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 16
A State of Mind 

The new term at school saw Martin in the Upper Fourth and the amount of work he had to do increased commensurately.  He wondered how he was ever going to be able to attend the meetings of the Local Education Authority in order to press for a new higher elementary school at Branksome-le-Bourne.  Things were so much simpler in feudal times, he reflected sadly.

He wanted to achieve success in this matter for two reasons, he said to himself.   Firstly, he wanted the new school built on his own estate—or rather the estate he would one day inherit along with his brother’s title.  He felt that it was his duty to press for the school to be established for the sake of the people who lived on his estate—noblesse oblige—for education had been shamefully neglected under the Pooles of previous generations.  He felt fairly certain that his father could read, although apart from ‘The Times’ and the Bradshaw he could not recall ever actually seeing his father with a book.  His father and grandfather had placed a greater emphasis on bloody rural sports and Martin recalled that the first Christmas present he could remember from his father was a small rifle for shooting starlings.

The second reason was that he wanted a success on his own account so Stephen would be proud of him.  Stephen’s transformation of the estate had been like a whirlwind when Croome had barely recovered from the enclosures and the coming of the railway.  Martin ticked off the milestones on his fingers: there had been the drainage of the fen on the Home Farm, there had been the mechanical dairy which was even now being constructed and new milkers were being sought; there was the electric light and the scheme to provide indoor plumbing to all the cottages which would be entering its second year.  Steven referred to still other schemes, which were as yet only in his fertile brain, such as the horse stud and the golf links.  Therefore, there was much to compete with Martin grimly realized and a new school would be, for him, a highly visible success unlike the scholarship bequest he had made to Toynbee Hall, which was modestly named after his late Majesty.

The first meeting had occurred at the beginning of September, just before school started.  Martin had gone over to Dorchester with Mr Plainsong, the local M.P. and the Rev. Destrombe.  There he had met with Mr Morden the headmaster of the village school.  There were two other politicians, a non-conformist minister and Mr Tatchell, the factory owner.

Martin had been welcomed as the proxy of Lord Branksome but had actually said very little.  One of the politicians had ventured that the views of a student would be valuable.

Martin sized things up: Mr Plainsong, although as a Tory and naturally opposed to extending education, out of loyalty to the Pooles who for years had made sure he was returned to Westminster and out of a dislike for Tatchell who had opposed him (unsuccessfully) in the last General Election, would side with Martin if the question ever arose.  Mr Destrombe would also support Martin as there was no Church school to feel aggrieved by a new Higher Elementary stealing its pupils.  Mr Morden had already declared his support and would possibly see himself as its new headmaster.

The Liberal politician who had welcomed Martin kept looking at him and so Martin sat where he would enjoy an uninterrupted view in the hope that he would be an ally.

The other one was at this moment complaining about the new legislation that made school dinners compulsory and thought it outrageous that the nation should have to pay for what parents’ ought to provide for their offspring.  Tatchell was agreeing with him saying that taxes would have to be imposed on the middle class who not only had to provide food for their own children, but were now expected to feed other people’s.

“And how do we know we are not providing dinners to Roman Catholic children who could just as easily be going to a place of their own?” said the minister.

Tatchell agreed and said that they would have to be vigilant that priests were not teaching catechism in religion classes and that the Catholic children must be kept quite separate for those.

Martin looked at Tatchell hard.  He was an old person, but perhaps still in his thirties, thought Martin.  He spoke with an ugly Brummie accent.  His lips were thin and his eyes bulged unpleasantly and aggressively when he spoke.  He probably had a small angry cock, thought Martin, unkindly.

Tatchell caught him staring. “It’s not your sort of schooling we are after here, Lord Martin.  Here we want the three R’s drummed into boys’ heads and no fancy nonsense.  They don’t need Homer and Horace—Oh I’ve read ’em—Lord Martin, don’t think I haven’t.  The girls want teaching how to make proper homes for their menfolk.  You know where I was lettered and learned, Lord Martin?  The Great University of Life, that’s where, and that was all the education that was needed for a hardworking lad to make a success of himself, if I may be pardoned for saying so.”

Yes and your wife’s money too, thought Martin silently.

The other members were shifting uncomfortably in their seats and the next agenda item, the wasteful heating of classrooms in October and April, was quickly turned to.

Martin left, apologising in advance for missing the next meeting, but he would be able to attend the one that coincided with a half-holiday and the one at the beginning of the mid-term break.

It was on an overnight excursion to Lincolnshire that Martin had a second idea and he wondered if knowing Stephen had somehow caused him to become smarter.  The excursion was one of the periodic journeys required by the boys’ lacrosse team of which Martin was now captain.  As there were only five other boys’ schools in England that played the game, it was necessary for teams to travel and Mr Daventry, the games master, was keen to promote the sport, which had been introduced by a former master from Canada.

Martin had scored well himself and his team was victorious and united.  Martin had also made sure that his boys were well taken care of by their humbled hosts and save for the two lads that had been carried off to hospital with injuries that proved, after all, not to be life threatening, all his team had been eagerly pleasured by the losers in the communal bath at Spalding.  The opposing captain had even smiled with the unbandaged side of his face and waved his crutch sportingly at the departing train, vowing to seek revenge at their next match.

It was in this ecumenical spirit that Martin suddenly thought it would be a fine idea if the First XI from Stephen’s school were to play the First XI from his school.  In the democratic twentieth century, he reasoned, it should be possible to bridge the gap between his own very ancient institution and that of the grammar school at Blandford Forum which, while comparatively new, had a good reputation and was attended by some fine fellows, including his own noble cousin and the yet to be ennobled Stephen.

He put the idea to Mr Daventry, stressing the essentially democratic spirit of the game of cricket and describing the character of their captain, Julian Newell, the vice-captain, Christopher Tennant and their opening batsman and all-rounder Stephen Knight.  The master was enthusiastic.

Martin presented the same idea to the headmaster, Dr Henson, who sat turning it over in his mind.  Martin helped matters along by saying his brother had offered to donate an elaborate silver cup for the annual Davis-Henson challenge and the headmaster, thinking of the recent bad publicity the school had received in the popular press due to the indiscretions of two old boys in the Foreign Office, gave his approval for the Henson-Davis Cricket Cup should Blandford Forum be agreeable.

Thus it was only a few weeks later that the train from Blandford Forum steamed up to the station for Martin’s school where the visitors were greeted by a large contingent.  The boys were given a hearty welcome and there was a fine tea with buns and sausage rolls before a service in the chapel where both sides prayed for victory. Martin was terribly excited and showed Stephen, Christopher and Julian around the ancient buildings, trying to recall who the statues commemorated and retelling the lurid popular histories associated with the whipping block in the quadrangle which had remained unused since the papist riots of 1799.  However the real highlights of the tour were the American shower baths in the Craigth Pavilion and The Plunger’s own bedroom for which a sixpenny entrance fee was charged, all proceeds going to the fund for sporting equipment at the Anglican mission in Nyasaland. 

While the visiting team members were to share the rooms of the First XI of Martin’s school, a special dispensation had been allowed for Martin, who although not a cricketer himself, was a true sportsman and therefore should be allowed to host his relative and champion all-rounder, Stephen Knight.  Thus Stephen found himself looking around Martin’s unremarkable bedroom where he inspected his homework (unfinished), the books he was reading (Erskine Childers’ ‘The Riddle of the Sands,’) and he asked particularly to look at Martin’s underwear drawer which involved some tiresome cross-examination which still did not dampen Martin’s joy.

There was a splendid dinner in the ancient hall into which Edward II had once ridden his horse. The silver plate at the high table, at which Mr Daventry sat with Dr Henson, was made from silver looted from the Empresses’ Summer Palace during the Opium War.  On the walls dingy portraits frowned down on the boys and through their cracked varnish could be seen the personification of England’s great, particularly if they happened to be bishops.  There were more prayers and speeches and then there was a watery soup followed by boiled mutton and cabbage.  To Stephen’s relief there was no kish but instead there was a large pudding popularly called by the boys, ‘boiled baby’ anointed with very good custard if the lumps could be avoided.

The housemaster made his nightly rounds and checked on Martin’s room where he said goodnight to Stephen who had settled his beefy form uncomfortably on a folding cot encased in striped blue pyjamas while Martin, in spotted green pyjamas, was innocently tucked into his accustomed bed.

When the lights went out, Stephen jumped into Martin’s bed and made a grab at his night attire.  “You know the rules, Stephen,” Martin said, “if you want to sleep with me you have to wear striped pyjamas.”

Stephen looked aghast, then hurt. “Mala, you can’t be serious?”

“Why not, Derby?  Rules are rules and besides you look very handsome in them.  I particularly like the cord.”

Stephen knew all about the importance of such rules and therefore with no further complaint, snuggled next to Martin who said, “Are you excited about tomorrow, Derbs?”

“Rather!  Thank you for organising this.  You must be getting good at persuading people, Mala.”

“Yes I must be,” he reflected and then fell to talking about Mr Tatchell and the committee.

“Do you need me to help, Mala?  I could sleep with Mrs Tachell or if he has a daughter— or a son?”

“No, Derby but thank you, your special talents I won’t call on this time —I don’t want it to be another Miss Otero.  I think this is something I have to do myself and I’d like to win this by good arguments rather than resort to blackmail or trickery.  I will possibly have to find money from somewhere to provide electric light and maybe an omnibus.  Selling pictures won’t be enough.  How can we gain more income without raising rents, Derbs?”

“Well, you will be able to make money by selling electricity in the village, and not just to the school.  Maybe the bus will pay its way too.  However you could cultivate more land, Martin.”

“What do you mean, Derbs?  Should I buy land from our neighbours?”

“No Mala, it’s obvious.  Do you know how many acres you have that are not cultivated and just kept for shooting?”

“No, Derby.”

“About 1200 acres.  You father and grandfather have kept this huge area simply for shooting for a few weeks a year.”

“But Mala, we must have shooting.  What will our guests do?”

“When did you last shoot, Mala?”

“Well, it was three years ago, but what about all the pheasants and snipe?  What will happen to all the wildlife if we plough up the land?

“Well they won’t live to be shot, will they Mala?”  Martin admitted to the logic of this argument.  “Look, I’m not saying that it should all be farmed; some rough land is good for little else, but you could think about using the land more productively, Mala.”

“You’re very clever Derbs,” said Martin and laid his head on his pyjama buttons.

When the housemaster called on them in the morning the boys were up and hunting for their toothbrushes.  How odd he thought, Poole is wearing spots and stripes and his visitor is wearing stripes and spots.

The cricket match was the occasion for a general holiday at the school.  After absence was called the boys and masters streamed out to the oval.  The rain cleared by half past ten and there was polite applause as the teams walked out.  Martin found a deckchair and settled next to The Plunger.  Mr Daventry came by beaming. “I’m wearing it today,” he said in a whisper.

Martin was very excited when Stephen, his team having won the toss, marched to the crease in his pads.  The first delivery he tapped away to mid-on and the second one he hit in an elegant cover drive and took a run.  Julian faced the next delivery and snicked it away to deep fine leg.

“Wake up Poole,” said the Plunger. “Julian’s declared at 140 and Stephen has made 57 not out.”

“Well that’s marvellous, Plunger, would you get me an ice?  That sun’s frightfully warm.”

When The Plunger returned Martin was asleep again and so he ate it himself.

“What’s that?” said Martin sitting up at the sound of a slow applause.

“We’re all out for 67 and they’ve put us in again.  They’re very good.  I say its terrifically exciting isn’t it, Poole!”

Martin tried to concentrate and saw Christopher take a diving catch in slips.  Stephen took over the bowling and with his first delivery there was a successful appeal for l.b.w.  The next thing he knew was that Stephen was standing over him congratulating him on the fight back his school was staging.  It was lunch and they were 150 for 7.

“I thought I was on a hat trick there, didn’t you Mala?” said Stephen as they walked to the sandwiches.

“Yes, you were very unlucky when you were… dropped,” guessed Martin.

“You mean when that run out was disallowed, you mean?

“Oh yes I mean the run out.  Good for us, unfair for you, Derbs.”

Martin resumed his seat after lunch and the next thing he knew was that a cheer had alerted him to something.  It was tea and the match was already over and there was much applause and players were congratulating each other.  He tuned to The Plunger who had finished his sketch and the artist pulled him out of his chair and took him to the tea tent, which was buzzing with excitement.

Stephen was already dressed and insisted that Martin walk down to the station with him.  Stephen was excitedly planning the weekend in London with Christopher and Julian who were waiting on the platform.  He gave Martin a hug when no one was looking and told him to make sure he wrote about the cricket match to William. Then he was gone.

Later that evening he did write to William and said that the occasion had been a splendid success and that Dr Henson had declared that it will be an annual event, next year visiting Blandford Forum.  The one thing he could not write was the outcome of the tussle for he had no idea who won, but cricket, after all, he reflected, was a state of mind.

*****

“And this place is yours, Knight?” the question had been asked by Julian Newell as he was being shown over Branksome House by Stephen.

“No, not really, it is my guardian’s.  Lord Branksome has made me his ward.  The house will probably go to his brother, Martin whom you’ve met.  I’ve only stayed here a few times myself.  Do be careful there; that door sticks a bit. The house has settled a bit since 1750.”

“Have a look at the dining room, Newell, said Christopher Tennant excitedly, “the one at Croome is as big again. You could play football there.”

Stephen explained that as a special treat the two footmen, Carlo and William, had been sent up from Croome to supplement the small staff who were permanently in London and that they would act as their valets and lay out the boys’ clothes, draw their baths and serve them at table.  “They’ll even undress you.”

“I can’t imagine asking our old parlour maid to do that!” exclaimed Julian, laughing.  “Fancy not being able to dress or undress yourself.”  Stephen just shrugged.

The fire had been lit in the drawing room upstairs.  It looked out over Piccadilly and Green Park.  To the left the roof of the Ritz hotel could be glimpsed.  The three boys toured the room, looking at the pictures and peering into the cabinets containing bibelots.  They clumped around the room in their boots and finally settled in front of the fire, three figures dwarfed in the enormous room.  Stephen rang the bell and William appeared.  “Could we have tea in here please William, and maybe crumpets as well as cake?”

“And Cook has made ribbon sandwiches sir.”

“Very good.  Thank Cook.”

They fell to talking about the exciting cricket match, its delightful intricacies still fresh.  “What shall we do tonight?” asked Stephen at last.

“Oh the music hall, please,” said Christopher.”  The other two looked at each other and nodded and Christopher outlined the program at the Holborn Empire.

“We could go to a pub first”, suggested Stephen.

“I’m itching to meet some pretty girls,” said Julian, adjusting his groin as he contemplated London’s fairest.

Thus it was decided.  Christopher and Julian went out for a walk while Stephen concentrated on his German homework—working through some simple poems by Heine, the dictionary close at hand.

When it was time to dress for dinner Stephen had had Carlo and William lay out the boys’ ordinary suits, which had been carefully pressed and brushed. “I don’t want us to look like toffs tonight,” explained Stephen.

“Carlo, Mr Newell wants you to shave him.”

“Very good sir,” said Carlo while Julian looked alarmed.

The servant returned with hot water and towels and a razor.  Julian sat back in a chair placed in front of a looking glass and submitted to the knife while Stephen watched.  “Don’t cut an artery, Carlo, he has to play rugby next week.” Julian wanted to nod, but was too frightened.  “And do you think you should shave his knuckles, Carlo?”

All three looked at the hairy digits. “Mr Knight is just teasing, sir, take no notice,” said Carlo.

“Well he is very hairy, Carlo.  There might be some other places you could barber too,”

“Oh sir!  You say such things, although I’m sure it would be a pleasure, sir.”  With that he made a final flourish with the towel and Julian was clean-shaven and no more was said about further operations.

Stephen then went from room to room watching with amusement as the boys were helped into their clothes by their temporary valets.  He discreetly handed out some money ‘in case of emergencies’ and they went down to dinner in the enormous empty dining room.  They were served more informally by a maid, in the absence of Mr Chilvers and the other footmen and thankfully their places had all been set at one end of the mahogany table or they would have had to shout.

They played a game of billiards and then set out in a cab for Oxford Street where they found a lively public house near Tottenham Court Road and they enjoyed their pints.  They walked happily the half-mile east to the Holborn Empire where Stephen made sure they had the good five bob seats.  The program was mostly comic with Marie Lloyd making a come back with ‘I’m One of the Ruins Cromwell Knocked About a Bit’ and Billy Williams sang a saucy one about his ‘Australian Matilda down in St Kilda.’ Vesta Tilly was a male impersonator and sang ‘Girls are the Ruin of Men’ which had the audience in stitches.  In between acts they went backwards and forwards to the bar and to the lavatory and when they rolled out on the street they were in the mood for some more fun.

They walked back west looking for a suitable pub when a pie stall in the vicinity of Holborn Viaduct beckoned with agreeable greasy smells.  A slim young girl was engaged in buying something when she dropped her money, a penny rolling like a cartwheel towards a grating.  Christopher’s fielding practice paid off and in a few strides he stopped the errant coin with his boot and swept it up and presented it to the girl.

In gratitude for her fortune being restored, particularly by such an agreeable and smiling young man, she fell into conversation and then Christopher introduced Millie (for that proved to be her name) to Stephen and Julian. Millie worked in a teashop and had just been enjoying an evening out with her friend Jane who managed the teashop.  They were chaperoned by Jane’s older sister and they were waiting for her at this very moment just a short distance away in the snug bar of a superior public house where Millie and Jane and another girl lived. “Have you ever been to the cinematograph, Mr Tennant?” asked Millie.  We have just come from the Scala in Tottenham Court Road where the show was very thrilling,” and she went on to describe it to Christopher who had yet to see a moving picture.

The boys were introduced by Millie to Jane and her older sister, Agnes.  The chivalrous rescue of the penny was related and Stephen brought them all drinks.  Where Millie was slight and pretty and looked about 16, Jane was buxom and heavily made up and looked a year or two older.  Julian was immediately attracted to her and pulled his chair around to speak to her all the better, sitting on his bowler hat in the process.  Stephen took better care of his straw ‘masher’ and thoughtfully removed that of Christopher’s who was so eagerly talking to Millie about moving pictures that he had forgotten it.  The older sister was grateful for her gin-and-lemon and her general demeanour showed that she was immediately attracted to Stephen.  Agnes, or Aggie, as the others called her, was a slightly blowsy married woman of 24 but her husband had, apparently, ‘cleared orf’ and she had been forced to return to her father’s roof in Hoxton. “Do you know Hoxton?”

Stephen confessed that he was practically a stranger in London and, as an orphan, was presently lodging at his guardian’s house further west.

“Shepherds Bush?” inquired Aggie.

“Not quite so far west,” said Stephen.

Aggie was terribly moved by Stephen’s status as an orphan and the other girls paused in their respective conversations to say “Poor young fellow” and the like, while Aggie now had her hand on Stephen’s knee in a motherly fashion.

Miss Jane, although at this moment extolling the virtue of tea as a beverage in its relation to her place of business, did not object to another lemon-and-port, while Millie said she would try a half of ale.  Aggie was now consuming gin (sans lemon) as fast as Stephen could buy it and her tears were flowing steadily even when Stephen tried to steer the conversation around from fatherlessness to cricket.

Millie saw how wet Stephen’s sleeve was becoming and leant over and explained that the moving picture had been a particularly sad one where a poor child had been cruelly treated and that Aggie was not normally so lachrymose and in fact held down a good job in a pickle factory.

After another round of drinks Aggie cheered up somewhat and, led by Christopher, they were all singing

I met her at St Kilda, my beautiful Matilda

My love got so very hot, oh, it absolutely grilled her

Presently Aggie asked Stephen if he would see her home.

“But I thought you were chaperoning Jane and Millie?”

“But they’s just live upstairs, Mr Knight, and who’s going to take care of the chaperone, that’s wot I sez?”

So Stephen and Aggie left the pub but not before Stephen gave urgent instructions to Christopher, taking his watch for safekeeping and imploring Julian to look after him.  Julian dismissed Stephen with a beery wink and Stephen found himself out on the street, an orphan but supporting a married sister.

“Hoxton’s a long way Aggie, we’ll get a cab.”

“You’ve got the goods for a cab?  Why you are a gent Mr Knight,” and the functionary of the pickle factory let out a piercing whistle which summoned a hansom. 

“Is it respectable for a young married lady to be seen getting into a hansom cab with a swell?” she said as they settled.

“I’m not a swell, Aggie.”

Aggie didn’t reply but raised her skirts and placed Stephen’s hand on her nether regions.  For reasons of economy or perhaps peculiar domestic arrangements, Aggie was not wearing any bloomers and Stephen began to warm to her.  She kissed Stephen while he pleasured her with his hand.

As they turned into Pentonville Road Aggie said between ragged breaths, “Oh you’re very good, Mr Knight. Did you say you were a finger spinner?”  By the time they were in the City Road Stephen had undone her blouse and was sucking on her firm breasts while she murmured something about a poor motherless baby and Stephen had begun to wonder why her husband had indeed ‘cleared orf’.

Presently they arrived at an address in Hoxton and the driver was paid through the trap door while Aggie adjusted her garments as best she could in the darkness.

“I’d ask you in Mr Knight, but my father and brothers are home.  Eric sleeps in the kitchen so its awkward.  But here, follow me.”

Humming the music hall tune she took Stephen by the hand down a passageway towards the canal.  “Mind them bins, Mr Knight” there was a sequestered space underneath the wall of a warehouse where a good view of the Shoreditch gas works could be obtained on a fine day.  Here Aggie opened Stephen’s shirt and ran her hands over his chest.  Stephen kissed her.  Then Aggie slid Stephen’s braces aside and undid his trousers.  His cock rose lewdly.

“You in the Guards, Mr Knight?” she said, noting the leather strap around Stephen’s cock and balls. “I like a big boy wot’s strapped tight,” she said and began to stoke his member.

“No I’m a porter at Paddington Station.”

“You ain’t no porter, you speaks too nice, but I bet you could carry a lot of traps with them arms and shoulders.” She made no further inquiries and set to work milking Stephen for dear life.

Eventually Stephen spilled and apologised for hitting her skirts. “That’s no never mind Mr Knight.  It won’t hurt Aggie.  It was a real pleasure to service a gent like you sir, although me arms is tired and me hands ache so that I don’t know how I’ll go fitting the lids on them jars tomorra.”

Stephen pressed a shilling into her hand, “That’s for the moving pictures, Aggie, take the girls.”

Having been pointed in the right direction, they parted and Stephen safely found a cab near The Angel that conveyed him home.

Stephen had not long been in bed when there was a knock on his door and Julian appeared in his dressing gown. He was still rather drunk.  He asked Stephen what had happened after he had left and Stephen sketched a description, noting the envious looks he was receiving. “Why, what happened to you and Chris?”

“Well, they were all over us, my one especially, June.”

“Jane?”

“Was it?  Well she’s blowing in my ear and rubbing me down here,” and here he opened his dressing gown to reveal a large bulge in his drawers. “And Tennant’s one is getting all giggly and giving him little pecks on the cheek and then she says we should come upstairs.  But when we get there her friend is there—with some bloke!” I mean she says she’s sorry and all that, and that we will have to meet up again.  Tennant thinks he will meet his Millie at the cinematograph, the fool.  And here I’m left with an aching cock and balls.  Tell me what your one did again, Knight.”

Julian sat on the bed and Stephen set to work giving a more lurid description, embroidering some parts for dramatic affect.  As he told his tale he saw Julian’s bulge distended even more and a damp spot the size of thruppence had grown to the size of a florin by the time he had finished.  Julian kneaded his groin and moaned.

“I had equipped Christopher with these Julian,” said Stephen as he produced the box of preservatifs.  I hope you had the same.  You wouldn’t want to get a girl with child.”

“Oh I have my ways, Knight.  I sometimes pull out before I spill.”  Stephen thought he’d never be able to master that skill. “Sometimes I just slide it between their lovely thighs and get them to squeeze,” he continued.  “And I have taken a girl, you know, up the other hole.”

“No!” said Stephen.  “You’ve done that?”  Julian nodded and smirked. “Girls actually let you?”  Again Julian nodded, pleased that he could tell Stephen a thing or two about love.  “What did it feel like?” asked Stephen in breathlessly ingenuity.

Julian removed his dressing gown and stood there, his hairy chest and strong arms naked above the distended material of his stained drawers, which strained painfully to conceal his big cock.  He demonstrated a few rudimentary moves and was sweating profusely.

“I say, Knight, could you help a fellow out.  I’m dying here!”

Stephen said it was clearly a matter of mercy and pulled down Julian’s valiant drawers, throwing them aside. His large veiny cock slapped up against his hairy belly.

“It’s a big cock, Julian.  I bet it could do same damage.”

“I’ve had no complaints from the girls in Blandford Forum, Knight.”

“What do you want me to do, Julian?”

“Well you know, Knight,” and he made a motion with his hand.  Julian was now kneeling on the bed and Stephen had slid from beneath the covers and was expertly attending to his cock.

“Try some of this.  I use it all the time,” said Stephen pouring some drops of oil on it.  Julian moaned loudly and gratefully.  “Tell me again about the other place you can stick it, Julian?”  And so Julian did, getting more and more excited.  Then Stephen struck. “Do you want to stick it in me Julian, I won’t mind if it will help you.”

“Oh would you Knight?  I feel that I will burst.”

Stephen quickly applied some oil to his hole before Julian changed his mind and got on his knees.  Julian entered him roughly, as Stephen suspected he would.  He gave him a really good fucking, showing all the stamina and muscle power he was famous for on the sporting field.  He turned Stephen on his side and then on his back. Finally he pulled out (by way of demonstration) and finished himself on Stephen’s chest.  It was an impressive load.

He was panting with his hands on his knees. “Oh that’s better.  Jane missed out on that, but thank you Knight. And Knight, I don’t think there’s any need for Christopher to know about this.  He’s very impressionable.”

“Yes, and we don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

The following day the boys decided to go out to Twickenham to watch a rugby match at the new stadium.  This involved a trip on the electric tram through the outer suburbs that were rapidly filling with new housing.  It was a thrilling contest, with many Welsh supporters singing hymns and putting their whole being into it.

Stephen then produced three tickets from his pocket. “Martin got these for me from an old friend of his father’s, Lord Lonsdale.  They’re tickets for the National Sporting Association.  Do you want to see a boxing match?”

They went to a little street near Covent Garden and were admitted to the club.  The main match was between heavyweights ‘Bombardier’ Billie Wells and ‘Porky’ Flynn, an ugly American brawler who was only about 5’10’’ but very mean.  Only the previous week Wells had been down to fight the coloured American Jack Johnson for a purse, it was rumoured, of 8000 pounds, but the fight had been prohibited by Mr Churchill because there had been race riots in the United States and possibly because Johnson was bringing his white wife.  Stephen was bitterly disappointed to be unable to see this black giant of whom he had heard so much.  Wells was a very good fighter however.  He stood at rangy 6’ 3’’ and had a straight left and a powerful right.  His jab was impressive.  Although he was a poor boy from the east end, he was no brawler and adopted an orthodox approach.  He easily beat his opponent.

Christopher said that he had to leave to meet Millie. Stephen and Julian exchanged looks.  “We’ll wait here Tennant, said Julian.  If she doesn’t turn up we’ll go to the pub.” Christopher left, sure that she would be at the picture theatre.

Halfway through the next fight, he returned and slid into the seat next to Stephen.  Nothing was said.

Later they went out for oysters and a few pints at a pub and returned home.

Again there was a knock on Stephen’s door and Christopher slipped in. “Did I wake you, Stephen, I’m sorry,” said Christopher shedding his pyjamas and climbing in. “Did I make a fool of myself over Millie, Stephen?” he asked.

“No, certainly not, Chris.  She might have turned up and she certainly seemed keen on you last night.”

“I liked her too, although I may have got carried away by all the talk of moving pictures.  I think I’m a little confused.” He rested his head on Stephen.

“Some of these girls lead very tough lives, Chris,” said Stephen. “They are often untruthful because they they’re desperate and it’s become part of how they live.  Often they have no families to fall back on and so a drink or a meal or a few coins are worth a few lies, especially to a nice fellow like yourself.”

Christopher was lost in thought. “Thank you for helping me with—you know—and I feel much better knowing that my father did it too.  He actually taught my uncle how to do it.  Can you believe that?  I know now that he was telling me those things because he loves me, which is silly, but there you are.  I’m certainly not going to show my brothers how to do it— they’re too young.  They’ll have to work it out for themselves, but I will never lie to them if they ask me anything.  Is that cricket, Stephen?”

Stephen thought it was fair. “So are you pleasuring yourself every day, Chris?” Chris blushed and said he was. “Good boy.  Do you want to do it now with me?”

Chris was already hard under the blankets. “Tell me a story Stephen.”

“But we don’t have any pictures?”

“I can make up moving pictures in my head when you talk.”

Stephen let out a small sigh. “There were two sisters, twins, and they had ginger hair—which was unusual in their part of France—and they had been sent to the mountains to a remote convent school because they had been found in bed with each other.  This was a very strict school and the nuns often beat the girls for the smallest infraction like not wearing the rough bloomers that were prescribed by the order.  Well this convent school had a young gardener, whose name was Christophe, who the girls could see most days digging the pommes de terre or planting courgettes without his shirt on from the rooms where the candles were stored…”

Chris spilled and Stephen complimented him on the quantity and the taste.  He suggested that Christopher might like to go back to his own room. “But you haven’t spilled yet.  Do it for me, Stephen.”

“Slick me up, Chris,” said Stephen.  Chris spat on Stephen’s cock and stroked it a few times marvelling, as always, at how silky was the action due to his abundant foreskin.  Stephen took over and tried a few unusual manoeuvres including lifting his knees and reaching beneath with both hands.  After about ten minutes he was getting close and told Christopher to push his legs back over his head, which he did, then Stephen worked himself furiously until he spilled, much of it landing in his open mouth.

Chris wanted to applaud, but contented himself with saying it was ripping.  Where a rope had landed on Stephen’s cheek he scooped it up and tasted it. “Nice, but different to mine.”

Stephen cleaned them both up with Chris’ pyjama top and sent him back to his own room. Stephen himself contentedly went to sleep thinking of his Mala, and of boxing and of the particular cruelty of French nuns.

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 11/08/13