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 15
Significant Form 

Surrey was a county of picturesque sunken roads running through neatly hedged fields punctuated by woodlands that periodically give way to gravels and sands on which pines and heath grew with gorse visible on the chalky uplands.  There were many attractive towns and villages in the vicinity of Leith Hill.  Here and there were clusters of new villas, mostly in the Elizabethan style that proclaimed that this was a favoured spot for those who had business to transact in the City Of London.

Fayette was the name that The Plunger’s parents had given to their own establishment, which was an altogether larger dwelling than the houses of the stockbrokers and retired judges who lived nearby.  It stood in about 100 acres of parkland and was named (or rather renamed) in honour of the county in Pennsylvania that was the ancestral home of The Plunger’s mother and it was preferred to the more precise Slabtown.  Fayette was reached by a long drive lined with magnificent rhododendrons, many of them the wild species of Pennsylvania, and the house itself was something in the style of a neo-classical seaside villa.  It had been built by Thomas Cubitt, the developer of Belgravia and thus shared many affinities, albeit on a grander scale, with the home of Aunt Maud.

The gravel drive was immaculate and it seemed to Jackman to be a crime to drive on it at all.  A hail of tiny stones could be heard continuing for some seconds when the Daimler at last pulled to a stop at the front door.  Here a line of twelve servants formed a guard of honour and when Stephen and Martin passed down it in review, they broke away and began to tackle the luggage.

At the end of this receiving line stood Lady Eudora Craigth and The Plunger.  Lady Eudora began by welcoming his lordship and Mr Knight and apologised that her husband, Sir Gordon, was detained in London but would be back for dinner.  The Plunger simply said, “Hello Poole.  Hello Stephen” and turned to introduce his younger cousins, visitors who looked to be ten and nine respectfully.

They passed into a magnificent great hall with reredos taken from a demolished Wren church and down a thickly carpeted hall with barrel vaulting.   At last they arrived in a splendid drawing room that Martin recognised from the Sargent portrait.  “It is lovely and warm in here, Lady Eudora, said Martin pleasantly, “it was cold and draughty in the motor, despite it being crowded.”

“That’s steam heat, your lordship.”  She directed Martin’s attention to the radiators hidden behind white and gold panelling, inviting him to put his hand out.  “Can’t stand the cold houses here in England and I insisted that Craigth put in decent American heating.” 

Martin saw The Plunger blushing furiously so he said: “That is really splendid, Lady Eudora, I must investigate getting central heating at Croome.  There is no virtue in freezing, is there?”

“That’s just what her Royal Highness said to me only the other week,” said Lady Eudora.

Several guests arrived for tea, mostly neighbours and one or two who were obviously business connections of Craigth’s.  The room was furnished with thick carpets and elaborate silk curtains and a quantity of very costly-looking Louis XIV pieces.  A butler and two footmen brought in the tea on a convoy of wheeled vehicles.  There were tall silver stands that contained the most decadent cakes.  “I maintain both an Austrian and an Italian pastry chef, Mr Knight.  Our years in Mentone gave me a fondness for rich cakes—it is my one weakness,” confessed The Plunger’s mother.

As soon as it was decent, The Plunger snatched the boys away from the drawing room and propelled them down more carpeted corridors where vases of fresh flowers filled the air with a cloying sweetness.  The Plunger saw Martin staring. “Mama had the whole place done over by Mewes and Davis right after they did the Ritz Hotel,” explained The Plunger, “I don’t like it, but she does know about antiques.”

“Here are your rooms, he continued. “Sorry you’re not together but that door leads to a bathroom and it connects to the other room.  Clever, what?  That was Mama’s idea.  This used to be my room.”

Martin looked at a room in the style described as Grand Luxe.  There were masses of curtains, elaborate flower arrangements in urns and on an escritoire was letter paper with Fayette underneath a crest and little symbols that gave a telegraphic address and the train station.  The likeness to a hotel was furthered when Martin noticed three electric bell pushes on the bedside table: he could summon the butler, a maid or his own servant.

“If this was yours, where are you now, Plunger?” asked Martin.

“Come and I’ll show you.”

He led them silently along another carpeted corridor and threw open a door.  Here a remarkable sight greeted the boys.  This room had no carpet, indeed nail holes could be seen where it had been taken up.  On the bare boards stood a dirty black iron stove with a pipe that lead out through a hole in a window. The windows themselves were devoid of curtaining, save for a long piece of muslin that was looped up to the ceiling.

“That’s for the light.  The room faces north and it has an even light for painting.”

There was an easel with a canvas on it and on a table lay sheets of drawing paper covered in sketches.  There were tubes of paint— good deal of it smeared on the walls and floorboards—and boxes of charcoals and pastels.

The Plunger took them to an enormous Turkish divan that filled a corner.  “This is where I sleep now.  I can get up or go to bed whenever I like or I can paint all through the night if I want to.  It’s very convenient. I copied the room from Tsindis’ studio in Chelsea.  Do you like it?”

“It’s marvellous, Archie,” said Stephen and Martin nodded unable to think of anything to say.

“Here look at these.”  The Plunger directed their attention to a stack of finished works.  They were very modern and Martin found them puzzling.  There were several of bowls of fruit, much of the produce from the greengrocer apparently blue and grey and shaped like tetrahedrons.  There was a landscape of the Downs in a windstorm with great blocks of colour representing ploughed land, pasture, sky and woodland.  The whole countryside seemed to be writhing like ocean waves.

“I like this one Plunger.  It’s good.”

“Thanks Poole.”  He took them over to the easel and the precise nature of the work on it Stephen didn’t like to guess, so he kept quiet.  Martin examined it and looked at the fractured lines and cubistic solids.  He thought he could detect an eye and some mammalian body parts. “Is it the she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus, Plunger?”

“No Poole,” said The Plunger in disgust, sweeping a cloth over it, “It is a portrait of my mother.”

They returned to the Turkish divan after The Plunger had lit the stove and they curled up. “I love painting,” said the Plunger. “I’m not going to Oxford.  I’m going to enrol in the Slade,” he declared. “I’m planning on having an exhibition with Tsindis later in the year.  We have become …err…quite good friends.”

“Would you like to come to Antibes with us at half-term Archie, said Stephen.  We were thinking of inviting Tennant and maybe Selby-Keam as well.  You could paint there.”

“Could I?  How ripping.  Yes, I could paint the fishermen, but I’d rather paint your new dynamo at Croome- much more twentieth century—describe it to me again.”

Dinner at Fayette was a terribly grand affair.  There were menus written in French with very few spelling mistakes and every course was opulent.  There were so many footmen in yellow and white breeches that one stood behind almost every chair and before you could think of it glasses were refilled and fresh napkins provided.  The knives and forks for the salad course were chilled on ice, an idea apparently Lady Eudora brought from America.

Martin had gone in with the wife of a politician but she was not particularly interested in education and Martin let her talk about astrology and the wonderful predictions that had been made, including the mortal illness of Mr Campbell-Bannerman.

After the ladies had withdrawn, Sir Gordon Craigth took the boys into his study.  He was a red-faced, red-headed Celt, without the refined features of Archie.  He was friendly, but clearly a man of business.  Occasionally his Scottish accent slipped out and Martin saw The Plunger grimace when he pronounced ‘world’ as ‘wherald.’

Sir Gordon got on well with Stephen and invited him to have a cigar.  Stephen said that he didn’t smoke and in fact was in training for boxing like Archie. “A good cigar will never hurt you boy,” he said and opened a door to what looked like a bathroom.  The room was lined with timber cabinets with a multitude of drawers. These contained the finest cigars (he said) from around the world and the room was especially ventilated and warmed so that the cigars were stored correctly.  He passed one to each of them and explained with a roguish wink, that these were rolled on the naked thighs of young girls in a factory in Cuba.  Martin went to slide the band off.

“Leave it on, boy! No harm in letting folks know what a good cigar looks like.”

He took it back and cut it and poked it with a gold thing on his watch chain.  He then lit it and did the same for Stephen. “Don’t inhale, just let it fill your mouth.”

Both boys found it hard to talk, but handled it manfully.  A glance passed between them that said they were looking forward to the moment when the bloody things burned down and they could butt them out.

Billiards followed and The Plunger reappeared after checking on some drying varnish.  Martin and Stephen were easily beaten but there was a real tussle between father and son.

“Mr Millet,” said Martin turning to the local member, “I would like to have a new school on my estate in Dorset.  Who is the Secretary for Education in Westminster?”

“Education?” replied the politician as he watched the billiards.  “Good shot Sir Gordon!  Why that would be Mr McKenna.  Reginald McKenna.  A very able chap.  Miss Jekyll who was sitting opposite you at dinner, Lord Martin, is his aunt, I believe.”

Martin conveyed this news to Stephen and when they joined the ladies the boys made a beeline for the doughty old lady with weak eyes and a severe expression.

“Croome?” she said. “Lord Martin I saw pictures in ‘Country Life:’ was that your estate with those charming cottage additions in thatch and tile?”

“Yes, Miss Jekyll.  My friend Mr Knight designed them with the object that they should not ruin the picturesque lines of the villages yet provide decent facilities for the tenants.”

“Well they were very fine, Mr Knight.  My colleague, Mr Lutyens, could not have done better and I believe he is going to design a new capital for India.  He should take you on.  Did you see the garden I designed in Suffolk in the same issue?”

“I’m sorry Miss Jekyll, but I’m not much interested in gardens,” confessed Martin, “although Mr Knight’s old cottage in France has a very fine potager.”

Stephen told Miss Jekyll about Antibes and she seemed particularly interested in Stephen’s choice of unpretentious local furniture, with the slight implication that it was superior to the choices made in certain parts of Surrey.

When she finished her cross-examination Martin explained that he wanted to improve the local school too and asked if she would give them a letter of introduction to Mr McKenna.  Martin feared it was a frightful cheek to ask, but she readily agreed and asked them to write down the details for her as her eyes were rather weak. 

The tables were set up in the music room for bridge and Martin observed that the Craigth’s played for high stakes.  Martin tried very hard but was still down three pounds at the end of the evening—reflecting that it was a week’s wages for someone in Mr Tatchell’s factory and considerably more to one of Miss Foxton’s destitute.   Stephen only lost 7/6 because he was partnered with Miss Loring, a particularly good player, who concentrated on her cards, despite Stephen giving her radiant smiles.  She was making up for this at the moment as she had Stephen turning the pages for her as she played German lieder on the Bechstein grand piano.

*****

Martin pressed the bell beside his bed and William appeared.  “Help me undress, William and make sure that I have enough clean shirts for the next few days as I think every night I will be dressing for dinner.”

“Of course sir,” said William, shocked that his lordship should even think of not dressing.  The south of France seemed to have a demoralising effect on all the Pooles, he had begun to think.

At that moment Stephen came striding through from the connecting bathroom taking off his waistcoat, throwing it over his shoulder, then his shirt and finally, after just a pause, his trousers.  Carlo was following behind bending to pick up the discarded garments, lost between admiration for Stephen and his concern for missing studs and links, which would never be recovered from carpet with such a deep pile.  Stephen then swept up Martin and threw him onto the bed and removed his trousers himself, flinging them in the direction of William.

William then bustled Carlo out of the room with much show, but two pairs of eyes could be glimpsed in the black void of the bathroom, for the door was slightly ajar.  Stephen kissed Martin fiercely and then Martin tried to manoeuvre Stephen’s fully erect cock into his hungry hole.  “I know you want it, Mala, but we need some oil, or I’m liable to really hurt you.  I’ll ring for Carlo.”

In the bathroom Carlo and William were very excited but wondered how they could answer the call with their own aching, dripping erections in their trousers.  In the end the bell was left untouched and Stephen made do with spit and caution and the whimpering Martin was at last satisfied.

Sometime later, after Carlo and William had retired to their own room to relive the experience, Stephen and Martin lay together, this time with Stephen’s head on Martin’s chest. “This room is so warm Derbs,” Martin said, “and the blankets are so thick and they are edged in satin.  These sheets are linen.”

“They’re silk in my room.  We have to try them tomorrow night.  You’re not to wear pyjamas, Mala, I want you to be caressed by the silk sheets.”

“Of course not Derbs.  I know the rules.  I didn’t even bring any,” said Martin with just a hint of annoyance.

“Good boy,” said Stephen and kissed him.

“The Plunger certainly lives in style,” continued Martin, “It must kill him to come to school where it’s always cold and the blankets were probably left over from the Crimean War.  Compared to Croome even, this is syllogistic luxury.”

“I think that’s sybaritic, Mala”

“Oh, is it?  I wonder what The Plunger’s doing right now.”

“Do you want to go and pay him a call?”

“What, now?  At this time of night?”

“Yes, I don’t feel like sleeping and it’s too hot in here.”

Martin agreed that it would be fun and wondered if Archie was alone on his divan.  He reached out for a dressing gown and Stephen grabbed his hand.

“I think this expedition has to be made naked.  Are you up for it?”

Martin couldn’t explain why he agreed but in a moment the two naked boys were running quickly on their toes down the warm and carpeted passageways of Fayette trying to remember where The Plunger’s studio was.  Once they turned down the wrong corridor and heard Miss Loring’s voice as she called to her maid. They started to laugh, trying to suppress their giggles with their hands, which had previously been employed to shield their privates.  They went in another direction and startled themselves, Martin sure he was having a heart attack, when they saw two figures at the end of a gallery.  However it was only their own reflection in a looking glass and Stephen did a star jump in front of it and his cock hit a vase of flowers, which Martin managed to steady before it fell. Martin thought they were getting close when a dumpy figure was seen entering a doorway.  It was only Miss Jekyll  returning from the lavatory and the boys hastily ducked into a doorway.  Miss Jekyll’s eyesight was not good, but she did suddenly think of ghosts as she hastily locked her door.

At last they found the correct door, burnt umber on the knob confirming that there was no mistake.  On the count of three the boys threw it open and jumped onto the Turkish divan to the surprise of the sleeping Plunger.  Poor Archie was held and squashed and tickled and pinched.  Stephen pulled off his long underwear and Martin dived upon his nice cock, which was rapidly becoming hard.  The boys took turns in pleasuring The Plunger until he spilled whereupon Stephen insisted on cleaning his geranium lake pubic hair with his tongue.

The three boys then settled pleasantly on the roomy oriental bed, Stephen in the middle with his big arms around The Plunger and Martin. The Plunger fell to discussing Art and something he called ‘significant form’ and Martin thought he understood because he could not think of colours without some line or shape in his head. “So you are determined on the Slade, Plunger?” he said.

“Yes, I think so.  I’m already having classes during the holidays, but it’s still two years away.  What about you Stephen?  Are you going to try for Oxford or Cambridge?”

Martin’s heart was in his mouth because he has long avoided this question.  He knew Stephen had the undoubted ability but there was the lingering doubt if Stephen had the confidence to mix with the Old Etonians and the products of the other great schools with their long entrenched social superiority.  Even if he considered that Stephen was now mixing with adults from the prime minister downwards—not to mention saying ‘thank you’ to the King and Queen—there was the ache in his heart that they would be separated, or rather, continue to be separated.

“I am thinking of Engineering.  I like maths and I am very interested in the ideas that Moss and his uncle have.  Perhaps the Imperial Institute at the University of London would suit me better than Oxbridge.  What do you think, Mala?”

“Why do you ask me?” said Martin and Stephen gave him a hurt look.  “I’m sorry Stephen.  It’s just a bit of a shock.  I was hoping you’d be up at Oxford with me, that is, if I get in, but you’d be brilliant as an engineer and you could live in Branksome House—it would be good to see it used more.  It’s closer for you but I just can’t imagine that far ahead.  I’d be so proud of you,” he concluded and kissed his left nipple.

There was silence for some time as they lay thinking of their respective futures.  They sleepily planned the next few days and one by one drifted off, Martin feeling that he had to have his nose in Stephen’s armpit lest he ever forget his smell should they be separated.

In the morning the three all woke up rock hard.  The Plunger was begging Stephen to fuck him but Stephen demurred.  “I’m sorry Archie, that’s special between Mala and me, isn’t it Mala?”

“Yes it is, Derbs, but if you would like to I don’t mind.”

“We don’t have any oil here, Archie, and I don’t want to rip you open.  You wouldn’t thank me for that,” he continued.  The Plunger wasn’t so sure.  “Do you think you could wait until we are in London? We could have some fun there and I would make sure you enjoyed yourself.  I’d treat you right.”

“Treat him like a lady?” giggled Martin.

“I say Poole, that’s a low blow,” said The Plunger stroking Stephen’s cock, “It’s all very well for you getting your oats every night.  Who looks after you when we’re at school?”

“Sorry, Plunger.  He has been treating me like a lady too, Derbs.  He does deserve some fun—but when we’re in London.  His screams may bring the servants running in this house,” he said teasingly. “I say, how are we going to get back to our room?”

The Plunger positioned Martin and Stephen on two chairs next to an artist’s lay figure.  They adopted poses similar to the wooden mannequin and The Plunger then threw a sheet of muslin over all three, an arm and a leg of lay figure left protruding along with Stephen’s cock under the muslin about which little could be done. The Plunger then rang the bell and when the butler arrived all he could observe was the Plunger in his long underwear and the usual artist’s paraphernalia in the studio.

“Hives, would you send Lord Martin’s valet here?  I want to make arrangements for London,” said The Plunger.

Shortly after, William arrived and The Plunger said, “William, your master and Mr Knight are under that material.”  At that, Martin and Stephen sheepishly revealed their presence.  “They don’t seem to have any clothes.  Could you and Carlo please bring their tennis togs because we are spending the morning on the court and then we are going on a picnic.”

William left, but not with quite the degree of surprise that Martin had expected and soon the happy sounds of young people on the tennis courts could be heard floating over the garden.

Miss Loring and Miss Dowdell were attractive players, each trying to emulate the feats of Mrs Lambert Chambers at Wimbledon and also attract the attention of the male members of the party.  Sir Gordon and The Plunger played a hotly contested singles and there was mixed doubles, of sorts, played with Archie’s young cousins who had both developed a crush on Stephen.

Lady Eudora took Martin around the garden and showed him the new sunk garden designed by Miss Jekyll, which promised to be a beautiful feature.  Martin commented on the electric lights placed throughout the garden and lady Eudora was pleased to give exact details of the extraordinary number and precise cost of this novelty. “I got the idea from my friend Mamie Stuyvesant Fish at Newport.”  Martin started to giggle. “I’m sorry, Lady Eudora, but that’s a funny name.”

“Lord Martin, I don’t think it’s very nice to make fun of people’s names.  Why Mr Chauncey Depew said …” Martin spluttered and tried to apologise... “At the house of Mrs K. Schuyler Knickerbocker…” Martin exploded again and had to stuff his handkerchief in his mouth. “…that at Col. Parker Trout’s house at Mt Kisco…” Martin was finding it hard to breathe. “Lord Martin, I’ll have you know my mother was a Trout.”  This she had to assert bending over as Martin was now rolling helplessly on the lawn.

The picnic at Leith Hill was a splendid affair.  A convoy of opulent motorcars set out shortly after two brakes filled with servants and victuals had gone ahead and when the guests arrived at the summit of the hill, after abandoning the vehicles lower down; they found that a splendid repast had been laid out beneath the gothic tower.  There were tables and chairs and a carpet had been unrolled. Footmen circulated with champagne and cold chicken and sandwiches were piled up on silver platters.  The party concentrated on eating and then paused to admire, through the trees, the patchwork of England below them, struggling to remember exactly how many counties were visible on a clear day.  Silly games were played and Stephen wrestled with the two young Craigth cousins and they had contests rolling down a grassy slope.  The little girl insisted on holding Stephen’s hand for the rest of the afternoon, much to the annoyance of the Misses Loring and Dowdell.

A magnificent silver service was unpacked and tea was brewed and was accompanied by more cakes both Austrian and Italian.  A few drops of rain elicited well-worn phrases about timeliness and the party headed back to Fayette.

The Plunger’s discussion about art had prompted him, bent on education, to offer a life-drawing class before the guests had to change for dinner.  Naturally Stephen was chosen as the model and the propriety or otherwise of young ladies being exposed to male nakedness armed only with sticks of charcoal was debated. The young ladies insisted that they attend and so Mrs Loring said she should chaperone.  Mrs Millet said she thought as the wife of a Member of Parliament she had the requisite gravitas to also chaperone in such a delicate situation and said that her stars suggested today undertaking new and unusual activities.  Mrs Smith-Forbes said bluntly she wanted to see the young man as her husband spent most of his time at his club.  As Lady Eudora found she would have no one to talk to, she said she would come as well. 

The ladies were positioned around The Plunger’s studio with drawing boards resting on their knees.  The Plunger gave a little lecture on the relationship of line and colour to aesthetic emotion.  The ladies felt it difficult to separate aesthetic emotion from other emotions especially as not yet having an aesthetic object to evoke them and hence they were tapping their crayons with impatience when The Plunger finally drew his remarks to a close.

At last Stephen came into the studio in his dressing gown and marched to a rough fruit box thoughtfully draped with a towel.  The Plunger positioned him with his back to the sketchers on a slight angle. There was perceptible murmur of disappointment.  The dressing gown was removed and the ladies feverishly set to work.

The Plunger wandered among them, occasionally picking up a pencil and correcting a line or intensifying some shading.  Most of the artists concentrated on the shoulders and the v-shaped form of the back with the sinuous line of the spine that snaked down past the rippling muscles.  Lady Eudora caught Stephen’s hair very nicely and beamed under her son’s praise.  Had Stephen actually resembled many of the sketches he would never have managed to fit into a shirt or jacket; however allowance had to be made for artistic licence.  Mrs Smith-Forbes’ work was different to the others, as she had drawn Stephen from the front.  When questioned by The Plunger she explained that this profile, she thought, brought out something that the other lacked and that she was aided by being able to see Stephen’s front reflected in the window glass, which explained why some left leaning parts were depicted as being on the right.  What she could not observe clearly from life, she had made up for with her imagination.

The dressing gong sounded and the class was over.  Miss Loring handed Stephen his gown and he departed in a dignified manner.  The ladies rolled up their sketches and, thanking The Plunger, departed for their rooms.

*****

The Great Railway Strike that had paralysed the country was over.  Archie, Stephen, Martin, their two valets and a valet for The Plunger, departed for London on the train.  Jackman, having got as far kissing Lady Eudora’s maid on the slopes of Leith Hill, was sent back to Croome.

In the second class carriage Carlo and William were listening to the almost endless stream of chatter from Haines, the valet.  Haines was distressingly Nancy and referred to himself in the third person as Miss Haines or Gertie (his real name being Albert).  The Plunger was more often than not referred to as ‘she’ while his mother, Lady Eudora was referred to as the ‘bulldog’ or the ‘American bitch.’

“…and then she says to me, ‘Gertie are my shoelaces ironed?’ and I said, ‘Mr Archie they are not the flat type,’ and then she says to me ‘Gertie, do you want me to look like a tradesman in round shoelaces?  Go and fetch me some proper ones and iron them flat.’  So there’s poor Miss Haines frantically trying to heat the iron when the train is leaving in less than half an hour, trying to turn her out like a gentleman when all I can think of is how much less bother it would be to valet for Mr Knight who isn’t a gentleman but doesn’t need to try to be, like such an actress.”

“He’s not particular, is he William?” said Carlo at last. “He doesn’t care about his laces and mostly does his own clothes.  He’s certainly no bother over his drawers,” he whispered for there was another person in the carriage, “almost never wears them!”

“No!” exclaimed Gertie.

“Yes!” chorused William and Carlo and they continued the discussion of their respective masters, sotto voce, Gertie squirming in his seat, until they reached Victoria.

“Stephen,” said Martin when they were alone for a few minutes, “I’m sorry if I sounded less than enthusiastic about you coming up to the University of London.  I think it will be so marvellous and we will still be together.” Stephen smiled.  “And Stephen,” continued Martin in a slightly changed tone, “you will be particularly nice to The Plunger and give him a good time, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course Mala,” he replied, turning over in his mind what form this would take.

*****

When they arrived at Piccadilly they went to their usual rooms.  Gertie sought the help of William to hang and shelve all that constituted his master’s travelling wardrobe.  Carlo appeared and said that Mr Craigth was wanted in his lordship’s room.  Archie who had been sorting and book-marking his art books put them down and followed Carlo.

“Carlo,” said Stephen, “would you draw me a bath, please, and put in a few drops of the rose geranium, I think.”

“If you are getting ready I’ll come back,” said The Plunger.

“No, Archie.  The bath is for you.  I want you to relax,” said Stephen, putting his hand on The Plunger’s shoulder and speaking low. “I want to wash you and make sure you’re a clean boy for me.”  Whatever composure The Plunger had was rapidly crumbling and he felt anything but relaxed.  His hands and knees were shaking.

Stephen slowly undressed the trembling Plunger, handing his clothes to Martin.  The last two buttons on The Plunger’s Charvet shirt caused trouble and Stephen just ripped at the costly garment, the buttons flying across the room.  Martin foxed them thinking that Gertie could re-stitch them onto the formerly splendid shirt.

When The Plunger was naked Stephen ran his hands all over his body and thrust his nose into the red bush, inhaling deeply.  “I love a ginger,” he said.  The Plunger was taken to the bathroom and Stephen rolled up his sleeves and tested the water.  He added two more drops of the rose geranium and assisted The Plunger to settle into the warmth. “Relaxed Archie?”

“Yes, Stephen, very,” he replied in a trembling voice.

Stephen produced a cake of soap and a flannel and began to gently wash the boy.  These instruments invaded every crevice of The Plunger and by the time Stephen was washing in between his toes The Plunger was hard under the suds.

“Mala, I’m not sure you’re clean,” said Stephen in a honeyed voice, “Do you think I need to wash you too?”

Martin was quite sure he was filthy and rapidly divested himself of his clothes and climbed in the other end without spilling too much water.  Stephen began to wash him in the same manner, getting Archie to assist with difficult to reach places.  “Now I need to shampoo your ginger hair Archie,” said Stephen reaching for a bottle.  He soaped and massaged with his fingers and invited Martin to help him.  The Plunger thought he was possibly relaxed now and tried to enjoy it, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.  Stephen then thought the shampoo should be applied to all The Plunger’s red locks, but when he went down he exclaimed, “Why Plunger, you’ve spilled!”  He opened his eyes and saw his seed floating in the water. It was true.

“I’m sorry, Stephen,” he said.

“Don’t be sorry, Archie,” said Stephen soothingly as he rinsed his hair, “There will be more tonight won’t there?”

“I hope so,” said The Plunger.

“Hope so?” said Stephen, putting his face very close, “I need there to be, Archie.  Promise me there will be more.”

“I promise, Stephen,” said The Plunger, his voice now shaking again and not quite sure what he was promising.

Stephen had the now-clean boys get out of the bath and he dried them off.  The Plunger was dusted down with talcum powder, which delighted Stephen as it made his white skin present an even greater contrast to the red hair.

“Archie,” said Stephen as he led him naked back into the bedroom. “If we’re going to enjoy ourselves tonight I’m going have to open you up.  Do you understand?” The Plunger nodded.  “Good. You’re going to have to wear this for the rest of the day.”  He held up the Chinese plug and The Plunger gulped.  “We’ll get you ready.”

Archie was bent over and Stephen and Martin took turns to tongue The Plunger’s red trench and tender hole. The oils were produced and Stephen took a good ten minutes before he inserted one finger, then another. The Plunger took them and didn’t seem distressed.  A glass dildo was also employed until Martin said, “I think he’s ready, Derbs.”

The slicked oriental object was slowly inserted and snapped into place. “How does it feel?” said Stephen with genuine concern.

“It actually feels rather good,” said The Plunger smiling. “I feel full.”

“Good boy!” said Stephen. “Now go and dress.”

The Plunger looked horrified. “But I can’t let Gertie see me with this in.  Let me put my drawers on.”

“No drawers tonight, Archie.  I may need to feel you at dinner or in the theatre and I can’t do that properly if you have drawers on.”

The Plunger looked helplessly at Martin. “Could Carlo bring his clothes here?  Would you care if Carlo saw you?  The Plunger wasn’t at all sure but shook his head.

Carlo was sent for and when he observed the naked and vulnerable Hon. Archie with the evidence of the Chinese instrument visible, Stephen said, “Mr Craigth is participating in an experiment Carlo.  Do you understand?”

“Oh yes sir, quite.  Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”

He was therefore a little disappointed when he was merely required to fetch his evening clothes, but the list was long and complicated and parts of it had to be written down. “I’ll take William with me to help,” said Carlo as he departed.

The Plunger was kissed and rubbed by both boys in reassurance and soon Carlo, assisted by William, had the Plunger dressed in his immaculate, dazzling evening clothes and then they turned to attend Martin and Stephen who were dressed with much less fuss.

“Did Gertie mind you’re taking Mr Craigth’s clothes, Carlo,” whispered William as they were brushing the shoulders of the boys’ tailcoats.

“No,” whispered Carlo back, “he said it would give him more time to paint his toe nails!”

*****

The boys walked to Piccadilly Circus where The Plunger treated them to a splendid dinner at the Criterion and then they took a growler for just the short distance to the Garrick Theatre in Charring Cross Road where they had tickets for the musical play Kismet with Oscar Asche and Lily Brayton.  As it was a warm night they walked back up to Leicester Square where Stephen pointed out the boys near the fountain who were loitering for gentlemen.  The Plunger filed away this piece of information and, as it was still sometime before 11:00, they called in to The Ship restaurant for supper and had beer.

The Plunger was still a little nervous when they regained Branksome House.  All three valets were sent to bed and The Plunger found himself in Martin’s room being undressed lovingly by Stephen.  The Chinese plug was removed carefully and The Plunger tried to see its work in the looking glass but had to be content with a fulsome description.

Suddenly Martin announced that he was going to sleep next door in Stephen’s room and The Plunger panicked. “Don’t leave me, Poole.” He cried.

“Why? Stephen’s no monster.  You can come with me if you insist.”

The Plunger didn’t insist and Stephen was just letting his trousers fall about his ankles when Martin quietly closed the door.

Martin didn’t like to eavesdrop and in fact didn’t hear much.  He thought he heard some soft sobbing at one point, but that may have been the antiquated plumbing of Branksome House which often gave imitations of tormented souls or brass musical instruments being sawn in half.   

It was 9 o’clock when Martin himself brought the tea into the bedroom.  The Plunger’s red head was resting next to Stephen’s and he looked very content.  Stephen sleepily arose and put on his dressing gown and went into the bathroom.  Martin sat on the bed. “Well, how was it Plunger?”

The Plunger had planned to be non-committal and phlegmatic but the act was useless and he broke into a wide smile. “It was marvellous, Poole.  Oh you are so lucky!  You can have that every night.”

“And every morning too, Plunger and I hope to have it for many years to come.”

“He’s a wonderful lover,” he almost whispered, looking at the bite marks on his chest. “Do you think I’ll be able to walk today or should I have Gertie bring be all my meals here?”

“I think you’ll be all right, Plunger.  Shall I get Carlo to draw your bath?”

When The Plunger at last disappeared into the bathroom Stephen returned.  Martin kissed him. “Thank you, Derby.  I’ve never seen him smile so much.”

“Oh I just did my usual, nothing fancy.  But Mala, let’s let it be just you and me tonight.”

Martin kissed him again and grabbed his cock through his dressing gown. “Is there any more left for me?”

“I think there might be one left, Mala, but be quick or The Plunger will want that one too.”

*****

The Plunger had recovered sufficiently to go riding with Stephen in the park and Martin went to have lunch with his godfather at Boodles.

“Well you see, Martin,” said Lord Delvees when he had heard of Martin’s plans, “there is only so much that a politician can do to influence a decision such as where to place a school.  It is the civil service who have to be reckoned with.  They will have their plans and they will be concerned with their budget and the costs.”

Martin digested this as he stirred his coffee.  He thought of the L.E.A board that would be meeting in Dorchester and tried to imagine what he would say to them.  He wasn’t even on the debating team at school so he was apprehensive about speaking to a room full of adults.  He found it all rather difficult.

“As a politician I am of limited value I’m afraid,” continued the Viscount, “I’m in the Lords for a start.  I’m a Tory and the Liberals are in ascendancy.  However, I can tell you this, Martin: The Liberals are not united. There are the old ones who grew up with Gladstone.  They still hanker after free trade and want no taxes. Then there are the new ones like poor old Campbell-Bannerman and Lloyd George who want the government to spend on pensions and free school dinners and so on.  They don’t like the Poor Law.  Some of them want Home Rule and those who don’t vote with us.  Having said that, I think it would be wise to see McKenna.  Wouldn’t mind betting they’ve got their eye on him for the Exchequer.  Now tell me more about the school.”

Martin was busy thinking of way to make the school sound an attractive prospect.  He would donate the land for a start and being in the country it could be a bigger allotment than in Wareham.  “Could I start up a motor omnibus company to bring pupils directly over from Wareham, sir?  The ones coming from Wimbourne Manor don’t have to change.”

“That’s certainly a good idea, but then why couldn’t your children go to Wareham by the same bus?” Martin realised that was Miss Tadrew had said.

“Well, the ones that came to Wareham from Wimbounre Manor would have to change trains and that would make it a long journey.  Branksome is sort of central to both and with a bus…” Lord Delvees nodded.

“And they would want electric light.  Both those towns may have it already.”

“Perhaps I could provide that too.”

“This is getting to be a very expensive exercise, Martin.  Are you sure the school is worth it?”

“Oh yes, sir,” replied Martin fiercely, “it is!”

Martin left with a letter of introduction to the education secretary and some ideas that were starting to crystallize in his own mind.  He would also write to Miss Foxton to get some arguments why a higher elementary school would be better for girls than one that concentrated on ‘domestic arts.’

A hansom took Martin to Tite Street in Chelsea and looking at a card he found the address of Tsindis’ studio.  At the top of the stairs he knocked.  Stephen opened the door and Martin walked in.  Yes, it was similar to The Plunger’s recreation at Fayette, except that there was a skylight as well.  The Plunger was posing naked, leaning uncomfortably over a box as if it were a piece of machinery, with a long-nosed oil can in one hand and a large spanner in the other. Tsindis welcomed Martin but kept his eye on the canvas.  On this easel Martin could be see a fractured cartoon of The Plunger, with African lips and a furrowed brow, set against giant pieces of machinery which seemed to be in dizzy motion.  Martin though the sense of movement was very cleverly captured.

“This is my portrait of Unhappy Twentieth Century Man, Lord Martin.  He’s the slave of the machine, not its master.  I got the idea from Mr Wells.”

“Don’t you think it’s ripping?” said Archie.

“Hold still Craigth and stop smiling, you’re meant to be oppressed.  Are we going to the Café Royal afterwards, Lord Martin?  And could you lend me five quid, I’m afraid I’m a bit short of the readies.”

Martin though this was a bit of a cheek, but then he realised that it was just yet another manifestation of ‘significant form.’

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 11/01/13