried to thrust brutally upwards. With a wince, a grimace, a sigh and a gasp, Martin slid slowly down on the pole until his balls were resting on Stephen’s stomach. He opened his eyes to see a mixture of lust and concentration on Stephen’s face.

He slowly began to bob up and down, using his legs like springs and Stephen thrust his hips upwards to meet him.  Martin’s balls and cock were bouncing wildly and his hands were all over Stephen’s chest.  Occasionally he would reach behind just to touch Stephen’s slicked cock as it entered and withdrew from his greatly stretched sphincter.  Stephen now grabbed him by the waist and was lifting him up and down, taking control of the pace.  Martin’s tongue was lolling out of his mouth and he was drooling. Stephen too was incoherent and saying filthy, vile things in his passion.

He suddenly flipped Martin over on his back, with his cock still deep inside. He pounded him so hard that Martin found that he had spilled. Still he continued and now had lifted Martin off the bed and he stood with Martin’s arms around his neck, but otherwise supporting him only on his cock. It took only a couple of thrusts in this awkward but, to Martin’s mind, delightfully intimate, embrace for Stephen to spill which he did, for what seemed half a minute, with Martin at rest and impaled on the base of Stephen’s cock.

Martin pushed back Stephen’s drenched hair. “Well, that was and A+ for physics, Mr Knight. Are we going to stand like this all day?”

“I hope so. I’m still hard inside you, Mala.”

“Yes, I can feel.”

“I’m sorry you spilled.  I really wanted to suck you.  Do you think you have another one in you?”

“I think maybe I do,” said Martin, squirming in delight on Stephen’s still hard pole.

Stephen set Martin down on the floor and slowly withdrew his cock. “Bend over I want to see.”  Martin exposed his ravaged hole, which has not contracted. “It looks beautiful said Stephen as he turned him to the pier glass and with the aid of one of Martin’s ivory-backed hand mirrors showed it to him.

He fetched the Chinese stopper from the Soho box, which was now kept at Croome, and said, “Put this in to keep all my seed inside you. It will keep you opened up for when I fuck you this afternoon. Do you want to?”

Martin’s eyes were shining as Stephen oiled up the instrument and tenderly inserted it in his rectum. Stephen then turned his attention to Martin’s cock and balls. After a good wash with his tongue between his spread legs, he took Martin into his mouth and brought him to hardness once again. He varied the actions and the pace, Martin not quite knowing what to expect, but it was all delightful.

After quite a long time Martin said, “I don’t think I can do it again, Derby; you’ll be getting tired.”

“Yes, you can, Mala. I need you to and I’m not tired.” Martin tried harder and just as he thought there may be success in sight, Stephen reached between his legs and slapped the Chinese plug.  Martin felt a jolt.  He slapped it again and again.  He was sucking with no hands, Martin now holding his head, so Stephen cupped Martin’s aching balls with one hand and slapped the plug with the other.  Martin spilled and both of them made sure that Stephen swallowed it all.  They fell apart, panting and laughing. “Welcome home, Mala. Let’s have a bath.”

When Chilvers brought in their luncheon about three o’clock, Martin detained him and discussed their plans for the holiday break.  “Chilvers I think we should go down to Bournemouth and see his lordship, probably tomorrow.  What do you think Stephen?” Stephen agreed. “Then I’d like to have Mr and Mrs Sachs to stay.  If they can come, who else should we invite?”

“Might I suggest your aunt, sir and Mr Antony and Miss Sophia?  Could The Plun…I mean Mr Craigth be asked, sir?  William could attend him, sir.”

“What about your friend from school, Christopher?” asked Martin.

“I would like to invite him on some occasion, but he is up north visiting his parents.  I say, could I invite someone else?” replied Stephen.

“Who?’

“Selby-Keam. I’ve told you about him.”

“I thought you wrote that nobody liked him.”

“That’s true, but it’s not his fault.  I feel very sorry for him.  I’ll tell you later.”

“Well that sounds excellent; maybe for next weekend, Chilvers?  I’d like to go up to London for a few days too.  Would you like that, Stephen?”

“Yes, very much.  Could Mr Chilvers come with us?” asked Stephen.

“Could you be spared at Croome for two or three days, Chilvers?” asked Martin.

“Oh yes sir, William or Michael can stand in for me, sir.  I would enjoy London again.  I will telegraph ahead to make the house ready when you decide, sir.”

The boys were sitting by the fire.  Stephen was reading ‘The House of Mirth’ but found he kept rereading the same lines.  He put the volume down.

“Mala?” He said. Martin looked up. “Christopher Tennant is a really fine fellow.”

“Yes he must be from what you said.”

“He doesn’t know about us—well not yet, that’s another reason why I didn’t want him to visit.  He thinks I’ve got a sweetheart of a different kind here at Croome.  I hope you don’t mind.”  Martin pondered on whether he liked being Stephen’s sweetheart and decided he did.

“You see he’s very keen on girls and has pictures of them and he, well, sort of looks up to me as a ladies’ man, if you know what I mean.”

Martin did know what he meant and smiled to himself, imagining how Stephen’s swaggered and how the boys would worship him as a hero and how Stephen’s self-esteem would lap it up. “Well how are you going to tell him that your sweetheart is chap not a lass?  What will he think of you then?”

“I’ll have to tell him. It’s not fair to him or to you; he just assumed, you see.”

“And you just happened to make eyes at all the girls in Blandford Forum?” teased Martin, pretending to be cross.

“Well, we do go to the pub of a Wednesday and the lasses do like to look at me and on Wednesday nights…well—Chris didn’t know how to ‘masturbate’ —that’s Latin for pleasuring yourself—and he sort of asked me and I thought he needed help; you see his father is a doctor and is very strict an told him he would go blind and things like that and he had got himself into a dreadful state and I thought it best if I…”

“I see, Derby, you’ve been sucking him off like The Plunger and me.” said Martin.

“No, not that, just other things—I wouldn’t make him do anything like that; he likes girls and that wouldn’t be right.  You’re not furious with me are you Mala?”

“Well I might be,” said Martin looking at Stephen sternly and quite aware of his transparency, “You will have to tell me some of the things you’ve been doing together of a Wednesday night and the curriculum for future Wednesday nights and then you might have to show me exactly what you’ve been doing.”

Stephen saw he was being teased and relaxed with a big grin. “I’ll start with masturbation technique…” and so he did.  After a rigorous lesson he fell to talking about Christopher and what a good friend he’d been and Martin quickly warmed to him and suggested that they might all masturbate and compare techniques if he ever came to Croome.

“What about this other fellow, Selby-Keam? Why are you asking him down?” said Martin.

Stephen launched into the story of the essay and the violet ink and then said, “I’ve been sitting next to him.  He doesn’t like Mingis either but has to be nice to him because his father is a school governor.  Mingis strokes his hair with his ugly hands and pinches his cheeks and I suspect he’s being doing things to him after class.  The fellow’s too frightened to do anything about it and he has no friends because of it.  I think that’s wrong.  He sort of looks up to me because I’m not frightened of Mingis and I think he was actually pleased that he failed his essay.  Could we help him, I don’t want to let him down?”

Martin had put his arm around Stephen as he talked. “You’re a good fellow Stephen. Those boys look up to you.  I look up to you.  I wish I could be half as good as you are.”  Stephen had the decency to look abashed and Martin kissed him.

At Bournemouth they found William much as he was a few weeks before. He showed them a fine new portrait he had done of Dr Alexander.  The doctor was posed in a kilt against a Scottish background with a tiny stag visible on a distant crag and there was a hunting lodge modelled on the one they proposed to sell.

“I propose that half the sale price be reinvested by Sachs and that a quarter should go to Stephen’s bathrooms and the remaining quarter to some modernisation of the farming,” said William. “What do you say?”

The boys agreed and Stephen unrolled his plans, which they looked at. They decided that they would build four pairs of bathrooms as experiments across the three villages, with one of them being for Miss Tatchell’s cottage. Stephen had some ideas for the modernisation, especially in the use of artificial fertilisers. He also had plans for the dairy farm, but was pinning his hopes on the son of the tenant rather than his old father.  The brothers gave him permission to work with Blake.

“Have you thought about what I said about adoption, Stephen?” asked William.

“Yes, William. I’d be honoured to be your ward.  Thank you.  I have already told my stepfather and my principal that I’ll be Stephen Knight-Poole.”

“Well, I think you should kiss your new papa and your new uncle,” he said in amusement. “Kiss your new nephew, Martin.” The kisses were exchanged.

“I have a present for you Stephen.” Martin said and handed over a box he’d brought with him.  Stephen looked inside and drew out a cloth object.

“It is a bicycle jockey’s strap, made in Boston in the United States.  Sportsmen wear them to stop their privates jiggling about.  I’ve got pairs for the Owens brothers too.”

Of course Stephen had to be stripped and, after puzzling out how the straps went, he was squeezed into it. “It’s very tight, isn’t it,” said Martin. They all ran their hands over the rough material and snapped the straps on Stephen’s cheeks.

“Oh look,” said William, “he’s ruining it already, look how he has leaked into the fabric.  You can’t return it to Austen Reed’s now, Martin,” said William with amusement.

“Turn around and bend down so I can see your arse.” Stephen obliged.  William picked up a paintbrush and gently stroked Stephen’s crack with the soft camel’s hair.  Stephen sighed and then struck some poses in front of the looking glass while the other two admired him.

Suddenly there was a knock and the doors were opened and tea was brought in by an astonished servant.  Quickly William made like an artist with his brush on a nearby canvas saying, “Mr Knight-Poole, if you want to be captured as a Greek statue, you must stand perfectly still or I can’t sketch you.”

The maid left and they burst into giggles.  Stephen with Martin’s help then demonstrated how Martin—‘the sailors’ friend’—had been abused so vilely in Cannes, improvising where Martin’s memory was failing.  After many humorous episodes, Stephen finally spent his seed between Martin’s soft thighs which William licked clean, also licking under the ersatz sailor’s foreskin while Stephen himself pretended to be lifting Martin’s watch and stealing his money.

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 09/20/13