Carlo pedalled his bicycle up the elm avenue and through the baroque gates into the forecourt of the great house.  It was an elliptical disc of lawn and gravel of about a quarter of a mile in circumference that swept past the front door but also had less illustrious turnings to the stables and the kitchen wing.  It was to the latter of these that Carlo pointed his machine.

He was puffing because it was an uphill ride from The Feathers where he had been in the interval between luncheon and dinner with Louch, the proprietor of the motor garage.  There was still an hour-and-a-half before he had to have Martin and Stephen’s clothes ready for the changing gong.  He always insisted on ironing the pique shirt fronts and collars himself just before 7:00 and had one of the new electric irons placed in the boys’ dressing room.  Their shirts and white waistcoats were stored rolled up and they were dampened and ironed in a tight circular motion at the last minute to impart a lustre to the material which would show up well in the candlelight.  Carlo had to fit the pearl buttons on silver toggles to the backless waistcoats—Stephen’s strong back and shoulders always looked so fine in just the waistcoat that it was a pity when he donned his tailcoat.  Sometimes it was necessary to use a blunt knife to slit open the buttonholes and miniature pockets as they were so stiff with starch.  Carlo always smiled imagining they were stiff with the boys’ copious seed, but this unhygienic occurrence was largely in his own imagination.  Then there were the studs for the shirts and links for the cuffs— dull gold for Martin and onyx and platinum for Steven.  On evenings such as this, when the Lord Lieutenant of the county and Neville Chamberlain, the cabinet minister, were among the guests, Carlo was under strict instructions from Chilvers to frown most severely if the boys made any move in the direction of just a black tie and dinner jacket.

Carlo was thinking of their patent leather pumps, which were scuffed from dancing, when he put his cycle in the shed and did not take much notice of the cart that was pulled up behind the old buttery.  It was the vehicle of Vetch, a nearby farmer who supplied the house with eggs and Carlo was not surprised to see it there for Mrs Vetch would have delivered an extra few dozen eggs for the meringue that was to be served for pudding.

What Carlo was not expecting were the grunts and moans coming from the buttery, empty since Croome had joined the electric power grid.  There was the sound of something being shifted and then giggling.   A practised eye was put to the keyhole.  The view revealed little, but a small window, reached by standing on a box, afforded a more interesting panorama.

The moans were coming from Mrs Vetch who was on all fours and the scraping came from the shoes of the young man who was ploughing her from behind.  The shoes belonged to young Lance the new footman.  Carlo watched with wide-eyed interest.  Mrs Vetch had her blouse unbuttoned and her large, pendulous breasts hung down within inches of the floor. Her skirt was hitched up to her waist and there was no sign of her doubtless agricultural bloomers.  She was panting and urging the footman on. 

Lance himself was dripping with sweat.  He had removed his own trousers and drawers but had put his shoes back on because the cement floor was rough.  His fine coat was laid out in the manner of Sir Walter Raleigh for the chivalrous comfort of Mrs Vetch.

Carlo watched and noted with approval both the ardour of the young man and the generous size of his cock and balls.  Every thrust caused Mrs Vetch to moan and his balls, which seemed hairless or perhaps were just pale blond, swung vigorously and slapped the rump of the farmer’s wife.

Lance spread his legs wider than Mrs Vetch’s and was now riding her like a pony.  Mrs Vetch must have tired because she suddenly rolled over onto her back and pulled Lance by his plump, pink cheeks deeper into her person.  Lance did not miss a beat and in fact increased his pace causing Mrs Vetch to let out little screams.  Carlo looked around to make sure no one could hear or indeed see, for he had his cock out and was masturbating furiously in time with Lance’s youthful tempo.

Carlo pressed his nose closer to the glass, no longer caring if he was observed.  There was a huffed exchange between the lovers and Lance suddenly pulled out, giving Carlo a view of his impressive meat at its most rampant.  Mrs Vetch grasped it and placed it between her breasts.  Lance spilled and Mrs Vetch squeezed her breasts together to make sure he was drained.  A quick suck extracted the last.

They caught their breath and began to dress in silence.  Carlo shakily got down off the box, having spilled himself and went back to his bicycle in an effort to return to normality.

Presently he heard the horse and cart clop out of the yard.  Carlo rattled his bicycle unnecessarily and came out into the open.  Lance was walking back towards the kitchen and Carlo boldly caught up with him.

“Hullo,” cried Carlo in a friendly fashion.  Lance replied a little less emphatically. “Lance, your uniform is soiled.  Don’t let Mr Chilvers see you.  There’s the big dinner tonight you know.”

Lance looked down and cursed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll sponge and press it, come with me.”

So he did and Carlo produced brushes, cloths, borax, block magnesia and other magical cleaning products.  Naturally Lance had to take his uniform off.  He was a meaty lad and nice-looking for a 17 year-old.  His spots were clearing up too.

“Thanks,” he said blushing.  “I have got myself into a bit of a mess.”

“They’re nasty scratches you’ve got on your back and arse, Lance.  Did Mrs Vetch do that?”

“Carlo! Did you see us? Please, Carlo, keep it to yourself.”  The boy was almost in tears.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” asked Carlo as he tested the iron with a wetted index finger.

Lance groaned and looked at Carlo resignedly. “It’s been going on for seven weeks.”

“Seven weeks!”

“Yes, I was helping carry boxes in from her cart when she grabbed me and kissed me.  She said that her husband had better not find out because he was jealous and suspected her of going with other men.  I think he was right Carlo.”

“So you always do it in the buttery?”

“Yes, on Wednesdays and Saturdays when she brings the eggs.  When I see her cart, I’m to wait in the buttery for her.”

“You seem to handle her quite competently, Lance.  You must have had a lot of experience.”

“No, Carlo,” he said in horror, “she is my first.  I’ve always kept myself good— you know— like my mum said to, but now…Carlo, she’s old enough to be my mum,” he wailed.  “It’s sinful!”

“I don’t think so, Lance; she’s about my age I think.  Does she show you what to do?”

“She did at first,” said Lance, shyly, “then…,” he couldn’t help but break into a grin… “but then I figured it out for myself,” he concluded in triumph.  “Whatever I do she seems to like.”

“Well she’s a lucky woman to have a young buck like you.  I bet her husband doesn’t give it to her as good.”

“Do you think so, Carlo?”

“Yes, I’m sure. You’ve got a big hard cock there and plenty of stamina.”

“That’s what she says, Carlo, but I’m frightened she will get pregnant.”

“Perhaps that’s what she wants, Lance.  Why not take precautions— I don’t just mean pulling out; that’s unreliable.”

“What do you mean?”

Carlo returned with a box of preservatifs.  “These might be too big.  Come back after you have cleared tonight and I’ll show you how they work.”

“Thanks, Carlo,” said Lance putting on his footman’s livery again, “You’re a real friend.”

“Lance, do you want to get out of this thing with Mrs Vetch?”

“Yes I do.  I don’t really like her all that much… but not just yet, if you know what I mean.”

Carlo did know and smiled at the lusty lad with the eager cock.  He would give Lance detailed instructions that evening and hoped that he could produce another copious youthful load under his tutelage.

 *******

This big dinner was a qualified success and the meringue did not suffer as a consequence of the agitation of Mrs Vetch.  Chamberlain was pressed on the provision of centres for mothers and babies in rural areas and for free milk to be distributed to the young pupils of Branksome-le-Bourne.  However, neither of these initiatives seemed likely as Chamberlain was giving priority to poor inner city areas and it was hard to argue against that, especially as the local children looked particularly well-nourished when they had strolled down to the village — the minister being a particularly keen walker.

Chamberlain however took a great interest in the housing, new and old, that the Estate provided.  In this was quite sincere and he asked to see inside the cottages and had them drive over to the infirmary at Pendleton to see the cottages for old folks.  However Stephen had to bite his tongue at dinner when Chamberlain railed against the Poor Law Unions that had been distributing relief to able-bodied men in the distressed areas.  He wished Miss Foxton were here to speak up for the people of Poplar.

“What they are doing is illegal.  They must either increase the rates or cut the dole; they can’t have it both ways and expect Westminster to bail them out.”

Martin saw Stephen grip his soupspoon more tightly so he changed the subject and The Plunger and Teddy (who were down for the weekend) came to his aid.  Then Martin described the courage of the Tatlocks:  “In West Tipton there is no choice but to go on the dole, Mr Chamberlain, there is no employment there except in the mines and the foundries and they are busy laying men off; no choice, that is, except to get out or emigrate.  Mrs Tatlock has taken her family to London and I was able to get the son, Jim, who is the sole breadwinner, a job in a factory manufacturing vacuum cleaners.”

“What happened?” asked The Plunger who had heard of their journey to the Black Country.

“Well, they didn’t give Jim a job in the factory.  They saw him in his new suit,” he began— some at the table knowing that Martin would have paid for this— “and offered him a job as a salesman.  You must purchase one of his machines, Mrs Chamberlain, if he should ever come to Edgbaston, for Jim is a very persuasive young man and does clever things with a handkerchief to demonstrate just how dirty one’s carpets are.”

Mrs Chamberlain laughed and proved to be a delightful guest.  She was well travelled and soon the talk drifted to the safe topic of European experiences.

After dinner there was bridge and Teddy played the piano.  His repertoire was classical and so this was ‘improving’ rather than conducive to dancing, to Martin’s disappointment.   

“I won’t rest until I’ve convinced the Ministry of Health to provide us with an Infant Health Centre,” Martin said to the boys when they were walking Stephen’s dogs around the lake. “I have offered land and will match them pound for pound—I’ll even build the damn thing myself if they provide a nurse.”

“It’s certainly different to your father’s day,” observed The Plunger.

“Yes,” conceded Martin, “I just can’t imagine Father thinking weighing babies and dispensing milk to school children was important at all.  We live in such a different age he wouldn’t recognise it if he came back.”

“Your job is to schmooze the politicians,” said Teddy.

“What does that mean?”

“It is Yiddish and it means to ‘butter up’ to get what you want.”

“Well that’s exactly right.  We will probably have to have the Chamberlains down again— perhaps with Mr Baldwin.”

That night Stephen was beside himself with excitement thinking of Teddy in bed with The Plunger just across the corridor in the Prince Regent’s bedroom.  “Leave them alone, Derby,” insisted Martin.  “They come here to be together which they can’t be in London.  I think they have to learn about each other before they start sharing themselves around.”

This was undoubtedly true, admitted Stephen to himself, but he still could not help but say: “Do you think Archie is at this moment taking that big curved cock like a man or will Teddy be taking Archie’s long ginger one and moaning like you do?”

“How would I know, Derbs? They might be reading novels.”

“Well which would you prefer?”

“I don’t know, now come to bed.”

Stephen bounced on the bed like a Newfoundland puppy.  His eyes were shining from beneath his tousled black hair.  “I can’t help thinking of The Plunger’s face in my arse, Mala.  With that Van Dyke beard, can you imagine how good it would feel?”

“You’re a very sensual person, aren’t you Derbs?”

“You mean I like to feel things?  Yes I do.  I like to imagine them too, but I also have to see them for myself, just like I have to see your chest right now.”  Martin lowered the sheet and Stephen stared as if he were seeing him for the first time.  Then he rubbed his upper lip over each of Martin’s nipples.  Martin shivered.

“I’m so excited tonight, Mala (do you think it was the oysters?) and I want to feel fulfilled until I’m completely drained—till I can’t feel anymore.  Do you think you could use the Burmese Balls on me— the new set— and maybe the black dildo?  I think I’m in desperate need of a good working over.

Thus Martin abandoned all thoughts of sleep—even though it was after 1:00—and commenced on the emergency work.  Even without The Plunger’s handsome Van Dyke, Martin did quite a good job using the soft clothes brush to good effect between Stephen’s muscular buttock cheeks with their silky lining.  With the use of plenty of Spong’s (disloyally purchased in London, rather than in embarrassing quantities from Mrs McGrath’s shop in the village), Martin filled Stephen’s arse with a ball at a time.  Stephen groaned and urged him on. Martin teasingly pulled them out and pushed them in again with his right hand while masturbating Stephen with his left.

“I’m close, Mala,” said Stephen breathily at last and Martin could actually feel his seed rising in the thick tube that was his penis.  With practised timing he pulled the last ball out with a pop, causing Stephen to erupt in his hand.  Through his fingers he felt his lover’s cock throb then spasm as powerful muscles contracted and ejected his seed.  Stephen was hit in the eye, which stung painfully, and his face and chest were liberally coated.  Martin added to the mess with his own load, which he deposited from a standing position on the bed, hanging on to the posts for support.  That was physical, what happened next was sensual: Stephen refused to let Martin leave the bed to clean up; instead he clung to him in the sticky mess, with his powerful arms about him and it was in this position, welded together with very few bed clothes covering them but warmed by internal fires, that Chilvers found them the next morning when he came in with the tea.  

***** 

Martin marvelled once more at how much the village had changed in just seven years.  He had started to think of it as the village, rather than my village and this was reflected in the meetings of the Parish Council where five elected representatives, in theory, could speak their minds.  In practice, however, they were fortunately tame democrats and there had never been a contested election and they still deferred to Martin on important matters.  In a practical way this made sense for Martin still owned the majority freehold land and was by far the wealthiest landowner in the parish and with Blake he made many of the farming decisions in conjunction with his tenants, even if he found that the government had fixed his rents until 1933.

In Branksome-le-Bourne and Pendleton there were now several new shops—some entirely new structures and some that were converted from cottages and obsolete buildings.  Perhaps the most pleasant of theses was the Green Gables tearoom, which had been started by Mrs Pettigrew, a war widow, and her sister Miss Graham.

Martin had seen how villages were being rapidly despoiled by advertising hoardings and the other horrors of the modern roadside; he was determined to prevent this on his own estate.  At the suggestion of Mr Clough Williams-Ellis, an architect whom Martin had met in London and who had come to Croome in order to take some photographs for a book he was writing, regulations were drawn up for the Parish Council’s approval and thus the entrepreneurs on the estate had to be content with small painted and illuminated signs for Green Gables, The Feathers, the motor garage, and the other commercial undertakings.

There was now a steady stream of motorcars and charabancs through the village and one had to remember to look before crossing the road.  “Where are they all going?” said Martin to Stephen, rhetorically.  Stephen gave him a literal answer.

“Well those two are turning into Louch’s place.  That one with the golf clubs and luggage strapped on is obviously heading up to Lesser Branksome.  There’s Dr Markby and Mrs What’s-Her-Name from one of the new houses— the one with the topiary peacock.  There’s a van stopping at Mrs McGrath’s shop and the bus is waiting for the school bell.”

“We will need a subway like in Piccadilly Circus if it goes on like this Derby.”

“Mala,” said Stephen, changing the subject as they gathered the dogs for the return leg of their walk. “I’ve had a rather disturbing letter from Sgt Spinner—or rather Reg Spinner as I should call him now.”

“Oh?” replied Martin.  “I hope he’s alright; I liked him awfully well, Derbs.  He’s a real character.”

“He is alright, sort of.  It’s Mrs Spinner in a way— or rather it is Spinner too.  They have been trying for a baby and have been unsuccessful for a number of years.  Spinner said that it’s affecting his wife’s health and it has been most hard on her that her sisters all have big families.”

“That’s cruel, Derby, the poor woman.  Perhaps she can’t have children.”

“Well that’s just it.  I arranged for them to see a Harley Street man and apparently Mrs Spinner is as fit as a fiddle, although she is 33 now.  It seems that it is Spinner who is having difficulties, although everything is all right in that department, if you know what I mean; it’s just that he is not very fertile.  Or should I say, no longer?  You see Mala, when he was a young man, before the War, he got a girl pregnant.  They would have married but she lost the child and that was the end of it.”

“What do the doctors say?” asked Martin, absorbing this personal tragedy.

“The doctors are inclined to blame the War.  Spinner was badly gassed in 1917 and maybe that is preventing him having children.  They don’t really know.”

“Well I hope something works out, Derby.  It is good of you to take such an interest.”

“That’s just it, Mala.  They are so desperate for a child before it is too late, that they want me…that is they thought that I might…well, they want me to be the father.”

Martin stopped abruptly in the road.  The dogs looked back in surprise.  “Derby! What an extraordinary thing to ask!  What did you tell them?”

“I said I would think about it.  I really meant I’d talk it over with you.  Spinner is worried, you see, as Mrs Spinner —Clara— is acting very funny round other people’s children and Spinner fears for her mind.  The urge to have children can be very strong in women, Mala.”

Martin was silent for a few minutes.  “Well it’s quite alright with me, Derby, but why did they choose you?”

“Well,” said Stephen blushing, “they said I was the most decent fellow they knew and thought that I would make a good father— although not in the usual sense, obviously.”

“Are you going to do it?  And how would you go about it?  I mean you can’t just…”

“Well, it might be that I’ll have to just…They are living in Southampton where Spinner is working as an engineer’s costing clerk and he thought I might visit twice a week for a few months to see if we had any luck.  He’d be there of course.”

“That’s very unusual, Derby.  I can’t imagine it,” said Martin frowning.  “I suppose it is a great sacrifice you are making for a desperate couple.”

“Well, not too great, Mala.  I must confess that on the occasions I have seen Mrs Spinner I have thought she is a very attractive woman.  I don’t know how Spinner managed to hook her, with a face like his.”

“I see,” said Martin, seeing. “It is a new type of emergency.”

“That’s unfair, Mala.  I am asking you before I do anything and I would never have done anything with Mrs Spinner had they not asked me to— at least I am pretty sure I would not have.  After all, I love Spinner.”

“You’re a good man, Stephen,” said Martin giving in to sincerity.  “That is why the Spinners chose you.  How many times have I said I would love to have your baby?  You must go ahead and I know you will put everything into it.  You’ve never had a baby before, have you?”

“I don’t believe so, Mala.  I may be infertile too for all I know.  You can’t tell from…from the…er…volume.”

“That’s true,” said Martin, smiling to himself.

So it was that Stephen drove over to Southampton one Monday morning on his way back to London.  Spinner had taken the morning off and he sat down with Clara and they drank tea in the sitting room of their rented red brick semi-detached— one in an identical row in Avenue Road.

It was awkward, just as they had all individually imagined, although they were far from strangers as Stephen had visited them every year since the War.  Mrs Spinner was an attractive red-haired woman, slightly fleshy and with perhaps too generous curves for the extremes of modern fashion, but still a woman who would turn heads in Southampton and indeed anywhere else.  Her eyes darted nervously from her cup to her husband and occasionally risked a glance at Stephen, from under her pencilled brows.  Spinner tried to talk about other matters, but each conversational tributary dried up.  At last Mrs Spinner spoke plainly.

“Stephen, I am soon to be thirty four.  If I do not have a child in the next year or so, it will be too late.  Besides, we do not want to be elderly parents.  We’d both love a little girl— but a boy or girl would not make the slightest difference.  We would love our baby.”

“Had you thought of adopting?”

“Yes we had.  It is not very easy and the authorities give preference to younger couples.  I also feel,” and here she blushed, “that I’d like to give birth like all my sisters.  They don’t mean to be unkind and we love each other dearly, but I do feel rather excluded because of it.”

“Reg, would you feel less a father if you were not the actual father?” asked Stephen, looking squarely at his former sergeant.

“I have thought about it and I am quite sure the answer is no.  I want Clara to be happy and I want to complete our little family; that’s how I see it.  If anything, I blame the War.  It has made us think extraordinary things and do extraordinary things.  This is just one of them and probably not the most extraordinary if we only knew the truth.”

“That was well said, Reg,” said Stephen.

More tea was poured and they got down to brass tacks. Mondays and Fridays would suit them for the next month and then they would review matters.  Reg was to be present in the bedroom and Stephen suggested that he join them in bed so Clara would feel relaxed, which may help with conception. “We saw enough of each other during the War, not to be embarrassed Reg.”

“But I didn’t, remember!” said Clara and giggled.  This helped ease the tension.  “Could we get started right away?” she added.  The two men looked at her.

She departed for the bedroom while Reg and Stephen drank a glass of beer.  They entered the darkened room. “Are you alright Clara?” asked her husband.

“Perfectly, now hurry up.”

The men shed their clothes on opposite sides of the room and climbed into the bed on opposite sides. Reg kissed his wife.  “I have told you about Stephen, haven’t I?”

“Yes dear, I have been warned and I can see for myself.”

Reg’s kisses became more passionate and Stephen, as he lay there staring up to the dark ceiling, felt Mrs Spinner spread her legs.  Reg entered her easily with a sloppy sound and Stephen heard her moan.

“Stephen, kiss Clara’s breasts.  She has beautiful breasts and it will help her get into the mood.”

Stephen did not object to this, although he thought Mrs Spinner was already in the mood, but Reg had not lied.  Stephen found he was enjoying it and presently Clara extended her hand down and grabbed Stephen’s cock.  Stephen felt her shiver, but she said nothing.

“Stephen, if you’d be so kind…” said Sgt Slipper with extraordinary delicacy as he pulled out of his wife.  Stephen swapped positions and rested on his hands either side of his former sergeant’s wife and rubbed his cock head on her sodden hairy opening.  Clara moaned.

“Help him Reg,” she murmured.

Stephen did not think he needed any help and was enjoying what he was doing, but Clara was impatient and perhaps her husband was anxious to participate so Reg reached between Stephen’s thighs and grasped his cock and pressed the tip into his wife’s sopping maw.

“Ooogh!” grunted Mrs Spinner.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” said Stephen, not entirely truthfully.

“You won’t Stephen,’ said Slipper as he fed more of Stephen’s big cock into his wife, holding Stephen’s full balls with his other hand.

Mrs Slipper took matters into her own control and was soon swivelling her hips while Stephen was more or less still.  Then Stephen replied with a thrust of his own athletic groin, driving his thick shaft deeply and repeatedly into the woman on the bed.  She moaned loudly as if in torment.  Reg meanwhile watched in the dark, occasionally kissing his wife and asking needlessly if she were all right.

“Help Clara get on top of me, Reg,” said Stephen urgently.  They rolled over and Mrs Spinner was now astride Stephen who was on his back but arching his spine and lifting Clara into the air as she was impaled on his manhood.

The pace became more frantic and she flung herself about. Suddenly Mrs Spinner cried: “Do his balls Reg!” Stephen nearly stopped dead from shock.  How did she know to say this?

Nevertheless Reg massaged and fondled Stephen’s violently swinging sack as best he could and Stephen felt his seed rising.  He could not control it and it spewed forth into the wife of another man. They came to a rest.

“Thank you, Stephen,” she said throwing her arms around him and kissing him.  Stephen didn’t quite know what to reply as everything at that moment seemed inappropriate. “Thank you Reg,” she said with equal enthusiasm and she kissed her husband.

Stephen dressed. “Until Friday then,” said Spinner as he showed Stephen out.

The following Friday was similar.  Stephen tried a few new positions and Mrs Spinner made a few suggestions of her own.  She did not feel so embarrassed this time ‘as long as I’m in bed first’.

On the next Monday Slipper was not at the door.  “He will be an hour late.  I was supposed to telephone you, but I never got through,” said Clara.

She offered sherry rather than tea. “I thought we could make a start,” she said rather bluntly.

“Would that be right, Clara?” replied Stephen.

“Oh yes, quite alright.”

In the bedroom Clara was not so concerned about her modesty as to getting into bed first. In fact they undressed together. “Come up here,” said Clara, clasping Stephen by his rock-hard buttocks.  She pulled Stephen closer and her open mouth went down onto Stephen’s manhood.  She ran her tongue under Stephen’s abundant foreskin, just as he liked it.  Stephen grew harder and she used both her hands on the base of his shaft.

“I don’t think this will get you pregnant, Mrs Spinner.”

She didn’t reply, except to enthusiastically suck on the big lad.  She used her tongue and occasionally placed Stephen’s member between her breasts and marvelled at its length and caressed the tip with her pink tongue. Then she turned herself upside down and, whilst with her right hand she pleasured herself, she nibbled on the masculine folds of skin between Stephen’s cock and low-hanging balls.

“You like that?” she asked with concern.

Stephen replied that he did.  Stephen was thankful for the lessons of his youth— principally delivered by the barmaid Elsie who taught him that men and women were not so different and women also liked to be pleasured.  He knew the spot and his fingers were big and strong and made Mrs Spinner delirious.  She reached a crescendo and then subsided only to express a desire to return to sucking his dripping cock.  She was very skilled and this time it was tinged with gratitude.

“I’m close, Clara,” breathed Stephen.

She had no intention of pulling off and Stephen found that he had grasped fistfuls of her bobbed red hair when he spilled into her rosebud mouth.

“Mmm! You taste nice,” she said with an evil leer as she used her tongue in vain to collect the big quantity of Stephen’s seed that had cascaded from the corners of her mouth.  She came close to Stephen and whispered in his ear.

“I can’t do that!” said Stephen.

“Please, while it’s all slimy”

Stephen shrugged.  She lay on her back and pushed her breasts up in Stephen’s direction. Her lips were parted in ecstasy, as were her smooth white legs.  She was sopping between them.  Stephen carefully aimed for her rectum and moistened it with what was on his cock. He then pressed.  She pushed too and she opened for him.  He slid in a little way until she grimaced.  She had clearly done this before.  Stephen gave a few little thrusts, but did not press deeply.  He pulled out.

“Thank you Stephen.  I feel good all over now.  I will be very receptive when you and Reg make love to me in half an hour.”

“Half an hour!”

“Yes Stephen.  Get dressed and return in half an hour.  I told you on the telephone that Reg would be late today.”

Stephen felt that he had been dishonest with Spinner and felt badly.  Spinner’s fulsome description of Stephen as being the most decent fellow he knew now sounded hollow.  He was confused.  He was beginning to think that this project should be brought to an end.  However, he was particularly randy and did nothing about it when Spinner returned.  He tried to make it up to his old sergeant.  He devised it so that he lay on his back with Clara on top of him.  He was deep inside her and Slipper could see that she was stretched wide on his thick cock but, with the aid of some Spong’s Soothing Salve, Slipper was able to penetrate his wife too.  Spinner felt peculiarly wonderful touching Stephen so intimately and sharing in the pleasure of making love to his wife.  Stephen saw to it that they spilled in her wantonly stretched cunt at the same time, their seed mixing.

For the rest of the month and into the next, the routine was confined to the three of them. Stephen reported back to Martin who was quite excited as he imagined Stephen pleasuring the woman and how Slipper now allowed his wife to suck Stephen and how he himself sucked and caressed Stephen’s balls, perhaps in the hope of increasing their fertility, a hope that Stephen did not dampen.

At last, at the beginning of the third month, the Spinners greeted Stephen in their sitting room with champagne.  The doctor had confirmed that Mrs Spinner was indeed pregnant and there were kisses and backslaps all round.

Stephen picked up his hat and went to leave.  “It seems a pity to have come all that way, Stephen,” said Spinner.

“Yes, and I’ve brought a new scent that I thought you might like, said Clara. “Surely one last time?” 

***** 

“Mala,” said Stephen as they lay in bed. “Mala, it’s your birthday in a little more than a month.  You gave me such a nice surprise for my birthday I wanted to do the same for you, but I think I need to discuss it with you; you’re so busy and I suppose I’m so busy too that it’s best to be practical.” Martin was excited and attentive.  “I would like to take you to America— to New York and then on to Chicago to see Bunny and Dwight.  Do you think you could find the time to go in September while the weather will be good?”

“Ooh, Derbs, that would be marvellous.  I’ve wanted to go, but you’ve been busy with work and with the Spinners so I didn’t want to say anything.  Can we afford it?  The Army won’t be paying like in 1917.”

“That’s part of the present, Mala.  I think I can earn enough money to pay for our fares.”

“That’s wonderful, Derbs.  You must be a damn good engineer.”

“It’s not by my engineering skill that will be paying for it Mala.”  Martin looked at him oddly.  “No I’ve decided to accept Mr Weintraub’s offer of the photographic modelling.  He kept raising the offer and, well, I couldn’t refuse.”

“I am excited just thinking about it, Derbs.  Can I watch?”

“Certainly, that’s just the point: he’d like a picture with you and me in it.  We’d be wearing Venetian masks and I’m hoping we won’t be recognised.  He promised we wouldn’t.”

Martin was shocked for a full minute. “And it would pay for our tickets?”

“It would help; first class on the Ile de France, Mala, with third for Carlo.  What do you think?” 

***** 

A whole day had been set aside for Mr Weintraub and the boys appeared early on his doorstep.  He greeted them respectfully and walked them around to Conduit Street where he had hired a photographic studio on the top floor of an old building.

“I suppose you call these photographs ‘artistic portraits’, Mr Weintraub,” said Martin.

“Well, actually I don’t, your lordship.  If you want Art go to the National Gallery, I say.  I don’t call them dirty postcards either.  I prefer the Greek word ‘pornography’— although that properly has to do with writing for prostitutes.  Of course the photographs, if not the models, are for sale so…However, I know discerning customers do like the photographs to be well executed and to tell an entertaining story.”

In the studio Martin and Stephen were shocked to see a young woman. “I thought it was just going to be you Mr Weintraub.  I don’t know if I can do it in front of the young lady,” said Stephen in distress.

“I’m sure you can, Mr Knight-Poole.  Please don’t take any notice of Miss Yates.  She is a thorough professional and has seen most things.  I am paying you a lot of money, I hasten to remind you, and I do hope any personal squeamishness can be set aside.  Miss Yates would be most insulted if you doubted her professionalism.  Besides, I need her for the lighting and make-up.  Here is a sample of her work from recent weeks.” He handed the boys a folder; they recognised some of the models from the pictures for sale in Mr Weintraub’s shop.

“These gypsy boys are certainly big fellows and such good friends,” observed Stephen.

“Would you believe me if I told you they were no more Romany than Mr Baldwin?  In fact they are prefects from one of our great public schools.”

“And this one with the horse?” asked Martin.

“That horse cost me a fortune and has been trained especially to do that whenever his handler offers him a cube of sugar.  We had to shoot those pictures in my garden in Wimbledon. You will notice how Miss Yates was able to remove the church steeple which may have had a dampening effect on the otherwise happy scene.”

It was too late to back out now and so Stephen and Martin were introduced to Miss Yates who seemed to be a very severe young woman, busy testing the light and making notes on a clipboard and who barely looked up at them.

Martin’s umbrella, hat and overcoat were taken and he was given a chair to sit on at the side. Stephen removed his clothes, which were carefully folded by Mr Weintraub.  Miss Yates glanced over the tops of her round spectacles but then went back to her calculations.  Stephen took no time at all to get used to strutting around the studio naked and even the cool temperature had no appreciative effect on his figure.  Mr Weintruab admired him like a prize beast and declared he was a ‘good investment’.

The theme of the pictures was that of a simple Sicilian peasant boy in Taormina and there was a painted backdrop supplemented with a very real looking rock wall and balustrade that was actually made of papier-mâché.  Bougainvillea made of silk clothed the wall and there were life-like tree branches to frame the setting.  Other properties included fishing nets and terracotta amphorae.

While Mr Weintraub was arranging these, Miss Yates took Stephen aside and rubbed him with oil and glycerine.  She said very little— just telling Stephen when to spread his legs or lift his arms—and then she produced a series of paints and brushes.

“I once had a screen test in Hollywood, Miss Yates,” said Stephen pleasantly as she set to work.

“Well you’d know all about it then,” was all she replied curtly as the brush did its work and darkened Stephen’s skin. “I’m worried about these scars, Mr Weintraub,” she said when she came upon the damage wrought by the Great War.

“Try two coats of number 11 concealing paint; only the tone has to match.”

It was a long time before Stephen was ready.  The last thing, after his hair had been curled with hot tongs, was to fit the mask.  There was a selection and Stephen chose one with elaborate feathers.

“Of course it is not quite explained why a peasant fisher boy should be wearing a Carnivale mask, but customers are usually prepared to suspend reality when purchasing these photographs,” said Mr Weintraub.

For the first photograph Stephen had to squat on his haunches as if he were intent on mending a net.  The shadows had to be exactly right so that they did not conceal his cock and balls, which Mr Weintraub wanted to hang freely so they touched the ground.  This was easily arranged and photographs were taken from the front and the rear.

Two hours had passed.  The next portraits were of Stephen looking pensive and standing against the rock wall with his cock just starting to become erect.  “A little more,” called Mr Weintraub and Stephen unashamedly gave his cock a few strokes, which sent the blood pumping into his member.  Miss Yates said something from behind the camera and Mr Weintraub called: “A little too much.  We will wait a minute.” They waited five before the picture could be taken.

“Perhaps a break for a cup of tea?” asked Mr Weintraub.  “Would you like a dressing gown, Mr Knight-Poole?” Stephen declined one and was warned to be careful of the hot tea “For your own sake as well as for Miss Yates’s make-up.”

When work resumed Mr Weintraub announced that the next pictures were going to emphasise the virility of the boys of Taormina.  In practical terms that meant that Mr Weintraub wanted Stephen to sit and stand at his most rampant.  “Perhaps his lordship might like to assist?”

Martin went red, but was excited.  A screen was produced and Martin was concealed behind it and went down between Stephen’s legs and took his magnificent cock into his mouth.  “Do be careful of his make-up your lordship!” called Mr Weintraub.

“Oh just like that Mala,” said Stephen as Martin pleasured him as best he knew how.

“No more Mala, pull off, please; I don’t want to spill,” cried Stephen and just as he spoke a twitch of his left leg brought down the screen and revealed to Mr Weintraub and Miss Yates the Marquess of Branksome drooling on the cock of his lover.

“Never mind, the result is excellent!” said Mr Weintraub when he saw how big Stephen had become.  I’ll just put a little more number 13 here and if you could hold that pose, Mr Knight-Poole I think we will have a picture that will sell for ten shillings.”

“Fifteen!” said a flat voice.  It was Miss Yates who had hitherto been so silent.

Two similar ones were taken with slightly different poses and the terracotta amphorae were rearranged each time.  Martin assisted, this time without the screen, when Stephen was flagging.

There was a break for luncheon and sandwiches were produced.  Stephen was persuaded to don a gown so he did not get crumbs on his painted body.

“Now,” said Mr Weintraub as he took a bite, “I would like his lordship to be a second fisher boy; the dear, sweet friend of the first.”

Stephen knew that Martin would never agree, but to his surprise Martin said, ‘Yes’.

 “Are you sure Mala?”

“No one will recognise me if I have a mask like yours.  Your body is probably more well known in England than mine anyway,” he joked.  “And besides, I am your friend, even if we are not fishermen.”

“That’s the spirit, Lord Branksome and in view of the quality of these portraits, I’m sure I can increase my payment a little.”

“He’s got a cute arse, Mr Weintraub,” piped up Miss Yates.  I don’t think I’ll need glycerine on it; the light will caress it if we get the angle correct.

And so it was that Martin was stripped and painted (except for his sweet cheeks) and posed in a sentimental position next to Stephen under the papier-mâché wall.  “You have just awoken, Lord Branksome, and you have been dreaming of your dear friend and there he is when you open your eyes.”  This seemingly simple scenario required a long time to affect but at last it was done.

“Not all of our customers are so sentimental in this rather callous age,” began Mr Weintraub. “Some like a more risqué or I should say a rather more overt representation of affection.”

“What do you want us to do, Mr Weintraub?” said Stephen simply.

“Put your cock in his arse, Mr Knight-Poole.”

Stephen did and Martin burned behind his mask.  Despite his wanting to thrust all the way, Stephen was enjoined to just put the tip in for a more artistic effect. This shot was more hastily taken lest Stephen forget himself.

“Now I want you to lay down together by the nets.  That’s right, head on his chest.” Martin had no trouble in this pose, as it was his favourite sleeping position, although the mask scratched.

“Now, could you spill for us, Mr Knight-Poole.  I want to call this picture, ‘All Passion Spent’.  Your lordship if you could lean on him.  Relax your right arm.  That’s right.  Chin up a bit or we get a shadow.  Hold it there. Now Mr Knight-Poole if you pleasure yourself you will…ahem…bring great pleasure to thousands of others I’m sure.  We have a product here,” he said holding up a brown bottle with a dropper, “to augment the results for the sake of a more effective picture.”

Stephen had already begun to respond by the time he had finished speaking and Martin watched him in this familiar activity, but was frozen in the pose set by Mr Weintraub.

“I’m ready for my photograph, Mr Weintraub!” called Stephen.

“Let it out, sir,” said the pornographer, giving hasty directions to Miss Yates.

Stephen spilled silently but in tremendous volume.  His seed shot up to his chin and there was a big pool on his belly.

“Good God!” cried Miss Yates coming out from behind the camera.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing this,” said Mr Weintraub putting the brown bottle back on the shelf.  He produced a pair of tongs and manipulated Stephen’s flaccid, oozing cock for the camera.

“Just like that, Mr Weintraub,” called Miss Yates.

“No need to tell you to look content, Mr Knight-Poole, you are conveying it most convincingly.  You too, your lordship.”

The photograph was taken and Mr Weintraub returned with towels and warm water for the boys to clean up.  Miss Yates disappeared without explanation.  “I can’t remember a more satisfactory session, gentlemen,” he said.  “If I may be so vulgar, I have your wages here.  I though you would prefer cash to a cheque.  I made it guineas.”

Stephen and Martin repaired to the nearest pub, despite Stephen’s curly hair and traces of stage paint.  “I can’t believe what we have just done, Derby,” said Martin.  “We exposed ourselves so intimately to strangers for money.  I don’t know what to think.”

“We’ll be giving pleasure to hundreds of others, Mala; think of it that way.”

“I’ll try.  I still feel like a criminal.  What times we do live in!”

To be continued…