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 7

“Careful!” cried the footman.  His plaster cast was bumped into the wall of the kitchen passage as the chair was being pushed to his room.  William was still going to be in plaster for another week and a bedroom had been contrived for him between the scullery and the servants’ hall so that he did not have to be lifted to the attic room he had occupied before the accident.  His recovery had been steady but terribly slow and he still sometimes had bad dreams in which he recalled the sounds of the trains colliding and the smell of the warm blood that trickled in the dark from the fractured skull of his lifeless master.

Pushing the chair was Carlo, a second cousin who had grown up with him in his native Liverpool.  Carlo was dark and good looking and at 25 was two years younger than the fair William.  Carlo’s looks and temperament came from his Italian father and he was in many ways the opposite of his reserved and correct older cousin.

“Neat little cabin, this,” said Carlo when they at last reached the sick room. “Let me swing you into your berth.”  He lifted William like a baby and deposited him on the bed.

“You sound like you’re still with the Union-Castle line.  Do you miss being at sea, Carlo?”

“I do a bit, but I don’t ever want to go back to South Africa.”

“Why?” asked William, looking up at his brown eyes.

“Well, I got into a spot of trouble in Cape Town,” he said, running his fingers through his curly hair, “There was this girl I was friendly with and her father and brothers forced me to marry her because she was in the family way, ’cepting it turns out that I wasn’t the father; she was gone before I even met her and she lied to me.  It was her brother I was after, a real charmer he was, and he thought it would be easier for us if I were his brother-in-law, but he didn’t tell me that.  The bitch became suspicious and finds out about me, threatens me with the police like, and then she ups and leaves me taking her kid.  Now the family is after me to pay her keep, even that bastard of a brother wants a piece of me.” 

“So you scuttled back to Blighty?”

“Yes, Bill, and I hope they don’t hunt me down to here.  They know me by the name of Secondo—that’s what I called myself.  But I’m Carlo again now and I wouldn’t mind getting a good berth in service again.  I liked it if it was a good house.  Besides, I was seasick every flamin’ voyage.  I’m meant for dry land I reckon.  Your letter was a godsend.”

“What did Mr Chilvers say to you?”

“Well, he said they were looking for a fourth footman but, as there was only the lad in the house, the footman could also work as a valet during the school holidays and maybe go up to the London house as well.  Get paid for it too. Things were pretty quiet here since her ladyship died.  Is that right?”

“Yes, his new Lordship is in a nursing home and isn’t expected to live.  The lad comes home in the holidays and is trying to run the place like his father.  Poor kid.  He’s a nice boy, very pretty and he has a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Yes, lad from the village, but he’s going to school in Blandford Forum.  He’s a smart one and good to the servants.  He’ll save this place he will, and we all love him.  He made sure that I got a nice little nest egg for all this,” he said, indicating his legs.  “He’s a good lad all right.  One in a million, I reckon.”

“And he and the young lad…?”

“I suspect they are at it like rabbits.  I was with them in France.  You should see the cock on the village lad!  Bigger than yours!  Mr Chilvers wants to try me as a valet same as you.  I think we’d make a good team and the two lads would be easy as pie to keep happy—they’re not even here much.  And for us, it could be old times again, eh Carlo?”

“Do you mean that?  We used to enjoy helping each other out.  Do you think we could share a room again?”

“I think Mr Chilvers would let us.  He’s strict and it’s all “yes milord, no milord” but I think he’s a bit how’s your father himself.  He’d protect those boys like a wildcat, but he’d also keep stum about us.  So would the boys I’m pretty sure.  You’d be safe here, Carlo.  It would be good to see you in your uniform again.  I’m getting excited just thinking about it.  I say, do you think you could help me out right now?  It’s been murder with this cast itching my balls.  Lock the door and get these pyjamas off me.”

*****

At school Stephen swiftly implemented the watchdogs for Douglas.  Stephen was with him in literature and at the end of class would simply propel him through the door before Mingis could say anything.  Christopher Tennant sat with him in geography and Julian Newell was with him in German.  All three would protect him at dinnertime and collect him after school.  Mingis tried to talk to him in the passageway, but Julian simply put his big arm around Douglas’s shoulder and walked him right past the angry master.  In addition they were spending a lot of time on the tennis courts where Douglas was an asset, although Tennant and Newell would do anything, they said, to help Stephen and besides, they thought the cause a just one.

Dr Davis was collecting Stephen’s essays and a word here and there told Stephen that he was reading them before handing them to Mingis.

On Mondays Stephen took dancing lessons where he proved to be very popular with the young ladies of Blandford Forum who also attended Miss Whittaker’s Académie de Danse, so much so that Julian also enrolled.

Wednesday night remained for drinking at the Nelson and for Christopher’s visit to Stephen’s room.  On the first such Wednesday, Christopher was thrilled with the French photographs.  Stephen particularly liked the one of the Frenchman with the moustache having his big cock sucked by the pretty maid. He hoped that Christopher would be so inspired.  Christopher was still a little ashamed to do much by himself and tended to save himself for Wednesdays, which wasn’t quite the point, Stephen tried to explain.  He particularly liked Stephen to tell stories about the photographs, whispering close to his ear, while Christopher used the new oils on his cock: “Fifi says ‘I can’t quite reach the picture rail with my feather duster—I’ll just have to stretch.  Would you hold me Monsieur Duclos?  Oh I feel a draft.  Have I forgotten my bloomers again?  Qu’est-ce qu’il ya dans vos pantalons, Monsieur? S’agit-it il d’un piquet de cricket avec balles?’”  Christopher would usually be terribly excited, but sometimes Steven was too silly and they would roll about laughing.

Stephen was trying to teach Christopher to take it slowly and last longer.  He would get Christopher to bring himself to the edge and then remove his hand while his arching cock pulsed and oozed in mid-air.  Then Stephen would lightly touch it with his fingertip, making small circular motions on the head telling Christopher to “Hold it! Hold it!” until the crisis passed and he could resume using his hand.  Stephen usually set the pace; stroking his cock while Chris beat in time until they both spent their seed.

They were lying exhausted on the bed, having extinguished the gas, when Christopher said, “Thanks Knight, I never knew I could spill so hard.”  

Stephen just smiled in the dark and put his arm around his shoulders.  There was a long pause. “Stephen,” Christopher began, “Your sweetheart: Is he a chap by any chance?  Is his name Martin Miller?”

Stephen was shocked, but not surprised and said, “Yes, Christopher, he is a chap and his name is Martin, but not Miller.”

“Oh, it’s just that you called me Martin twice tonight and you also said ‘Miller’”

“That’s ‘Mala’ and it’s a nickname.  I’m sorry Christopher, I should have told you about Martin.  How do you feel about me having a boy as my sweetheart?”

“I don’t know.  I’m really shocked actually and feel funny.  I know it’s sinful and maybe you have an illness, Knight.  It’s unhealthy to want to do things with another boy.  My father says so.  I’d never have believed you could do things like that.  I really don’t believe it.  I think I’d better go to my room now.”

Stephen lay back on his bed in the dark, with his hands behind his head. There were tears in his eyes.  He had lost a friend and possibly he’d best move to another house.  He didn’t think that Tennant would tell Julian and the others at school, but knew it would be difficult being around him.  He felt too distressed to go to sleep.  His life was going to be full of these moments, he realised with a sinking feeling.

The next morning at breakfast, Christopher avoided Stephen’s eyes and made an excuse to leave for school before he did, when they had been accustomed to walk together.  Concentrating on his lessons was hard and even Mingis’ needling did not penetrate his numbness.  He even began to wonder if what he did with Martin was as repulsive as Christopher and his father thought it was. ‘Am I sick?’  he wondered, but only for an instant.  Stephen’s whole sense of being was founded on understanding how he felt inside, in his heart, and from the guidance his stepfather had given him.  He considered it carefully: no, he didn’t feel he was sick or wrong.  He was worried about how twisted and hate-filled Christopher’s father must be with his perverted use of science to frighten the boy.  He knew from nature that love expressed itself in all sorts of ways.  He thought of Martin, of how he loved his Mala.  That could not be wrong; love hurt nobody and he would never hurt the boy he loved, well except for—well that was more a pleasurable discomfort and it wasn’t his fault that God had made him so—no, it was Christopher, poor fellow, that was in the wrong and he would have to bear the loss of his friendship as best he could.

Just then he looked up at some cries he heard across the school ground in the direction of the oval.  A group of students were tormenting a boy from the town and his small fox terrier, an ugly little dog and deformed, with just three legs with which it was hopping across the field.  The students were jeering and laughing and Hodge, an oafish boy of nineteen—still in his senior year because of his stupidity and an indulgent father, was busily kicking the leg of the little dog so it collapsed comically every time it tried to take a step.  The boy was in tears and Hodge held him off with a strong arm as he continued to torment the ill-favoured canine to his own delight and that of the junior boys who formed the crowd.

Stephen ran over and the crowd parted.  He roughly pulled Hodge away from the dog and its master at which Hodge abused him and threw a punch which collected ?  Stephen on the jaw.  He didn’t flinch. 

He held Hodge by his shirt until Christopher and Julian ran up. “I thought you two were supposed to be prefects?” said Stephen, angrily, handing his prisoner over.  He then turned to the crying boy and knelt down and placed his hand on his head, urging him not to cry.  He then gave the boy a shilling and picked up the dog and deposited it into his arms.

He gave the dog a pat and said, “He’s a very fine dog—a very brave dog and could give all those hounds with the usual four legs a run for their money.” The bell went and Stephen walked away.

*****

There was a soft knock at his door and Stephen sat up.  It was Christopher. He came over to the bedside and said, “I’m sorry Stephen, I behaved like a swine.  I don’t know if I actually believe what I said the other night. I sounded like my father.  You have been the best friend in the whole world to me—and to Sewell and to Selby-Keam and anyone who can take five wickets off 23 runs must be all right.  Lasses or lads will make no difference to me, I promise.  I hope we’re friends still.  I’m sorry for what I said before.  I say, can I get into be with you?”

Stephen lifted the blankets and Christopher took off his dressing gown and climbed in. “It’s rather cold and I think I’d sleep better if you put your arm around me.” He snuggled in. “Would you tell me about the knight and the dairy maid again? I’m afraid I left the photograph back in my room.”

*****

A small crowd of eager schoolboys had gathered in the Craigth Pavilion changing room.  At the centre stood Martin and Archie in their new jockey’s straps, the objects the admiration of the boys, many of whom were half hard and leaking at the sight, and they were the recipients of some more tactile plaudits which inevitably included the snapping of the tight elastic across their rosy, plump cheeks.

Suddenly there was a booming adult voice somewhere and the crowd parted to reveal Mr Daventry, the games master.  He took a look at the crowd of boys and told them to hurry up and get changed for footer.  He told The Plunger and Martin to come to his room.

Mr Daventry was a nice looking man, quite old thought Martin—at least thirty—and of course he was strong and fit.  Martin had observed his muscular, hairy legs many times and admired their girth where they met his rather revealing shorts.  Martin was thinking of them now and of his sweat-stained shirt as he stood with The Plunger in the master’s room with its array of balls, bats, clipboards, tape measures and team photographs.  Martin was trying to discern which, if any, in the photographs was Daventry himself in his younger days.

“Craigth, Poole, what do you think you were doing in there?  You know the school’s rules on strict uniform. What are those things?”

Archie spoke: “They are athletic support garments, sir.  They were designed for bicycle riders first, sir, and then other sportsmen found them very, err, comfortable for their, err, privates sir.  They’re from America, sir.”

“America, you say?”

“Yes sir, but they can be obtained from the sporting goods department at Messers Austin Reed in Regent Street, sir, in London, sir.”

“You’re American aren’t you Craigth?”

“No sir, I’m an Englishman,” he lied, “but my mother was born in Philadelphia, sir.”

“Well I have every reason to be thankful to your mother and to her country; the new shower baths have given me a great deal of pleasure, Craigth, almost endless.  Let me take a look at these sporting accoutrements.  Poole, take your trousers off and let me see.  Did you wear it for lacrosse practice today?”

“Yes, sir.  It was the first time.  It felt very…very snug sir.”

Martin now had his trousers off and was being closely inspected by Mr Daventry.  Of his own volition, Martin removed his upper garments as well.

“And your arse is uncovered?”

“Yes sir, it doesn’t inhibit one, sir, I mean for running and such, sir.”

“And it feels good in the front here?” he asked, indicating where the front was with his cupped palm.”

“Oh yes sir, even Archie finds it comfortable and very supportive for boxing and hurdling and he’s very large down there sir.”

“Well you’d better let me see, Craigth,” said Daventry.  The Plunger dropped his trousers and the games master felt the bulge below the red bush that was just visible above the pouch.

Suddenly Mr Daventry felt something untoward and told The Plunger to take the strap off.  The Plunger obeyed and his long cock and ball sack were revealed adorned by the silver ring.

“Good God, boy! What’s that?”

“I bought it in London sir, there’s nothing in the school rules against it, I checked.  It sort of exercises the private’s sir, although it does take a bit of getting used to.  I don’t wear it all the time sir, and it’s silver so it won’t rust.”

“And it makes you feel ‘good’?”

“Oh yes sir, very invigorated.  The shop has lots of different equipment” and he went on to described what he could remember with Martin supplying further details, including the address.  While this exchange was taking place, the games master was stroking both of their long cocks with his strong hands.

“I’m getting very close sir,” said Martin.

“And you Craigth?”

“Nearly there, sir.  A bit faster if you please.”

Daventry increased his wrist action, glad now that Ping-Pong had been introduced, and moved the two boys together so they could put their arms around each other’s waists.  They stood on their toes and spent in unison, covering the hairy arms of the games master with their fulsome seed.

“That was a sterling effort boys.  You’re fine athletes.  I will see about getting these straps from Austen Reed’s for all the boys, he said, picking up the garments in question from where they had been discarded.  He went to hand them back, “No this one’s yours Poole,” he said, putting it to his nose.  “And this one’s yours Craigth,” he said after inhaling deeply.

Thy boys dressed and left with a note from Mr Daventry excusing them for being so late to Dr Squinch’s divinity class.

It was only a little over a  week later that Daventry had all the boys lined up for P.T. in the miserable drizzle.  He was huffing and puffing telling the boys to pick up the pace as he jogged on the spot, touched his toes and then had them doing star jumps.  Even the fittest ones were flagging as they were made to continue their springing movements for ages.  It was because Daventry fell silent that Martin, still jumping, glanced up at the master.  He was a funny colour and all of a sudden his knees gave way and he collapsed to the ground. Martin was the first one to reach him and noted that he seemed to be in pain. He told Smith-Forbes, the prefect, to get the other students to go and change for the next class and he and The Plunger helped the master into his room.

“I’m alright, boys,” he said, although he was breathing in a ragged fashion.  He slid his shorts down and revealed a large bronze ring around his low-hanging balls. “It stretches the scrotum,” he explained.

“You shouldn’t have worn it for games sir,” admonished Martin, “or for so long.  Look Plunger, his balls are all swollen and chaffed.”  The Plunger inspected the inflamed scene.

“You’re supposed to oil yourself up first, sir, they should have told you in the shop.”

“Sent for it in the mail.  Thanks Craigth,” he gasped.

“How does it come off?”

The master removed a pin and it parted sideways and his balls were liberated.

“Poor Mr Daventry,” said Archie, “I feel it’s all my fault, Poole.  Here come and help me.”

They took the weight away, feeling its heaviness, and then got between the games master’s thighs and used their tongues to sooth the inflamed flesh.  He started to get hard and had the boys stop.

“Thank you, gentlemen, you have been a great help.  Perhaps we can go for a cross country run on Sunday?”

“That would be fine,” said Martin, looking at The Plunger.  “And do be careful sir, we wouldn’t want you to do yourself a mischief.  We’d have to have extra Geography or Divinity if you couldn’t take us for games.”

On Sunday afternoon the excited and expectant boys, after urging one another on all week, met the master in their running togs at the gates and they set out across the fields, opening gates and jumping styles until they reached a distant village.  At the inn, the boys sat outside while Mr Daventry brought two pints of ale and a pint of stout (for Archie) and carried them out.  “I don’t think your housemaster needs to know about our ‘lunch’” said Daventry.  They drank their pints because they were thirsty and started on their run back.

Alongside a hedge they stopped to catch their breath, bending to rest with their hands on their knees.  “Excuse me sir, said Archie, I need to relieve myself.  It was the stout, sir.”

Archie dropped his shorts and his strap and took a very long piss against a Scotch Fir.  The other two watched him. “That was a fine stream of piss, Craigth.  Fine cock too, lad.”

“Thank you, sir” said Archie, leaving the object in question exposed.  Martin needed a piss too and Daventry observed that the boy was hanging naked under his shorts.  Daventry pulled down his shorts and underwear.  The boys were relieved to find the bronze instrument of torture was nowhere to be seen. Daventry saw they were looking.  

“Thank you boys, for last week.  I don’t put it on for very long now and I’m more careful, although Mrs Daventry does like me to wear it.”

“Mrs Daventry?” said the boys in unison.

“Yes, my wife.  She thinks it very becoming.”

“You do have very big balls, sir if I may say so,” said Martin.  And it was true: they were low hanging, one more pronounced in its declivity than the other. His cock was uncircumcised and of an average length, falling well short of the scrotum.  Daventry allowed the boys to feel them.

“May I pleasure you sir?” asked Martin.

There was no need for a reply and Martin took the games master’s cock in his mouth and got him hard while feeling his balls.  When he looked up, Archiewas having his long cock sucked by Daventry.

Presently Mr Daventry said: “I’d like to watch you two boys exercise with each other.  I’m sure you’ve had a lot of training.”

Daventry stroked his own member while Martin and The Plunger shared a kiss then got to work.  The Plunger worked on Martin’s cock with pneumatic pressure while Martin ran his hands over The Plunger’s freckled shoulders.  Then positions were swapped.  Finally they ended up standing with their hard cocks between them as they rubbed one another.

“Over here boys,” called Daventry and the two waddled across to where he was sitting, with their cocks obscenely arched.  He spat on each palm and furiously pleasured the boys as before.  They spilled and coated his face.  To his surprise they bent down and licked at the more obvious flows.

“But what about you sir, you haven’t spilled?” cried Martin.

“Oh I’m saving this for Mrs Daventry,” replied the master and the boys were grieved with disappointment.  All of a sudden they leapt on Daventry, pinning him to the ground and Martin buried his head between the games master’s big, hairy thighs.  Daventry didn’t struggle too much and Martin and Archie swapped places.  They were determined to make him spill, which he at length did, when both the boys’ heads were in his groin.  They shared his old man’s seed between them.

“I’m sorry sir,” said Archie, not really sorry, “but it would have been unfair.”

“And we don’t like to lose in a contest,” added Martin,” looking at him and breathing hard.

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 09/27/13