Lord Delvees no longer wore his silk hat. “What’s the point?” he argued with Stephen and Martin.  “London has gone to the dogs and I’m likely to be set upon by Bolsheviks at any moment or caricatured in the weeklies as a ‘profiteer’; there is no point in drawing attention to wealth these days.”

“But London is still London, sir,” ventured Stephen.

“No, it’s not what it was in the nineties.  It’s all blocks of flats and hotels instead of Christian homes, advertising signs, Bovril and bare legs— I don’t know where to look with some of these young women—and I’ll tell you frankly, I wept when I saw what they had done to Regent Street, not to mention that I couldn’t get across Piccadilly Circus for the ‘roundabout’ they’re making and the boy who sold me the Telegraph said ‘cheerio’ as I walked away.”

Certainly London had changed since the days of Max Beerbohm—the War had seen to that— but Martin and Stephen did not feel the same way as Lord Delvees who must have been near eighty and so naturally remembered the days of his youth more fondly.

They loved London and its moods: the fog on the Thames at Chelsea, the hidden corners such as Adelphi Terrace, the Inns of Court, Shepherd Market and the Roman Bath in Strand Lane; there was Rotten Row in autumn and the old Tudor shops in Holborn.  Then there were the vendors who sold ‘sweet lavender’ on the footpaths and the Caledonian Market in North London where Stephen and Martin went to browse before calling in at a local pub with a big, elaborate gas light on a bracket over the door.  No, London’s delights had not yet lost their lustre to the boys.

Stephen was carving out a niche for himself in the metropolis.  He had his own set of friends at his club, The Saville, soon to move from Piccadilly due to being undermined by the construction of one of those big new buildings that Lord Delvees had railed against.  Some of these friends were invited to the lunches he gave once a month, which featured interesting authors.  Stephen wasn’t able to attract the ‘top shelf’ of writers— these people were snapped up by Lady Cunard and Lady Colfax.  Others went to Lady Oxford or Lady Ottoline Morrell— and therein lay the problem: Stephen found it harder to invite people and to have invitations accepted because he was not only not a lady, but, not even, on cursory inspection, a woman.

However, the likes of E.V. Lucas and Sylvia Townsend Warner— a brilliant and mysterious writer who lived with a poetess in Dorset— had made appearances.  Another guest had been Aldous Huxley who was very much a man of the moment having published three novels since Stephen had first met him at Margot Asquith’s before the War.  Crome Yellow had been too intellectual for Stephen who preferred the more satirical Antic Hay.  He longed to ask if one of the pretentious figures was based on Archie Craigth, but dared not.  His biggest coup was the reclusive E.M. Forster who was reminded of their meeting at the Café Royal on Stephen’s first trip to London many years ago.  Forster had recently published a new novel set among the English in India.  Stephen thought it was the best thing he had ever read and had to stop himself from gushing.  On that occasion Margot Asquith had attended and the reputation of Stephen Knight-Poole as a well-read young man of the modern age was cemented, although the fact of M. Lefaux’s wonderful lunches, by reputation the best in London, was not an inconsiderable factor in their popularity. 

For the first of these luncheons, Stephen was rather nervous.  For all his affluence and fine clothes, he often reminded himself that he was just a village lad (albeit the village stud) who had been taken up like Pip by a benefactor.  This lunch would be the first important occasion when he had been the host and not a mere guest of the Marquess of Branksome.

“I would like to come, Derby, but these should be your affairs and I think it’s best if you are the host alone,” Martin said.  He had just handed Stephen a large box of letter paper with his own name printed on the head with ‘Branksome House, Piccadilly, W1’ underneath.  “Antibes is all yours of course, but we share our two homes I hope, Derby; I want you to remember that.”

“Bless you Mala; I confess I do wonder in black moments if I am forever a permanent houseguest, although you’ve never made me feel like one.  I would feel better inviting people to these lunches on my own paper rather than yours; it was very thoughtful of you.” 

Martin kissed him quickly on the cheek and said: “It is so unfair that we can’t be treated like we are married.  But I am a bit too stupid for all the clever people who will come to your table, but if you can hook Compton McKenzie I’d like to come.

For this first lunch, Margot Asquith (now the Countess of Oxford and Asquith) stood by Stephen and persuaded Beverley Nichols and Cecil Roberts to come.  Stephen wrote to Ivor Novello and E.V. Knox, the satirist and editor of Punch.  It was no surprise that Novello was a refusal, as every hostess in London wanted the dreamy-eyed actor at their table, and Stephen began to gauge something of the competition.

Lady Oxford knew Nichols and Nichols knew Roberts so that was good.  The Plunger was invited with his sister Jean.  Lady Oxford thought a table between six and eight was quite suitable for a beginner, especially as Stephen had done his ‘homework’ first and had read his guests’ works.

Beverley Nichols was much in the press of late.  They sought out his opinions on every aspect of modern life as a representative of the ‘bright young things’.  He had just impudently written an autobiography at the age of just 25 and proved in real life to be a witty conversationalist.  An added bonus was that he played to them after lunch—he was a beautiful exponent of Chopin and Cesar Franck.

However, all deferred to Margot Asquith who dominated the table, Stephen feeling relief at first that she had taken charge and then alarm as he realised that his guests were being browbeaten by her opinions, like the rolling barrages Stephen recalled from the War.  Cecil Roberts, however launched an offensive during the main course (Pilaff aux fruits de mer) and was able to take Margot Asquith to task for some inaccuracies and had some fascinating gems to drop about the history of Venice and Rome, although, like gems, they came with a terrible lot of dross to be sieved through and Stephen began to think he was a pompous bore and very fond of the perpendicular pronoun, despite his humble origins in Nottingham.

By dessert (poires au chocolat) an expeditionary force made up of the Craigths and ‘Evoe’ – Knox’s pen name–managed to blunt Cecil Roberts’ merciless attack and, by tacit agreement, placed Nichols on the throne, where, like English life under the restored Charles II, a more merry and light-hearted tone prevailed for the rest of the meal and anecdotes about Madame Melba and the astonished shop keepers in her native Australia kept the table chortling.

Nichols was the last to leave.  He had been watching Stephen all through lunch and Stephen calmly recognised that Nichols was interested in him.  It was therefore no surprise when Nichols propositioned him as he sat at the piano.  “Have you time for a quick fuck, Stephen?” he asked as he extemporised on a polonaise.  Stephen thought about it.  Beverly was terribly good looking with a nice pair of shoulders and wavy black hair.  He had full lips that framed a dazzling smile.  No he had someone like that already—a blond version who loved him completely.

“No, sorry, Bev.  There might be someone who wouldn’t understand,” he said diplomatically, although that was not the reason for the refusal.

“Pity,” was all Nichols said.  He stopped playing and felt Stephen through his trousers.  His eyebrows went up. “A great pity.  Did you say you boxed?”

“Yes.”

Nichols stood and boldly ran his hands under Stephen’s suit coat to feel his muscles.  Stephen assisted matters by removing the coat where his magnificent figure was shown off in his shirtsleeves and tight waistcoat.  Stephen let Nichols continue to feel him freely, grateful for his saving of the luncheon.  Nichols slid his palm of one hand down the back of Stephen’s trousers and felt his nakedness while attempting to masturbate him with the other.

“Thank you for coming, Beverley,” Stephen managed to say as he took a step back depriving Nichols busy hands of their work.

The look of intense concentration on the young author’s face was transformed instantly into a cheeky grin. He lit a cigarette. “No, thank you.  It has been a memorable afternoon and I envy his lordship.”

“You’ll meet him next time.”

“I will be invited again?”

“Of course.  I loved it. It’s just a pity I have someone.”

“And a pity I don’t,” said Nichols ruefully.

The bell was rung and Glass produced Mr Nichol’s hat and umbrella. 

***** 

Stephen was a wealthy young man, even without the prospect of being Martin’s heir.  He had received a large sum of money when Martin’s elder brother had died and he had invested it wisely.  He had good clothes and a motorcar and, as well as sharing Martin’s houses, he also shared Martin’s valet and secretary—although Carlo more properly had been Stephen’s batman during the War.  Myles had become useful in sending out the invitations for these lunches and he recorded acceptances and refusals in a log along with the menu; repetition and awkwardness could thus be avoided.

Stephen had also been given a few jobs of engineering work through his association with Charles and Jack at the University of London.  On one of these—a job in Bradford— he would take Myles for they needed and extra draftsman.  Myles seemed content in his position as their private secretary, but the boys did not want him to cut himself off from pursing his original career if he felt so inclined.

Martin knew that Myles and Stephen would sleep together when they were away up north. He lay in bed wondering if he should give voice to this concern before Stephen left; he did not even know how he felt about it.  Was he concerned?  He took the chance and hoped that discussing it would clarify his own thoughts.

“Derbs, when you are in Bradford, do you think Myles will be sharing your bed?” he said with a single gulp of air.

“I expect so Mala. You know how things are—like when we are in France.  Would you prefer if I didn’t, because I wouldn’t if you thought it would come between us?”

Martin was thoughtful. “You have strong needs, Derbs.”

“Not that strong; they would never be an excuse…an explanation maybe for those ‘emergencies’…but not an excuse and this is different.”

“No, it’s fine with me, as long as you love me,” said Martin as he ran his hands over Stephen’s naked torso.  “Don’t break Myles’ heart, Derby.  It is very easy to fall in love with you.  I only required two glances, if you remember: one with you wielding an axe with your shirt off; the other when you took your trousers off.”

“Of course I only love you, Mala, and Harry might not even want to sleep with me.”

“And pigs might fly, Derby.”  

***** 

The Plunger at this time had been very busy painting and had been down St Ives with its quaint scenery which he utterly ignored in order to paint from memory heroic workmen, bare-chested and in overalls, erecting wireless masts on the South Downs in another part of England altogether.  When he returned to London he saw Stephen on Thursdays for boxing and on other days the three of them dined and went to the theatre.  On these occasions he frequently mentioned someone called Edward Loew— ‘Teddy’— who he had dined with or who had been to his club or who had liked one of his paintings, et cetera, until the boys began to suspect that this Teddy was somehow important to The Plunger.

It was Martin who took the initiative: “Who is this Teddy Loew you keep mentioning, Plunger?” asked Martin with no subtlety at all.  They were sitting in a pub in the Kings Road, not far from the studio.

The Plunger went red but they could tell from his inability to suppress a smile that he was more than glad to answer the question.

“He works at the Foreign Office and I met him through Donald,” he began.  Martin and Stephen looked for more biographical details and they were forthcoming.

“He’s twenty-seven and has collected modern paintings since he was sixteen.”  There was a pause.  “He’s a Jew— although not observant and his family name was once something much longer.  He went to Charterhouse School and was in the War.  He walks with a limp because his right leg is all smashed up at Ypres.” Martin and Stephen could tell that The Plunger wanted to get these facts out of the way as we all do when we are frightened that our friends might be critical.

“So he’s your boyfriend?” asked Stephen.

The Plunger looked down into his gin-and-tonic and nodded his head while Martin and Stephen looked across the top of him with raised eyebrows.

“He must be very nice, Archie,” said Stephen.

“He is!” whispered The Plunger breathlessly. “He’s fearfully good-looking and has beautiful clothes and even with his stick…”

“You mean a walking stick?”

The Plunger nodded. “It’s a cruel shame because he has such beautiful legs— or leg—as I should say.  I speak as an artist of course.”

“Of course,” said Martin and Stephen together with sarcasm.

“So these beautiful clothes, Archie; it’s not just the beautiful clothes that attracted you?” asked Stephen, knowing The Plunger’s penchant for dressing up.

“No, of course not,” said The Plunger, sotto voce. “I’ve seen how beautiful he is without his clothes.”

“In the line of your work, Plunger?” teased Martin.

“Not exactly,” replied his friend like a shy young girl and then could not repress the big smile that had been lurking beneath the surface for some minutes, threatening to burst forth. When it finally broke out across his face it was like the sun from behind a storm cloud and it was reflected back by the knowing grins of Stephen and Martin.  Smiling is infectious.

They hastened from the pub and The Plunger opened the floodgates of conversation, and it poured forth in the streets as they made their way back to the studio and continued in the comfort of The Plunger’s leather bed on the mezzanine of his luxurious studio.  Soon they knew all about Teddy Loew as seen from The Plunger’s perspective.

It seemed that this Teddy was quite high up at the FO, despite his age, and that he lived with his parents in Belsize Park. “His father has a business restoring antiques, especially chairs and picture frames; that’s how Teddy got interested in Art, but he is a modernist and his father does not approve of him ‘wasting his money on that futuristic rubbish’.

“They’re comfortable, but not terribly rich.  He has a married sister who has gone to live in America and the parents, who are elderly and not in the best of health, have come to rely on Teddy entirely since his elder brother died in the War.  I can’t get him to stay here overnight- his parents expect him home.  He has told them I am his friend, but that’s all of course. They’re not very religious people and don’t mind that he has friends who are not Jews, but I despair of us ever being together.”

“It’s that serious, Plunger?” said Martin. “You want to be together?”

“Yes, I’m quite convinced I do and he feels the same.”

“What about Guevara?” said Stephen mentioning the wild Chilean painter that The Plunger had pursued since the beginning of the War.

“I’m over all that, Stephen, long ago.  Even at the time I knew it was hopeless.  He was utterly unfaithful and didn’t care tuppence for me.  I have to admit he was good looking, but he wasn’t nice like Teddy.  He’s looking for an heiress to marry.”

“And this Teddy can keep you satisfied, Archie?” asked Stephen. “A man like you, with such fiery hair and such an exceptional ginger cock and balls,” he teased, “needs a special man to fulfil him.”

“And I him, Stephen,” retorted The Plunger with a grin. “Yes, we satisfy each other and he is special.”

Stephen leaned over and caressed The Plunger’s ear with his lips and then spoke breathily, just above a whisper: “So does this mean that I won’t ever get to taste your throbbing cock again, Archie, and that Martin will be denied the pleasure of feeling you deep inside his willing loins.  He cries in the night for you, you know.  Sometimes I can’t do anything—anything at all—to satisfy his yearning.”

“Stop it, Derby!’ said Martin crossly, pulling the big stud away from his flustered school chum. “He is teasing you, Plunger.  Don’t jeopardise things because of us.  We want to see you happy.  I have plenty of toys to stick up Derby if he is moony.”

“Don’t spoil my fun, Mala,” said Stephen laughing. “What are you going to do Archie?  It’s the nicest thing having someone there when you wake up.” He turned to Martin with sincerity dripping from his blue eyes that shone from under his black hair, which had fallen over his left eye. “I mean it, Mala, I love you most when I wake up next to you.”

“I know you do,” said Martin giving him a quick peck.

“Does he know about us?”

“Yes something, well a lot actually.  I’m afraid I was not very discreet.” The Plunger turned red. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Well, when can we meet this Teddy?” asked Martin.

“He drops in after work at about 5:30 and usually takes the tube at about 7:30.  We usually like to have a drink together and…”

“We can guess the rest, Plunger,” said Martin with a grin.

“We could go to the theatre or a show and as long as he was home by midnight…”

There’s an idea.  Arrange it and we’ll be on our best behaviour.  By the way, what does Gertie think of him?”

“Gertie adores him, especially when he found out that Teddy’s parents know Herman Finck, the musical director of the Palace Theatre.” 

***** 

So it was early the following week that they agreed to meet.  The boys had been very clever in selecting a music hall program that finished early and Martin said he would drive Teddy home to Belsize Park to make the evening as long as possible.

They met at the studio at 5:30.  Teddy was already there and Gertie was fussing after him, pressing food and drink onto him and offering to sponge and brush his suit.  He was so insistent that Teddy removed his trousers there and then and Stephen remarked that this was a good sign for the rest of the evening. 

Teddy was very nice looking.  He was of average height, but looked short compared to the lanky form of The Plunger.  He was dark—perhaps his Semitic heritage— and what clothes that remained after they had been whisked away by Gertie were very fine indeed and it turned out that he was also a devoted client of Mr Gibbons at John Black & Co of Hanover Square.  One could not help being drawn to the naked legs beneath the shirttails.  One was firm and muscular and the other was scarred and withered.  It was cruelly at odds with how attractive Teddy Loew otherwise was.

“Archie talks of no one else,” he said advancing on his stick and shaking hands.

“Archie has kept you a secret,” replied Martin.  He looked across at The Plunger who looked both nervous and annoyed and in fact was moved to say:

“I wanted this meeting of my friends to be a success and now I see that Teddy has been humiliated by my servant and has no trousers on.  Why do I keep him?”

“Steady on, Archie.  He was helping me and didn’t want me going out not looking ‘spiffy’,”

“I suppose so,” grumbled Archie, grudgingly.

“We could all take our trousers off,” suggested Stephen helpfully, but The Plunger wasn’t ready for this.

Somehow the conversation flowed.  Teddy was very charming and intelligent.  He asked Martin about life as an aristocrat and Martin asked him about work in the Foreign Office.

“You know, I’ve seen your file,” said Teddy suddenly.

Martin blanched. “I have a file?”

“Certainly, you used to work for us during the War, didn’t you?  They don’t let anything go. I can tell you what’s in it if you promise not to have me shot.” Martin asked him to go on. “Well there is a lot about your cousin Count someone-or-other.”

Martin groaned. “Osmochescu and he was a spy— or perhaps still is one— and he ended up marrying a distant German cousin.”

“Then there was the job you did over the Zimmerman Telegram.  We still have to keep that from the Americans.  There is a rather mysterious page with names blacked out.  It must be very ‘hush- hush’ and it had something to do with a London club a few years ago.  Archie’s name is a footnote with reference to his father.”

“We know what that is, don’t we, Mala?” said Stephen.  Martin nodded for him to go on. “Prince George found himself in danger of being arrested.  We got him out of there and back to his detectives.”

“That would account for it,” said Teddy. “It also says that Lord Branksome lives with Mr Stephen Knight-Poole, his late brother’s ward.”

“It doesn’t say we are homosexual lovers?” asked Martin bluntly—the thing he was most afraid of.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Teddy “but our officers may draw that conclusion, of course, and I don’t mind telling you I would have removed any evidence if I could have.  I think that this is so unfair and tantamount to blackmail.”

“Thank you, Teddy,” said Martin trying hard to smile, but feeling a bit weak in the knees, “That was a very fine thing to say.”

“It means Teddy and I have to be very careful, Poole,” said The Plunger, with authority. “He is just starting out on his career and a scandal like that could ruin him; even whispered rumours can prevent promotion.”

“A Jew and a homosexual,” said Teddy grimly.

The grave tone was swept away at the music hall with the risqué comedian Max Miller and soon they were back at the Studio with some hours still to spare before Teddy’s curfew.

“Archie tells me you have been lovers for a long time,” said Teddy to the boys.

They sketched their history for him as they lay in the leather squab that formed the floor of the mezzanine.  Gertie had assisted Teddy up the ladder and had taken away his champagne because it had become too warm and had replaced it with one chilled in the electric refrigerator. “Thank you, Gertie that is lovely.”

“It’s her best vintage, Mr Loew; she can have the other muck, but I won’t let your glass go empty.  Those stairs are a trial, sir, make sure you call me to help you down.” The Plunger looked at Stephen and Martin helplessly.

“Archie is my first boyfriend, I don’t mind telling you,” said Loew, sipping on the superior vintage and giving a little hiccup.

“Derby was mine,” said Martin, “well apart from stuff at school, but I’m not your first, am I Derbs?”

Stephen spluttered and asked for a fairer hearing, but fell to relating his early experiences. “When I was about twelve or thirteen I used to go swimming in the place where I met Martin.  I used to do a few things with some of the boys— the Owens brothers, for example.  Oh I miss Doug’s pointed tongue, Mala; he could reach places…” he trailed off in reverie. “Then there were a group of girls from the village and the outlying farms.  Most of them are respectable mothers now, but back then they were awful to me.”

“What did they do?” asked The Plunger.

“When I was swimming they would steal my clothes and hide them, then they would cover me with fallen leaves or make crowns of ivy that I’d have to wear all afternoon.  Then they would take turns in sucking me and sitting on my cock.  They used to complain that it was too big—I loved it when they said that, I must confess— but they wouldn’t keep off it just the same.  I was lucky that they didn’t get pregnant.  Their fathers would have killed me.

“Did you prefer boys or girls, Stephen?” asked Teddy.

“The girls were alright, but the boys always made me feel more satisfied, I suppose.  There was this one girl who was rather plump and dreadfully plain.  When all the other girls were losing their virginity to me in the fallen leaves, she hung back.  I felt sorry for her and shooed the other minxes away.  I let her ride my cock— she didn’t squeal like the others— but she had a look of intense enjoyment on her face and there was a connection between us that wasn’t there with the others who were far prettier; they had just used my cock, but she allowed me to make love to her.  Is that silly?” he asked looking at the others.

“Not silly at all, Derbs,” said Martin. “That was lovely.  Plunger, do you mind if I suck Stephen’s cock right now?”

“We are rather used to doing it in front of each other, Ted,” said The Plunger. “I suppose that seems a bit odd, but we have known each other for a long time and I can’t alter that fact.”

Teddy did look a little shocked but said: “Go ahead.  I’ve never done it in front of others, but I suppose I will get used to it.  I was warned.  It might help if you suck me too, Archie.  Stephen’s story has me rather randy.”

Martin and Stephen were anxious to see what Teddy looked like naked and The Plunger was evidently keen for them to see, so he undressed Teddy while Martin and Stephen removed their own clothes and shamelessly looked at the blushing Teddy.  “Don’t look at my leg,” said Teddy, “although to tell the truth I often forget what it looks like now and give myself a shock sometimes when I catch sight of it in a mirror.”

Martin and Stephen felt a bit ashamed, but it wasn’t his leg they were intent upon.  Teddy’s Charvet shirt was removed and an expensive undershirt. “I call him Dizzy,” said The Plunger with proprietorial pride “because he is such a dandy that he reminds me of the young Disraeli.”

“I don’t deny it, I’m a flashy Jew,” said Teddy, laughing as he slipped aside his braces from his chest that had a narrow pelt of black hair down the middle.

When it came into view, Stephen said: “Nice cock there, Teddy,” and indeed it was with its circumcised head and attractive blue vein snaking down its length.  Even as they spoke it grew and hardened before their eyes and Teddy put his hands on his hips rather proudly.  Fully erect and throbbing it was curved remarkably upwards like a simitar and the bulbous head was blushed with pink.  Stephen could almost imagine being penetrated by it and thought of all the wonderful places the big curved cock could probe inside him.  He became quite excited and moved in the direction of the remarkable appendage.

“Get back there, Stephen!” said The Plunger, giving Stephen a playful push as he hurried to remove his own clothes. “He’s mine tonight; you have Martin.”

Stephen laughed and Martin quickly had his remaining clothes off; it was always an easy matter with Stephen for it seemed to be an unnatural struggle to keep clothes on him and buttoned up and tucked in.  Sometimes, when one could see the moving pack of muscle underneath or indeed his swinging cock and balls, he looked as if he had been made to wear them by the misguided dictates of civilization and that at any moment he would burst free and return to a state of nature.  Martin loved that.

When Stephen was revealed they looked to Teddy for a reaction. “Oh my God! Yener iz groys shvants!  No wonder those girls were so anxious to sit on it, but it must have nearly killed them!” Stephen just grinned.  He offered Teddy a touch, but the Plunger pulled his hand away, perhaps realising even then that this wasn’t going to be a battle he was going to win.

Gertie was summonsed to bring the Spong’s Soothing Salve and arrived on the platform with the four husky naked boys.  Gertie gave Stephen’s hairy buttocks a resounding slap, “When am I going to get a slice of this prime beef?” he said “Miss Gertie knows some tricks; you young ones think you just invented it.”

“Gertie, have you been at the sherry again?” said The Plunger crossly. “I’m sorry Stephen.”

“I’ll give you a cut off the joint, Gertie, that is if you think you can handle it, I promise,” said Stephen good naturedly grinning and waving his big cock. “But I’ll need to keep my strength up tonight and I think some beer would help if you have any.”

The Plunger was still furious and when his servant had returned with the beer he said: “Now go to your room and no more of your impudence or you’ll be out on your ear.”

“I’ll be on my pile of straw under the stairs, Mr Loew,” said Gertie wringing his hands like Uriah Heep, “if you need anything; you too, Mr Knight-Poole.  Call me if they can’t satisfy you.” The Plunger made an exasperated sound and threw a cushion at his departing head and Gertie fell the last few steps to the floor.

The boys returned to examining each other’s nakedness.

“I thought you were shy, Ted?” said The Plunger.

“I am, Archie.  My shvants is shy of someone to suck it.  And I think you know where you should be,” he said grinning at the others.  Martin and Stephen noticed his sudden forcefulness, something The Plunger perhaps craved.

The Plunger did his duty and Martin copied him.  Stephen and Teddy lay on the unusual mattress side by side with their lovers between their legs.  Stephen put his naked arm around Teddy’s neck and grinned. “This is good isn’t it, Teddy?  Our boyfriends are serving us, just how it should be.”

Martin pulled off long enough to say, “Shut up Derbs.  Don’t take nay notice of him Teddy he’s showing off.”  Stephen grinned and after a few minutes went on:  “You know, I always like to hear Martin gag, Teddy.  He really loves it.  Don’t you Mala?”  With that he pressed down on Martin’s blond head forcing him to choke. “I’m sorry, Mala, did you bite off more than you could chew?”

“I will bite it off, Derby, if you don’t behave!” said Martin, now wiping his eyes and the drool that ran from his nose.

“I’m sorry Mala. Will you please fuck me?” said Stephen with winsome contrition. “I have been a bit naughty and I should be punished.”  With that he rolled back and held his own legs.  Teddy was a little shocked at their frankness, but The Plunger had him so randy that he manoeuvred Archie over and prepared to enter him in similar style.  Stephen looked across again at the curved weapon and shivered.

“Open up, Derby, stop fighting me,” said Martin.

“I’m trying.  Force it in, Mala; make me feel it.”

Martin satisfied Stephen while Teddy seemed to give The Plunger quite a vigorous thrashing— he wasn’t shy at all by now.  The Plunger gasped and moaned in ecstasy and Stephen looked sideways and imagined being ravaged deep inside by Teddy’s curved cock.

“Spill in me, Mala,” panted Stephen and he grasped Martin around the back of his neck while his legs were held akimbo.  He looked penetratingly into Martin’s eyes with love and lust.  Martin did so and when he pulled out Stephen felt his dripping hole and smiled with satisfaction, kissing him.  He then worked on his own cock and Martin assisted by moistening it with his tongue and by pulling on Stephen’s low-hanging balls, always surprised at how much Stephen could take.  Stephen erupted all over his chest and Martin crawled up next to him and licked it up like a cat.  Stephen wrapped his arms around him and held him tight in a sticky embrace, but cast glances at the noisy progress of the other pair of lovers. The Plunger’s ginger cock had spilled, perhaps more than once, and now a change of pace showed that Teddy’s seed was being broadcast somewhere inside The Plunger’s bowels.  He was a good fuck.

There was a lot of panting and sheepish grins.  Gertie, rehabilitated, appeared with towels and drinks.  It was Teddy who was taken care of first, with Stephen in second place for once. Gertie assisted Teddy down the ladder and had his clothes all ready for him.  Stephen and Martin pulled on their own shirts and trousers roughly, but Teddy was made immaculate. The Plunger, still naked—a portrait in white and red—kissed Teddy good night.

In Martin’s motor they made their way north through Charing Cross and Tottenham Court Road.  It was just after midnight and the streets were deserted so they made good time. On the journey, Martin said, “I hope we didn’t shock you tonight, Ted.  I was just trying to imagine myself in your shoes.  We’re pretty depraved, I’m afraid.”

“No, Archie warned me and said we’d all end up in bed together.  I just don’t want anything to go wrong with this relationship and it’s so difficult with my parents.”

“Well on that matter, do you think your parents would like to come down to Croome for a weekend?  We could arrange it so you and The Plun…I mean Archie could be together at one end of the house and your mother and father could be at the other.  We have some fine old furniture that may interest him.”

“And a garden for my mother?”

“Indeed.”  

“I will ask them—or perhaps you can write; they are rather formal and old fashioned.”

“I could ask my friends, the Sachs.”

“You don’t have to, just because we are Jews, but it is a kind thought.  My parents are not very Jewish.  They just observe the high days like you might observe Christmas and Easter. My father deliberately chose English names for us—Barbara and Michael and Edward — although you’ve seen my cock, so some things he wasn’t leaving to chance.  Here, this is our house.”

They pulled up at a suburban villa in a large dark garden. They said good night and each departed with a good opinion of the other. 

***** 

“It’s so lovely to see The Plunger happy, isn’t Derbs?” said Martin as he stretched and luxuriated in their bed.  He felt the cool distant recesses of the sheets with his toes and then the warmer regions where his own body had been.  In the orient his toes discovered Stephen’s hairy calf and his knee was sent on an expeditionary mission to discover Stephen’s naked hairy haunches. “”Roll over, Derbs.”

Stephen rolled in his direction and Martin repeated the question as he ran his hands over his chest and shoulders. “Yes, Teddy seems devoted to him.  He seems genuine.”

“You know, Derbs, we are the only real friends The Plunger has.  It is like when we were at school; everyone knew him but he had a real difficulty getting close—he’d put on all that silly show to impress, but underneath…”

“But underneath he is the most marvellous chap,” completed Stephen. “He’s very loving and he really is a damned good painter.”

“I hope it works out with Teddy.  Wasn’t I clever in inviting him and his parents down to Croome?  I’m going to place him in a room next to The Plunger and put his parents somewhere distant.  We’ll get Chilvers to protect Romeo and Juliet.”

“Which is which?”

“I don’t know,” laughed Martin, “but I do know who has been a good egg: Gertie.  Did you see how he fussed over Teddy and it was Gertie who threw them together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Ted was at the studio.  It was late and Gertie said there were no taxis to be found—which he told me was a lie— and so Ted was forced to stay until the early hours and there you are.  Miss Gertie had picked him as a ‘good ’un’.”

Stephen grunted in surprise.  “Derby,” continued Martin, “do you think it would be a nice reward for Gertie if you made good on your promise?”

“What, fuck Gertie?” said Stephen suddenly sitting up.

“Yes, exactly. That is, if you think you can get it up, Derbs.”

“Of course I can, Mala,” said Stephen, registering a wound to his masculinity.  “It’s just that it is an unusual request.  I suppose I would do it if you really wanted me to.”

“Well I want you too; it would be a thrill to think of you bringing happiness to someone who has turned out to be a good sort— just like that plump girl.  He really is fond of The Plunger, you know.

“Teddy’s cock is definitely interesting, Derbs, but do you think I could have some happiness from your big one right now?  I can’t keep from squirming in this bed and I’m so excited; it will help me sleep.”

“Just don’t fall asleep, while I’m doing it to you, Mala, that’s all.”

“Perish the thought; every pore will be wide awake.  I want it a bit rough tonight, Derbs.”

“Well I seem to be taking orders for bespoke love-making.  I’m sure we can tailor something to suit his lordship.  What kind of lapels did sir have in mind?”

“Hold me by the ears like you did last week, Derbs.” 

***** 

The next afternoon Stephen rang the bell at the studio.  Gertie came down in a Chinese dressing gown (an old one of The Plunger’s).  His hair was in curlers and covered with a scarf.

“Oh Mr Knight-Poole,” he began politely. “Her ladyship is not at home I’m afraid.  She’s gone down to Fayette and won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“Well I have this book to give her…I mean him…so would you mind…?” Gertie took the book. “Look Gertie, it’s you I really came to see.”

“Me, sir?” said Gertie absently, feeling his hair and making sure the scarf was straight.

“Yes, you, Gertie.  The other night I made a promise and I feel bad about it.  I mean I was awfully pleased that Mr Craigth now seems to be so happy and I feel...that is, his lordship and I feel…we feel relieved that you concur with our judgement about what makes your master happy.”

“Well you better come in, Mr Knight-Poole,” said the factotum and Stephen followed him up the stairs to the studio.

“I think we all know what it is that makes her happy.  Did you see the cock on her?”

Stephen said nothing, but silently agreed with Gertie and for the hundredth time, wondered what it would feel like.

“Besides, she is the sweetest thing.  Poor lad with that leg, but he never complains and is always asking how my lady is and if there is anything that he can do for her.  And it’s good to hear him laugh.”  Stephen was getting confused with pronouns, but caught Gertie’s sentiment.  “I mean that Spanish bitch that she chased after for so long; treated her like dirt and was always rude to me.”

“I think Guevara was from Chile, not Spain, Gertie.”

“He could be an Abyssinian, dear, for all I care.”

“Well, we’re glad you approve and we have a plan to let the two of them have some nights together down at Croome.  We hope you’ll cooperate.”

“Of course.  What are you going to do about the appalling old parents?  They hang on to him like the most dreadful limpets after they lost his older brother.  They won’t let him sleep away from home.  They live in a modest way in the suburbs—just a cook and a parlour maid—they aren’t used to living like us.”

Stephen thought this was an unusual way of looking at it, but answered the question. “We plan to invite his parents down too, but keep them away from the lovers for the weekend. That way they might let him come by himself on other weekends.”

“A cunning plot for the curtain at the end of act one,” said Gertie giving a horrible grin.”

“And the other business…”

“That’s alright, dear.  You don’t have to entertain Gertie’s tired old cunt, although it’s sweet of you and I know I’ll regret having said it.”

“No Gertie, I meant it.  I’m very grateful for your care of Mr Craigth; you could have made things quite awkward if you had a mind to.”

“You mean like I usually do?  Yes, I could have, I suppose.  But you must realise that I’m very attached to the stuck up old thing after all these years.  I think of her as being Sarah Bernhardt or Adelina Patti.  Did I ever tell you about Sarah and the coffin?”

“Yes, Gertie, several times.  I think we better go to your room.”

Gertie shrugged and led Stephen past the ‘kitchenette’ to a small bedroom.  On the walls was a fascinating collection of framed and signed photographs and dozens of newspaper clippings and programmes.  Stephen had no time to study these or the crowded dressing table with the looking glass surrounded by electric bulbs.

Gertie removed his coat and hung it neatly on a hanger, running a critical hand over it. “Tell Carlo he needs to buy a new brush— a badger’s hair one.  You’ve been romping with those dogs in that coat.”

Then Gertie approached the compliant Stephen and unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt with his red-painted fingernails.  He removed his shirt—Stephen never wore a vest—and returned his trouser braces to his naked shoulders. “I want to kiss you,” he said, but the kisses were bestowed on Stephen’s nipples, not his lips. “You have very large nipples; I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Go ahead, it feels nice.  Bite them if you like.”

Gertie did and tugged and teased at them.  Stephen flexed his chest muscles and made them dance and Gertie laughed as he tried to pin them down.

“Oh I am so sorry, sir, but I seem to have got lipstick all over them; I should have wiped it off first.  Whatever will you think of me and what will his lordship say when he sees it?”

“It was his idea, Gertie; he won’t mind.  Leave it on and we will see how much of my cock you can swallow.”

Gertie ran his lips over Stephen’s torso and licked the line of lovely, soft black hair that ran south from his navel.  Shoes and trousers were removed, this time Gertie did not fold them so carefully.  Stephen’s cock and balls were revealed and Gertie had him spread his legs wide so he could thrust his face in his sweaty groin.

“I used to be able to make a big lad very happy indeed in my salad days, Mr Stephen.  You mightn’t think it now, but back then I could look mighty fine.  I could blow a leading man in his dressing room and get him back on stage for the next scene in just eight minutes—if he were not in tights.”

“Well I’m not in tights, Gertie; take your time, unless I’m holding you up from your duties.” Gertie did not even bother to answer that one and slobbered and licked and snuffled and pulled at Stephen’s privates.  Stephen moved to a chair and Gertie, on his knees, commenced to suck him.  He went down a long way and pulled off, gasping for air.  They examined the Plimsoll line marked by the lip rouge. “Not bad Gertie, but his lordship can do better.”

“Well he doesn’t have asthma,” said Gertie and returned to his labours.

At one point, just as Stephen was starting to enjoy it and was flexing his hips, he grabbed Gertie by the hair and, to his profound shock, it came off in his hands.  It was a brightly coloured wig with the rollers still in it.  Underneath was Gertie’s real hair, which was shaved very short, grizzled and quite grey.  It was further restrained by a hair net of the sort worn on the stage. “Oh well,” giggled Gertie as he pulled off Stephen’s cock.  He threw the wig to the far side of the room and commenced to pleasure Stephen again.  Stephen wondered how old he really was; he looked so utterly different.

“I think you’re ready for me, or rather I think I’m ready for you,” said Gertie huffing and puffing.  He removed his own clothes and elaborate underwear.  He was a scrawny and wrinkled figure and was completely shaved from armpits downwards. “I like to shave it all off.  It’s too tiresome to have to dye it and nobody wants an old grey cunt.”  He giggled and bent over to show Stephen his hole. “Let me see yours again for a minute, big fellow.”

Stephen rose from the chair and bent over. “Beautiful,” was all Gertie could breathe.  He licked it once or twice and then returned Stephen to the chair where he applied theatrical face cream— the sort that removes grease paint—to his own rectum and to Stephen’s rampant cock.  He climbed upon his lap and, facing him, lowered himself.

“I get the best view I’m afraid and…” but he could not finish.  Stephen was stretching him wide and it was painful.  He pulled himself off.  “I thought it was a saggy old cunt, but apparently not.  Let me try again.”

On the fourth attempt he was successful and like a gentleman Stephen stayed quite still and let his body be used, just as he did when he was twelve.  Gertie had half of Stephen in and was just remarking, through gritted teeth, that Stephen was bigger than the actor who played Ali Baba’s son in the pantomime when he let out a shriek and Stephen was all in, and Gertie could feel his balls.

Stephen looked into the contorted face of the servant.  He had been crying and the black kohl had run down his face in rivulets.

“You look like Tonio in Pagliacci, Gertie.”

“Do I dear?” he sniffed.  He recovered and managed a smile.  His teeth were all horribly stained with lipstick. “Well this is nice, isn’t it, sir?” he said, managing a giggle.  He began to move and flexed his hips as he sat astride the young stud.  He steadied himself by placing his hands on his chest.

“Oh that’s good Gertie, just like that,” gasped Stephen.

Gertie grinned mischievously. “This old cunt knows some good tricks. You should have seen me with the Yeomen of the Guard in 18…never mind when.”

Gertie performed with great talent. With a burst of energy he felt Stephen spill helplessly inside him.  He used his muscles to milk him dry.

Stephen was slumped in the chair and breathless. “You in the middle can remain; the others can go home, we won’t be needing you for the chorus.” Gertie laughed and appreciated the effort at a theatrical joke.

He pulled off and sat in the chair next to Stephen.  There wasn’t really room and he was an unattractive figure, but Stephen had enjoyed it and was appreciative.  Gertie launched into an animated story about how he was with William Terris the night he was murdered outside the Adelphi theatre. “But you would be too young to remember that, dear, but Terris was a handsome dog as Robin Hood, I can tell you.”

Stephen made a little movement as if to leave. “Don’t hurry, sir, I’ve seen you in action enough times and I think there might be one more in there. Will there be an encore?”

There was and Gertie got between Stephen’s legs and worked on him again for about half an hour and was rewarded with a mouthful of the young man’s nourishing seed.

“I’m exhausted Gertie,” said Stephen as he rubbed the lipstick of all the bits that Gertie had visited with a moistened handkerchief.

“We’ll have a glass of her single malt, sir before you go.  You won’t tell her, will you? She’ll think I encouraged you.”

“Well you certainly encouraged those two loads out of me Gertie, but it will be our secret and I’m sorry about your wig.”

“Don’t worry, dear.  I’ll reset it, before I sit in a cold bath.  I think my old cunt must look like the proscenium arch at the Alhambra.” 

*****

The weekend at Croome went better than they expected.  The Loews were in awe of the great country house and Mr Loew made a beeline for some chairs that he pronounced to be a rare design by Hepplewhite and Martin was persuaded to get the two broken ones repaired. Then there was the carving by Grindling Gibbons in the Great Hall to be examined.  Mr Loew spent many hours bent over and peering through his pince nez.  Mrs Loew was also interested in the rooms, but was delighted in the gardens, especially Martin’s new sunk garden that the elderly lady found she could easily move around, in spite of her arthritis.

The Loews had been put into the Chinese Room and were told about its royal occupants.

“Where is my son?” asked Mr Loew at one point.

“I don’t quite know which room Chilvers has put him in,” said Martin. “Shall I get Chilvers to call him?”

“No, I don’t suppose so.  It’s just that if I wanted my medicine in the night…Couldn’t Edward be given the room next door?”

“Oh not that room, Mr Loew.  We never put people in there—if we can help it— it’s haunted you see.  If you want anything, just ring and Lance will come.  Won’t you Lance?” he said as the young footman came into the room.

“Yes sir.  I will be your valet and I have placed your medicines on the cabinet here.”

“That cabinet is taken directly from Chamber’s drawings and was made by Chippendale; don’t let my bottles mark it.”  He looked at a terrible grey circle, which had ruined the surface and made a tutting noise.

“That was made by the cocktail glass of the Prince of Wales.  I suppose it counts as provenance,” said Martin, hastily.

Mr Loew removed his pince nez and looked at Martin sternly.  “No your lordship, it does not!”

The weekend came to be dominated by the Sachs and their three children who were also invited for the weekend and encouraged to run around with Stephen’s dogs.  Mrs Loew and Mrs Sachs joined Miss Tadrew for tea at the vicarage.  Mr Loew, when he was not turning chairs upside down, was in the library with Sachs and Stephen.

At luncheon and dinner they were all together and Teddy was attentive to his parents who had barely seen him.  They chatted to The Plunger but took little special interest in him as their son’s friend.

With a stroke of genius, Martin begged Mr Loew to stay on until Tuesday as he had some picture frames he wanted examined.  “And my neighbour, Sir Bernard Bonnington, has some remarkable old pieces that I’m sure would interest you,” Martin added with no idea if Sir Bernard did (save for lady Bonnington) and in fact, now that he had come to think of it, thought that Sir Bernard’s house was filled with hideous fumed oak pieces from Maples, but it was too late for second thoughts.

Loew was quite keen, his wife less so, but agreed, charmed at being the guest of the Marquess of Branksome.  Teddy said that he had to be at the Foreign Office on Monday and so would go up with Archie.  The Plunger looked across at Martin and mouthed the words: ‘thank you’.

On the Sunday night Carlo found Mrs Loew wandering down a corridor trying the doors. “I’m looking for my son’s room,” she said.

“I’ll find out which room he is in, madam, if you wait here,” said Carlo.  Carlo then walked sedately, in the manner of Chilvers, to the end of the corridor then he ran.  He bumped in to Chilvers carrying a hitherto missing toy that belonged to the middle Sachs child.  “Mr Chilvers, she’s in the east corridor looking for Mr Teddy.  Take her to his room, but do it slowly,” he gasped, out of breath.  He then dashed off again.

Chilvers reached the corridor and found Mrs Loew sitting in a chair.  “Oh Chilvers, this house is a positive maze and my feet are so tired!  Could you tell me which room my son is in?”

“I will take you there, Madam,” replied the butler, “walk this way.”

At a funereal pace they reached the door.  Chilvers stood back and Mrs Loew knocked.  She knocked again.  From inside there was a grunt, which may or may not have been ‘come in’.

The door was opened to the darkened room. “Oh Teddy I didn’t know you were already in bed.  Are you warm enough?”

There was an affirmative grunt.  Mrs Loew picked up her son’s overcoat and hung it on the back of a chair. “Teddy, are you going to get the train at 8:00?” 

There was another grunt.

“Are you sure you will be alright on Monday?”

“Mmmm,” said the figure in the bed.

She approached the bed more closely and lowered her voice and spoke with some urgency. “Teddy, do you think ten shillings is too much to leave for the servants?” There was a sound. “Yes, I thought so too; I said so to your totti.  We will leave five.”  There was a groan.

“Edward, I don’t think you should drink so much, I will leave you now and try to find my room again. Goodnight bubala.”

Chilvers was her escort and Carlo threw off the bedclothes.  He was panting hard but grinning. 

To be continued…