“It must be twenty times, Derbs.”

“As many as that?  We didn’t come at all during the War.  Oh yes, we did in the summer of 1914.  Did you come when I was in Australia?”

Martin shook his head.

The boys were on the Blue Train heading south to the Riviera and the contemplation of what lay ahead in the sunny south was, as always, the most delicious part of the holiday.  In the modern, luxurious wagon lit they had taken three first class compartments, for the party included Bunny, Dwight, The Plunger and Donald Selby-Keam.  Donald had a few days of leave from Whitehall and would be returning earlier than the rest.  Stephen had discreetly paid for his fare as Donald was a little hard up, having just started his job and having set himself up in digs with Jack Thayer and Charles Fortune in their house off the Fulham Road.  In fact Charles and Jack would be joining them in a few days when Jack finished supervising a PhD thesis.

Bunny and Dwight, by way of contrast, found that their American dollars bought an awful lot of French francs and they had to be restrained from being overly generous.

“I hope this is the last time we will have to wear these monkey suits, Bunny,” said Stephen, pleasantly, putting his finger under his stiff collar.  “It’s old clothes and short trousers at Antibes— or no clothes at all, if I had my way.”

Bunny was very anxious to ‘get the atmosphere’ of the south of France and had been in earnest discussion with The Plunger about the correct artistic attitude to adopt.  The Plunger had already in mind a particular broad-brimmed hat and a beret, which he thought would be important first steps in Bunny becoming truly Bohemian and to further this a box of watercolour paints had been purchased in London just before the journey.

Bunny’s education had also been considered when they had lunched at a little Italian place in Soho.  On this occasion The Plunger pointed out two painters and a radical journalist sitting at another table.  In the street some tarts plied their trade.  Bunny and Dwight were not so naïve when these girls gave them meretricious smiles, as they knew their sisters in Chicago.

They walked around to Half Moon Street on the off chance that Custard Featherstonehaugh was at home, but Keble, his manservant, said he was at work.  Martin and Stephen had another destination in mind, but were unsure and they looked at each other nervously.

“Bunny,” began Stephen, but taking in Dwight at the same time, “I need to buy a new— ahem—‘athletic support’ from a certain shop.”  Bunny looked at him curiously.  “This shop,” continued Stephen, “sells all sorts of interesting and exotic things, including those rectal dilators you so kindly sent us. Would you and Dwight like to come or would it be a bit too much?”

The two Americans looked at each other; Bunny anxious for new experiences and Dwight, at the mention of something that sounded vaguely medical, was able to justify his own curiosity.

“Yes, we’re game, if you are,” announced Dwight.

Thus they walked the distance to respectable Bond Street where The Plunger told them all about the expensive silver ring that he had bought some years ago and that had been mislaid or possibly sold by Gertie.  Martin related them something of the story of Mr and Mrs Weintraub and how the poor man had been interned during the first years of the War.

The shop was on the first floor and a morning-suited assistant answered the bell.  The front part of the business still specialised in books and these were now supplemented with some fine pieces of Sevres china and some pickled French furniture that announced they were for sale.  The more interesting goods, as before, were in a second room gained by a pair of mahogany doors framed by heavy brocade portieres.  Here was Mr Weintraub himself, a little older but looking terribly prosperous in elegant striped trousers.  In the room there was another pair of customers, but at the intrusion of the visitors they fled, making no eye contact as Mr Weintraub bowed them out.

Bunny looked a little flushed but went from cabinet to cabinet with Dwight who was murmuring advice about preventing infection and skin abrasions and the like.  The Plunger went straight to the cabinet of expensive jewellery.

“Good afternoon, Mr Weintraub,” began Stephen brightly, “I need a new strap.”

“Oh I hope the last one did not break, sir; they are guaranteed.”

“No I simply lost it,” replied Stephen.

“I had hoped that you might have reconsidered the offer I made to his lordship about posing for artistic portraits, sir.  I know there would be a great demand.  We could photograph you from the neck down or you might prefer a Venetian mask.  Your lordship might also enjoy the experience.”

“What, photograph me?”

Mr Weintraub shrugged in a European manner and Martin and Stephen looked at each other.

The proprietor directed them to a vitrine where the rings and straps were displayed on baize.  “I’d like one that goes around my member and also my scrotum,” said Stephen frankly and then turning to Martin said, “I don’t think I will get the stretching type this time; they’re too ugly and you can do that for me, Mala.”

“We have this type that lifts and separates,” said Mr Weintraub with delicacy.  “From memory you would need the largest size, but they have press studs rather than buckles and perhaps you would find them more convenient, although the struggle can be half the pleasure.”

Martin nodded excitedly.  “Derby, I also think I’d like to see you in a strap that held your member to your thigh.  Do you have such a device, Mr Weintraub?”

“Yes, I do, but they do make walking and bodily functions a little difficult, but a big gentlemen like sir might well profit from some restraint.”

“Well I’d certainly profit because I’d like to think of you being restrained, Derby; it’s as exciting as thinking of you flopping around in freedom; both are exciting.”

“Could I try one on Mr Weintraub?” asked Stephen.

There were a series of very elegant crimson and gold dressing rooms— not merely the old screen that had adorned a corner of the previous shop—and in one of these Stephen removed his trousers while Martin watched.  Mr Weintraub coughed and opened the curtain and joined them.  He had a thin black leather strap with him.  He knelt down with his nose just inches from Stephen’s cock and proceeded to fit the strap around Stephen’s meaty thigh.

“If sir would put his leg up on that footstool…ah, that’s better.”  The strap was snapped closed.

“It’s a bit too tight, Mr Weintraub,” said Stephen.

“Well that’s the last setting, but our workroom could add another.  Would this be better?” he said holding it with just his fingers.  Stephen nodded.  A second strap looped around his cock and tethered it loosely to his hairy left thigh.  It felt warm.

“Is this what your lordship had in mind?”

Martin said it was exactly.  Stephen put his foot down and, because he wasn’t hard, his cock lay obediently flat against his thigh.  He practiced walking for a few steps while Martin fetched the others for their opinion. It became quite crowded in the little room as Stephen admired himself in the looking glass, and all said that they liked it.

Other purchases were made: A new silver ring for The Plunger with an emerald; a simple cock strap for Dwight and a rectal dilator made of flexible rubber for Bunny.

“I could have all your purchases delivered first thing tomorrow with the alteration,” your lordship.  We are very discreet, as you know, and our green delivery motor bicycle and our green wrapping paper are indistinguishable from that of Messrs Harrods, if you would find that convenient?”

They did and Martin reminded himself to tell Glass to expect a package from Harrods.

“Well, what did you think of that place?” asked Martin when they had politely inquired after Mrs Weintraub, late of the Cameroon and now president of the Ladies Guild at the Anglican Church in Wimbledon, and at last found themselves on the footpath.

“Well, we sure don’t have a store like that in Chicago.  It’s all so British and all so discreet; I might have been buying life insurance or a casket rather than something to shove up my ass!” giggled Bunny. 

***** 

The next morning found the express train steaming along the spectacular Mediterranean coast with its Alpine backdrop, its azure sea, palm trees, Cyprus pines, tunnels and viaducts, orange roofs, vineyards and bougainvillea.  They could feel the summer heat and their excitement grew.  The train halted at Antibes and they had to heft their own luggage and find a dozing cab driver if they did not want to walk the whole way.

Stephen watched Bunny and Dwight as carefully as Martin had watched them in the elm avenue at Croome.  What would their first impression be?

The horse drawing the open carriage clopped slowly through the hot, narrow streets, where the sunlight reflected fiercely off the white stone walls. They came at last to the old shops and new plane trees of their own street where it widened enough for M. de Blazon to put out a double row of tables on the footpath amid kerosene tins filled with scarlet geraniums. A dozen locals were having their lunch.

“The plage is just down there and to the left,” explained Stephen.  

The patron looked up and waved just as Mme de Blazon bustled out in her pantoufles, wiping her hands on her apron.  She rushed over and gave each of the boys a kiss, to the surprise of Bunny and Dwight who were then introduced.

‘And there will be two more of us in a few days, madame,” explained Stephen to the patronne who was always eager for customers who paid in foreign currency.

Stephen waved his arm in the direction of his own attenuated dwelling opposite that hung crookedly over the street.  Bunny and Dwight were obviously delighted for it looked rather like some illustrator’s drawing in a child’s book with the ancient stone and peeling plaster, the crooked roof and yet a wrought iron balcony of extraordinary delicacy.

Inside Bunny could immediately sense act one scene one of La Bohème with the luxurious absence of furniture, the overly solid table and the bare boards.  Dwight noticed there was no electricity and dared not ask if there was a telephone.

An addition to the usual tour there was the further inspection of the new room built into the attic.  The stairs to reach it were no more than 24 inches wide, but Hélias had put in a clever trapdoor and hoist that would enable heavy furniture to be raised to it and indeed another bed and mattress would be required.  The ceiling and walls were lined with varnished boards and two little dormer windows looked out sideways over the tiles and there was a glimpse of the sea if one stood on one’s toes.  A clever ornamental vent exhausted the heat and it functioned best when the casements were opened wide.  “We must also get an oil heater before next winter, Mala,” said Stephen as he looked about the room.  Hélias had done an excellent job all on his own.

It was a hot day, but the house was cool.  The cellar room was delightful and Bunny and Dwight were pleased when it was offered to them.  “We are not so strict about who sleeps where,” confessed Stephen with a grin, “so it is only notionally your room.”

Stephen was strict about other things, however, and they quickly removed their good clothes and dressed as fishermen.  Each person was assigned an area to sweep and make free from the cobwebs that had accumulated over the past six months.  There was a little scrubbing to be done and a shopping list was compiled.  A large crate of supplies had been sent out from England and linen and new plates were found homes and the crate itself became kindling for the stove.

“Stephen is adamant that there are to be no servants,” explained Martin to Dwight.  “We could easily get a girl to scrub and a woman to cook, but that’s not how he sees this place.  It’s like camping and it does make a nice change.  We’re hardly fussy.”

By 3 o’clock they were finished and were glad of a rest in the hottest part of the day.  They repaired for a meal at the bistro and Stephen ordered and paid for yet another mattelas de plumes made by the sister-in-law of the patronne.

“When I saw Hélias was building you an extra chambre à coucher, I told her you’d be needing a new one.  Yes, give the money to me, M. Etienne, it will make things easier and I will pay her when it is safely delivered.”

The food was as good as ever—calves’ liver in cognac—and Martin could see that Bunny and Dwight were impressed.  Several glasses of the local wine—slightly rough but somehow very fitting— put everyone in a relaxed mood.

Bunny and Dwight went with Donald to the fisherman’s quay and then the bathing beach while the others returned to the house with bread, olives, oil and the other things from their list.

There was a siesta, but at about 6:00 Stephen announced it was time for his bath.  “We don’t dine until about 9:00 so it’s a good idea to have some olives and such,” said Stephen as he brought forth a couple of bottles of champagne.  Bunny and Dwight were still full from their lunch, but were a little unnerved by the late hour at which meals were taken on this side of the Atlantic.  Dinner at 8:00 had been an ordeal enough, but they steeled themselves and would try hard to become European.

The bath under the grapevine was ceremoniously filled with the soft, brown water from the tap.  Some hot water from the kitchen stove was added and Stephen swaggered out with his cock and balls swinging and lowered himself beneath the surface.  The others gathered about on chairs and chatted and drank the cool wine and picked at the local olives in a terracotta bowl.

“It’s so hot.  Why don’t you take your clothes off?” said Stephen.

Martin undid his shirt and dropped his short trousers.  The Plunger slid down his old duck trousers and his silk underwear.  Donald pulled off his fisherman’s trousers and striped vest.  Bunny and Dwight looked at each other then they too stripped and sat down on the slatted wooden garden chairs, which left stripes on their buttocks.  Martin aired his sweaty balls and shook his plump, circumcised cock in the direction of the others and laughed.  The Plunger’s long white cock remained in dignified repose, like its owner.  Martin noticed that he had trimmed his red pubic hair, even though Stephen often urged him not to.  Donald sat with his legs apart and his veiny cock was slightly inflated in the warm air.  Then there was Bunny and Dwight: thinking hard of the sporting locker rooms they knew as they sat resolutely naked on their chairs and tried to look unselfconscious.  Their broad, athletic shoulders tapered down to pairs of narrow hips and their good-sized cocks were set in fields brunette and blond respectively.

“That’s better boys!” said Stephen with approval, looking about.  “Mala, would you wash my hair?”

Martin commenced to but somehow his hands strayed and he was soon masturbating Stephen in front of the others.  They all watched eagerly and started to become hard.

“Stop Mala!” said Stephen.  “I just wanted everyone to feel comfortable, I didn’t mean it to lead to this.”

“No, it’s too late,” huffed Dwight, coming over to the bath.  “Bring him off Martin; I’ve got to see it now.”

“Me too,” said Bunny who had joined him.  Donald was stroking his own cock with one hand while pinching Stephen’s big brown nipples with the other while The Plunger had got down between Martin’s legs and was milking him as he was performing on Stephen.

Presently Dwight arched his back, grunted and spilled into the water.  Donald was next and shot uncontrollably all over Stephen’s hair.  All eyes were now on Bunny as he was being urged on by Stephen.  He worked his member furiously and finally he too arched his back and unloaded into the water.  Stephen suddenly pulled him close and sucked the remaining seed from his deflating cock.  Stephen was next and was making waves as he spilled into Martin’s hardworking fist— an enormous load in the bathwater that floated there like an arctic ice flow.

Martin and The Plunger then stood up with their arms about each other and brought themselves off, adding to the soupy mixture.

“Oh, that was nice,” said Stephen, laying back and relaxing. “But I wanted us to be naked about the house and feel comfortable without any need for…you know…”

“No, I needed that Stephen,’ said Dwight.  “It was a help in fact.”  He grinned and Martin thought how much he had unbent over the last few weeks.

They remained naked for the next hour or so and drifted in and out the shower bath.  Stephen begged them to leave the door open so he could watch from the basket chair where he was relaxing with Beau Geste.

They dined at the bistro where just a couple of American dollars bought for the six of them a superb meal of chicken stuffed with pickled chestnuts.  It was getting dark, but was still hot.  They strolled down to the water and looked back to the lights of the old town.  Some noisy sailors rolled past and the boys looked at each other.

“Well go out in the L’espoir tomorrow,” promised Stephen.  “You sail a bit, don’t you Dwight?”

“I have a sailboat on the Lake.”

“Good, will you teach me, I’m still learning?”

They wandered back and had a few rounds of cards in the lamplight before ‘turning in’.

Stephen, as was traditional, wandered naked from room to room making sure his guests were comfortable.  The Plunger and Donald both planted kisses on him.

“Thank you for inviting us, Stephen,” said The Plunger with candour.  Down here is the happiest time of the year for me.”

“And thank you for the train fare,” Stephen, said Donald. “I’ll repay you.”

“Don’t be silly Don.  It wouldn’t be the same without you and we might need you to pick up some sailors.  Did you see how Dwight and Bunny looked interested down on the quay?”  Donald grinned and nodded and kissed him again before putting his head underneath the sheet where he headed for The Plunger’s happy groin.

Stephen went downstairs, out onto the terrace under the moon and stars, and then, with soft footfalls, down the stone steps to the cellar room.

“Are you boys comfortable?  Do you have water?”

They were and they did.

“We love it here, Stephen.  We’re so grateful,” said Bunny.

“I’m glad you like it and we love having you here.” He bent down to kiss Bunny on his cowlick, but he shifted so the kiss was delivered on his lips. At the same time Dwight seized Stephen’s swinging hose-like cock and planted a kiss on its tip, touching the slit with his tongue.  It was both tender and electric.  Stephen pulled away.

“You two have become very naughty boys,” laughed Stephen.  “How are they going to keep you down on the farm?”

Stephen left before anything else happened.

“What happened to you?” asked Martin, perhaps a trifle needlessly, when Stephen returned to their room with an aching erection.

“I think our American friends are becoming too Bohemian, Mala.  We should lock the door.  What do you want me to do with this?” he asked, indicating his cock with a wave of his hand.

Martin told him.

The next day was spent sailing around the rocky coast.  It was blissful, despite thoughts of Christopher intruding from time to time.  They all wore hats because the sun was fierce and the thermometer was well into the nineties.

Martin and Stephen took Dwight with them when they called on Mrs Chadwick.  She had already picked out two possible sites for the clinic for the girls who served the sailors and fishermen, and the contribution of Dr Hoyt was welcome.  There were several other matters concerning the Trust that were troublesome and Martin found he was required to produce some papers and write a number of letters to people in England as well as here France. 

“Why don’t you ask Myles to come out here?  He can bring the papers and do your correspondence,” suggested Stephen.

“But this is our holiday; I don’t want to be bothered with all that.”

“You’ll find it easier in the long run,” pressed Stephen and Martin knew he was right.  A telegram was dispatched at the post office and they would meet with Mrs Chadwick again in less than a week.

That night Stephen was getting ready for bed.  This was a simple matter of removing the pair of fisherman’s shorts he was wearing and scratching his bottom. “Mala, would you like to sleep with Archie tonight?”

“I’d rather sleep with you, but it might be fun.  Will you watch me getting fucked?”

“I’d like that, but I thought it might be nice if Don slept in here with me; he’ll be going back soon and we can both talk about our school days.”

“That’s very sentimental of you, Derbs, but that would be nice.  Shall we go and ask them in before ‘it’s too late’,” said Martin with a laugh.

The arrangement was swiftly agreed to and, although Stephen would dearly have liked to have seen The Plunger’s ginger cock pleasuring his lover, he walked back to his room with his big arm resting heavily on the slight frame of Donald Selby-Keam.

“You know Stephen, I’ve always been in love with you.  I know that it will never amount to anything, but ever since school…well quite a lot of the boys had a ‘pash’ for you.”

“I know about Chris but…?”  Donald reeled off a list of names.  “Really, are you sure?”

“Tompkins said he used to bring himself off behind the cricket pavilion while he watched you doing fielding practice.  I used to do the same in my bed at night.”

“Really?” said Stephen, surprised.

“It’s the way you filled out your school trousers; I don’t just mean this,” he said hefting Stephen’s cock and balls under the sheet as they lay in bed, “but your bottom was terribly attractive— just as attractive as Martin’s, but in a different way.”

“Really?” said Stephen again, “I have a nice bottom?”

“Of course, you must know that.”  Stephen rolled over and let Donald have a closer re-acquaintance with it.  Donald kissed the hairy, muscular pair of domes and then planted his tongue on Stephen’s hole.  “You know, he said lifting his head, “when I was at Cambridge, I frequently serviced the whole rowing team— usually four— sometimes six- fellows.  I loved being stretched by the muscular hearties and being utterly used by them.  Was that terrible of me?”

“No, Don, as long as you enjoyed it.”

“Oh I did, but I still wished you were one of them.”

He had inserted two greased fingers into Stephen, and was working diligently. “How does that feel?”

Stephen groaned and got up on his knees so Donald might have access to his cock as well. Donald’s hands were small and, with the application of more Spong’s Soothing Salve, he added a third and then a fourth finger. Stephen’s cock was hard and leaking and Donald loved the fact that it was he who was pleasuring this great slab of masculinity that he could never hope to be and it was he who was now bringing him low —or at least under his control.

Donald inserted half his palm. Stephen rested his forehead on the bed on his crossed arms while Donald continued to pleasure his raised rectum. “Feels good, doesn’t it?  That’s how it feels when you fuck us, Stephen.  Your hole is really opened up now; I like the way you can take it like a man.”

Steven moaned.

“Apart from Latin and Literature,” continued Donald, “I think the most important thing I’ve learnt is how to pleasure other chaps and I’m good at it— I love it actually.  It’s not a skill that is required in the F.O. all that frequently,” he laughed, “but you never know…There were some big fellows on that rowing team—none the size of you, Stephen—but big chaps just the same— although our best stroke was rather small in fact, but I did him just the same— and it is constantly surprising how many of them have a fondness for other chaps when you get down to it and for having themselves stretched like I’m doing to you.”

Donald then climbed under Stephen on his back and continued to move his fingers in and out while he took Stephen’s distended member in his mouth and worked on it with his free hand.

“Give me your load,” he panted, removing Stephen’s cock for just a moment. Stephen concentrated and Donald did not flag.  Then through his fingers he felt Stephen’s muscles contract and at once his mouth was flooded with Stephen’s fulsome seed.  He was not able to swallow much and it flowed out the sides of his mouth and ran down his neck in a terrible mess.

Stephen was panting, but was careful not to collapse too heavily on his friend.  They worked themselves into a comfortable position on their backs, Stephen with his arm around Donald and Donald with his head on his friend’s chest where he could feel his rapidly beating heart.

“Oh that was good Don!” he said, reaching down and feeling his own greasy hole, which had now miraculously contracted to its normal inscrutable pucker.  And after a pause: “Do you remember sleeping like this at Mrs Leybourne’s?”

“Yes, of course,” said Donald dreamily, “and do you remember how I would have my hand down your trousers during lessons?’

“I was very thankful for that.  I was always randy in the afternoons.”

“You were always ready for it at any hour, Stephen, and it was a heavenly way to spend a dull afternoon in school,” he said with a fond sigh. He bent down and kissed the side of Stephen’s flaccid cock. “Stephen,” he continued, “I’m very happy with Charles and Jack, but I don’t know how to ask them if I can bring boys back to my room. I often feel like a soldier or a sailor or someone a bit rough and now that I’m on my own…well it seems a waste not to indulge.”

“Don, you’ll have to be very careful. Strangers can turn on you, especially if they find themselves in trouble with the police over some other matter. The police are always trying to get people like us that way. You have a career in Whitehall to think of and Jack and Charles have academic positions that could be in jeopardy if the police were involved, even peripherally.  I wouldn’t bring strangers back, if I were you; friends are different. You’d better talk to Charles and Jack about it.”

“Yes of course you’re right. I never thought of it that way; I was excited by being on my own at last, that’s all.” He turned his face upwards and kissed Stephen then he kissed the triangular patch of hair on Stephen’s broad chest. “It’s lovely being in bed with you here, Stephen. It’s safe and warm. Do you think you could fuck me, if you’re not too sore? I won’t let you go to sleep until you do,” he giggled. 

Hélias was invited to come to the beach the following day. He came across to Antibes on his bicycle, grinning and showing his gleaming teeth and smoking as always. He distributed hugs and kisses and showed off his leg, now healed completely. He was introduced to the Americans and was charm itself.  A picnic was loaded into an old hired carriage and the seven boys managed to find room, Hélias sitting up next to his cousin, the driver, and they slowly made their way down to Cap-Eden Roc.

There were other bathers there—Germans and some French families— however they were all unashamedly naked. Hélias, the most brazen, was the first and of the group to remove his clothes and it took some persuasion for Bunny and Dwight to follow suit.  Hélias made things worse by saying complimentary things about their bodies rather than accepting the situation with sang froid.  However some swimming races were a distraction and there were the inevitable wrestling games to be played in the shallows.  Behind the rocks Hélias was very cheeky and encouraged his cock to hardness and grinned while Dwight and Bunny—and the others—were alarmed that strangers on the beach might see and Martin had visions of the police being called.

Back at the house, in the privacy afforded by the thick stone walls, Stephen encouraged an afternoon of male nakedness, with the boys reading and playing cards as they nearly expired in the intense heat.  Hélias was disinclined to ride his bicycle home and, forsaking his wife and daughter, slept in Martin and Stephen’s bed.  The boys hoped that Hélias’ exhaustion in the morning and a certain tenderness as he mounted his bicycle would not betray his secret to those at home.

The next day Myles arrived on the same train as Charles and Jack.  It was such a hot and sunny day that work was immediately forgotten and they headed directly for the plage.  It was the crowded beach closest to the town so they wore their costumes.  Stephen now wore just his trunks and had abandoned the singlet that had formerly formed a rather inadequate fig leaf covering his handsome chest and back.  Several other young men— French and Italian—were also naked above their waists, Martin noticed.

In the evening Myles got out his papers from the important looking attaché case he had carried on the train.  These were spread out on the big table and Martin was engaged for some hours.  They would see Mrs Chadwick the following day.

“Where am I to sleep, Martin?” asked Myles on towards midnight.

Jack and Charles occupied the new bedroom where Hélias had helped them haul up the new bed through the clever trapdoor in the landing floor.  Bunny and Dwight had possession of the cellar, although this was shared with Stephen’s punching bag and exercise equipment.  Donald and Archie had the other bedroom where sounds in the night indicated that the unlikely couple were finding common ground.

“Well, it’s either down here on cushions or in with Stephen and me.  Which do you prefer?’ asked Martin needlessly. 

Martin sighed, for the answer was obvious and when Myles was naked and in their bed on one side of Stephen and Martin was on the other Myles added: “I hope that this is alright, I mean this is your holiday and we have kept things on a professional footing this last 12 months.”

“Don’t worry Harry, I’m used to having to share him.  There is enough of him to go around, isn’t there?”

“There certainly seems to be an unfair distribution,” said Myles in a lightsome tone as his hand met Martin’s on the shaft of Stephen’s half-hard cock.  “Did I tell you about us in the War?”

Martin had heard the story more than once, but he let Myles relate it again because he liked stories that showed Stephen in his true light and he understood that it meant a great deal to Myles.  Besides, the story, as recounted, was quite erotic and Martin’s imagination went readily to the shelled out farmhouse where the scared private was given comfort—or at least distraction— in the form of a brutal, but clearly memorable, fucking by his captain who was also scared but could not let one of his men see it.

“Do us both, Derby,” said Martin at long last, “make us forget.” 

***** 

Lazy days followed. It was a terribly hot July and August and the beach was really only bearable in the mornings and late afternoons.  The shade of the grapevine and the cool of the cellar room were therefore welcome.  The Plunger taught Bunny to sketch in the vegetable garden and he did some nice little studies of the surrounding houses with their crooked outlines. The application of watercolour was not always successful, but Bunny looked and felt anything but American in the broad-brimmed hat that The Plunger produced and had once belonged to Augustus John.

Donald had to return to London and there was a certain amount of shuffling about of beds, however Stephen tended to respect the privacy of Charles and Jack and Bunny and Dwight and apart from his little visits at bedtime they were left unmolested.  However in the daylight hours Stephen did encourage the four of them to move about the house in a state of nature, without embarrassment, although he thought himself a poor host if they were not in a semi-excited state for some of the day.

With Martin and The Plunger it was different.  He liked them to sit on his knee (and other places) in front of the others until a point came where Jack and Charles and the two Americans were quite used to walking into the main room or out to where Stephen’s bathtub sat to find Stephen with his nose in The Plunger’s red pubic hair or his tongue tasting Martin’s circumcised cock-head or to find both of them down on the floor and working on Stephen’s balls as he squatted on his haunches; Stephen’s balls, apparently, requiring much close attention and at frequent intervals. It was, therefore, a somewhat uninhibited male household.

At the end of the second week a letter arrived from San Raphael.  It was from Gerald and Sarah Murphy who had heard that Lord Branksome was at Antibes and they invited them to lunch.  Charles and Jack were unsure if they want to go—they hadn’t come to Europe to meet other Americans— and The Plunger was also disinclined as Picasso had not been mentioned, but Stephen and Martin felt that they must, even if it meant putting on their linen suits and soft collared shirts.

A hired car took them around the coast to the red-and-white villa the Murphys were renting while their own was still unfinished.  They were in time for luncheon, which was an informal affair but taken in a very elegant dining room with tall windows opening on to a terrace with steps that led down to the bright sea.

Gerald and Sarah were quite relaxed, as usual, and their glasses of whisky perhaps indicated another reason for it.  Handshakes and kisses were exchanged and Bunny and Dwight were presented to them.  Immediately they fell into conversation and of course they inevitably had people they knew in common—especially Dwight who had family in Boston.  Martin noted how the American twang in their accents became more pronounced when they were at ease with their fellow countrymen.

“Hemingway, I’d like you to meet my friends from last summer and their houseguests from over at Antibes,” called Gerald.

Hemingway proved to be a young man of solid build with a rather big square head.  He was from Chicago and knew of the Hoyts and the Wilburs.

“Ernest is a writer, aren’t you, Ernest?”

“I’m trying to be.  At the moment I’m just a stringer for a Toronto paper.”

“What are you writing?” asked Martin, knowing that this was always a touchy topic to broach with budding authors.

“Well short stories and poems, but I’ve had a bit of bad luck; the suitcase containing some manuscripts was lost on the French railroads.”

As he said this, he glared at a women with bobbed hair who had just entered the room.  He broke off while Gerald introduced Mrs Hemingway who was an attractive woman, several years older than her husband, and was of a comfortable roundness that seemed to be very pleasant indeed.  “But I’m working on a war story now.”

Martin thought that this might be the sum of his revelations, but Hemingway was in a talkative mood and kept returning to the topic all through lunch.

“I was on the Italian front during 1918. It was pretty terrible I can tell you. Up in the mountains the men froze and had to sleep together just to stay alive.  Down on the Venetian plain there was hard fighting against the Austrians.  It was no place for shirkers and pansies.”  He glared fiercely around the table.  Martin felt uncomfortable.

“You were in the infantry?” asked Dwight.

“No, I drove a Red Cross ambulance, Dr Hoyt.”

“It was Ernest’s experiences when he was wounded that prompted him to write,” said Hadley, his wife, who the boys thought might have a hard time of it living with her husband.

“Yes, I met Dos about then.  He told me to write.  Gerald tells me you met him here last year.” Martin nodded.  “He encouraged me and persuaded me to come back to Europe.  But it was the courage of the men—the wounded men I saw in my hospital in Milan—that impressed me while I lay near death.”

“Ernest received shrapnel wounds in both legs— in Veneto wasn’t it?” said Gerald, “and he still managed to carry a wounded Italian soldier to safety.”

Hemingway didn’t deny it and went on: “In my story I have an American who has been wounded— shot in the balls,” he said bluntly, “and he feels he can’t go home to America and so he drifts around Europe.  Can you imagine what it would be like, Lord Branksome, not to feel like an entire man?” He concentrated his black eyebrows on Martin who was attempting to drink his chilled lettuce soup.

“No, I can’t.  It would be awful, I imagine,” he said with his spoon poised.  He thought of Stephen; his big balls would have been an easy German target.  How would he feel about his lover if he were impotent? Hemingway had asked a good question without knowing it.

“The question, I’m posing,” he continued, “is: what is it to be a man?  I mean a real man, not the pathetic products of this age, which seems dominated by faggots and fairies, but a real man who pits himself against the world and sees the beauty in physical actions—even violence; one who aches with the confusion that this brings.  Ezra says to look to Italy for a revival of the glories of strength rather than the worship of weakness.”

“Of course we can’t be soldiers all the time.  No one wants continuous war,” said Bunny.

“No, of course not, Wilbur.  War and inflation are the two signs of a failed country, but war is the crucible in which our mettle is tested.  In war there is courage and grace as well as bloody murder.  Men need war and women need men who need it.

“Do you know what the Italian soldiers wrote on the walls of the houses after they had beaten the Austrians at the Piave River? ‘E' meglio vivere un giorno da leone che cent'anni da pecora’.  That means: it is better to live one single day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.  That sums up what war means for the Italians.  They know what it is to be a man.  Look at Italy today; it is a nation discovering its cojones as the Spaniards say.”

Martin wasn’t so sure and thought of the comic opera figure of Mussolini who was all puffed up like a bullfrog.

“Have you been to Pamplona for the San Fermin Festival and the running of the bulls?” continued Hemingway.

“What’s that?” asked Stephen.  The others at the table sketched him the details.

“We’re going again in two days again, Hadley and me.  There you see the virility of the unspoilt Spaniard in all its glory and simplicity.  The Spanish worship it in their matadors and in the bulls they are pitted against.  Every Spanish boy knows what it is to be a man.”

“Both are well-endowed reproductively, Ernest?” suggested Sarah Murphy, mischievously, raising an eyebrow.  Hemingway didn’t answer her directly but observed that the bullfighters and the bulls had a respect for each other that bordered on the sacred.

“I couldn’t make Scott understand that.  He has a fondness of weakness.”

“But his new novel is already published,” said Gerald, trying to change the subject.  “You remember the Fitzgeralds of course,” he said to Martin, “well Scott’s new book should be available in London by the time you return.  It is short, but very good.”

“I hear you box, Mr Knight-Poole.  Would you care to spar with me after luncheon?” asked Hemingway suddenly.

Stephen didn’t particularly want to, but he agreed.  The servants set up cane lounges under the shade of the stone pines on the terrace on which the less virile guests reposed with their ice-filled drinks while Stephen and Hemingway stripped to the waist and Hemingway tied a pair of gloves on Stephen.  Hemingway apparently carried a great deal of sporting equipment in his luggage.

Hemingway had a good pair of shoulders, like Bunny, and he explained that he had ‘done track’ and played football at high school.  His chest was broad, although not as deep as Stephen’s and despite being slightly younger, his chest was already covered with a drift of dark, wiry hair.

“Can you lend Mr Knight-Poole some trunks, Gerald?” asked Hemingway.

“Stephen, please.”

Murphy had none but a servant found some loose short trousers that would do.  They were too big to have been Gerald’s, so they must have been left behind by a house guest—perhaps Picasso.

Stephen went back in the direction of the house to change into them and Hemingway followed him as the gloves would make changing impossible. The improvised locker room was the luxurious lavatory and bathroom adjacent to the front door.  Here Stephen fumbled in his gloves.

“Leave me have a go,” said Hemingway and proceeded to undo Stephen’s belt.  Stephen was silent.  His suit trousers cascaded to his ankles and his cock was free.  It was girded by the new strap that embraced and divided his balls.

Hemingway visibly blanched.  “Good God! What’s that?”

“Just a support for my privates,” replied Stephen.  He bent down to pick up the trunks from the floor, perhaps a little unnecessarily slowly, and Hemingway gained a superb view of Stephen’s big balls from between his sturdy legs.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“No, it feels good.  Makes me conscious of them.  Could you help me do up these?”

“What?”

“Help me put my trunks on, Mr Hemingway.”

“Ernest, please.  You don’t wear any undershorts?”

“Not since I was 11.”

“My mother never would have allowed that back in Oak Park.  She was very strict,” he replied with a disgusted snort.

“I was an orphan.”

“Lucky you.  Sorry I didn’t really mean that, it’s just that my mother…”

The budding author was clearly rattled and looked pale beneath his tan.  His hands shook as he tried to do up the buttons.

“You’d better do up my fly.  I don’t want to shock the ladies,” said Stephen good-humouredly.  It took Hemingway more than one attempt.  “Thanks. Please don’t go too hard on me, apart from my weekly practice; I haven’t had a proper fight since 1919.  I made some money by boxing against Australian soldiers—it was tough, but fun.”

“You were in the War?”

“Yes,” said Stephen simply.  Hemingway noted the scars on Stephen’s white skin, but asked no more.

“There, that’s better.” Stephen bounced on his feet and touched his gloves together.  Hemingway was mesmerised by Stephen’s cock and balls, which were outlined in his trunks as they moved recklessly about.  “Now we’ll get Gerald to lace up your gloves.  Are you ready?”

Hemingway wasn’t entirely sure, but followed Stephen out onto the terrace where the others were waiting with lazy impatience.

They began in good grace, not really trying for body blows, although Stephen thought that Hemingway might well be very competitive under different circumstances.

Stephen made some silly jokes and Hemingway smiled weakly.  Something, however, was putting the American off his game and he found it hard to get into a rhythm.  Stephen did a lot of work on his toes.  A few blows connected and Hemingway replied with a few of his own.  He had a strong right, but it was no use; Hemingway was distracted by the memory of Stephen’s privates of Pamplonian proportions and he was leaving himself vulnerable.  The match continued for a few more minutes and Stephen landed some powerful blows to Hemingway’s unprotected side and then Stephen complained of a cramp in his calf and the contest was called off and the guests on the terrace resumed their individual conversations.

“Sorry, Ernest,” said Stephen.  “I’m not in very good form and have probably been drinking too much wine, but thank you for the match.”  Gerald Murphy untied their laces and Stephen put his sweaty arm around Hemingway’s neck in a friendly fashion as they headed back into the house.

“I stink!” said Stephen, sniffing his armpit and grinning.  “Unfit for polite society.”  In the bathroom he simply dropped his improvised trunks on the marble floor and moved to the mosaic-tiled shower recess, removing the strap from around his cock and balls and casting it aside.  The shower bath was an elaborate continental type with many taps, gold-plated pipes and handheld sprays.  It took Stephen a few minutes to work out the plumbing and to get the temperature right.  Soon he was being soothed by the hot water over his body in a cloud of steam.  He soaped himself vigorously and washed his hair.  “Come on Ernest; get in or you will be a pariah all afternoon!” he called.

He saw a naked form moving in his direction through the wired-glass of the thick nickel-framed door.  He leant forward and opened it for Hemingway who stepped inside, looking down at his feet.

“You’ve got a powerful right arm, Ernest, and a strong chest; you’re very fit.” He handed the soap to him and smiled.

“I try to keep myself in shape.  I do a lot of hunting too.  Have you ever shot a bear?”

“No,” said Stephen. “Cricket is my other sport.”

“Oh,” said Hemingway who was running the water over himself, but not daring to do more than sneak a sideways look at Stephen who was rinsing his hair while a cascade of water flowed from the end of his flaccid cock onto the floor.

“You must have had a lot of women,” he began suddenly.  Stephen wondered if he was blushing, but couldn’t tell in the shower.

“Some, but not so many.”

“Older or younger?”

“Some older; some younger.”

“Ever fucked more than one at a time?”

Stephen thought about this question carefully and found it could be answered honestly.  “Yes, quite often.”  There was a long pause.

“And you were always…adequate…that is you never had any trouble…I mean you never had any thoughts that cruelly intruded and made it suddenly impossible…to… um…satisfy…”

“No Ernest, I suppose I am lucky that way.”

“I mean when I saw you just now…you know…and I saw that heart you’ve had trimmed down there I knew you were both a man’s man and a ladies’ man, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t know anything about that.  I’m just a man, that’s all, Ernest.  I don’t know what a man’s man is.  It’s hard enough just being an ordinary man.”

Hemingway said nothing and left the shower cabinet soon afterwards.  Stephen let the water run over his back for a little while longer.  When he emerged, Hemingway was getting dressed.  Stephen took one of the Murphys’ luxurious towels and put it around his neck and swaggered out with his cock and balls swinging provocatively between the two tree trunks that were his muscular thighs.  “Thanks again for the match.”

“How’s the cramp?”

“Still painful,” lied Stephen and put his foot up on a stool and massaged what he hoped was the correct calf.  This gave Hemingway a movable feast for his eyes, for Stephen’s cock and balls were displayed to their finest—although Martin liked them in any mood.

“Try some liniment,” was all Hemingway was able to say as he was making a poor job of his tie with nervous fingers.  In a moment he was out of the door and Stephen smiled to himself as he imagined him breathing hard.

To be continued…