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 11
The Milkmaid and the Fly
Cesar crossed the Rubicon, which was curiously made of polished marble, just as Wolfgang Amadeus took a bow before the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg who was dressed surprisingly as a pirate and whose sword was accidently lifting the tunic of Narcissus.
The ballroom at Viscount Pirrie’s house in Belgrave Square presented a spectacular sight that New Year’s Eve. Stephen came as the Roman Emperor in a costume that showed off his handsome figure very effectively. He had been persuaded to wear his jockey’s strap for the occasion for it was feared that at any moment the looped material that covered one shoulder but not his knees might become undone and the hosts, friends of Aunt Maud, might not be so understanding of Rome in its decline as some. Martin’s costume was equally as scanty. He was dressed at the Greek youth and he wore a laurel wreath in his golden hair. Christopher was a pirate with an eye patch and a tricorne hat while The Plunger was the genius composer in powdered wig, lace and hose.
The boys had arrived quite late and the champagne was flowing. The costumes seemed to lessen the inhibitions of the dense crowd and the chatter was almost deafening. The orchestra was playing madly and when Martin asked about the uniforms they wore he was told that they were the orchestra for Viscount Pirrie’s newest liner, the enormous ‘Olympic,’ which was being fitted out for its maiden voyage. Almost immediately partners were found for all the boys and Martin found himself dancing with a harem girl and he looked over at Stephen who was, appropriately, with Cleopatra.
Martin managed to have a break and talk to The Plunger who was fighting off two water nymphs who were trying to steal his monocle. “It’s a marvellous dance,” he shouted and The Plunger nodded.
“I say, isn’t that Custard over there?” he said, indicating a clown by an archway. “Who’s that he is with? Is it Pemberley-Billings?” asked The Plunger.
Martin starred. Custard had a look of abject misery on his face, which was heavily made up as if for a circus, but his unfortunate spots were still visible through the thick paint. Pemberton-Billings or ‘The Fly’ as he was known due to his father’s obsession with aeroplanes, was a tall sixth-former. Predictably he was dressed as a Bleriot, with a silk scarf, leather cap and goggles. His unattractive bulging eyes gave him an appearance that greatly resembled the insect he was named after. He leant close and was talking earnestly to Custard who looked at that moment, even more down-trodden.
“I think Custard is loathsome,” said Martin “but he does look glum. Do you think we should talk to him?” But just as he said it, Custard spotted them and the alarm in his eyes clearly said not to come over. The Plunger saw it too and said: “What was that all about?”
“I don’t know,” said Martin, just as Christopher stopped with three girls in need of dancing partners. The boys were whirled away. Martin looked for Stephen whom he saw dancing with a milkmaid. When he waltzed his partner over and he saw that the milkmaid was none other than Mrs Buckweet.
The orchestra took a break while the crowd charged in a rather undignified way to the buffet. It was so crowded that the boys and their partners at that moment had to settle for more champagne instead. Stephen came over with two ladies, one dressed as a fellow Roman countryman— or rather countrywoman—and the other in a remarkable costume that made her into a peacock—which she explained she knew was a male not a female bird. Stephen looked rather worse for wear.
The dancing resumed and the boys did their duty. Midnight was announced and the crowd began to sing Auld Lang Syne as confetti fluttered down from the ceiling. Martin went in search of Stephen. For some devilish reason, that he could not explain to himself, he left the ballroom and crossed the hall to what he imagined was Lord Pirrie’s library and opened the door. In the half light and unseen, he glimpsed Stephen’s white toga. He was standing with his strong legs apart and was holding on to the mantelpiece. A dairymaid was sitting on a footstool and had both hands around Stephen’s large cock, which was painfully bent towards the floor and she was milking it up and down. Stephen was groaning and she milked it faster. Suddenly a stream of Stephen’s cream jetted onto the parquetry and the farmer’s daughter continued for some seconds to make sure that he was dry. All this happened in an instant and Martin turned with a stifled sob and fled the doorway. Mrs Buckweet and Stephen looked up at the slight noise but there was no one to be seen. Then Stephen noticed a wreath of laurel leaves on the floor.
Martin rushed back to the dancing and hurriedly told Christopher that he was going home and departed without even waiting for a reply. A servant found him a cab and he cried all the way to Piccadilly. When he arrived he found that he had no money or latchkey and not even any pockets had he possessed them. He rang his own bell and after a wait Carlo appeared in a dressing gown. Martin blurted out something and Carlo caught the words ‘taxi’ and ‘headache.’ He found some money and went out into the street.
A few minutes later Carlo knocked and entered Martin’s room. “Pack my things Carlo I’m going back to Croome.”
“Very good your lordship, but we are going tomorrow in any case and, if I may say so sir, and there are no trains at this time of night.”
This was a fact, admitted Martin to himself and he could feel his dramatic gesture already beginning to unravel.
The servant took-in his red eyes and agitated manner. “Is your headache very bad, your lordship?”
“Yes it is, Carlo. I don’t know how I can bear it.”
“Would you like me to draw you a bath sir?
“Yes, a bath. I’m freezing”
Carlo returned a few minutes later with a large glass of water and some aspirin.
“My parents used to have the most terrible headaches too, sir, began Carlo.”
“What do you mean?” asked Martin looking at his own forlorn image in the glass.
“Well, sir,’ said Carlo as he began to remove Narcissus’ garments, “My mother was Irish and had a temper, your lordship, and my father was born in Naples and he was a passionate man too, sir. When they had their blood up all Birkenhead could hear them. My father would be all grand opera and would produce a knife. ‘I willa cuta my throat. Will thata make you happy, Strega?’ he’d cry. My mother would put on her hat and coat and march out the front door and say she was going to drown herself in the Mersey. We five kids would be clinging on to her legs and coat tails begging her not to do it, all down the street. My father would accuse her of making eyes at the men who came into the shop and my mother would accuse him of—well, you know—with the neighbours’ wives. There were plenty of headaches in our house.”
“Why did they stay together? Was he violent towards her?” asked Martin who was now in the hot bath.
“They loved each other, your lordship. He never hit her, although I saw him cop a few slaps from mum. It was partly play-acting I think. She always threatened to leave and he always told her that she was free to go—but only in the morning after she had slept with him. He’d even help her pack he’d say. Of course she never left him. She did have us kids to consider, but even when we was all grown up she never left dad. She was utterly besotted by him and he loved his ‘Irish Rosa’ as he called her.
“My mother once said that when we have fights with someone we love we have to find a balance between justice and feeling self-righteous. It’s a tricky one, especially when love is new and you hurt so easily. How is your headache, your lordship?”
“A little better, thank you Carlo. Perhaps I can soap myself now and you might like to do up your dressing gown and return to bed. Happy New Year, Carlo.”
“Happy New Year, your lordship.”
It was only a few minutes later that Stephen came rushing in. He looked very upset.
“Oh Mala, I’m truly sorry, it was…”
“Don’t say it was an emergency, Stephen for I didn’t hear any alarm bell.”
“Mala, I didn’t think. I’d had too much—She made…” Stephen saw that these arguments were not telling ones so he just stood here with his head bowed.
“I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll never see her again. Anyway, she’s going back to America; apparently the voters of Minnesota want to see their representative.”
“I don’t mind if you see her again,” said Martin.
Stephen looked horrified. “You don’t mean it’s over between you and me Martin, don’t say that. I love you!”
“I’ll think about that in the morning Stephen. What I don’t like is the deceit. How would you feel if you came across me and Miss Webster or Senator Buckweet or another boy—a nice looking boy?”
“I wouldn’t like it very much and I might have to kill them all,” said Stephen quietly.
“Stephen, if we have adventures let’s do them together or at least tell each other about them. Would you have told me about Mrs Buckweet?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Stephen, honestly. “I’m not fully used to having a sweetheart, I suppose.”
Stephen was crying and Martin had never seen him like this before. He decided it would be salutary to let him cry for a little while longer. He counted to 100 in his head. Then he made a small movement that let Stephen know that he might hug him, which he did. Martin positioned them in front of the looking glass so that he might see Stephen’s face while they embraced. He seriously thought of ending their relationship then and there if he saw even the slightest smirk on his face reflected back to him. Stephen remained lachrymose and downcast and thus passed the test.
“Now I want to see just what Mrs Buckweet was doing to you that was obviously so delightful. Fetch me that stool Derby.”
“Oh no, Mala, I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”
“No Stephen, keep that tunic on and stand over here. Spread your legs. Where is your strap? Oh well it makes it easier.” He got Stephen hard with his mouth and hand then none too carefully bent his big cock downwards.
“Careful Mala!” cried Stephen who had to lean forward and put his hands on the wall.
Stephen found it difficult at first but then his vigour renewed. “Moo!” he lowed at one point. Martin was quite merciless and milked him hard until, with much bucking in the stalls, the bull miraculously produced a pail-full, which splattered on the floor.
“That was very good,” said Martin. “I’m not sure whether you’re a Jersey or a Guernsey. However now your other duty is to service me. I want you to fuck me Stephen and I don’t care how much your cock hurts and I don’t care if it takes until sunrise, you will fuck me until I’m satisfied and then I might think of forgiving you.
Stephen’s balls were aching, but Martin stripped off Stephen’s senatorial costume and shed his dressing gown. Stephen carried him to the bed and fetched the new lubricating cream.
It did take Stephen till the early hours to spend his third load for the evening deep inside his Mala. He was sore and aching. Every part of him was wringing wet with perspiration and the sheets were damp and clinging. Poor Martin’s hole was red raw from the pounding but he did not complain; he had his Derby.
When Carlo came with the tea, getting on towards midday, he found Martin’s head contentedly lying on the triangular patch of soft hair on Stephen’s chest and Stephen’s left arm cradling him. The blankets were mostly off the bed and Stephen’s uncovered cock was red but rock hard. He gently covered them both up and took the tea away. The happy restoration of mutual confidence between Mr and Mrs Micawber, he said to himself.
*****
They had been back at school for two weeks. Martin had received a letter from Stephen. In it he related that Mr Mingis had not returned this term and it was said that he now had a teaching post in a prep school in North Wales. The new Literature teacher was, surprisingly, a woman—the first in the school—and she was young and attractive and Stephen found her to be very good. (The ‘young and attractive’ attribution was undercut in a letter Martin had already received from Selby-Keam who said that Miss Stone was grey and in her fifties).
Stephen reported that four more bathrooms had been finished and the Tidpits had left for their sojourn in Newton Abbot, with Mrs Tidpit being very enthusiastic. Stephen had also dropped Latin and had taken up German, which was hard but he was persisting. Towards the very end, Stephen said that he had been made a prefect of the school, with special responsibilities in regards to the junior boys. Someone called Derby apparently sent his great love, the letter concluded.
As usual Martin shared his letters with The Plunger, sometimes reading passages aloud while The Plunger sucked him. Martin was just buttoning up when a knock announced the unexpected arrival of the loathsome Custard.
“Hullo Poole, hullo Plunger,” he began without formalities, “I haven’t got much time before he starts looking for me,” he said mysteriously. “I’m sorry about the New Year’s Ball. I am in a bit of a pickle. Grandfather told me that he’d seen you at Croome and in London and told you about—well, you know.”
“Yes, he did mention something Custard, but he said that it was all settled now,” said Martin, kindly.
“Well I thought so too,” said Custard, clearly a nervous wreck. He squeezed at the pimples on the back of his neck in his agitation. “It’s this beast The Fly, he said referring to Pemberton-Billings.”
“Yes, why are you so suddenly paly with a sixth-form chap, Custard. I didn’t think you knew him?”
“Well I didn’t until two months ago. I say, can we talk about this? I can’t stay I have to go to The Fly’s room. I’m already late. Could I meet you at 2 o’clock today in the lavatories?”
“But I have Geography then and you have Art don’t you, Plunger?” The Plunger nodded, having become very keen on this subject.
“Please, get out of class and meet me. The Fly will be busy with his dissertation then and I have to meet him on the tennis court directly after classes.” With that the poor boy fled the room.
Martin and Archie exchanged looks and decided to help. It is what Stephen would do, they agreed, and besides, Lord Delvees had been good to them.
Martin didn’t like lying, but as it was in a good cause he asked the geography master if he might be excused. In the ‘bogs’ as they referred to the establishment, he made his rendezvous with the other two. They frankly asked Custard what was going on.
“Well, that beast, The Fly, knows about my trouble with the police and has threatened to expose me.”
“But I thought your grandfather said that was all taken care of,” put in Martin.
“As far as the police go, Poole, it was, but he’s threatening to spread it all around the school and I’ll be sent down. But it’s worse than that,” he continued with alarm. “He threatening to tell his father about me and his father is an M.P. He hates boys like us” and here he gave a look to The Plunger and Martin, “and he hates my grandfather. If my grandfather was silenced he might have a better chance of a shadow ministry. He’s already been working with the Duke of Westminster compiling a list of horrible things to be used for blackmail.”
“Has he told his father yet?” asked The Plunger, thinking of his own father’s position, “and how did the rotter find out about it anyway?”
“No he hasn’t, he can’t very well or he will lose his power over me. It’s only while it’s a threat that it works. And he found out…well…I’m afraid it’s my fault Plunger. I was, you know, doing things with him and some other boys and it just came out.” Here he hung his spotty head.
“You were doing things with him?” Custard nodded. “And what is he doing to you that has you so terrified?” asked Martin.
“Well, apart from having to suck him every day (which isn’t all that bad) he is starting to do horrible things to me—I don’t really want to say what—but he’s doing them to me in the organ loft during choir practice. He’s hurting me and when I cry or yell he seems to enjoy it more—so I try not to. I have to give him all my pocket money and do his homework. But the worst thing is he won’t let me alone. I can’t talk to anyone, I have to report to him at every break and keep within sight of a Sunday. If he’s not watching me, he has a pal, Digby-Forster, who has a room opposite me, who knows if I’m in or out. I feel like he’s the spider and I’m the fly,” Custard concluded with an attempt at a smile.
“We’ll do something, won’t we Plunger?” said Martin. The Plunger sincerely nodded, but was not quite sure what he could do. “Can you meet us in the showers tomorrow after tennis practice?”
“No, I can’t, I have to stand and watch The Fly at rugger—or rather let him watch me. I could try and sneak out to your room Poole after lights out. The Fly and Digby-Forster are usually a bit drunk then.”
“He drinks at school?” asked The Plunger astounded.
“Yes, one of the masters buys him whiskey. I don’t know why but I can imagine.”
The boys swiftly returned to their respective classes, but none found it easy to concentrate.
In the showers The Plunger was busy soaping up Martin and stroking his cock. Martin however, was lost in the problem that had been laid out before them the previous day and which he knew, if he wanted to be like Stephen, he must solve as a matter of justice.
“The Fly” has actually got himself in an awkward spot, when you analyse it, Plunger, that’s our chance,” said Martin.
“Why’s that?” said The Plunger, changing hands.
“Well, if Mr Pemberton-Billings M.P. is so down on inverts, don’t you think it’s ironic that his own son is being done by and doing things to our Custard?”
“So we could just threaten to tell his pa?” said The Plunger, now pleasuring his own cock.
“No, that would still mean that Custard could be exposed here and possibly in Westminster, reflected Martin as he turned around under the hot water and spread his cheeks for the Plunger to soap. “We need the threat, but like him, we can’t afford to carry it out. Have you spilt yet Plunger? No? Then let me finish you off while I think.”
*****
When the midnight rendezvous was made Martin had a plan laid out before poor Custard. It was a little complicated and couldn’t happen straight away, which worried Martin.
“No, it’s terrific of you chaps,” said Custard, squeezing a particularly succulent pimple, “I can put up with the beast if I know it’s not going to be forever. That’s what I kept thinking: I’ll be his prisoner for the rest of my life. Do you want me to suck you?”
“No, Custard,” said Martin, “we’re doing this for you as our friend.”
Custard nodded in understanding and said, “I’d love to suck that friend of yours, Knight, Poole. No chance of that I suppose?”
“No, Custard, he’s pretty much mine,” said Martin with a smile.
*****
Stephen was sitting in Lit and had opened his legs. Selby-Keam was surreptitiously running his hand up and down Stephen’s cock as it lay against his thigh. Stephen was therefore only paying partial attention to Milton and he was also reflecting on the letter that he had just received that morning from his Mala.
In it he mentioned something, intriguing, about Custard and The Plunger’s organ lessons, but also reported that William was going off to Dieppe to a clinic for some new treatment and would be away for some months. Martin shared the news that three pictures had been sold and more than 1000 pounds had been realised. The violent one of the horse and the lion was off to Melbourne where it would be enjoyed by a wider public along with a doubtful Rembrandt, which was mostly brown paint and a shaft of sunlight. A portrait of an enormously fat duchess in blue silks was thankfully now the property of Senator Buckweet who was going to donate it to a gallery he was funding in Minneapolis as part of his re-election campaign.
The remembrance of these happy associations with Croome and just the very imprint of Mala’s handwriting on the page made Stephen miss him; at that moment almost unbearably.
“Stop for a moment or I’m going to spill, Donald,” whispered Stephen and Selby-Keam withdrew his hand which was by now in Stephen’s pocket.
“What was that?” Mr Knight.
“Iambic tetrameter,” Miss Stone.
“Very good. It sets a fine rhythm, doesn’t it?
“Very fine, Miss.”
*****
“Mr Daventry, may Featherstonehaugh and I talk to you about a problem we have?” said Martin as the boys were helping the games master move the vaulting horse and raise the Roman rings.
“Is it your new jockey’s straps boys?”
“No, not exactly sir, although you may wish to check them sir to see if we have the right size.”
The boys followed the master in to his room and shut the door. They dropped their games shorts and Mr Daventry, after a careful inspection thought that they fitted well, even containing The Plunger’s big cock, and with discipline attractively framing Martin’s sweet buttock cheeks.
“Sir,” began Martin. “There is a boy in our house who is being cruelly tormented by an older boy.”
“Well, that’s a job for your housemaster,” said Daventry, rising from his knees.
“Possibly it needs someone with your special touch, sir. I say Mr Daventry, have you ever done any acting?”
“Acting? Well I did play Koko in The Mikado when I was at teachers’ college.”
The boys exchanged looks and The Plunger said, “That will be excellent, sir” and outlined the plan before he went off to organ practice.
The very same day Martin received a letter from Stephen. In it he expressed quite openly how he needed his Mala right now and how he didn’t think he could wait until Easter. Martin was touched by the strength and sincerity of the sentiments, which were confirmed by the urgency of the handwriting and the two blank pages accompanying the missive. He decided he’d better act before something terrible happened so he went to his housemaster.
He didn’t like to lie so he more or less truthfully told Mr Polwarth that he needed to go home for some urgent private business and asked if he could take two days leave after the lacrosse match on Wednesday if he was back by Friday.
“And your poor brother is now in France?”
“Yes sir. The running of the estate falls largely to me, sir.”
“Very well, Poole, but don’t let me down.”
“I won’t, sir,” said Martin.
Martin caught the train for Blandford Forum and was there on Wednesday afternoon.
He found Mrs Leybourne’s house and a tremendous thundering announced that Stephen was bounding down the stairs two at a time and the door burst open, almost tearing it off its hinges. Martin was grabbed and dragged into the hall and Stephen with shining eyes wrapped his big arms around Martin’s neck and kissed him, before even able to speak.
“Oh thank you for coming Mala, I just had to see you. How long have you got?”
“Well I could go back Thursday night or get the milk train on Friday morning.”
“Friday morning. Please!”
Stephen pulled him up the stairs to his room and discarded his clothes, some dropping on the stair carpet and on the landing. He was naked, panting and hard as he undressed Martin, stopping every so often to kiss his soft lips. Martin demanded that Stephen put his arms behind his head and he thrust his face into the silky black hair of Stephen’s armpits. “I haven’t bathed or touched myself since I received your letter. I love you Mala and I’ve got to have you right now.”
They made love with a terrible urgency and Stephen spilt two loads inside his lover before pleasuring him with his mouth and not spilling a drop when Martin spent, with a shudder, his fingers interlaced in Stephen’s unruly hair. “Let’s just stay like this Mala. I don’t want you to dress. I just want to look at you.”
They lay there for some minutes, Stephen contented, but Martin starting to get cold, despite the warmth of Stephen’s body.
“Come of Derbs, show me around and I want to meet Mrs Leybourne. Did you tell her I was coming?”
“Oh, I forgot, I said we’d take a glass of sherry with her before dinner. Hurry and dress and we’ll go down.”
Mrs Leybounre was perspiring with excitement when she was introduced to the Earl of Holdenhurst in her own front room. Martin was gracious and Stephen was looking at them both and bathing them in his magnificent smile.
“My late husband knew a Lord Alfred Poole in the colonial service in West Africa, Lord Martin.”
“That is my uncle, Mrs Leybourne, he was governor of The Gambia before he went to India. I will write to him and tell him I have met you,” said Martin.
“That was thirty years ago, Lord Martin, I doubt he will remember. He was a very handsome young man then; not as fair as you but you do resemble him,” she said turning pink at some memory.
Christopher came in and another glass was produced.
“Where are you staying Lord Martin?” asked Mrs Leybourne.
“I was thinking of the Commercial near the station, Mrs Leybourne,” lied Martin.
“Oh no, cried Christopher, you must stay here. He can bunk with me or with Stephen, can’t he Mrs Leybourne? It will be fun.”
“Thank you” mouthed Stephen to Christopher when Mrs Leybourne had turned her back to refill her glass.
“Well, you must suit yourself, Lord Martin. If you young people would prefer to be together that’s fine,” said Mrs Leybourne, pleased at the idea of an earl sleeping under her roof—and planning to tell her neighbours in the most casual of manners, “Besides the Commercial is not very nice. And you will dine with us, Lord Martin.”
Martin replied that he was looking forward to it.
That evening the boys went to the pub and were joined by Donald and Julian. Martin also got to see the Blandford Forum girls who frequented the pub and made eyes at the young men, especially at Stephen and Julian. He felt certain that Stephen would have a hard time resisting their advances when he wasn’t there and was mentally trying to think of some ground rules to set in his absence.
That night Stephen made love to him again and clung on to him in his sleep until Martin was boiling hot. Stephen awoke at dawn with a smile and a hard cock and Martin set to work pleasuring it.
Martin went off to school with Christopher and Stephen and was introduced to Dr Davis who was honoured to meet him and said how pleased they were to have Stephen attend the school and what an excellent prefect he made. Stephen did seem to take his duties seriously, stopping to talk to the small boys and settling a dispute by the tuckshop. The little ones looked up to him.
While classes were on, Martin looked about the busy market town. He purchased a fine bottle of port for Mr Polwarth, his house master, and also bought whiskey for Mr Daventry, who was no doubt busy rehearsing his lines, and flowers for Mrs Leybourne which he took around directly. He spent some time poking about Stephen’s room, loving the feeling of it being his, just as he had the little attic room in his cottage at Croome. He hoped that Stephen’s new house in Antibes would also speak of its owner in the same way one day. He looked at Stephen’s German texts and wondered how he was progressing in this new subject. There were also letters from Mrs Asquith and Mr Monasch, but Martin didn’t read these. Mrs Leybourne called him in for tea at 3:00 and she gushed pleasantly about her two young gentlemen.
Martin returned to the school and played tennis with the boys after classes had finished. They returned home with Christopher and were sitting in Christopher’s room talking about happenings at school and of their recent adventures in London. Stephen was very excited and was rubbing Martin’s leg.
“I say, Chris, do you mind if I pleasure Martin, it’s been a long day and I’m terribly randy. Would you prefer it if we went next door?”
Christopher didn’t have any objection and he watched as his friend carefully undid Martin’s trousers, noting that he wore no underwear probably at Stephen’s behest. He was a little shocked to see the big boy bend to take Martin’s cock in his mouth and watched the evident enjoyment on both their faces as the intimacy took place. He found he was hard and undid his trousers and let them drop to the floor. Stephen looked over and saw he wasn’t wearing any drawers either and stopped sucking to say: “Good boy, Chris. Now pleasure yourself.”
Stephen worked on Martin’s balls and, when he thought he needed a little extra stimulation, wetted a finger and gently inserted it up Martin’s rectum while continuing to suck. Martin let out a cry and spilled in Stephen’s mouth. They shared a kiss and Christopher was a little shocked but not enough to look away and not enough to stop stroking his cock.
Martin now worked on Stephen’s insistent member and Christopher actually came over to inspect how he managed to get so much of it down his throat. “Does that feel good?” he asked.
“Wonderful,” was all Stephen could say while Martin could only manage an emphatic nod. Martin then worked on Stephen’s slippery cock with his hand. He generously said, “Do you want to have a go Tennant?” Chris left his own dripping member alone and knelt down between Stephen’s legs and set to work, remembering the actions that most delighted Stephen from their Wednesday night sessions. Both boys were now working on him when at last he spent, splattering on Martin’s happy face. Christopher did taste a sample with his index finger, bit declined to go any further.
Stephen had Chris take off the rest of his clothes and sit between his legs, his still oozing cock dripping down between his Chris’ shoulder blades. “Do you want Mala to suck you, Chris? He wants to,” said Stephen. Christopher didn’t exactly reply, but made no objection when Martin got between his legs and put his tight cut cock between his lips. Stephen massaged his chest and ran his fingers through his straight brown hair. It was only a minute or so before he spilled, Martin making sure he caught some.
“Was that good, Chris?”
“Yes; strange, but it certainly felt good, he said, panting. I’ll get my towel.”
They went to the pub again that night but Stephen had eyes for no one but his Mala.
Through the bedroom wall Christopher could hear the moans of pleasure and the squeaking of the bedsprings. He marvelled at how hard he felt laying there, sleeping naked at Stephen’s insistence, with the course material of the bedding teasing at his head and slit with great urgency. He pleasured himself and fell off to sleep with the sound of the bedsprings and the bumping of the bedhead against the wall still in his ears.
*****
Back at school, Martin was ready to put his plan to help the pathetic Custard into action. Choir practice had ceased and the organist was now getting ready for his hour of practice. When Dr Vaux sat down at the keyboard he found that his music was, mysteriously not there. This oversight necessitated the long walk back to his house across the playing fields in the dark, but he put on his overcoat over his vestments and disappeared in the direction of the chapel door. At this moment The Plunger emerged from a side room also wearing organist’s garb including a morterboard and sat down at the manual. He gingerly picked out the easy parts of ‘Jesu of Man’s Desiring’ which he played over and over, pulling out the stop for clarinet.
While the organ was being played, the organ loft above it was a noisy but secure trysting place. The Plunger continued to play, marvelling how Bach matched his own musical tastes. Martin came into the chapel and was seemingly lost in prayer. They both saw Mr Daventry, right on cue, sweep past the organist and mount the tiny staircase to the loft high above the longest stops.
When Mr Daventry gained the platform a remarkable sight greeted his eyes. There was Custard Featherstonehaugh naked trussed up like a game bird for the oven with Pemberton-Billings with his trousers off and ladies’ silk hose visible as he wielded a whip on poor Custard’s lacerated back and chest. Custard saw him first and looked in alarm but was unable to speak because of a gag in his mouth. The Fly did not see the games master and Custard’s unusual grimace did not register at first as he continued to flog the wretched boy while stroking his own cock.
There was a shout and the organ at last fell silent to the relief of music lovers within hearing. The Fly dropped the whip and half-collapsed on the floor, not being able to think of a suitable explanation for proceedings. The gag was removed from Custard who began to tremble. “What’s going on here?” demanded Daventry, the lines coming to him without prompting.
“I’m sorry sir,” cried Custard. “Please do not tell on us.”
“Yes sir, please don’t,” pleaded The Fly, now on his knees.
“I asked him to do it to me,” said Custard. “He didn’t want to but I paid him.”
“You disgust me Featherstonehaugh. Begone to my office!” he said, ad libbing now, “and return those Indian clubs you stole from the gymnasium. I will deal with you in a minute.”
Custard pulled on some rudimentary garments and fled while Daventry stood over Pemberton-Billings who was stupidly trying to adjust his stockings and garters. “I think your father should be told about this,” he said.
“Oh no! Please sir, anything but that. I’m off to Sandhurst next term and it really isn’t my fault. Featherstonehaugh paid me, you heard him say it.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Oh, five pounds, sir.”
There was a long pause, as scripted by Martin, and at last Daventry spoke. “Very well, give me the five and I want you to stay away from him for the rest of the term and I won’t say anything. If he is corrupting our future soldiery I will be down on him like a ton of bricks.”
“Oh don’t be too hard on him sir,” said The Fly, thinking he may have over-egged the pudding, “I suppose it’s a sort of sickness, sir.”
The Fly was allowed to dress, but the games master made sure he got the fiver and then he was sent back to his house.
In Mr Daventry’s room the boys were waiting nervously. Daventry came back exalted and handed the five pounds over to Custard. “He will be too scared to do anything now, concluded the master, and he should be grateful for you taking the blame, Featherstonehaugh, the low swine.” Custard managed his first smile and Mr Daventry relived some of his dramatic performance while The Plunger asked eagerly how they thought his playing went.
“Well boys, it’s time to turn in. Lacrosse for you tomorrow Poole and I’ll see you on the tennis court, Craigth,” said Daventry. “What sport do you play, Featherstonehaugh?”
“I’m not really good at games sir, but I do like cross country running.”
“Excellent. Perhaps we can all run on Sunday after chapel —We can tryout the new straps, eh Poole? And Featherstonehaugh,”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do something about those damn spots.”
To be continued...
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.
Posted: 10/18/13