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 21
The Standards of 1912 

“But why have you decided to return to England now, Uncle?” asked Martin.  He was sitting in the sick room of his elder brother, William, the Marquess of Branksome.  Martin was his heir presumptive, although only 17, and his Uncle Alfred, who was unmarried, had suddenly returned from India where he had been the Resident in a native state.

“Well, I’m getting old, Martin,” he said with a smile.  “I thought I might never see England again, many of the fellows don’t ever get to and they die with a terrible longing in their hearts.  I didn’t want to be like that; not die an exile.” 

“What about the Indian situation, Uncle Alfred?” asked Lord Branksome, exposing his ugly mercury-blackened teeth from his chaise upon which he sat with his feet up.

“It’s a complicated situation, William.  I cannot tell you what a wonderful place Rajpipla is compare to the rest of India.  However I don’t like what I’m seeing in some other quarters.”

“What do you mean; is it the cries for home rule?  Are you fearful of us losing India?” asked William.

“No, I can’t see that, we’ll be there for a hundred years, William, however some of our politicians both here and out there are making a hash of it.  There was Curzon who started out with such promise and was loved, but then his arrogance showed through (or was it just wooden headedness?) in the partition crisis and then the famine.  Lord Hardinge has a better feel for the Indians, I think.  These reforms by Morley and Minto are a dog’s breakfast.  They want to encourage self-government but they bow to the Muslim demand for reserved seats.  That means that the Indians will vote along religious lines.  Democracy—not that I’m in favour of it mind—won’t work like that; it will be mob rule.  If they’re not careful Ireland will go the same way.”

“But in your state…?” asked Martin.

“No democracy there, my boy, thank God!  Tiny place but most prosperous state after Baroda.  The young Maharaja has built 40 miles of railway himself, he’s started schools—including a high school like you want Martin, and there’s a hospital for people and one for animals and dispensaries in the villages which have good roads.  He’s improved cotton farming and pays the civil servants pensions and has set up courts.  He’s terribly mad on racing and polo and sports of all kind—in fact I’m going to dine with him at his house near Ascot on Wednesday.  He doesn’t need my help to run his kingdom.”

“He must be a remarkable young man, Uncle Alfred.  Fancy being an absolute monarch!” said Martin.

“Well…Vijay does have his problems boys.  Very personal ones.”

The boys looked at him.

“He is…he has told his family that…that he doesn’t want to get married—that’s a terrible thing in India.  The fellow is not attracted to women; in fact he has told them he is a homosexual.”

The ugly word was like a gunshot in the room.  Martin and William dared not look at each other.

“Poor young chap,” continued Uncle Alfred, “his family will disown him if he doesn’t marry and his own people will revile him, no matter how many schools he builds and no matter how many of his horses win the Derby.”

“What will you do with yourself now?” asked William keen to change the subject and keen as Martin to know the answer.

“Well, if it’s alright with you boys I’d like to stay in London.  I have my friends and my clubs—Pratt’s, The M.C.C. and the Oriental.  I sit on some boards.  I could be a bit of company for young Knight too, I suppose, but I promise not to be in the way.”

“Oh no Uncle,” said Martin sincerely, “we would love you to live with us, although Branksome House is not particularly comfortable.”

“Yes, I didn’t like to say anything boys but it isn’t up to the modern standards I was used to in Rajpipla.  I can’t believe you haven’t got the electric light and hot water.  Did I say that the Maharaja was generating his own electric power?  What I propose boys is that I pay for improvements to the house—electric light and steam heat—I feel the cold now.  Your butler has already suggested that I might like to use the room next to mine as my own sitting room- I trust I’m not getting him into trouble by saying so.  You know a door between the two rooms would be very convenient.  What do you say, William? Martin?”

“It’s very generous of you, Uncle,” said William slowly, looking at Martin who was nodding, “You must be comfortable at all costs and the house is in need of bringing up to the standards of 1912.  You’re welcome at Croome at any time, of course; it’s your home too.”

“Stephen would love to talk to you about your proposals.  You know he’s going to study engineering?” said Martin.

“I will do that.  He’s a fine fellow, isn’t he?”

“I think so, Uncle.” At that point Dr Alexander came in with a syringe for his lordship’s medication and Martin and Uncle Alfred took their leave.

***** 

The fine fellow was back at school swotting for the exams that were approaching at a gallop. In Literature he was somewhat distracted by Donald Selby-Keam whose hand was in Stephen’s pocket and rubbing his cock under the desk to the detriment of his essay on Tennyson.   Donald had managed to find a hole in the lining and, carefully enlarging it, was able to push his hand through to feel Stephen all the better.  Stephen spread his muscular legs to give him better access.  As he pleasured him, Stephen was starting to lose concentration. Stephen wrote shakily on a scrap of paper and pushed it over to Selby-Keam’s side of the desk.  It read: “Stop or I’ll spill!”  A mischievous grin could be observed on Donald’s face and he increased his covert ministrations, pushing his arm into Stephen’s school trousers up to his elbow.  Stephen started to emit soft groans and Willoughby major, who was sitting in the desk behind and feeling jealous, half stood to better see what was going on.  All of a sudden Stephens’s legs stiffened, scraping the desk on the floor slightly.  Miss Stone looked up from her corrections and said “Mr Willoughby, will you keep your eyes on your own work!”   Donald looked at Stephen and silently made sure that every last drop was extracted and finally withdrew his hand and licked his fingers.  When Stephen stood to hand in his paper before going home, Miss Stone thought that Stephen’s well-filled school trousers looked more than usually snug that afternoon and there seemed to be a suspicious stain down the leg.  Perhaps Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam’ was too suggestive for sensitive schoolboys, she reflected.

The next Saturday saw Stephen’s birthday, which he had to spend at Blandford Forum studying.  Cards had arrived from Titus Knight, Miss Tadrew, Mrs Capstick and Lord Branksome. Mrs Laybourne provided a nice cake and the boys came to tea.  In the evening they went out to The Nelson where Stephen was not allowed to buy a drink but accepted a good many and he got rather frisky with some of the girls there, but he was seen home with little harm done.

Martin had written to Stephen for the occasion:

“I can only tell you about your present, dear Derby, because it is too big for an envelope or to wrap: It is a small boat as near to Joni’s as I could find.  Actually Joni and Hé lias were entrusted with making the deal as so I’m sure it cost more than it should have, but Mrs Chadwick writes that the boat actually exists and it is waiting for its new captain.  Joni has promised to give you lessons because I don’t want you to be shipwrecked.  I hope you enjoy it.  Happy 18th birthday, Stephen.  Someone called Mala asked me to send love.”

Of course Stephen was thrilled and tried to draw a sketch of what it would look like to show Christopher and Donald.  He thought to himself that the choice of a name would be an obvious one.  

***** 

Martin found himself sailing on his own, wishing Stephen was with him, at the meeting of the Local Education Authority.  It was clear to him that in 1912 the aristocracy would have to engage with government bodies such as this one and that the distribution of largesse from pensions to sewer pipes was now in the hands of a bureaucracy, not at the pleasure of the aristocracy.  His father would never have coped with this shift and certainly would not have sat down with tradesmen and shopkeepers; only recently he had looked down his nose at some of Lloyd George’s new creations in the House of Lords and had once referred to Middlesbrough as “A city of dreadful knights;” however, here was his younger son going in to battle.

“The first item on the agenda,” announced Mr Tatchell, “is that this committee expresses its condolences on the tragic loss of the Reverend William Carter.  I think we would all agree that Mr Carter was an exemplary gentleman whose firm moral views had been such an inspiration to the people of Wales.  Indeed he was on his way to spread the gospel to the citizens of the United States when God saw fit in his infinite wisdom to claim him.  And if I may add a personal note, I might say that my wife and I have lost a great friend and confidant.  I propose that this committee send a letter to his mother.  The loss is particularly hard on Mrs Carter, who is an invalid; although I believe her appetite is still good.”

The second item was the controversial one: Martin’s proposal for a higher elementary school to be built on his own estate in the village of Branksome-le-Bourne.  Tatchell had vehemently opposed it, as had his wife.  He was outraged that local rates would be increased to pay for it and that his own proposal for a school to train girls in domestic arts to be built on land that his wife hoped to sell in Wareham, had been set aside in favour of it.  He looked around the room, grinding his teeth.  The two Liberal members he knew had been to dine at Croome and that Lord Martin had the ear of several in Westminster, including the Prime Minister.  It was so unfair.  He also had the backing of two other members of the committee from his estate. He looked to his left.  There sat Mr Carter’s empty chair, damn it!

Martin began: “I would like the committee to consider the proposal for the co-educational high school to be built on the donated land at Branksome-le-Bourne.  I will restate my reasons presently, if I may, and I would like to flag a further motion: that the school should be named the ‘Shadrach Tatchell Higher Elementary School.’”

There was little need for more than formalities.  The proposal was endorsed unanimously and the committee would now press Westminster for it to be approved.  Mr Tatchell was congratulating Lord Martin, saying how his faith in modern education had been vindicated and expressed the further hope that the new omnibus service might bring workers expediently from his estate over to Wareham in time for the early shifts at his foundry.  Martin said he would look into it directly.  

***** 

There were shouts and yells and bumps.  Then there was a crash.  Mrs Leybourne who was dusting the Luba ewer marched off to investigate.  She opened Christopher’s bedroom door to find a projectile hurtling towards her.  She caught the paper cricket ball deftly and Stephen cried, “Well caught Mrs Leybourne; you’re out Chris.” Christopher and Stephen were playing a game of improvised bedroom cricket.  The retiring batman stood naked except for a pair of pale blue silk pyjama bottoms that rested on his hips leaving little to the imagination. The bowler wore a lemon-coloured pair and his virility was all too evident down the left leg.

“Mr Knight and Mr Tennant!” she began huffily, “I had no idea that my respectable house had suddenly become the Kennington Oval.”  She looked around at the marks on the wallpaper and the overturned chair and the pile of books that had  tumbled to the floor.  Her eyes then rested on a Fulani ceremonial shield that was being used as a wicket. “You’re very naughty boys, the pair of you.” Stephen and Christopher looked at their feet, suitably chastened, Stephen lazily scratching his pubic bush that was exposed about the waist of the lemon-silk.  “In fact you ought to be smacked!”

“You can smack us if you like, Mrs Leybourne.  We probably deserve it.  We should be studying,” said Stephen with his eyes cast down.

Mrs Leybourne walked around them and took in Christopher’s pretty bottom with the soft patch of auburn hair visible at the base of his spine.  She giggled and smacked it with her hand, watching the flesh yield slightly under the material.  Christopher thrust it out slightly and took the second and third chastisement manfully.  Mrs Leybourne then slapped Stephen’s bottom, a much more manly and fulsome target.  She could feel the hair beneath the gossamer material.

“Hit him harder, Mrs Leybourne because it was his idea to play cricket,” said Christopher. Two more stinging blows were delivered and Mrs Leybourne could see Stephen’s cock flex beneath the silken tent.

“I think that’s enough punishment.  I love my two young gentlemen and I don’t know what I will do when you’re gone,” she said and started to get tearful.  “Now,” she said brightening, “this is my house and I want to bat.  I will enjoy facing your bouncers, Mr Knight,” she said giggling like a schoolgirl.

As exams approached Stephen worked furiously and there were some long study sessions of an evening, often with Christopher joining him, and with Mrs Leybourne personally bringing them cups of tea and pieces of toast to keep up her boys’ strength.

On the eve of an exam Stephen was studying with Donald and Christopher.  He was sitting up in bed with books and papers all about him and Donald was on the bed going over his notes while Christopher sat cross-legged on the floor doing differential calculus.  Stephen could feel himself getting drowsy and he thought that if he closed his eyes just for a minute the causes of the Thirty Years War would present themselves clearly in his brain.  However the next thing he knew was that the room was dark and some period—possibly less than thirty years—had elapsed.  He decided that further study would be unprofitable and so he slid down into bed beneath the layer of books and papers.  He was just getting comfortable when he felt a lump with his toes.  He sat up and lit the gas.  There, curled up like a hedgehog at the foot of the bed was Donald, fast asleep.  Stephen looked at his watch.  It was half-past three. “Donald!” he called.  There was no answer.  He called again and shook him.

“I’m tired Stephen, let me sleep.”

“No Donald, it’s late.  I must get you home; your parents will be worried.”

Stephen got out of bed and pulled on some trousers and a shirt.  He tried to stir Donald but it was nearly impossible.  He stuffed Donald’s schoolwork back into his bag and put it over his shoulder.  He then picked up Donald like a baby and carried him downstairs and out the street door.  Donald’s bicycle was in the garden so with difficulty Stephen managed to hold his friend who had his arms around Stephen’s strong neck and manoeuvre the bicycle under himself.  It required all Stephen’s strength to hold the sleeping Donald and pedal the bike through the dark streets to Donald’s house.  He dismounted and carried his burden up the path.  There was no choice but to ring the bell, which he did with his foot.

Major Selby-Keam came to the door and crossly began, “Do you know what…” before he took in Stephen holding his sleeping son.”

“We fell asleep studying, sir,” explained Stephen. “I’m awfully sorry if you were worried. He was working very hard.” Stephen gave a radiant smile in the moonlight.

“Thank you Stephen.  You’ve brought him all this way!  You are a good friend and so strong.”

“Here, let me carry him up to his room,” said Stephen.

Stephen mounted the stairs and kicked the door open. “You’re home now, Donald,” he said, “Get into bed.” He tried to disengage Donald’s hands from around his neck.

“I love you, Stephen.”

“Yes, I know Donald, but into bed with you.”

“Get into bed with me Stephen.”

“Not tonight Donald, we have an exam in the morning and I don’t think your father would understand.”

Donald gave him a sleepy kiss and allowed himself to be undressed and tucked in.

Major Selby-Keam was still in the hall and he shook Stephen’s hand. “He thinks the world of you, you know.” Stephen didn’t reply.  “It was only a year ago that I stopped him running away from home; he hated school that much, but you changed that and now you are all he talks about.  Take Donald’s bicycle, you must be worn out yourself,” he said.  And Stephen was beginning to wonder if his stamina would be enough for fighting the Thirty Years War in the morning. 

***** 

“This is a strange household, Carlo,” said Higgins.

“What do you mean?” replied Carlo, who was helping him wrap Lord Alfred’s ceremonial uniform in tissue paper for storage.

“Well, there’s no ladies for a start.”

“But you’ve been in Lord Alfred’s employ in India for some years and his is a bachelor’s life too.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Higgins. “And I’ve seen some strange things in h’India too.  They ’ave a different way of looking at things out there.  The Hindoo temples, for hexample, some of ’em is covered in naked ladies—tits and bums h’everywhere until there’s not an h’inch that ain’t got some rude bit pointing at you—and the people takes as little notice of it as we do of the decoration in Westminster h’abby.  And some of ’em ’av naked boys too—big cocks on display and other ladies and sometimes other men and sometimes monkey gods doin’ things to them.  There was one that had five arms I remember seein’ and he was—oh well, I’ll explain later.  Point is Carlo, I’ve seen a bit o’ the world beyond ’ammersmith h’and I’m not stupid.  His lordship and Mr Knight is pretty close.  Am I right?”

Carlo said nothing.

“And you and Mr Glass is more than just cousins—now don’t go gettin’ all unnecessary. I’ve seen you goin’ off to the chauffeur’s room on a Tuesday.  Like I told you, I don’t care and I won’t cause no trouble, I promise.  I like it here and I ain’t never going to do nothing to upset Lord Alfred.  He’s been good to me in and out of the h’army and I think he’ll see me right after he’s gone like.  Wouldn’t upset a nice old gentleman like him.”

Carlo was red and had a sinking feeling in his stomach.  “Well what are you telling me this for?” he said.

“So’s you know h’Albert ’iggins is on the up and up.  So’s you know I h’ain’t a daft bugger. So’s you might let me watch now and again—if I feel like it.  I h’aint got a problem with it; it’s not as if it’s burning widders h’alive in the Ganges or nothing,’ is it?” 

***** 

Stephen returned to Croome in triumph after his exams.  He thought he had done well, but would have to wait for results.  Martin was still at school for some weeks and so Stephen stayed with his stepfather and threw himself into cricket, overseeing the bathrooms project and helping Titus Knight in his various rural tasks.

“At this rate, Stephen, said Herman Moss, we will have all the cottages finished at the end of 1914.  I want to go back home at the end of this year, Uncle John has written again.  I miss my family but I will miss it here and you have been good to me.  You will make a fine engineer, Stephen; you’ve got a mind like Uncle John’s.”  They were walking down to the swimming place with the dogs.

“Herman, Martin said to tell you that he has already paid for your ticket back to Australia, whenever you plan to use it.”

“Well, thank you; that’s most generous.  I won’t go until I’ve found someone to replace me- or rather until Blake has found an assistant because I don’t think you need an engineer now. That is, you’re not planning to build a tramway or a suspension bridge or anything, are you Stephen?”

“No, and I’m not so keen on motor tractors now.  They’re too big for our fields, but we must put more land under cultivation, don’t you think?”

“If you can sell the crops, yes,” said Moss.

“I would like to build a golf course and hotel on the downs, but that’s a long way into the future.  I’ll be up in London too.  Will I like the course Herman?”

Moss told him all about the Engineering course he had done and by the time he had finished they were down among the beech trees at the stream where it widened into an attractive pool.

They stripped off their clothes and jumped into the cold pond and swam to the rope that trailed into the water.  They took turns at climbing like monkeys and swinging like Tarzan of the Apes, a story that Herman had just been reading in a magazine.  Next they climbed on each other’s shoulders and vied to make the biggest splash.

Exhausted they pulled themselves up onto the bank. “You like swimming, Herman?” asked Stephen as he observed his naked body which was well-muscled with some dark hair against the pale skin.

“Yes, I used to swim every morning—well maybe not in winter—at St Kilda beach and I played Australian football for the University seconds.  My family didn’t like it though, because I played on the Sabbath.  You won’t ever get a seat up the front in the Temple,” he said good-humouredly, looking at Stephen’s uncircumcised cock.

“And I’m glad off it.  I love my foreskin,” he said giving his cock a few strokes.

“I’ve had no complaints about mine, Stephen,” he said haughtily,  “I had two girls when I was at Uni—that is until they found out about each other—and plenty of jealous glances in the changing sheds too.”  He slowly stroked his cock at the memory.  Then he spat on it and increased the pace. “Come on!” he said looking over at Stephen.

Stephen was up for a challenge and had the advantage of being half way to hard to begin with.  He stroked with his left hand and then with his right.  He looked sideways and observed that Herman only used his right hand and took short strokes, almost like trembling. He was always amazed at the different techniques there were for masturbation and how willing boys were to do it together.  For the sake of education he changed to a left backhand and was just thinking about doing it showily from behind his legs when he noticed that Herman had spilled up his chest, emitting an oath.  He had forgotten whether the contest was for the first or the last, but it was no matter for he changed to using two hands and spilled gloriously, arching his back, but feeling no need to curse God.

“That was jolly nice,” said Moss simply, as they called to the dogs and made their way back to the road. 

***** 

Uncle Alfred wrote and asked Stephen to come up to London.  Stephen was proud to invite him to the Saville Club where, as predicted, Stephen was already a popular figure.  His initial visit, about which he’d been so nervous, had been highly successful.  Stephen had worn his very best clothes—one of the beautiful suits from John Blacks of Hanover Square—and he had his good stick and hat.  However, his most distinguished feature was the black eye patch he wore to disguise the bruising he received in the boxing match.  The result was that he looked like a rather soignée pirate when he mounted the steps of the Saville Club in Piccadilly in the company of Erskine Childers, the author.

As all the club servants were called George it was a fairly easy matter to be introduced as a new member.  Childers introduced the pirate to one or two of the older members who were there at that hour and then they retreated to a corner to wait for Lord Delvees who was coming at 5:00.

“Would it be alright if I drank beer, Childers?” he asked.  I don’t care for whiskey all that much—or isn’t that done?”

“No, that’s fine here, Knight.  Just remember that drinks are signed for and no money changes hands.  Some other clubs might look askance, but there are a lot of artists and such in this club and it’s pretty informal.”  It didn’t look informal to Stephen.

And so by the time Stephen came to invite Uncle Alfred, he was already a familiar face to several members, and was partly noticed due to the fact that he was so young and good looking- even without the eye patch- and partly because he had such good manners and was such an attentive listener, virtues that were often rare in club land.

Uncle Alfred was settled in a chair and Stephen ordered whiskey and beer.  He noticed that two other clubmen were drinking beer and Stephen wondered if it were in imitation.

Uncle Alfred looked a lot like his late brother, Martin’s father, but there was a softer edge to him, thought Stephen.  There was a twinkle in his eye now and then that he had never seen in old Lord Branksome, although he never knew him all that well, but it was not the leer that he had developed when he was in the thrall of La Belle Otero.  Martin described his father as having been stern and rather distant.  These flaws were less evident in his younger brother sitting opposite him.

“It’s very nice here, Stephen, just the place for a young blade.  I must have you over to lunch at the Oriental.  Do you like a hot curry?

“Stephen, I want you to look over Branksome House.  I’m keen to spend some of my income—and some of the capital if I have to—to bring it up to scratch.  We’ve got a damn fine chef in M. Defaux but as for the rest…well I know what my pal the Maharaja would say.”

“Yes, Lord Alfred, there’s a million bedrooms and only two bathrooms for the family and only one for the servants.” Stephen paused in further thought then continued concisely: “The dining room is impressive but it’s too big for most of the time and it is hard to keep the food hot when it is used.  You need a room for yourself and I need one to study in.  We have to make it easier for the servants.  And we need the telephone and electricity.”

“We need steam heating too, Stephen.  I’m not going to suffer through a cold London winter.”

Thus they drew up a list.  Stephen suggested that there should be more than one bathroom on each of the upper floors and one on the ground floor and one for the servants in the attic. “I’m an expert in plumbing now, Lord Alfred,” said Stephen with a laugh.  I think we need a smaller dining room near the kitchen and a service lift up to the dining room from the kitchen.  What do you think?”

“That sounds fine.  The Maharaja has electric bells and a speaking tube to call his valet. There’s even a bell under the dining table to call for the next course—I thought that was very clever— but then he has got a hundred servants.  I’ve thought of an architect who might do the job.”

“Not Edwin Lutyens?” said Stephen, naming the fashionable architect recently in the news as the designer of the great new Imperial capital for India.

“Well why not?  I’ve met the fellow and his wife is the daughter of my old friend Bulwer-Lytton, now dead alas.  At least we could ask him and even if the job is too small he could recommend some other chap.”

Stephen had to smile to himself.  Uncle Alfred, just like his brother and indeed just like Martin, automatically opted for the most extravagant—no, that wasn’t quite fair; not ‘extravagant’ he thought to himself, just the very best as if it were a right.

Stephen ordered more drinks and several members nodded to him and one hailed Uncle Alfred as an old school friend.  They then went the few doors down Piccadilly to inspect the old house and were licking their lips at the thought of another dinner prepared by its temperamental chef, M Defaux. 

***** 

Stephen could barely wait until Martin’s school broke-up.  As usual he met him at the station, but this time he took the trap.  His big surprise was a picnic hamper and so, with the dogs in tow, Martin was diverted from his homecoming by a trip up onto the downs.

Martin rested his hand on Stephen’s thigh and gave him little kisses when they were under the twilight cover of the trees in a deep lane.  Soon the horse made its way up beyond the tree line to the chalky, sunlit uplands where there were few trees and where clumps of gorse in bloom added splashes of yellow to the green undulating fabric of the grass.

“Do you remember this spot Mala?” said Derby as they approached a tor.

“Yes, of course. You made me take my clothes of and it was cold.  Are you going to make me take my clothes off again?”

“No Mala, of course not.  You will take them off without me asking—especially if you want any of the lunch in that hamper.”

They pulled into the little heather-floored depression under the tor, which provided some shelter from the breeze.  It was a sunny day and the distant prospect to the south coast was marked by a bright blue line way below.

The dogs were sent off to chase rabbits for Martin feared a cold, wet nose on his bare backside at an inopportune moment.

“Do you want to undress me Derby?”

“No, I just want to watch you.”

Martin sat down on the rug and took off his boots and socks.  He wriggled his toes.  Stephen picked up each foot and sniffed it and then sucked the toes.

“Oh, that’s lovely Derbs, I’m getting hard.”

“How hard?  Let me see.”

Martin let himself be felt through his school trousers.

“They’re tight trousers, Mala.”

“Should I get a bigger size for next term?”

“No, I want people to see what a beautiful arse you’ve got and let them see the bulge in the front; keep them.  My Mala is beautiful.”

Martin took off his shirt.  He wore no vest because Stephen liked that.  He pinched his nipples.

“You like doing that?” asked Stephen, looking intently.

“Yes, I do.  It makes me excited.  I get The Plunger to bite them.”

“Good.  Make sure he doesn’t mark you though.”

“I don’t think I can get my trousers off Derby.  What shall I do? Could you help me?”

Stephen did help, if wrenching them down and tearing the button could be called assistance. Martin was now naked and vulnerable and could feel the wind blowing around his privates.

“Have you spilled today, Mala?” asked Stephen, inspecting him.

“Not since last night.”

“Which hand did you use?”

“Neither, I used my pillow and pretended it was you.”

“Well you don’t have to pretend; I’m here now.”

“Yes, and no pesky feathers to sweep up, Derbs.”

Stephen grabbed him and kissed him hard, running his hands all over his back.

“You’re oiled up, Mala!” he exclaimed, tasting his index finger.

“Yes, before I left; I thought it would save time.”

With that Stephen slid off his own pants and unbuttoned his white shirt so that Martin could feel his chest.  Martin bit Stephen’s lovely brown nipples and Stephen returned the compliment.  Then Martin lay on his back and lifted his legs and Stephen entered him.  There were tears in Martin’s eyes from the pain, but they made for a pretty halo effect around Stephen’s head that was silhouetted against unfathomable blue depths of the glorious windy blue sky above.

Stephen fucked Martin until his cock ached, all the while telling Martin how much he was loved, and with each spillage the sincerity of the endearments was intensified.

At last Martin said, “Derby, I’m hungry, could we eat now?”

“Mala, I don’t think you were paying attention, I just gave you one of my best serves.  Didn’t you think that one was particularly fine?”

“Oh yes, Derbs, terribly good and such a lot— did you say there was cold chicken?”

“It wasn’t the quantity, it was the technique,” muttered Stephen who had rolled over and was lifting the lid off the hamper.  The luncheon was shared with the four dogs who had returned and Martin and Stephen took turns in drinking from the bottle of beer.

“Are you cold Mala?”

“A bit.  Can I put my clothes on?”

“Not just yet.” Stephen pulled him close and put his warm arm around him.  I’m glad your home Mala.  It’s going to be a wonderful summer.”  

***** 

“I’m not quite finished yet, Chilvers,” said Martin, “Leave our tea.”

“What was that, your lordship?”

Martin took Stephen’s cock out of his mouth and emerged from his concealment beneath the bedclothes. “I said to leave it and is there any post?”

“Quite a deal sir, I’ll put it by the toast rack.” The butler put the tray down on the table and made to withdrew as Martin put his head back under.  Stephen was sitting up, bare-chested, with a big grin on his face. “Good morning, Mr Chilvers,” he said brightly, looking at him.

“Good morning, sir,” said Chilvers as he made for the door.

“That was very tasty!’ said Martin at last, coming to the surface and licking his lips.  “I say, I hope I didn’t hurt your cock with my teeth, Derby.”

“No, not at all, Mala.  It’s pretty robust.  I’ll do you after you’ve had your tea if you like.”

“Yes, please, but make it quick because it looks like it’s a glorious day out there.”

Martin was spreading marmalade on his toast and going through his mail.  He opened a short note from William.  Nothing much to report there, although his handwriting was now so spidery it was difficult to decipher some parts.

“Here, this one’s for you, Derbs.”  He handed over a large official-looking envelope and he watched while Stephen opened it.  It was his results.  Stephen tried to keep a straight face and to act as if it were nothing, but he couldn’t help himself and he broke into a smile and grabbed Martin and kissed him hard, upsetting the teacups on the tray.

Of course all Stephen’s results were very good indeed.  He had excelled in mathematics and calculus, the intricacies of the Thirty Years War had obviously not been lost; in Literature he had a near perfect score and even in German, a new subject for him, he had scored respectably.

“Oh, Derbs, congratulations!  You are so clever and have worked so hard.  Any university in the country will have you.  You can take your pick.”

“I’ve already decided, I still want the University of London.  Oxford and Cambridge aren’t for me—although I could go there later perhaps.  Oh Mala, I feel I could burst!”

There was much cuddling and excited pinching and a quantity of tea was spilled.

There was another letter, now a bit sodden, with a foreign stamp on it.  Martin opened it while he let Stephen find an outlet for his joy in the manipulation of his blonde cock.

“I say, Stephen, this is a letter from cousin Friedrich.  Would we like to visit him in Germany during the summer?  What do you think of that?”

Stephen, being very clever, was able to furiously work Martin’s cock and think deeply at the same time.  “I’d love to, if you’d like to go.  I think his people live a long way away, though.”

“Yes, it’s Königsberg in East Prussia.  You know we could go there by boat.  I’ll get the atlas later.”

“Mala, there are things to be done here at Croome over the summer too and I want to go to France and see my new boat.  I have to get ready for London too.”

“Well, let’s see,” said Martin using his fingers as a calendar, “Why don’t we spend two weeks here, a few days in London on our way to France, then off to Friedrich on the train and then back to England.  I’ll have to go back to school, but you can stay in London or come back here; it will be ages before you start.  I need to be here for the Agricultural show, next week.

“And I can help Herman,” put in Stephen.  Do you think The Plunger and I could box?

“Ah yes, The Plunger.  Do you want to invite him to Antibes?”

“Certainly, and Chris and Douglas too.  We got on well together, don’t you think?”

“Yes we did,” said Martin, thinking that he would have to share his Stephen once again.

“Why don’t we invite The Plunger down soon and have the others meet us in London before we go?”

“That’s a plan. What will Friedrich’s family be like Mala?” asked Stephen.

“I don’t know.  Rather grand I imagine.  His sister is a strict Lutheran, he said.  I don’t know about the rest.”

“Do you think we should take a valet?  Would that impress them?”

“You mean Carlo?” It might.  You don’t mean to France as well?”

“No, the simple life there, Mala.  No servants: that’s a rule.  I’m going to teach you how to clean a lavatory.”

Any task done with Stephen was fine by him, Martin thought, all the same, was it now the way of the world in the year 1912 that a belted Earl should have to clean lavatories?  What then was the use of the aristocracy?

 “Suck me Stephen,” he said, “I feel like I owe you one.”

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 11/29/13