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 18
Crimes of Passion 

The morning after the fishermen’s feast Martin awoke with a headache.  He was nearly shoved out of the bed and saw the cause of this was Christopher cuddled up to Stephen.  He went downstairs and drank some water from the pump.  Turning around he saw Douglas sitting on The Plunger’s knee.  Both were naked and Douglas was wearing The Plunger’s monocle and waved.  He managed to croak a greeting and then, listlessly, began to tidy up.  He needed something to make him feel better right away so he went back up to the bedroom and firmly but kindly shepherded Christopher off to the shower and uncovered Stephen and took his cock into his mouth.  As he sucked and pleasured the big boy he forgot all about his aching head, which was now pleasantly situated in Stephen’s sweaty groin.  Stephen spilled into Martin’s mouth and then, when he had recovered, was quite bright and seemingly unaffected by the late night.

Hélias and Joni arrived and noisily hammered.  The matelas de plumes arrived and was placed with great ceremony on the bed downstairs.  With the help of Joni, Stephen set about making a mould for a concrete table putting to use his knowledge of the medium.  He went off with Martin to the scrap yard and found some pieces of iron to use as reinforcements and the frames of two sewing machines to use as pedestals.  Joni had suggested seeing the monumental mason about putting a finer surface on the table.  The marbrière was found next to the cemetery and with difficulty Stephen explained his requirements.  The proprietor said that he sometimes employed an Italian polisher and that he would make enquiries.

Stephen spent the rest of the day mixing mortar with marble chips and troweling his table top, which he did in a corner of the cellar so that it might cure for some weeks before polishing.

A note arrived from the Hotel Cap-Eden Roc expressing thanks for the dinner and Mrs Chadwick called in person.

In the twilight they all went swimming and played a few hands of gin rummy before bed.  At that point Stephen went to look for the schedule for sleeping arrangements but it could not be found.  It soon became apparent that it had been inadvertently used to kindle the stove along with Hélias’ journal.  A heated dispute ensued and in the end it was decided that everyone could sleep with Stephen, but after that it would be only Martin for the rest of the stay.

Due to the heat they thought it would be good to test the new bed in the cellar, which maintained a remarkably stable temperature and was now a pleasant room, especially in the lamplight.  Clothes were promiscuously abandoned in a single heap on the stone floor and the naked, eager boys piled on top of one another with much giggling, pinching and farting until Christopher took charge and arranged them in an orderly, if tight, fashion about Stephen who sat like the queen bee in a hive.

The next difficulty was solved by deciding that everyone should pleasure Stephen and no one was to go to sleep until he had spilled four times. “Do you think you can do it, Derbs?” asked Martin who was as eager as the rest.

Stephen felt his balls and said he thought he could as he hadn’t spilled since yesterday. “What about this morning Derby?” Stephen admitted he had forgotten Martin’s kindness of the morning, so Martin reminded him by beginning, with the others watching and commenting. Soon Stephen spilled all up his torso.  They took turn to lap-up his seed, even Christopher eager to taste it again.

The Plunger was next and used his oiled hands to work on the big cock.  Stephen insisted that he turn around so that he might run his fingers through The Plunger’s nether regions.  Martin gave directions as Donald gently but firmly pulled at Stephen’s low-hanging balls at a critical juncture, causing him to spurt, which made The Plunger’s clasped oily hands gloriously messy.

Stephen then asked if he might have a rest and they lay back and snuggled together, despite the heat, and talked about what a wonderful few days they had had, thanks to Stephen’s kindness. The mention of his generosity caused Donald to look at Stephen who had his eyes closed.  He was shaken until he awoke.  Martin prepared Stephen again with kisses, paying particular attention to his armpits, which were quite rank after his labours.  Donald climbed between Stephen’s legs and, opening his throat, took Stephen all the way down.  The others were amazed.  He did it again, getting Archie to feel his throat where Stephen’s throbbing member could be detected in its invasion. This, despite its acrobatic skill, did not seem like it would be enough to get Stephen to spill again.  Martin had the Plunger held back Stephen’s legs to expose his sweaty crack lined with its silken black curls of hair.  Martin pulled the muscular cheeks apart as far as his strength would allow and gently ran his tongue along the crack.  Christopher thought that was revolting and the others assured him that it was not.  They all took a turn, Stephen holding his own legs so The Plunger could sample him too.  Christopher knelt to one side unconvinced.

“Go on Chris, he tastes nice.  Try it,” said Selby-Keam.

Christopher approached hesitantly, the skin and hair glistening in the lamplight.  He extended the tip of his tongue and just flicked the buttock cheek.

“It’s sweetest further in,” said The Plunger helpfully.

Christopher put his face right in and lapped as Martin spread the buttocks.

He pulled off and said: “He does taste good!” before plunging his face in hard and with abandon.

Stephen was groaning with pleasure and dripping with sweat.  Christopher had his face between his buttocks and was like a man possessed.  He virtually had to be pulled off by the others who wanted a turn.

Stephen complained that his legs were aching, but before he was allowed to put then down he was asked if he’d try to suck himself.  Stephen didn’t particularly feel like doing so, but wanted to please his audience so he tried.  The Plunger pushed his legs right back while Martin lifted his head.  Christopher stretched his cock while Donald watched, eyes shining and stroking himself.  Stephen was at last able to give few swipes with his tongue to his stretched foreskin and that was considered near enough and he was allowed to relax.  Donald set to work again and was rewarded with a mouthful of Stephen’s seed.

Stephen didn’t think he needed a further rest and Christopher set to work.  He rolled Stephen over and got him to hump the new, but now well-used, matelas de plumes until he was very hard.  They all admired the flexing of his muscular buttocks.  Then Christopher set to work with his hand, trying to remember how Stephen liked it.  Stephen was moaning. “He needs a cock in his mouth,” opined Douglas and Martin thought it should be his.  Stephen latched on to it furiously. 

“I think he’s close!” said Chris.  Three heads now positioned themselves on Stephen’s torso.  He erupted under Christopher’s ministrations and each boy was splattered. 

“I think that’s all for now,” Stephen gasped.  He closed his eyes and the boys snuggled around him.  They were all found to be stuck together when the morning sun slanted in through the new window.  

***** 

At trip to Cannes was planned for the next day.  Joni’s cousin’s carriage was hired and the boys in their better clothes soon found themselves strolling up and down the Promenade de la Croisette under the shadow of the new Carlton Hotel, almost ready to take its first guests.

The two islands in the bay intrigued the boys, especially Christopher who had read Dumas’ story about the mysterious prisoner called Dauger who was forced to wear an iron mask while imprisoned there.  Thus they determined to take the ferry that catered to tourists.

The boat was crowded and the group of handsome, noisy English boys attracted the attention of many including glances from young girls and frowns from their parents.  Christopher fell into conversation with one very pretty girl dressed in pale blue as they leaned on the railing with the forested Ile Sainte-Marguerite growing larger on the horizon.  She had a little English and he very little French but they communicated without words, she through her blue eyes and pretty blushes and Christopher through his brown eyes under their long lashes.  Her name was Elodie and she was on holiday with her mama and papa.  They were staying at Juan-les-Pins, close to Antibes.  She was 16 and at school in Rouen and Christopher explained awkwardly that he was at school too and played cricket.  She didn’t understand, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Presently her mother came over and shepherded her away, but the damage was done and when they found themselves touring the fort, Christopher was walking alongside Elodie and taking very little interest what the guide was saying.  Elodie introduced him to her parents saying he was a rich English schoolboy travelling with his friends who were aristocrats.  The parents were polite but unenthusiastic but even so Elodie insisted that Christopher join their party for the remainder of the tour.

The other boys watched on with amusement, Stephen congratulating himself on successfully training Christopher to talk to young ladies at The Nelson Public House School in Blandford Forum.  In the cell of the unfortunate prisoner, Martin saw Elodie slip her gloved hand into Christopher’s.

The tour continued to the smaller islet called Saint-Honorat where there had been a monastery, although Elodie and Christopher were fortunate that the subject was not examined in their respective schools, for they would have remembered little.

When they returned to Cannes Martin intervened and invited Elodie and her parents to join them for English afternoon tea in a café.  The parents were reluctant but Elodie replied for them. They decided that to talk to an English earl might be a novelty and the boys did their best to distract the parents so that Elodie and Christopher might converse, undisturbed.

When they departed, Christopher kissed her gloved hand in the manner he’d read about in books while her parents looked on in disapproval.  Nevertheless Christopher was invited to call the following day.

The boys listened resignedly to Christopher’s recitation of Elodie’s many charms and accomplishments.  This continued throughout dinner at the bistro, Mme de Blazon offering a sympathetic pair of ears.

Christopher made himself comfortable in the debris of the new bed in the cellar and dreamed pleasant dreams while The Plunger and Douglas made an attractive, if unusual combination in the second bedroom. When Stephen went to tuck them in and to check on their night attire and their states of arousal he found Douglas was sitting up wearing one of The Plunger’s silk ties and his beret, grinning cheekily.

The next morning was spent at the beach in Antibes while Joni and Hélias finished the larder. The boys wore their swimming costumes, caleçons with sleeveless tops—Stephen’s being the most daring.  In the afternoon Stephen and Martin went to look for some folding park chairs that M. de Blazon said would be suitable for the new table and they found some in a second-hand shop.  Two needed repairing but the boys brought them home down the steep streets in two trips.

Christopher was as nervous as a rabbit when it was time to make his call on Elodie.  With some borrowed plumes from The Plunger, he looked and smelled very delightful and went on his way on Martin’s bicycle.  The others did odd jobs or read in the garden.

At 7:00 Christopher returned full of excitement.  The visit had gone well in that Elodie’s parents became preoccupied with their other guests which allowed the lovers to go on an unchaperoned walk along the more quiet roads where Christopher had not only held Elodie’s hand but had allowed himself to be kissed by the pretty girl.  By means of The Plunger he demonstrated his technique and the others pronounced it enthusiastic, if not wholly satisfactory.  Christopher was then kindly told to shut up for he was making every one jealous and they went across to M. de Blazon’s for their evening meal.

Martin was enjoying having Stephen to himself in their bed, but perhaps it was the novelty of the arrangement, for he found himself awake about midnight.  A sound in the street drew him out onto their balcony and, under the cover of Stephen’s geraniums he observed Christopher at the corner of the house, slowly walking with Elodie in the direction of Juan-les-Pins.   Martin was touched so he withdrew, not wanting to intrude on such a sweet and intimate scene.

The next day Christopher was unusually quiet and on tenterhooks, just waiting until the hour that he could cycle over to Juan-les-Pins.  Again he was dressed nicely, borrowing The Plunger’s Malacca cane, which was difficult to take on the bicycle.  The others were not yet back from the plage but Stephen was at home intent on his German homework when Christopher came through the door as white as a sheet.  Stephen dropped his pencil and went up to him, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Whatever’s the matter, Chris?” he said with a sinking feeling.

“She’s gone, Stephen.  I went there and the servant said the whole family had left this morning for Naples.  They won’t be back.”  He said with a great gulp and a stifled sob.

“Oh Chris, I’m so sorry old chap. Come here.” He hugged him tight.

“She never said a word last…I mean yesterday. Why did she go?”

“Maybe it wasn’t her fault.  Chris. It was probably her parents’ decision.” There was very little that could be said of comfort so he continued to hold him.

“Why does it hurt so much, Stephen?” he cried.  Stephen thought his heart would break but did not know the answer to that one.  “I think I’ll go and lie down, if you don’t mind.” Stephen let him go and decided to find the others on the beach to tell them.

It was a subdued meal at the bistro, with Chris not appearing. Mme de Blazon was wiping her eyes with her apron and bustled to prepare a plate of tempting things should Christopher emerge.  When the boys returned Chris did come up into the big room where he was hugged by all.  He had a couple of glasses of wine and picked at the plate.  Soon after he went back to bed.

“Derby,” said Martin as they went up to their room, “why don’t you go and sleep with Chris? I think he might need you.”

“Bless you Mala, I think he might,” he said and went back down the stairs.  

***** 

The following day it was decided to make an expedition to Nice on the local train.  Christopher said he would like to come and the others did their best to cheer him, although he remained subdued.

The little local train took the boys east along the magnificent coastline with its spectacular backdrop of the Alps on one side and its glimpses of the sapphire sea on the other.  It was only a journey of about 20 kilometres but the train, like all of Provence, did not seem in a hurry.

The Plunger was wearing a smock and silk tie, lest anyone not know he was a painter.  He adjusted his beret in the refection of the window as he talked to Christopher and Douglas. Stephen and Martin had their heads in books, respectively ‘Italienische Reise’ by Goethe and “Prester John’ by John Buchan.

“This is awfully thrilling, Derbs,” said Martin at one point.

“Is it, Mala?” said Stephen not looking up as he reached for his pocket German dictionary.

At Nice The Plunger set up his easel on the Promenade des Anglais but startlingly turned his back to the Mediterranean and, in the modern manner, began to sketch the cranes and steam shovels that were at work building an enormous new hotel, rather like the Carlton in Cannes. With his pencil he was tracing slashing lines that would represent scaffolding and telegraph wires and these fractured the canvas like a shattered looking glass.

The boys sat on some seats nearby, warming their backs in the sun and watching the parade of holidaymakers passing to and fro. They had not been there long when a remarkable figure came up behind The Plunger who was concentrating on the metal latticework of a steam shovel. She was an alarmingly tall and masculine women dressed in black. Above her hobble skirt she wore a tight black riding habit and her short hair was concealed under a small bowler hat. The mannish look was furthered by her white shirt and tie and, most remarkably of all, she wore a monocle like The Plunger’s.  In the stead of the usual parasol she carried a tall walking stick, which she used to discipline a pair of dachshunds which were at this moment sniffing round the heels of her laced boots.

The woman engaged The Plunger in conversation, probably about Art as she had taken out her monocle and was using it to gesture towards The Plunger’s canvas and at the construction site across the road.

As Martin and Stephen were closest, they drifted nearer until they were seen. The Plunger put down his pencil and introductions were made. Baroness Wiesbaden was terribly interested in Art and, with her husband, owned some fine paintings including some by Cézanne- a name that meant nothing to the boys but was electrifying to The Plunger.   Her accent was quite thick but she was saying how perceptive Mr Craigth was to pick out a subject of twentieth century life, rather than the usual picturesque scenes, and indeed the construction of the hotel she had only thought of until now as a noisy inconvenience and an impediment which would eventually cut off her view of the quaint old light house from her front windows.

Martin was getting restless and he and Stephen left The Plunger, now mixing paint and talking to his odd friend and told him to meet them for tea at the café with the striped awning.

The boys enjoyed walking up and down. The shingle beach was not good for sitting on but they did venture into the water and before they knew it, it was 3 o’clock.

They repaired to the café and but there was no sign of The Plunger. At a quarter to four they had had their tea and he still hadn’t appeared. Stephen strolled down to where the easel had been set up and, checking that he was indeed at the correct spot, could find no sign of the artist. He walked back to the café, keeping a lookout. The Plunger had not arrived in his absence. The boys checked out the other cafés to see if he was there by mistake. He wasn’t. Martin was getting worried and said: “He is eccentric but he surely wouldn’t miss afternoon tea.” The others agreed, almost shocked at the thought.

The boys split up. Donald waited at the café and Christopher went to the station to see if The Plunger was there. Martin and Stephen looked along the beach and The Promenade once again.

“Should we go to the police?” asked Martin. Stephen wasn’t sure.

“That baroness…” began Stephen.

“Yes, I think so too,” jumped in Martin. “I feel sure she’s a German agent and has captured The Plunger for…” and here he could not think of any particular value that The Plunger might be to his Imperial Majesty at that moment. “His father is important, you know Stephen, could it be political or blackmail?” Stephen doubted that.

“Send the others home, Mala. Douglas looks quite upset. He’s developed quite a pet for our Plunger,” said Stephen as they returned to the café empty-handed. “You never know they might find him home already.”

Stephen stood on the Promenade des Anglais thinking as Martin walked back to him, waving at the two departing figures. “What did she say, Mala, can you recall?”

“Well the name was Wiesbaden, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, so we should be able to find her. She might have nothing to do with German spies or The Plunger even. We must keep that in mind. I’m sure he’ll be fine, Mala,” said Stephen with more conviction than he felt. “She must live nearby because those dogs only have little feet.”

“She said she lived near the new hotel. And that it would block her view of the lighthouse.”

“Well done, Watson!” said Stephen in an effort to cheer his friend.

They returned to the site of the new Hotel Negresco and walked around its perimeter. The Rue de France seemed promising. There were a number of grand terraces facing seawards. Three looked as if they would line up with the lighthouse and the hotel’s prospective roof. Martin went up the steps of the first one and rang the bell. A servant answered. No, this was not the house of Baroness Wiesbaden and he went to close the door. Martin then using mime described the figure with the monocle and the little dogs. The servant pointed to the house two doors down.

Stephen rang the bell of the suspicious house. A German servant answered and didn’t deny it was the house of the baroness. She was, however not at home and he had not seen his friend and he closed the door firmly.

Stephen related what had happened to Martin. “Well where can he be then Derby? Perhaps we should go to the police now.”

“No Mala, he’s in that house.”

“How do you know?” said Martin, turning to stare at its uninformative façade.

“There was a tube of paint on the floor,” replied Stephen solemnly.

Martin was panicked. “These German agents are fiendish and dangerous, Derbs. I’ve been reading about them. They disguise themselves as children’s nurses and members of ‘oompa’ bands so they can steal information, which they send back to Berlin in secret telegrams. But I have a plan: we could get into the house by having Selby-Keam hide in a large box which we will have delivered saying it contains their order of German sausages or something and then…” Stephen was looking at him. “Or perhaps you could climb up that drainpipe…or we could lure her out, yes that’s it, lure her out with a message written in German— you could write it— saying that…”

“They’re all excellent plans, Mala. The Plunger is lucky to have a friend like you and one so well read. However, I think we need to act more quickly.  Come with me.”

They crossed the street and this time Martin rang the bell. The servant answered and immediately said, “Bitte gehen Sie weg!” and tried to close the door, Stephen who had been standing out of sight then put his shoulder to it and the door flew open, flinging the servant to the wall. Martin pushed his way in as well. With an oath the man tried to strike Stephen who threw a punch, sending him sprawling. “Have you killed him, Derby?” asked Martin.

“I don’t think so, Mala.”

The doors to the downstairs rooms stood wide and revealed just innocent chambers. They made for the stairs ‘Treppe’ thought Stephen in German. Half way up was a maid—Dienerin—carrying a pile of sheets— Leinen—thought Stephen automatically. “Entschuldigen Sie!” said Stephen

“Bitte” she replied with a shy smile and stood aside.

The first room, a bedroom—Schlafzimmer thought Stephen —revealed nothing.  The second was approached though an anti-room—Vorzimmer, I think, said Stephen to himself— and when the door was flung open a terrible sight greeted them.

There on a large brass bed laid The Plunger, tied to its four corners. His mouth was gagged, his artist’s bow tie was placed around his bare neck in mockery and a red and white patch lower down showed that his pubic hair had been recently shaved.

Martin rushed over and took the gag out.

“Hello Poole. Hello Stephen,” he said calmly and then he burst into an undignified sob.

“Are you alright Plunger?” asked Martin.

“Yes,” The Plunger managed to say, “but hurry, she’ll be back and he is due home any minute.”

The knots proved fiendishly difficult.

“Messer! Tisch!” Commanded Stephen and a knife was fetched from a table that contained pincers, scissors, candles and all sorts of sinister-looking objects. The Plunger’s bonds were just being cut when a cry alerted them that the baroness was in the doorway. She was wearing just her bloomers and a leather corset.

“Schweine!” she screamed and made a lunge at Stephen with her riding crop, catching him across the cheek.

Stephen tried to grab her and she made for the doorway only to find that Martin had blocked her escape. Martin snatched the crop and flung it aside while Stephen held her arms. She was manoeuvred, struggling and cursing to a large Garderobe—wardrobe—where she was shoved roughly in among the clothes and the door was held fast until Martin turned the key.

The baroness started to kick up a terrible row, screaming and hammering on the door. Martin shut the pair of heavy doors to the room while the rest of the ropes were cut. The Plunger stood and rubbed his wrists. Martin found his artist’s smock and sandals, but The Plunger’s trousers had been shredded, no doubt in some sort of Hunnish  frenzy, with scissors. “You’ll just have to wear the smock,” said Stephen.

Martin spied a bottle. “I bet that’s what she gave you Plunger: Kümmel laced with a sleeping draught or else a poisoned arrow blown from her hollowed-out walking stick,” cried Martin. Stephen sniffed the bottle. He didn’t know what poison was supposed to smell like— or Kümmel for that matter.

“I did have a drink, admitted The Plunger “and look!” He directed their attention to a camera on a tripod placed in the window embrasure. “That’s what they do,” he said simply. The Plunger grabbed his folded easel and artist’s canvas bag. He spied his glorious shorn red locks on the table and took those too.

In a trice they were out of the room and on the landing. “We can go up and onto the roof and leap across to the neighbouring houses,” suggested Martin. Stephen thought back the same way they had come might be simpler, if less romantic. On the stairs the same Mädchen now had a pile of towels,  “Entschuldigen Sie!” she said as she stood aside.

“Bitte,” replied Stephen.

In the hall they found the servant groggily getting to his feet. Stephen and Martin got ready to fight but he shrank back into a doorway and they flung the front door wide and rushed down the steps, colliding with a sinister-looking man with a Prussian haircut and a duelling scar- clearly the baron— much to the delight of Martin.

When they were safely at the corner, they stopped and caught their breath. “You’re bleeding,” said Martin. Stephen put his hand to his cheek and saw that it was red from the whip.

“I’ll be right. What about you Archie?”

“Well, it’s a bit draughty.” They waited for more. “We were talking about Art and she offered to show me her Cézannes.  I had a drink and became unconscious and then I woke to find myself tied up. They take photographs and sell them —high class stuff using the latest colour photography— the Kromskop process.” said The Plunger, almost proudly.  “Subjects with my shade of hair are especially prized in the East,” he concluded smugly.”

“Let’s go home,” said Martin taking his bag and easel.

“I say, you won’t tell the other chaps what happened will you?” pleaded The Plunger. “You know Selby-Keam sort of looks up to me and I wouldn’t want him to know that I was…you know.”

“We’ll just say we found you a bit drunk and asleep in the gardens won’t we Mala?” Martin nodded.  “But I don’t know how we’ll explain about you being shaved.”

“We’ll just tell them that Stephen insisted on it.  They’ll believe that,” said Martin.

“Oh thank you very much!” said Stephen sarcastically as he felt his wounded cheek.

“The Germans are fiends,” said The Plunger.

“Steady on, my Oma was born in Germany and I have a German cousin,” said Martin thinking of Friedrich Oettingen-Taxis.

“And so has His Majesty,” added Stephen gravely. 

*****

Martin lay in bed with his head on Stephen’s chest, slowly stroking his cock.  They were quietly lost in their own thoughts. “Where are you, Mala?” said Stephen.  Martin knew what he meant.

“I’m at Croome and I’m riding my bicycle.  I’m happy because you are riding next to me.”

“Are you wearing combinations?”

“No, I don’t think I am.”

“Good, because I may want to sniff your saddle after you dismount.”

“We’re riding along the lane that goes towards Pendleton,” continued Martin, “and we are coasting down that long stretch where the hawthorn hedges are very high and the trees meet overhead and there is a little stream that you have to ford except when it’s been very dry.”

“Yes, I know the spot.  What are we doing?”

“I don’t know exactly. We may be going somewhere. We’re talking and laughing. I think you’re making a joke about me looking happy because I have removed my bicycle seat.  Anyway, I look across at you and I see that the breeze his rippling your white shirt and that your hair is falling down over your left eye.  You take one hand off the handlebars and brush it back and you look over at me and say something.”

“What am I saying?”

“I love you.”

“What happens next?”

“Nothing.  I go back to the beginning and we’re riding down the lane again.”

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 11/22/13