Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013-2014 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 27
One-and-six in the larger size  

A knock at the door interrupted Martin’s cosy conversation with The Plunger in front of the fire in his school bedroom.  Martin opened the door and took an involuntary step back.  Before him was small boy in school uniform.  He was an untidy, hairy creature—an infant parody of an adult—a troll or perhaps one of the Nibelung.  When this object finally spoke, it was in a deep voice, rather like the croaking of a bullfrog.

“Who are you?” said Martin.  The Plunger came to look.

“I’m Spong, Mr Poole.”

“Well what do you want Spong?”

“I’m here to fag for you, Mr Poole.”

Martin was horrified. “But I don’t want a fag.”

“Oh,” croaked Spong, mightily crestfallen. Tears welled up in his eyes and he removed his round spectacles and produced a filthy handkerchief and dabbed his eyes.  “It’s just that I had to fight two other boys to get you, Mr Poole.  There are more first formers than there are sixth-formers, you see.”  He gave a pathetic sniff and wiped his nose with the hairy back of his hand.

Martin looked at The Plunger helplessly and said: “Well, come in for a minute Spong—and do try to stop snivelling.”

Martin stood him before the fire and regarded him. “I didn’t like fagging when I was a junior, Spong, and I don’t want anyone to do it for me.  Oughtn’t we stamp it out at this school, Plunger?”

“Oh steady on, Poole, it’s a tradition—probably feudal.  Where would we be without tradition?”  The Plunger was speaking from self-interest for he had been assigned a fag who claimed to be a prince from an obscure archipelago in the Indian Ocean and this elevated scion occasionally allowed The Plunger to wear his blue turban in exchange for help with his Latin.

Martin weakened. “Well, can you make toast and cook sausages over a fire?” Spong didn’t know, but set to work on some toast directly after Martin and The Plunger had cleaned him up. “I suppose you could also black my boots, Spong, but I will want to see your prep.  Can you bring me some to look at tomorrow after matins?”

Spong, who was busily filling the room with the smell of charcoal, said he did have some homework and would bring it to Martin the following day.  At last two pieces of toast were selected from five and found to be almost edible and Spong was dismissed.

“I didn’t like having to masturbate my six-former when I was his age, Plunger.  I don’t want to put anyone else through that just because I am now in the sixth.”

“But think of how valuable the practice has been for you, Poole,” countered Archie, “in fact I think you should use all that accumulated wisdom right now.”

Spong returned the following evening.  He took Martin’s boots away to shine them while Martin ran his eye over the boy’s work.  His exercise book was filthy and Martin didn’t even like touching it.  The pages were covered in scrawl and inkblots and when a certain amount of deciphering had taken place it was clear that Spong was not mentally gifted.

The boy returned with the boots, now clean. “You can see you face in ’em, Mr Poole,” said Spong pleased with himself.

“It’s Lord Poole actually, Spong, but just call me Poole, please”

“Very good Mr Poole.”

“Come and explain what this English essay is about, Spong.”

“It’s meant to be Latin, Mr Poole.”

“Oh yes, so it is.”  To Martin surprise the smelly boy climbed up on his knee and they both looked at the work together, Spong somehow translating his hieroglyphics into Latin and then into English. “Stop squirming, Spong; you’re too heavy.  Get down.”  Spong climbed down sorrowfully and tears welled up behind his glasses again.  Martin applied his handkerchief.  “Spong, you know there’s no blubbing at school—the other chaps will tease you.”

“Oh I can biff them,” said Spong, “I might be short, but I’m strong.” And indeed the upper portion of his abbreviated form was absurdly muscular.  “When do you want me to suck you, Mr Poole?”

“I don’t want you to do it at all, Spong.”

“Oh,” said Spong. Martin thought he might cry again, but he was just lost in thought.  “Please don’t tell the other boys, Mr Poole, or they’ll rag me something frightful.”

That was agreed to and Martin asked about the other first-formers.  “Oh they have to suck, Mr Poole, and two of them have already been shaved by their six-formers so they look more like girls.” Martin disapproved of this treatment in a modern educational institution and let Spong know it. “They laugh at me because I’ve got a lot of hair—for my age.”

“Yes, perhaps you do.  Are you sure you’re only 13?”

“Not quite yet, Mr Poole.  My father says it too; says I take after my mother, only she doesn’t wear spectacles.” Martin was unsure if he wanted to hear about Spong’s family, but thought he may be homesick—not that he ever was.

“Who is your father Spong?”

“Spong’s Soothing Salve, sir; 1/6 for the larger size.  Available everywhere.” Martin looked puzzled. “You must have seen the advertisements, Mr Poole, they’re on all the ’buses.” Martin did think it was vaguely familiar. “Wait on a minute.”  He climbed off Martin’s knee and was out the door, passing The Plunger who was just arriving.

“He’s an odd one, Plunger.  I say, can you help me with this geometry question of his.  The work seems harder than when we were in first form, don’t you think?”

Spong returned and put the kettle on the grate.  He produced a cardboard box from his pocket.  The Plunger took it and read aloud: “Spong’s Soothing Salve.”

“Yes, Mr Craigth; 1/6 for the larger size.  Available everywhere.”

“Never heard of it, Spong,” said The Plunger shortly, handing it back to him.

“Oh you must have; it’s advertised on all the ’buses.”

“I have never ridden on an omnibus, Spong,” said The Plunger, imperiously, putting in his monocle and looking down at him as if he were some impudent insect in a jar.

While the kettle was boiling, Martin tried to help him with his prep. “Try and keep your jotter neater, Spong.  The masters will take marks off if they can’t read it.  Now don’t blub, Spong!”

The Plunger was idly testing some of the medicament on his finger. “Oh it won’t hurt you, Mr Craigth.  It’s mainly water and glycerine; quite useless really except that it’s very good for…”

“Good for what?” asked The Plunger, innocently.

“For this,” said Spong and made a movement with his hand. “I’ll bring you the 1/6 larger size, and you can have as much as you like for nothing, sir.” 

***** 

The lacrosse team had trained well under Martin’s captaincy and only recently they had soundly beaten another school and had lost honourably to a visiting Canadian one.  A second side had been created.  Martin was drying himself in the Craigth Pavilion after a soapy shower when ffinch came in with another boy.

“I say Poole, do you know Goss-Orford minor?”

“Hello. You must be Jumbo’s younger brother.” The boy nodded.

“Goss-Orford wants to try out for the seconds, Poole,” said ffinch “and he asked me to speak up for him as we are both in the same scout troop at home.”

“Do you know how to play lacrosse, Goss-Orford?” asked Martin, looking at the boy who did not seem particularly robust.

“Not exactly, Poole, but I’m awfully keen to learn after watching you chaps.” Martin put his towel around his neck and felt Goss-Orford’s arms and shoulders through his clothes.  He was not well muscled and Martin looked doubtful.

“I know he’s a bit puny at the moment, Poole,” said ffinch, “but he’ll grow and I know you will see to his exercises.  He can do something that other fellows can’t.  Show him Goss.”

Goss-Orford took off his trousers and ffinch pulled up his shirt.  He had a nice cock, but nothing special and Martin was beginning to wonder what it was all about.  ffinch bent him over and got him to hold his cheeks apart, revealing a hairless crack. “I cleaned him up before coming,” volunteered ffinch.  Still Martin looked puzzled.

All of a sudden Martin noticed that Goss-Orford’s puckered hole was now gaping wide. Then it closed up tight and then it opened wide again. This winking went on for a minute.

“You’re doing that Goss-Orford?” asked Martin in mild astonishment.

“Yes he is,” answered ffinch for him. “Go on Goss.”

The opening and closing went on for some seconds.

“…dash, dash, dash; dot, dot, dot; dot, dot, dot; dot—Lacrosse!  Well done Goss-Orford” said ffinch turning in triumph to Martin.

“We learnt the Morse code in Scouts and we trained Goss-Orford in this special talent.  Our scoutmaster said it’s sure to come in handy for secret transmissions in wartime.  Think of the secrets that could be entrusted to him and the enemy would never know how they were passed on.” Martin looked doubtful.  “We practice for hours after lights out, but I can’t do it nearly as well as Goss-Orford— I have to learn to do it faster and my spelling lets me down.”

“Well, I suppose he does deserve a tryout.  Come to practice tomorrow, Goss-Orford.”

There was a furious volley of anal winking over several silent minutes.

“Oh, Goss,” said ffinch, “that’s an old joke!  And he does say to thank you, Poole.”

Goss-Orford was dressed and the pair departed, Martin rather glad that there was a half term break at the end the week. 

***** 

Martin found himself back at Croome and for once there was no enthusiastic Stephen to greet him, for he was still in London and would be coming down with his new friend, Fortune, the following afternoon.  Martin had wondered about Mr Fortune and Mr Thayer as he only had Stephen’s letters to go on.  Stephen was a good correspondent—better than Martin was himself, he reflected—although Stephen’s last missive consisted entirely of sheets of stained writing paper which Martin put down to both Stephen’s preoccupation with his studies and his loneliness.

Martin was glad that Stephen had found some friends, even though there always lurked a particle of fear in a remote corner of his mind that Stephen might fall in love with someone else.  However, he had never expected any new friends to be academics and certainly never a ‘couple’ as Stephen had so described them.  He wondered about Thayer whom Stephen had invited to stay at Croome until his thesis was completed: A man in his thirties was slightly beyond the circle that he had expected Stephen and himself to draw their friends from, however, he reflected again, he should not have been surprised; Stephen was able to make friends with people of all ages and stations—he only had to look at the people on his own estate, and hadn’t Churchill, Asquith and their wives all found Stephen to their liking?  Didn’t he find Stephen to his liking?  He mused as he rubbed his cock through his trousers, wishing that Stephen would hurry up and arrive.

“Where is Mr Thayer, Chilvers?” asked Martin as the butler was helping him change from his school clothes to a comfortable tweed suit.

“In the Waterloo Room, your lordship, and he is using the room next to it as his study, sir.  I have taken the liberty of placing Mr Fortune in there when he arrives, sir, and I will attend them both to prevent any awkwardness, although James has been acting as Mr Thayer’s valet until now.”

“Thank you, Chilvers.  Discreet as an ambassador,” Chilvers smiled and withdrew.

Martin knocked softly on the door of the Waterloo Room.

“Come” replied a voice from inside.  Martin entered and found the visitor sitting at an Empire desk emblazoned with gilded arrows with his eyes down, writing steadily.  When there was no further sound for a minute he looked up, registering surprise behind his round spectacles.  He stood up. “I’m sorry, I thought you were James.  You must be Lord Martin; I’m Jack Thayer, your lordship.”

“Yes I am, Mr Thayer, and I’m sorry for interrupting you.  I know the purpose of your visit is so that you can work undisturbed.”

“Oh no, your lordship.  Please forgive me.  Thanks to your generosity my work is going very well indeed and I can devote this weekend to some leisure.  Having Mr Moss here has also been a great help—he has been executing some of my drawings—he has a beautiful hand sir- and you can be sure that his name and yours will be acknowledged in the forward.  Young James has been most useful too and I send him once or twice a day to the post office with my manuscript for the typiste up in London.”

Martin did not quite know what to make of Thayer.  With his studious attitude and round spectacles he did not look particularly warm and friendly and the age difference did not make it easy for finding common ground.  However he had not been unfriendly—indeed he was actually quite nice—and so Martin pressed on for the sake of Stephen.  “Well I wonder, Mr Thayer, if you would care to join me for a walk.  I was going to stretch my legs in the direction of the village and take Job.”

“I would like that very much your lordship.  I often take Job for a walk; he’s a fine animal.” Just then he removed his spectacles and laid them on top of his writing.  Martin felt a flash of warmth from his eyes and, coupled with his attitude towards his dog, tipped the balance decidedly in his favour, despite his being all of thirty-five.

They walked down the drive towards Branksome-le-Bourne while Job ran excitedly from side to side as if he’ never been there before.  All experiences were new to dogs and that made him reflect on how humans often suffered when the familiar became the tired.  Would he and Stephen ever grow tired of each other?  He wanted to ask Thayer about such relationships between men.  Were they the same as between husbands and wives, lovers and mistresses?  Instead he said:  “You and Mr Fortune have known each other for several years, I believe, Mr Thayer.”

“We have, your lordship,” and he went on to describe their meeting when Fortune was a young student and he was a married man working at London University.  “I don’t know what I’d do without Charles, your lordship.  I mean he’s not much help around the house—but I’m no better.  He isn’t serious like I am— I’m too serious I fear—and he’s not as good looking as you or Stephen are, but I do hope you find him attractive because I do.  We always want our friends to like the things we like, don’t we?  But I can never understand what he sees in a tragic case like me, yet I think he loves me.  I’m sorry, I’m rambling on at bit and I shouldn’t be.”

“Not at all, Mr Thayer.  I often wonder what Stephen sees in me.  He could have any number of boys—or girls for that matter (and has had quite a few omitted Martin) but we fell for each other—well I fell for him—right over there through the trees when I saw him swimming.  I know it can’t be predicted if a thing will last, but can you tell me what it’s like to live together like…”

“…like man and wife?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“It makes me feel fulfilled.  I like it when he comes home.  I like waking up with him.  There is someone to discuss things with.  All of those sorts of things—but with us it has to be hidden, of course.”

“I was just wondering if…well with me… no with both of us—we are quite excited to see each other and…”

“You’re wondering if the excitement fades.”  

“Yes, I suppose and I don’t want it too.  And Stephen is a wonderful lover,” said Martin in a sudden burst of candour.

“I can well imagine.  It does fade a bit, but it’s nice having the certainty.  However it doesn’t have to become boring if you’re not selfish—think about the other person.”

“Yes, Stephen is very good at doing that.  He’s always concerned about how others are feeling, not just with me, but with everyone he knows.  He always needs to know that his friends are fulfilled like he is—it can be quite funny at times.  But don’t worry, I think your Mr Fortune will be safe, although all my friends are all very keen on Stephen and he…well both of us…don’t mind if he spreads himself around a little, but he’d never smash a relationship like yours; he loves romance too much for that and he’s as loyal as a spaniel.  Here let me introduce you to some people.”

They had reached the village and Titus Knight was handing over some freshly dug potatoes to Miss Tadrew.  A few words were exchanged, Knight, lifting his cap and Miss Tadrew confirming that she would come to lunch the following day.

When they walked on, Martin explained who these two figures were and Thayer placed two more pieces in the puzzle that was the extraordinary Stephen. 

***** 

“Mr Stephen won’t get out of bed, Chilvers,” said Martin when the butler came to clear away their early morning tea things.

Stephen was lying prone in the bed. “I’m too hard, Mr Chilvers what am I to do?”

Chilvers raised an eyebrow and spoke to Martin. “Well, your lordship, we could ice a soup spoon again or try Job whose nose is particularly cold and wet this morning.  But if it’s very serious we’d better call Dr Markby; he may need to give Mr Stephen an injection.”

“Not that! I hate needles!” cried Stephen and immediately rolled over, leapt from the bed and dashed to the bathroom with his hard cock leading the way.

The sounds of splashing informed them that Stephen was in the bathtub and Chilvers set aside the tray and took in some towels in an effort to stem the tidal wave that usually accompanied Stephen’s ablutions.

A few minutes later he emerged with his eyebrow raised once more.

“Mr Stephen said that if I won’t join him in the bath he will have to ask you, your lordship.”

“What did you say, Chilvers?” asked Martin, giggling.

“I said that I had the silver to polish and I won’t repeat what he said I could begin polishing, your lordship.  I fear that Carlo Sifridi has been an unfortunate influence on Mr Knight-Poole…” He saw Martin slide out of bed also with his cock hard. “…on you both.  Ring when your lordship and Mr Stephen want to be dried and I’ll lay out your grey suits for today’s celebration.”

***** 

The luncheon for Herman Moss was a very pleasant affair.  Moss was to depart in only a week so that he might be back in his native Australia in time for Hanukkah.  He was confident that the contractor under Blake’s supervision and with the help of his new assistant, Treeby, would be able to replicate the building program in 1914.

Martin had an illuminated testimonial prepared and presented it to Moss along with a photograph of Croome in a silver frame.  He also offered Croome as a honeymoon destination if Moss ever married his sweetheart back in Melbourne.

“You will stay on until Christmas, Mr Thayer—I’m sorry—Jack?” asked Martin.

“That is very kind of you, Martin.  Charles and I don’t have any family we can go to.  I sincerely hope that I’ve finished my thesis by then or I will be in trouble but I imagine a Christmas in a house like this would be very memorable.”

“And I want you to come back to London with Charles and me the day after tomorrow, Mala,” said Stephen, leaning across the table.  “I want to show you what Uncle Alfred has been doing and I want you to go shopping with me.” Martin agreed.

He had quickly warmed to Charles Fortune whose sense of humour—or rather his amusing way—was charmingly combined with a certain forgetfulness and vulnerability and it was lovely to see how Thayer fussed over him.  On his part, he looked to Thayer for approval and did silly things with his fork and napkin, when he thought no one else was watching, for example, just to privately amuse the serious Thayer.

The next day Martin went to church and read the lesson while Stephen was left in charge of the tiny fireplace at the end of the family pew.  There was tennis until a squall drove them inside.  Thayer returned to his desk while Stephen, Moss and Fortune joined Martin in a ride.

“I thought all you Australians could ride, Moss?” teased Martin.  Moss was struggling to control his mount and feared that a canter might turn at any moment into an alarming gallop.

“I don’t live in the bush, your lordship; I usually ride on the cable tram where, I might tell you, I’ve often been praised by young ladies for my fine seat on the dummy.”

They came to the swimming place.  It was too cold to swim, but Stephen wanted to show it to Fortune.  Moss and Martin exchanged glances.  They dismounted and walked about on the carpet of fallen beech leaves, admiring the beauty of the spot.  Suddenly Stephen said, “Who wants a dip?”  They all firmly shook their heads, despite Stephen’s imploring.  Undeterred he shed his own clothes and jogged down the gentle slope and dived in where he knew the water was at its deepest and came up gasping “Come on in Mala.  It’s warm after a bit,” he called, pushing his locks back from his eyes.

“You’re mad, Derby. You’ll catch your death.”

Stephen just grinned and, like the bully he was, dished some of the freezing water in the direction of any of those who were foolish enough to stand too near.  Each drop was like liquid ice.  He dived under and emerged spluttering some distance further away near the rope and waved back at them.  He hauled himself up the rope and then dropped like a boulder, yelling and laughing while the others watched on.  He swam the length of the pool and, growing bored, at last made for shore where he was helped onto the bank by Moss.

“You’re freezing Stephen!” cried Moss, but Stephen was grinning with his blue eyes shining from beneath his hair, which was plastered flat over his face.

“No I’m fine and quite warm. Feel.”  He hugged his icy, wet body to Moss who laughed and tried to wriggle free and then Stephen lunged at Charles and did the same.

“Get off Stephen, you’re soaking me!” he cried.  Then Stephen spotted Martin who tried to flee but Stephen chased him across the leaves, cock and balls swinging, until he too was captured and squeezed in a chilly, sodden bear hug as well.

“You’re warming me up quite nicely, Mala,” he said grinding his cock into Martin’s groin but not letting him free.  Martin relented and put his arms around his polar bear and hugged him back, not minding the cold. The others came up to the pair and with handkerchiefs, jackets and a horse blanket and attempted to dry Stephen’s glistening body.  He released Martin after a few minutes’ punishment and Martin took off his scarf and personally dried Stephen’s cock and balls. “These seem unaffected by the elements,” said Martin to the others, and indeed it was true and Stephen’s cock even began to rise under Martin’s ministrations. 

That night Thayer and Fortune came and sat on Martin’s bed and the four of them talked until it was quite late.  When they at last departed for their own room, Martin snuggled down next to Stephen who was, as usual, warm as toast.

“They’re nice, Derbs.  I’m so glad you’ve found friends in London.  Friends are important aren’t they?”

“Yes, Mala, you need to make sure they don’t slip away.  Let’s not lose The Plunger when he leaves school.  You know, Mala, I wouldn’t mind if you and The Plunger…you know…when we’re apart.”

“But I thought you said that that was something special between just you and me, Derbs?”

“Yes it is.  It is special between you and me, but that’s because it is between you and me, not because of what it is we do, don’t you think?

“What I mean is that it might be a way of showing how much you love The Plunger—how much we both do—before it’s too late.  I know it won’t diminish our love.”

“You love me, Derby?”

“I love you, Mala, no one else—at least not like I love you.”

“I will think about what you say, Derby.  I certainly think it would have been all right if you had done more with Christopher.  He loves you too.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.  I might never see him again; that happens between friends.  Do you think I show my love enough?”

“Oh Derby, you show your love more than anyone I know.  I only meant that Christopher might have felt even closer to you if you had…”

“Maybe, you’re right.  I still don’t think it would have changed his view of the fairer sex.  In his last letter he said that the new place he is lodging at has a landlady with three daughters.  I think they all make a fuss of him and he enjoys it. ‘We await developments’ I wrote to him.”

“Will we ever get to Antibes again, Derby?”

“Why ever not Mala?  We’ll go after Christmas if you like.  What made you say that?”

“Oh I don’t know.  It just seems that we’re all going our separate ways and then there’s William…”

Stephen rolled on his back and pulled Martin on top of him, holding him there with his arms about him. “Things do change, but the new world is more often than not just as nice as the lost one.”

“Is that so Dr Pangloss?” said Martin, kissing him. “That’s why you’re a Liberal and I’m a Tory.”   

*****

Stephen and Martin made their way to the speciality shop in the vicinity of Wardour Street. The bell pinged and they commenced a cursory examination of the books for sale in the front part of the emporium.  The proprietor appeared and, perhaps recognising them, parted the curtain to the rear room where the more interesting goods were on display.

“I’d like a new leather strap for my—for my penis,” declared Stephen as he moved towards the counter.

“Very good sir.  I hope the previous one gave you no trouble—except to the extent that you desired it, of course.”

“Oh no, Mr…?”

“Weintraub, sir.”

“It was greatly admired, Mr Weintraub, and it was good and tight.  I gave it away to someone who would appreciate it.”

“Well we do have a similar one that also divides the scrotum,” he said laying one on the counter. “Do you think this style would be flattering on sir?” he said to Martin.

“Oh yes, very flattering.  Do you think it would hurt, Stephen?”

“No, not much; my balls can take a fair bit of punishment.  It will feel good on.”

“It’s a pity I won’t get to see you wearing it more often.  I’ll miss you terribly, until Christmas, Derbs.”

“And your friend, the tall, red-headed gentleman with the …” and here Weintraub put two fingers together and made a monocle.  “He may be interested in a new line: silver rings set with precious stones.  I think emeralds would suit a man of his refined tastes.”

“I will tell him, Mr Weintraub, when I see him back at school,” said Martin.

“I could not help overhearing that you gentlemen were unfortunate enough to be parted for long periods.  I do have something that may help ease—although that is hardly the word—the separation.”

“Oh no, we already have dildos,” said Martin as they were led to the counter devoted to this product.

“Ah, but these are a new line—they are always coming up with novelties—these are made of moulded gutta-percha and are very life-like.  He held one gently in two hands for their inspection and it did seem to be anatomically correct, even down to painted veins and blood vessels.

“Yes, these are very nice but…”

“But wait, gentlemen, these are bespoke models; they are cast from life, so to speak.”

“Do you mean I could have one made of my friend’s manhood, Mr Weintraub?”

“Indeed sir.  Exact in every detail—no doubt familiar to you—and at full size.  It will almost be like him being there and they are much superior to ones made of glass and other rigid materials.  Of course they are not cheap, but what is money in the long, empty hours?”

“How are they made?”

“Well, gentlemen, we take a plaster cast of the original in two halves—not unpleasant at all sir—and then the rubber solution is poured in and then we have a team of skilled artists in our workshops upstairs who do the painted finishes—drawn straight from the art schools of the capital.”

“I had imagined that you lived upstairs.”

“Oh no sir, not any more, my wife and I live in Wimbledon.  Upstairs is our busy workshop and mail order office.  He opened a cupboard and there were dozens of penis-like gutta-percha dildos, of every imaginable shape and size, standing on shelves with name tags attached with twine.  Martin craned his neck and tried to read who the purchasers were but most of the tags were face down.

“Oh please sir, we are known for our discretion,” admonished Weintraub.

“I’m sorry,” said Martin, blushing.

There were several on the top shelf wrapped up in brown paper, standing a little apart from all the others. “What are those?” asked Martin.

“Not what, sir, whose and I am not at liberty to say,” he said, hurriedly closing the cupboard and turning the key.

“You don’t mean that they are for the roy…”

“Please, sir.  Don’t say another word.”

“Would you like one Mala?” asked Stephen.  Martin’s eyes were shining and he nodded. “How much Mr Weintraub?”

“Well sir, they are usually 15 shillings, but for you I’m afraid we’d have to make a special extra-large mould and more gutta-percha would be required of course….shall we say 18/6. We could take the impression now and it would be ready in a week.”

“Oh.  I have to go back to school before then,” said Martin.

“Well, sir, for an even two pounds we could do an urgent order—we often find that there is a pressing need among our customers—and it could be ready late tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll do it,” said Stephen, not even looking at Martin.

“Well sir, if you’d step behind the screen we will take measurements and get started.

“Won’t you need to measure me as well?” asked Martin.

Weintraub looked at him over the top of his spectacles. “That is hardly the point, sir.  Usually it will be made to fit irrespective of the other party.”

“That’s right, Mala, The Plunger can use it on you if you can’t manage it yourself.”

“You might tell the aptly named gentleman that he might need to be quite forceful—even ruthless, sir.  Such is love, sir.”

Martin set to work helping Stephen get hard while Weintraub mixed the plaster of Paris.  A little skilful carpentry resulted in a suitably sized mould that was filled with the warm plaster, which had a pleasant texture, Stephen thought.

“You must remain at your maximum extension, sir, for ten minutes, said Weintraub. “If sir could assist—perhaps by tweaking the nipples or any other place that sir knows of—I will sketch the testicles.”

“Why?” asked Stephen, as Martin chewed his earlobe and pinched his nipples. 

“Well, sir, we do not usually make plaster casts of that area, sir, and so we rely on an artist’s impression and sculpt from a solid block.  The testicles also help the finished object stand, sir.” He set to work with a pencil and indeed the sketch was quite life-like.

“Which one of my balls do you like best, Mala?” asked Stephen thoughtfully, as he stood still with his cock encased in plaster.

Martin wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “My favourite is the left one,” he said at last.  Stephen looked disappointed. “I mean on my left; that would be your right one, Derbs.”

“I’m glad you said that, Mala.  I’ve always thought it was my best one.  I say, Mr Weintraub, how did you get into this business?”

“Well sir, I was born in Bohemia and came to Paris where I met my wife, sir.  She is from the Kameroun.  I was working as a life artist and then for someone in a similar line to this. My wife did not like Paris and always longed to live in an English garden suburb and join the Women’s Institute.  I must say the ladies of Wimbledon and Surbiton have accepted her wonderfully well, even though she’s as black as your hat; she’s very good with jams and knitting—I think that helps.  I think it will be dry now, sir.”

The cast was carefully removed and a little brushing and warm water removed any flecks of plaster.  Stephen was buttoned up with difficulty and they departed, having paid a deposit on the phallus. 

It was with some excitement that they returned after tea the next day. Martin had to depart for school directly, his box having already been sent on, and so they were to go straight to Paddington following their purchase.

The finished piece was a work of art indeed.  It was lifelike—except for the rather rubbery colour—and the artists had picked out lines in red and blue.  Two hemispheres represented a portion of Stephen’s balls.  “One of our finest pieces of work young sirs.  May we keep the mould for our more adventurous customers?”

“No, Mr Weintraub, we’d like this to be ours alone,” replied Martin.

“I think I’m harder than this, don’t you Mala?” said Stephen, flexing the gutta-percha.

Brown paper and string were found and with difficulty Mr Weintraub wrapped it, saying: “To go with these we usually recommend Spong’s Soothing Salve. 1/6 for the larger size. We do have it in stock, but it’s available everywhere.”

The balance was paid, he was thanked and they departed.

“Hurry, Mala, here’s our ’bus!” called Stephen. They sprinted.

“Derbs!” cried Martin, “The string is coming loose!” And indeed it was. Already one end (the scrotum) had worked its way out of the brown paper and Martin tried frantically to conceal it, but the paper now seemed too short and the string was hopelessly knotted.

They made the bus and found a seat.  Now the other end had poked its nose impudently out of the paper where Martin held it on his lap.  He gently tried to push it back with the result that the right ball (or the left one- depending on where you were standing—in any case, the one that Stephen esteemed the most) was now fully visible out the other end and already a clergyman sitting opposite was tilting his head to try and make out what was that the gentleman had in his parcel.

Martin glared at the clergyman and put the dildo on the seat next to him.

“Stop fidgeting Mala,” said Stephen and proceeded to engage him in conversation while Martin looked up at an advertisement for Spong’s.

“What-ho! This is out stop.” He leapt up, pulling Martin with him and they tumbled down the stairs into the road.

“The parcel!” cried Martin and was just about to leap back on the omnibus when a lady handed down the now slatternly-wrapped purchase, just as the ’bus lurched off.  By now both ends were exposed and the string was all but useless. “Look at this Derby, what am I to do?” lamented Martin as he held it out to Stephen.  Just then a boy on a bicycle sped past and bumped Martin with the result that the parcel fell from his hands into a puddle.

“I say, Mala. That’s me you’ve dropped and it cost two quid. Be more careful.”

Martin picked up the sodden rubber cock. The brown paper had now dissolved in the water. Already people hurrying to catch their trains were pausing for a minute in order to look at the curious piece of sculpture held by the young gentleman.  Stephen thought that Martin might cry so he went over to the kiosk and brought him a newspaper.

“Thank you, Derby,” said Martin, taking the paper, with which he enfolded their recent purchase as he was shepherded along the platform.  They said their goodbyes and Martin slumped back into his seat with Stephen’s big cock across his lap.

He was just looking out of the window as the station slid away when a woman spoke: “Young man.  If you’re not reading it, may I please look at the weather forecast in your Telegraph?”

To be continued... 

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

Posted: 01/03/14