The hot pâté en croûte was superb and Martin recorded this hors-d’oeuvre in his tiny silver notebook with a pencil.  He was planning to discuss the food of France with M. Lefaux, the chef at Branksome house, lately returned to them.  He knew he would have to be diplomatic, for Lefaux was a Great Artist and, like many a diva, inclined to be temperamental and to break things.  This pâté was followed by brochettes et truites, tomates farcies and then a very plump poulet aux haricots verts —really the spécialité du pays—then coeur à la crème and finally pâtisseries et fruits.  It was really one of the finest luncheons of their trip so far.

They were avoiding the big towns and the more luxurious hotels that catered for what foreign tourists expected to find—breakfasts for the English, absence of garlic for the Parisians and iced water and prepared foods for the Americans.  They had sought out the little unpretentious places where the local bourgeoisie went to celebrate and where mamam did the cooking, rather like the Bistro de Blazon in Antibes.  At present they were about 60 kilometres beyond Lyons and had been on the road for a week.  They had just finished an interesting bottle of Seyssel followed by a perfect Beaujolais and were now, as the conversation was flowing, capping the lazy afternoon with a glass of the local Marc.

“We will have to have separate rooms again, I’m afraid,” said Martin.  “The pension is charming but tiny and the walls are paper thin.  Do you think you can save yourself, Derby?”

“Of course, Mala” said Stephen.  “I have powerful self-control.  However, just don’t bend over to pick up that sou, Archie, I might find myself mounting you like a bull.”

The Plunger shivered with delight.  He had been having a wonderful time with his two friends, with only a few moments when Stephen and Martin could detect a certain sadness- tristesse as the French called it—in his eyes.  He was a solitary fellow, The Plunger, and not given to revealing much about himself; you had to work at it.  Martin perhaps had been his only close friend at school.  He had also been very good in the matter of bringing just a small Pullman trunk on this trip.  Gertie, his valet, had been left behind, for it was one of Stephen’s rules that they were to look after themselves in Antibes, without servants.

Martin’s huge Rolls Royce had been packed with luggage.  The Plunger’s trunk was lashed to the luggage rack as were a suitcase each for Martin and Stephen.  A picnic hamper was strapped to the running board and distributed throughout the vehicle were supplies for Antibes including some army blankets (for Stephen had a liking for them), presents for their friends, documents, maps and two cans of petrol, as France was ill-equipped for motorists and it was easy to get stranded.  They had obtained British passports, for the days of unfettered travel across Europe were at an end and borders were now hostile, dangerous places even for the upper classes.

The route they had chosen avoided those parts of northern France lately associated with the War.  They had headed for Brittany and wound their way through central France, marvelling at the differences in the huge country.  They had seen Chartres and had eaten duck with calvados.  They turned south to the Vendée, and beyond Nantes they saw houses painted pink and yellow and there were oleanders in tubs at their doors.  There they ate wonderful soles with delicate sauces, plump Atlantic sardines and a stew called chaudraie.  There was goat’s cheese.

They headed to Perigueux in the curious region called Perigord where the barefooted peasants still worked the land of the métayer and lived under his roof.  It seemed a happy land where snails were the spécialité du pays and there was a hearty peasant dish of a fowl cooked in soup.

They followed the banks of the Dordogne then turned northwest to the Rhone below Lyons. From here they headed south to Dijon (where the dined at des Trois Faisans) and on to Chablis (where they ate Jambon à la Bourguignonne) and finally to ancient Avignon, with the Mediterranean in sight.

It was late in the morning when Martin’s motorcar rolled into Antibes.  They negotiated the narrow streets of the old part of the town and drew up in front of the familiar house.  The car blocked the street and would have to be moved.

The first thing that Martin noticed was that there was a well-grown plane tree in front of Stephen’s house.  It reached up to just below the balcony on the first floor.  Down the twisted street could be seen several more trees in handsome wrought-iron guards casting welcome pools of shade on the light-coloured stone.  “This must be Mrs Chadwick’s work,” said Martin.

They had just made a start on the luggage straps when there was an eruption from the Bistro de Blazon opposite and a small crowd surged into the street lead by the patronne and her husband.  There were squeals of delight, tears and kisses.  Mme de Blazon kissed and hugged the three boys and was so overcome that a chair had to be fetched and she was lowered into it and fanned with a napkin while she wiped her eyes with her apron.  M. de Blazon, also with moist eyes, kissed them more formally— three times on the cheek and he was followed by others in the crowd, including M. le Maire, but most of whom were comparative strangers to Martin.

All the boys could do was smile and summon French phrases that stated they were glad to be back and how ‘Antibes must have missed us.’  Presently Mme de Blazon recovered and excitedly bustled the boys across to the old stone house, which had formerly been the retail and manufacturing establishment of a maker of coffins, while the townspeople returned to their morning coffee and brandy or inspected the fine silver and red motorcar which even now was blocking a donkey wagon and a camion.

The old door was opened and there stood the great room with its big table from the convent, the dresser from the apothecary with its thick earthenware plates, the chairs of rush and cane on the rag rugs and the paintings done by William, Martin’s brother, so long ago.  Martin was pleased to see it all again, but was curious why Mme de Blazon was so excited.

“Why the place is spotless, Mala!” cried Stephen and turned to Mme de Blazon who smiled broadly and explained that all their friends had worked hard when the news of their imminent return had reached them and the dust and cobwebs (and mouse droppings, it had to be admitted) of the past six years had been expunged.

M. de Blazon stepped forward and explained some small repairs that had been effected over that time and how he had stored potatoes in the cellar room during the bad winter of 1917- but assured them that they were now gone.  They stood on the flagged terrace next to Stephen’s bathtub (which had yet to be cleaned) and marvelled at the delicate green light cast by the grapevine that was little more than a stick five years before.

Stephen was almost bursting with happiness.

They returned to the street and commenced to ferry in their luggage, Mme de Blazon taking note of everything.  The problem of the large automobile was glaringly obvious but the patronne put forward the plan that the vehicle might be garaged in the empty stable of her neighbour, the dealer in silk and ladies’ underwear, for a small fee which she herself would take for the convenience of the English visitors and to speedily expedite matters.

Alone at last, the tour continued and many things, once familiar but then forgotten, were rediscovered.  There was sadness in Stephen’s eyes when they went down to the cool cellar bedroom that had been Christopher Tennant’s.  Nevertheless they thought they would use it if the weather became any hotter.  The Plunger inspected his room, which had a tiny balcony that looked over M. de Blazon’s immaculate vegetable garden and the ancient, twisted olive trees. “I think it will be best for you to sleep with us, Archie,” said Stephen.  “I fear you might be lonely at night.”  The Plunger replied that he feared nothing more that loneliness and agreed that it would be for the best.

The army blanket was spread over the matelas de plumes in the main bedroom and, despite the heat, Stephen was persuaded to strip off and climb underneath. Of course Stephen looked devastatingly handsome under it and The Plunger vowed to sketch the scene and arranged the blanket so various portions of Stephen’s shoulders and chest were exposed and his muscular arms and black armpits were given full effect by placing his arms behind his head.

“Never mind the drawing, Plunger, I’m about to spill in my trousers,” said Martin urgently and both boys commenced to work on the grinning Stephen, rubbing his cock and balls though the rough blanket and planting soft kisses on his lips, chest and the flaunted armpits from either side of the bed.

Soon Stephen was uncovered and his long, brown foreskin was worked backwards and forwards, revealing and then concealing the pink head. He groaned in delight. Martin then showed The Plunger how to tease out the foreskin with the tips of one’s teeth. “He likes it stretched, Plunger; you won’t hurt him.”

Stephen grabbed his ankles and rolled back, indicating what he would like next.  Martin parted his muscular cheeks with some force and licked the silky black hair that lined his trench and tasted of sweat.  A deeper exploration revealed the tender hole and Martin probed that with his tongue before changing places with The Plunger.

“Finish me off, boys,” moaned Stephen and the two friends began to suck and masturbate him until Martin judged that he was ready to spill.  The eruption, when it came, was partly intercepted by their expectant, panting tongues and also, so it seemed, by everything else in sight. Stephen scooped some up and tasted it. “I like yours better. Spill on me, you chaps.”

Martin and The Plunger put their arms around each other and, after experimenting with masturbating each other, reverted to their own hands and cocks and presently, in perfect timing, deposited their seed simultaneously on Stephen’s chest where it congealed with Stephen’s effluvium in a mess that was at once disgusting and terribly attractive—such as being the oddity of human perception. 

***** 

It was a more acceptable sight that greeted the maid, Cloutilde, who opened the door at Mrs Chadwick’s fine house in another part of the town. She bobbed and smiled at the three good-looking young men and ushered them into Mrs Chawick’s highly polished drawing room that smelled of potpourri and beeswax.  It was little changed.  Mrs Chadwick appeared almost instantly.  She was on a stick and appeared somewhat older.  Martin felt distressed at the cruel, inexorable passage of the years; they had not seen each other since 1914.

“It’s nothing, Lord Branksome,” said Mrs Chadwick, indicating her stick. “I had a fall on the cobbles, that’s all.” When she spoke she was of old and the years seemed to slip away as she talked animatedly about all the events that had taken place.

“We saw the trees, Mrs Chadwick, “said Stephen.

“Yes, they’ve been a great success, haven’t they?  They were planted in the early part of the War and we’ve had very little vandalism.  A local man made the iron guards.  I was thinking that we could plant an avenue, perhaps along the quay, with a tree for each of the fallen men of the town.  What do you think?”  The boys thought it was a fine idea.

“Could there be a plaque for each one?  Could, perhaps, the members of the family plant the tree in a ceremony?’ suggested The Plunger.

“That is what I was thinking, Mr Craigth,” said Mrs Chadwick. “You know the Trust funds have accumulated very nicely over the years and the fall in the franc has meant our sterling will buy much more.” Martin nodded.  Mrs Chadwick was no fool, Martin thought, as she outlined schemes for the orphans and the maimed as well as more light-hearted ones such as for picnic shelters (“But not like Brighton”) for tourists on the plage and along the ramparts and at the old fort, which were tourist attractions.

“Mr Podberry has retired to England, I’m afraid, “she continued. “Mr Worth is the new vicar of the English Church over at Nice.  He’s a youngish man and very keen on the sung Eucharist.  He fears that they will soon be wanting to build super hotels here, like Cannes and Nice, but I can’t see it myself.  Of course we have the hotel and the new villas at Cap-Eden Roc, but they have always been a bit different to us here in Antibes d’ville, I’ve always maintained.

“Have you seen Hélias?” The boys shook their heads. “His aunt tells me he is engaged to be married to a girl from Vallauris.  It will do him good to settle down.  He was wounded in the War, you know, and gassed too.  He lost that little friend of his, what was the fellow’s name?”

“Joni”

“Yes, that’s him. He got you your boat, Mr Knight-Poole, didn’t he?” It was true.  Joni had found the Joue Rose, which was painted and named for the hue of Martin’s buttocks and he had taught Stephen the rudiments of sailing.  The whereabouts of the vessel had not occurred to Stephen since they had arrived.

Cloutilde served a very English afternoon tea with cucumber sandwiches and a caraway seed cake improved immeasurably through the addition of a French liqueur.  As they balanced their plates on their knees and held their teacups in the correct English manner, Mrs Chadwick asked after all those ‘at home’ whom she’d met on her memorable visit before the War, paying particular attention to Miss Tadrew, whom she had slighted, not realising she was the women who had raised Stephen.

“I do hope you can come and see the new roof at the Little Sisters’ convent and the start we’ve made on the Mission to Seamen,” she said as they rose to go, “we have purchased an old warehouse not far from the fisherman’s quay.”  They promised they would and took their leave into the hot Riviera sun.

There was time for a quick bathe on the plage in Antibes and their bathing costumes were worn.  The Mediterranean looked as blue as the coloured postcards depicted it and the sky was cloudless. They frolicked in the water and held swimming races, ducking the losers, and cast their eyes about for the German boys who used to come before the War.  It was mainly French families now—which was not surprising in the summer season—and there were a few voices that might have been Russian, but it was hard to tell.  Two good-looking Italian boys walked past in their costumes.  They were swarthy and heavy-lidded and they smoked in the continental manner, knowing that all eyes were upon them, their glossy hair, elaborately coiffed, suggesting that they had not been anywhere near the water unlike the hearty English types.

They dined at 9 o’clock at the Bistro de Blazon where the patron had prepared something special (which Martin recorded in his silver notebook) and where Mme de Blazon sat down at their table and commenced to inform them of all the doings that had not been covered by Mrs Chadwick.  Madame and Monsieur both looked older, with more grey hair, but Martin realised that they must look older to them too— no longer the young schoolboys who had first come here by accident.  Mme de Blazon made Stephen show some of his scars and when Martin revealed that he had won the Croix de Guerre at Peronne, the couple wept and Stephen was made to stand and was kissed on the cheeks.  A small crowd gathered at their table. M. de Blazon was moved to fetch a really good bottle of champagne but was careful to add it to the bill at the end of the meal.

Over coffee, the patronne returned and told them all about Hélias.  His fiancée was a young girl from a good family in Vallauris where her father owned a very prosperous clay hole. Cecile was very pretty— especially in a chic seal coat she possessed—and was entirely devoted to Hélias when not on her knees in church (she went to mass practically every day) and her dowry, as Hélias’ mother had arranged it, would be a substantial one.  The boys looked at one another as Mme de Blazon continued the breathless narrative.

They crossed the street but it was too hot to sleep.  The lamps were lit and they sat in the basket chairs for a long time, quietly reading.  Stephen had started This Side of Paradise by an American author.  The book had been sent over by The Plunger’s aunt along with a grittier one called Three Soldiers, which The Plunger was now embarked upon.  Martin was completely lost in an English translation of a French novella called Chéri and could see many similarities between its protagonist and his own Stephen, but he kept quiet and merely smiled to himself when he read about Chéri admiring himself in the looking glass wearing nothing but Lea’s pearls.

At two in the morning they descended to the cool cellar room.  Stephen felt disappointed that he would not be able to walk out onto his balcony over the street in the morning with his erection hidden only by the tubs of geraniums; however they could make as much noise as they wanted to in this downstairs room as they could not be heard by passers-by.  Stephen thought they might make a lot of noise.

Stephen was positioned in the middle and he had his big arms about Martin and The Plunger. They talked for a while with Stephen distributing little kisses when he felt the need.  “Are you still boxing, Archie?” he asked as he ran his hands over The Plunger’s shoulders.

“I haven’t for years, but I use the chest expanders every day at home.”

“I’d like to box with you again, Archie.  I like to see you sweating and your cock swinging. We’d go easy on each other, of course.”

“Do you think I should buy some gymnastic equipment for my studio?  There’s room.”

“That would be a good idea.  I could come and train with you sometimes.  We still have the equipment in the mews behind Branksome House.  We could get some equipment for here too.  Would that be extravagant?  We could hang a punching bag from that beam and we could have nude training—that would be a rule.  Let’s make a list of equipment tomorrow. We’d have to go to Nice or Cannes to order it, I suppose.”  The Plunger agreed.  There was a long sleepy pause. “Archie, are you happy?”

“I’m not sure, Stephen.  I think I need someone— someone other than Guevara.”

“What’s he like, Plunger?  We’ve never met him.”

The Plunger drew a long breath in the quiet of the cellar room and began: “Well, he’s very dark and good-looking, like you Stephen.  I told you he is also a boxer, like you, Stephen. He’s also quite unfaithful.”

“Like you, Stephen,” chimed in Martin, mischievously.

“Steady on Mala!” cried the accused, spluttering. “I love you.”

“Yes, Poole, that’s the difference.  Guevara doesn’t love me and he has no idea of faithfulness.  If only he was like you, Stephen, I might be happy, but there you are.”

“Poor Plunger!” said Martin, leaning over to plant a kiss on his lips. “Does he satisfy you with his cock like Stephen does?” he asked quietly.

“He’s not as big as Stephen, of course.”

“Of course,” replied Martin.

“It goes without saying,” added Stephen who received painful pinches for several minutes until the conversation resumed.

“I think you and I both like it a bit rough, Poole; we like a very masculine man to possess us- even for a short while.  Stephen does that naturally where Alvaro thinks only of himself and is just brutal.  Stephen is the complete opposite.”

“You’re a very perceptive old thing, Plunger.  That’s exactly what Stephen is like.  I’m his when he has me…well…when he…”

“When I have my cock right up your arse or deep down your throat, Mala?” suggested Stephen, helpfully.

“Well I wasn’t going to put it so poetically, Mr Wordsworth, but yes, but he’s doing it for me, not just to me.”

“And it’s a bit for me,” said Stephen ruefully. “I love making your toes curl, Mala and he screams like a girl when I stick it in, Archie, you’ve heard him.”

“I do not!” said Martin hotly, “I moan like a whore.”

“Yes, so you do, Mala, I must have been thinking of someone else,” replied Stephen, archly.

“It’s always about the other person, Derbs,” said Martin sincerely. “You’re always thinking of nice things to do to me.  You’re always thinking of me even if we are just walking down Piccadilly.”

“I do think about carnal delights an awful lot,” admitted Stephen.  “I’d probably be a better student if I could concentrate more on other things.”

“Plunger, one day your prince will come.  In the meantime you can borrow mine for a shilling,” said Martin.

“I’m your prince, Mala?”

“Certainly and I’m…”

“My darlin’?”

“Poole,” said The Plunger, suddenly.  “Could I watch Stephen make love to you right now?  It would do me good to see two people who love each other fuck.”

“That would be lovely, Plunger,” replied Martin. “Stephen will put on an extra good show, won’t you Derbs?”

“I will,” confirmed Stephen who began to do a boxer’s limbering up exercises.  “And I was just thinking of doing something new which I will keep as a surprise.  But I might need you to join in, Archie if I get a bit carried away.  The course of true love…”

“Is apt to meander?” completed Martin.

“Very good, Mala.  Now roll over and show us your best side.” 

***** 

The next day the boys slept rather late and it was even later by the time they showered and scrubbed under Stephen’s careful supervision.  They missed their morning coffee at the bistro but were soon in Rolls Royce, which had been extracted from the stable of the seller of lingerie, and on the Corniche bound for Nice.

Naturally they recalled the marvellous adventure some years before when The Plunger had been kidnapped and shaved by sinister German pornographers.  “You see why I’d be reluctant to be photographed by Mr Weintraub, Mala,” said Stephen.

“Yes.  I’m beginning to understand what perils good looking boys like you and The Plunger must face every day, Derby.”

“I’m glad you do, Mala.  Our private parts and…er…our hair are a permanent temptations to others, aren’t they, Archie?”

The Plunger detected an arch note to this exchange so kept silent.

In Nice they went to three shops and at last found some German-made equipment that suited their requirements.  Chief among these was a large punching bag, which they took with them straight away and it was placed in the back seat next to Martin who had been relegated there so that Stephen and The Plunger might sit in the front as two pillars of male temptation.

A brief call was made upon Mr Worth.  The maid at the vicarage directed them to the church where the vicar was found to be improvising organ variations on an old hymn and could be herd intoning in a fluting tenor voice from the organ loft:

Lord circumcise our hearts, we pray,
And take what is not Thine away.”

The clang of the door alerted the prelate and the playing stopped.  He looked in the mirror that allowed the organist to see into the nave and, noting the three boys, swivelled around and offered a fulsome greeting before descending and taking them by the hand.

“Mrs Chadwick said I should expect you, gentlemen.  You must be Lord Branksome.  How d’you do your lordship?  And Mr Knight-Poole and Mr Craigth.  I met your father once, sir.”

Mr Worth was a blubbery young man with prominent teeth.  He spat slightly when he spoke and the three involuntarily stepped back, glad to drop the limp hand that was proffered.  Although he was unattractive they felt compelled to tour the church.  The volume of spittle increased and the permanent ulcer on his lower lip throbbed excitedly when he persuaded Stephen to bend over to read the inscription in the bottom of the font.  An invitation to lunch had to be extended as Mrs Chadwick was already coming on Tuesday and the Trust would be discussed.  Without a thought for the Mother’s Union meeting on that day, Mr Worth, accepted instantly and licked his lips unpleasantly.  He escorted them out to the motor, his hand accidentally sliding down to Martin’s buttocks to emphasise a particular point he was making concerning the separation of the Welsh Church.

In the afternoon, when the punching bag had been manoeuvred into the cellar room, Stephen thought it would be nice to try and find Hélias to see if he wanted to bathe.  He went to his mother’s house and a girl there—presumably Heéias’ sister—told him to try an address near the town wall.  There he was directed to another house and from there to a shop that was being extended. 

He saw Hélias holding a spirit level on the wall.  Hélias turned when he heard Stephen’s voice.  His eyes were wide and his mouth was agape, his slender cigarette still adhering to his lower lip.  “Etienne! Mon ami!” he cried and moved toward Stephen.  Stephen noted with horror that Hélias had a pronounced limp and favoured his left foot.  His black hair was still the same and he was still good-looking, but he had aged and was no longer the handsome young blade that he had been before the War.  He was also notably short of breath—the result of the mustard gas, no doubt.  However, all that was glossed over in the excitement.  Hélias had not heard of their arrival as he had been in Vallauris to see his prospective father-in-law.

“Yes I’ve heard you are to be married, Hélias,” said Stephen in French, “congratulations.”  

“Oui. Elle m’aime beaucoup, Etienne,” said Helias airily lighting another cigarette. “Son père est riche.”

Stephen nodded and they both looked down at their feet.  They were quiet for a moment and then Stephen invited him to bathe.  Hélias brightened and said he could come in an hour. They embraced and clapped each other on the back and departed.

Stephen brought food and wine for their picnic on the sands and soon Hélias arrived and the air was filled with shouts and there were hugs and kisses.  They walked slowly to the plage- Hélias was slow and kept apologising.  In the water, however, he was like a fish and swam between their legs and grabbed at their cocks, bursting to the surface, laughing.  They sat on the warm sand on a blanket and ate and drank, passing the bottle from lips to lips.  They had just started to talk about the War when Hélias asked for the time.  “I must go home.  Cecile’s brother is coming to fetch me in his wagon.  I am to go her father’s house tonight.  I will be back tomorrow,” he said in a mixture of languages.  With that he pulled on his trousers and was gone.  The boys said nothing and packed up and returned home not long afterwards. 

***** 

“Archie is really handsome, isn’t he Mala?” said Stephen as the three of them lay on the bed. He rubbed his hand across The Plunger’s broad chest.  “See how his nipples are so pink?”  He pinched the left one and The Plunger winced.  “And his skin is so milky but dusted with freckles and ginger hair.  Scotchmen are so masculine,” he continued, now rubbing his shoulders.

“I’m English, Stephen”.

“You know, Archie,” said Stephen taking no notice, “I think you would look good in a kilt. Don’t you Mala?” Martin wasn’t sure.  “I can see you in a kilt, Archie.  Your handsome chest would be almost bare— just a tartan sash across it and maybe a Celtic clasp?”

“One with a jewel in it, Stephen?”

“Yes a big purple stone.”

“An amethyst?”

“A big amethyst— uncut like my cock—in a silver thistle—and maybe you’d have smeared your body in woad.  What is woad exactly?”  No one knew.  “And your cock and balls would be swinging freely and menacingly under the kilt.  That would be the most marvellous feeling, wouldn’t it? I’d love to walk down Piccadilly in a kilt myself, naked underneath and feeling he breeze on my cods and not caring if the wind lifted it.  You’d have a sporran too Archie,” he said returning to the subject.  He moved down and put his nose in The Plunger’s ginger bush and gave a lick to the circumcised head of his plump white cock.

“You’d lead a band of savage Picts in raids south of Hadrian’s Wall and sassinack villagers would tremble when they saw you leaping over their palisades in your kilt.  He has fine athlete’s legs doesn’t he Mala?” added Stephen, rubbing his palm very firmly over the hair and muscle.  “You’d be hard under the kilt from the excitement of battle and so would your clan. And you’d put the village to the torch and the sword and young and old in the village would taste Caledonian cock—especially the boys.” The Plunger became caught up in the fantasy. “But you’d probably have to have a beard.”

“Oh!” said The Plunger, who wasn’t going to have a beard under any circumstances.

“You’d look handsome in a beard, Plunger,” said Martin, “with your red hair.”

“It’s titan, Poole” said The Plunger who had regained some of his composure, despite Stephen playing with his balls.

“Archie,” said Stephen. “I think we need a nice long talk—entre nous—and I think just you and I should sleep together tonight.  Is that all right with you Mala?” asked Stephen beseechingly, looking at him and giving a wink.

“Yes, Derbs.  You both need to catch up.”

“And you can do anything to me you like, Archie,” said Stephen placing The Plunger’s hand on his flaccid cock.”  The Plunger brightened.  “And I can do anything to you,” he added.  An anxious look crossed The Plunger’s face, but before it could register, Stephen had risen from the bed and announced: “It’s now time for my bath.  Bring the champagne and olives outside, boys.”

The next morning found that Martin had finished his novel while the Plunger, who it was presumed had done no reading, walked down the stairs very gingerly.  He tried not to smile, but couldn’t help it.  Martin rose and gave him a kiss, but said nothing else.

Presently Stephen thundered noisily down the stairs in his fisherman’s clothes.  He brightly announced that today it was a rule that The Plunger and Martin had to be naked for the whole day—at least until sunset.  “I have been thinking for some time that we need to have this important rule and perhaps it should be taken up by The League of Nations,” he said, as he laid out the guidelines for the fiat.  Martin and The Plunger just shrugged and it was a simple matter for them to shed their clothes— even simpler for Martin who did not have expensive silk underwear like The Plunger.  “You can go outside if you want, but no clothes. I will bring you your luncheon.”

It was a fairly easy business on the hot, lazy day.  They read, wrote letters and did some rudimentary tidying of the old house—only Martin’s scrubbing of the lavatory being onerous under Stephen’s supervision.  Stephen made them an excellent cold lunch and several cups of tea—he did not think it safe for naked boys to be too near the stove.  A small inconvenience arose when Mrs Chadwick called with Mr Worth.  The Plunger and Martin hid upstairs and Stephen told a small untruth, saying that they both had a chill and were in bed.  Instinctively Mrs Chadwick wanted to go up to them but Stephen interposed his body at the foot of stairs, saying they were sleeping.  This lie also put a stop to Mr Worth who wanted to ‘lay his hands upon them’.  Stephen then assured them that they would be well enough for tomorrow’s luncheon and that he would see them at half-past one.  They were propelled to the door and Stephen eventually called the ‘all clear’ as he peered through the shutters.

The next visitor was Hélias who was admitted, despite the risk of infection, and his eyes were wide when he saw the two naked Britanniques drinking tea.  Stephen had them stand and bend over.  Both had been fitted with plugs.  Hélias’ eyes grew even wider.  Stephen had to explain about these bouchons. “Pour plus de commodité- à distendre”

Hélias nodded gravely as he felt them. “Très sage,” he said, nodding.

It took little to persuade Hélias to return at 7 o’clock and there was the added inducement of dining with them at his aunt’s establishment across the street and he limped away with a big grin on his face.

When he returned, unusually promptly for a Provençale, he was quickly admitted and the two naked ones presented their arses for inspection.  Stephen gave a little tap to Martin’s which sent an electric thrill through him and Hélias did the same to The Plunger— perhaps a trifle too enthusiastically.  Les bouchons were eased out, Hélias copying Stephen as he removed Martin’s, and he noted its structure.

“Elles sont belles!” cried Hélias in awe of the red and gaping maws before his eyes, which were even now contracting.  He roughly shoved a finger into The Plunger who winced.

“Non Hélias! Utiliser celui-ci,” said Stephen as he squeezed some Spong’s onto his hand.

“Pardonnez-moi!” said Hélias sincerely, a little horrified at what he had done.  He kissed The Plunger who was still bent over “Je ne suis pas un brute.”  And The Plunger did indeed agree that Hélias was no monster.

Stephen and Hélias began to give their partners a good fucking, with Hélias looking over a good many times to see what techniques Stephen employed.  Stephen moved to the basket chair and Martin climbed on top of him, facing outwards and with his chest clasped by Stephen’s arm.  He lowered himself up and down on Stephen’s big cock with Stephen flexing his hips and thrusting upwards.  In a trance Hélias pulled out of The Plunger who was left cruelly in want and went over to the chair.  “C’est formidable!” he said, almost to himself and put his fingers around the base of Stephen’s cock as it entered Martin’s hole.  Stephen’s cock was like an iron pipe.  He bent down and somehow managed to kiss the slicked mess that smelt and tasted of masculine love.

“I think Monsieur Archie would like to do it like this, Hélias.  There’s another chair next to us.  Ne le négligez pas.”

Soon Hélias was copying Stephen.  It presented a comical sight for The Plunger was much taller than Hélias and his long white arms and legs were akimbo over the smaller, but vigorous Frenchman underneath him.  Despite this, The Plunger was lost in pleasure and was only brought around when he saw that Martin had spilled all over his own chest and Stephen had presumably come off inside Martin.  Hélias reached for the Spong’s and applied it to the Plunger’s leaking cock.  It only took two or three strokes before The Plunger erupted all over the floor—the rag rug might possibly have to be washed.  Hélias renewed his concentration and he too spilled on the rug, almost catapulting The Plunger from his lap.

When he looked over he saw Stephen tenderly licking Martin’s enflamed hole, tasting his own seed that tricked out and ran down Martin’s leg and dripped to the floor — the rug would definitely have to be washed in the bath tomorrow. “Vous faites cela?”

“Yes I do that, Hélias.  It is sweet.  My lover is sweet.”

Hélias copied— gingerly at first, then with more alacrity.  The Plunger was in ecstasy all over again.

“It is important that neither of them is humiliated, Mala,” whispered Stephen.  “The passive ones must also be allowed their moment and the dominant ones must be occasionally humbled, I think.”

“You’re wise beyond your years, Derby, whispered Martin, kissing him on the cheek, “but you would have given that years of thought, I imagine.” Stephen merely grinned.

As it was near the hour for dinner, the boys took to the shower.  Hélias, however, was reluctant.  “Il n’est pas Samedi nuit,” he protested and wished only to cover up with some of The Plunger’s cologne.  However, when Stephen insisted, Hélias relented, despite it being only Monday and Stephen got in with him and soaped him and scrubbed his skin with a soft brush.  He made a couple of grabs for Hélias’ cock, but it was too tender, he cried.  Stephen laughed and commenced to wash Hélias’ hair.  Soon Hélias was ready and, wearing a pair of The Plungers silk drawers and a great deal of his frightfully costly cologne, crossed the street with them to his aunt’s bistro.

It was a fine meal, with snails and lamb’s liver.  Martin’s notebook was rapidly filling.  With the patron and Mme de Blazon joining them, Hélias proposed a toast to “Joni and Monsieur Christophe— nos amis absents!” Stephen was caught unawares and was quite overcome. Mme de Blazon kissed him on the cheek and used her apron to wipe away the tears.

When they returned to the house at midnight, Hélias led The Plunger by the hand to The Plunger’s bedroom, dragging his left foot as he climbed the stairs that he had helped fashion so many years ago.  Martin looked up at Stephen’s face and saw that he was troubled.  He took Stephen’s hand and they retired to their own room.

“Well, I think that was a good thing for The Plunger, Derby,” said Martin as they lay under the cool sheet.”

“You know he’s getting married next week,” said Stephen. “We’re invited.  He wondered if you would drive the happy couple in your motor, Mala.”

“I suppose so.”

“The girl, Cecile, is pregnant. That’s why it’s so soon.”

“Do you think it will make much difference to Hélias, I mean…”

“I’ve absolutely no idea, Mala.  But I do know one thing.”

“What?”

“I am determined to get Hélias’ leg fixed.

 “Mala,” he began with real anxiety in his voice, “Mala, I failed to make it alright for Christopher and Doling and Rugg, but I will try my damnedest for Hélias.  That will be at least one thing put back to how it was meant to be— it was never meant to be like this…there has to be some order to it all…”

“You’re a good fellow, Derby.  We’ll see Sir Thomas, if he’s still practicing, and he will know someone good.  I wonder if you might take some photographs of his bad leg—without him knowing, of course.  We’d have to persuade him to come to London or Paris or somewhere.  I say ‘we’ because I want to help you.”

Stephen kissed him and put his big arm around his shoulder and pulled him into his armpit. Eventually Martin wriggled free and laid his head on the triangular patch of soft black hair that was the chief adornment of Stephen’s chest and went to sleep listening to his big heart beating.

*****

The luncheon the next day was quite a success.  To begin with, the visitors were this time admitted and their hosts were fully dressed.  Martin had taken charge of the cooking and consulted his silver notebook to produce a ragout of mutton with celeriac which was not difficult—rather like an Irish stew— and he arose early to make sure it cooked for four hours. There were bitter greens from the garden and a simple fish dish with a sauce made from sweet peppers.  A large cake had been purchased and there was a pile of delicious peaches that Mr Worth drooled over.  Martin thought it might be some time before he could touch stone fruit again.

All this was served under the grapevine and afterwards there was a tour of the unconventional house.  In the cellar room, where the bed had been carefully made, Stephen explained that the punching bag and the weights on ropes were to be installed by Hé lias the following day. Mr Worth was quite keen to see these being used by the boys, but had to be content to see Stephen deliver two heavy blows to the bag, which The Plunger and Martin endeavoured to hold upright.  Mrs Chadwick let it be known she disapproved of boxing.

The gymnasium led around to the topic of the Mission to Seamen and soon they were deep into discussion on their future projects as they drank their coffee.  Martin looked down and saw to his horror that the rag rug was stained incriminatingly—semen of a different order. His ears went red and in the corner of his eye he observed Mr Worth following his gaze down to the spattered floor while Stephen and Mrs Chadwick were earnestly discussing the purchase of an x-ray machine for the little hospital.  Martin enthusiastically joined in on some pretext and in doing so spilt his coffee all over the rug.  There was a moment’s fuss, but when Martin looked up he knew that Mr Worth knew.

That night, after they had returned from their walk along the town walls, it was decided that Stephen should be pleasured.  In the cellar room the lamps were lit and Stephen was undressed.  Martin had a wicked look in his eye when he produced the box and a large new tube of Spong’s.

First the Burmese balls were employed—these had been little used until now and Martin was surprised to see Stephen’s eyes nearly pop, as first one, then the other was inserted rectally. “How does that feel Derby?” Stephen’s answer was to just moan and his big cock, which was hard and half way up his chest, and seemed to give eloquent approval. “Pull them out, Plunger!’ commanded Martin when he was satisfied with the elapse of time and the thick silken cord was firmly and steadily drawn until one, then two of the gold balls was reunited with the outside world.  Stephen was wracked with delightful spasm, and he tried to touch his cock; the other two prevented this.

Next the dildos were pressed into service; firstly the glass one with the ribs, which Martin knew Stephen enjoyed and then the new flexible rubber one with the steel spring.  Martin and the Plunger took turns in manipulating these fiendish devices and the sight of Stephen vulnerable, with his legs spread and a large dildo protruding from somewhere deep inside him caused them to have to release their own aching cocks.

“Who is it that screams like a girl, Derby?” asked Martin sarcastically as he touched Stephen somewhere inside that made him shout.

“It is me, Mala,” confessed Stephen under this inquisition.

“Apologise to those girls down by the quay.  Who is the moaning whore?”

“I am, Mala.  I’m a whore.  I love it.  Keep doing that.”

“Fetch me the camera case strap, Plunger.  Tie it around those big balls.” Stephen nodded desperately as he continued to writhe.  “I can’t stand his noise, Plunger, give him some ginger.”

The Plunger climbed onto the bed and squatted over Stephen’s head.  Stephen’s tongue went furiously into The Plunger’s cleavage where he slobbered and lapped.  The Plunger lowered himself further, not sure that Stephen could even breathe.

Martin commenced to pull on the leather strap while his other hand continued to manipulate the invading object.  At a signal from him, The Plunger leaned forward and lightly touched Stephen’s cock.  It twitched, then erupted like Vesuvius.

Most of the explosion, when the damage was assessed, went over the Plunger’s groin.  Stephen’s chest was also coated by some long drifts, which even now were trickling down his flank to soil the bedding.  One rope had struck the stone wall behind the bed and it hung there like an obscene decoration.

As the chaos subsided, The Plunger could feel Stephen moving underneath him.  He raised his dripping self and there was Stephen, gasping for breath and convulsed with laughter.

“Oh boys, that was topping!  I thought my inside would come out.  Sorry Archie, I’ve made you rather a mess.  Spill on me and then we’ll go to sleep right here.  I want us all sticky with joy.  I feel wonderful!” 

***** 

The final days passed.  The Joue Rose was found to have disintegrated for lack of attention in the years they had been away.  Stephen found some boys whom he knew to have been friends of Joni and told them he wanted to buy a boat similar to the ghost of the one before them and he nominated a price he would pay.  The boat was to be painted blue.  Their leader said he would contact Mrs Chadwick (everyone in Antibes knew Mme Chadwick) when they had found something and she would arrange payment.

There was a visit to the beach at Cap- Eden Roc.  They went in the Rolls Royce because Hélias found it difficult to ride his bicycle.  Helias enjoyed having his photograph taken and it was a simple matter to point the camera at his legs.  They also drove up to the old town of Valbonne, little touched since the sixteenth century.  Here there were comparatively straight streets with arcaded buildings around the old square and the ruins of a monastery.  The Plunger was busy with his paints.

Their final day was that of Hélias’ and Cecile’s wedding.  Martin found that he had to be a general taxicab service for all Hélias’ relations.  The Provençales smelled abominably of garlic, sweat, cheap perfume and mothballs—for the best clothes had been brought out of hibernation for the occasion.  Martin didn’t mind too much, for the peasants were kindly and sincere in their enjoyment of life.  And Hélias was well-liked by all.

The groom, his mother and three other people were placed in the car and rode haughtily to the church.  Hélias was sweating and his good suit seemed much too tight.  The Provençales had excelled themselves in the matter of flowers and the church was like a florist shop—with tuberoses being to the fore.  The bride was, of course, pretty, and it was hard to detect that she was with child.  The reception that followed in the afternoon was a hot, noisy affair held at the Bistro de Blazon.

They sat at long tables and there were many toasts and speeches.  There was plenty of food. A small orchestra played waltzes.  At one point, the patron took Martin aside and explained that Cecile’s father was rich and was paying for all this.

Towards evening the three boys were taking a break from dancing (they had had many partners) and they found themselves sitting at the tables in the comparative coolness of the street just as the moon was rising.  Hélias sought them out and proudly introduced Cecile. They were to live with her parents for the moment, explained Cecile, although Hélias was to be frequently detained here in Antibes for there was much building work to be done—especially for Monsieur Etienne—she added and they would not be going on their voyage de noces for some time.  Stephen apologised for making Hélias work so much for him and wished them well with the baby— for it was no secret.  She blushed prettily and smiled.  She was drawn back inside by her sister and Hélias was left alone with the three of them.  He started to say something, but was overcome.  Instead, while no one was looking, he kissed each of them passionately, wiping the tears from his eyes.  He then recovered himself, pushed his hair back, grinned and lit a cigarette and said: “Le jours se suivent et ne se ressemblent pas!”  No, you can never tell what tomorrow will be like, thought Martin.

To be continued… 

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