The steward handed Martin an embossed folder with elaborate gold tassels.  Martin opened it while Stephen arranged his novels on the bedside table.  It was the passenger list for the Ile —just the first class passengers—those in cabin class.  Martin scanned the document first for his own name: ‘The Marquess of Branksome and servant’ and then, further down and listed in the same suite, ‘Mr S. Knight-Poole’.

“Look at this, Derby,” he said.  Stephen came across the cabin and looked over his shoulder.

“I know, the King of Portugal has the suite of five rooms; we didn’t want that anyway, Mala.”

“No here,” said Martin pointing lower down.

“Sir Clarence Spong and Lady Spong,” read Stephen. “Yes, he was knighted at the New Year, I believe, so what?”

“Well below that it says ‘P. Spong’. He was my fag at School, Derby—at least I think that’s him; I never rightly knew his first name.  I haven’t seen him for 13 years and he must be in his mid-twenties now.”

At dinner Martin had the opportunity to find out.  The purser had delivered an invitation for them to dine at the Captain’s table with the dampening news that this was because the King and Queen of Portugal had elected to dine privately due to the swell.  Martin made sure that Stephen’s name was also on the invitation before he accepted and, as they had sailed early in the day, Carlo had no trouble in having their evening clothes ready by 8:00.

The vast dining room with its imposing forest of marble columns in shades of grey was, like the rest of the ship, a tribute to the work of modern French artists.  Everywhere on the liner stood curiously geometric furniture enriched by stylised flowers and fruits or colourful cubist designs.  At the head of the great staircase that descended into the dining room, as elsewhere, were murals and tapestries in the art moderne style.  Much of the moody lighting was indirect—the globes being concealed in plaster troughs or inside great ‘fountains’ made of alabaster and glass.  Martin had always considered wrought iron to be a quaint material and associated it with Stephen’s weather vanes, but here French artists had hammered it into the most Twentieth Century of shapes: zigzags, chevrons and those that might be thought to represent wireless waves.

Captain Blancart proved to be a charming and sophisticated Frenchman who could discourse on a wide range of, no doubt well-practiced, topics.  Martin was careful not to ask him anodyne questions about when the Ile would reach New York for he knew this must be annoying to any ship’s captain.  Also lively and charming were the musical comedy star, Maurice Chevalier and his new wife Yvonne Vallée.  Chevalier was on his way to New York to see about a revival of Dédé and Martin quizzed him shamelessly about all the shows that he was bursting to see.  The Marquis and Marquise de la Falaise, seated opposite, turned out to be a decorative young man who had fought in the War and had gone into the motion picture business and his glamorous wife, the American moving picture star Gloria Swanson.  With her elaborate clothes, Egyptian jewels and porcelain make up, it was hard not to stare in awe at Miss Swanson who was on her way to Hollywood after making a picture about Napoleon and where she was going to produce some pictures herself and also write a script, she said.  It was all rather thrilling, thought Martin, but he tried to keep himself in check when he recalled the fool he had made of himself in Hollywood ten years before.  Stephen was amused at the conjunction of the two Marquesses at the table and idly wondered what the collective noun was.

All these diners were in evening clothes.  A figure who stood out, from his ignorant belief that one didn’t dress on the first night out, was Sir Clarence Spong, a wily, bluff man with a broad Lancashire accent and tedious opinions that he was not shy to ventilate.  Lady Spong was rather dowdy, but was at least quiet.  Martin wondered how the purser had allowed them to be seated at this table.  With them was a young man that Martin did not recognise.  He was tallish, nice-looking with regular features and a pair of sparking blue eyes.  “Hullo, Mr Poole, don’t you remember me?”

“Good God! You can’t be Spong?”

“I can and I am and it has been a long time.”

Martin was astounded for Spong had been a hunched-back youth much ill favoured by looks, with jug ears and a face and voice that would have done credit to a bull frog.  Martin recovered himself and politely asked what the Spongs were doing on the Ile.

“We’re going to America for business, Poole.  I work with my father now and we have bought into firms there.”

“You mean ‘Eezo’?” volunteered Martin.

“Yes, you know it?  We own 15% of Colombia who manufacture it.  Did you know we also have 25% of Baume de Bordelaise whose factory is in Pessac?”

Martin did not and in a lower voice Spong explained that in recent years he was practically in control of the company his father had started in the days of King Edward.

“Father looked at our product only as a medicament for cuts and burns and the like.  I saw the potential to take us in another direction altogether.  We quarrelled at first, especially when we went through a rough patch toward the end of the War.  He took me out of school then.  Now things are quite different.

“We are on our way to negotiate with the National Broadcasting Company to advertise on their wireless programs all along the east coast.  The Americans are way ahead of us in radio, Poole; we could learn a lot.”

They chatted on and Martin couldn’t help but stare at the transformation wrought by time and perhaps good fortune. “…yes our biggest new move is in India.  Our rival there is Beaton’s Bengal Balm but there were terrible riots in 1919—you may have read about them and there were a number of deaths unfortunately—when it became known that it was made from a mixture of pig and cow fat.  Our new ‘All-India Unction’ is entirely plant-based and we are hoping for 300 million potential customers.  It’s terribly exciting.”

After dinner there was dancing in the Grand Salon and it was thrilling to partner Miss Vallée and Miss Swanson.  Many eyes turned to the handsome spectacle, although it was a sophisticated crowd and goggling was frowned upon.

It was late when Spong wound up in Martin’s cabin.  Martin was trying to get used to calling him Peter (for he learnt that this was indeed his name for the first time that night) as well comprehending the ugly duckling’s miraculous transformation.  They talked about their school days.

“Do you see your old chum, The Plunger?” Spong asked, as he took a drink offered by Carlo.

“Why yes, quite often,” said Martin, “he’s a painter now and lives in London.  He comes down to Croome and over to France with us.”  As he talked, Martin’s thoughts flew to The Plunger.  For the almost first time the Hon. Archibald Craigth had not come to Antibes with them.  They had spent a week there prior to their embarkation at Le Havre but The Plunger had declined the invitation, as he didn’t want to leave Teddy Loew who naturally had to attend his job in Whitehall.  Stephen was very disappointed as he was looking for an opportunity to seduce—or be seduced by—Teddy, or failing that by The Plunger who required no particular persuasion.  Martin and Stephen spent much time discussing just how this showed the depths of the internal fires that burned in the outwardly cold Plunger and they were busy devising ways to free Teddy from the thrall of his elderly parents in Belsize Park.

Peter Spong made several risqué remarks about how Martin and The Plunger used to share a bed at school and Martin reddened at the memory. “You know, you never made me do anything, Martin.  The other prefects all made their fags toss them off.  When you left I was given to Wilton-Weaver who buggered me every week after prep.  I bled the first time—he refused to use the Soothing Salve—but all the other boys in my house were jealous; I thought he was a beast.  He’s almost a bishop now, you know.”  He turned to Stephen. “You must be the Stephen that Martin and The Plunger talked endlessly about.” Stephen smiled and shrugged. “Do you remember when I stole your big dildo, Martin?”

“Yes I do, you devil,” said Martin realising that embarrassment was useless. “And you hawked it all about the First Form for sixpence a go.”

“Yes, I was enterprising even then.”

“Do you realise, Derby, that you have violated most of the young bottoms in Peter’s house, even if it was just in effigy.”

“Stephen was the model?” asked Spong, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes, I had it made and used it with the Soothing Salve, although it was not as good as the real thing, by a long chalk,” confessed Martin frankly in a hushed tone.

“No!”

“Yes!” Do you want to see?”

“Why not?  Do you mind showing me, Stephen?”

“Not at all,” said Stephen and took off his dinner jacket and moved his braces aside.

“Take off everything, Derbs.  Give Peter a good show to make up for me kicking him when he was a pimply ‘Nestor’ and I was a ‘God’.”

In a moment Stephen was naked.  Carlo hopped about gathering the discarded garments and putting them on hangers.

Spong’s eyes were on stalks and he whistled.  “No wonder you and the Plunger were like a couple of moony school girls.  You’re hung like a horse Stephen.”

“I suppose so.  I just thought I was like every other boy until I was about twelve.  I can’t remember if others discovered it first or I did.”  Stephen grinned and turned about.

“That’s quite a set of plums, too!”

“That’s what we used to call them in Dorset,” said Stephen laughing.

Martin invited Spong to get closer and Stephen suddenly had probing hands all over him. His balls were hefted and twisted, Martin got his fingers under the long foreskin and Spong followed suit. Stephen’s cock was stroked and it hardened.

“Can you take him all?” Spong asked.  Martin nodded.  “I thought you could; that’s the school spirit.”  He was excited and fascinated and the bulge in his own trousers was evident, however his business brain was also being stimulated.  He withdrew his hands and sat in an armchair, still looking at Stephen.  “I say Stephen, we have a new product; it’s only in the experimental stage and we want to keep it quiet.”  He produced an unmarked tube from his pocket.

“What’s that?” asked Martin whose own hands were stilled.

“Spong’s Membrum Virile Enlarging Crème —although our marketing people have not settled on a name.  After three week’s use we will guarantee to retain or enlarge penis size.”

“But that’s absurd, Peter.  What’s in it?”

“Of course it is and it’s just glycerine and harmless stuff, but it is a cert to sell.  Who could not resist using it and you certainly won’t shrivel if you rub it on—quite the reverse.  Could we use a photograph of your cock Stephen?  It’s for the ‘after’ picture naturally.  We would pay you a hundred pounds.”

For the second time in just a few months Stephen’s privates were in commercial demand.  It would be moving pictures next, he thought and his mind briefly turned to Miss Swanson and her handsome French husband.

“Why not?  If that’s all right with you Mala.  It is a shocking swindle to play on stupid people, Peter.  The one hundred goes to Mr Podberry in West Tipton, though.”

“You know, Stephen,” said Spong handing him the tube of Enlarging Crème, “When Martin used to take The Plunger’s cock, I used to hide sometimes and watch and listen.  I learnt a lot.”

“I didn’t know that, Spong; I would have killed you had I known that the whole First Form was…”

Spong was the mischievous First Former once again and his eyes twinkled with the naughty remembrance. “It was just me and my cock, Martin.  Stephen, you should have heard him moan like a girl when The Plunger slipped it in.  Begging for more, he was.”

“I did not Spong!” said Martin, outraged, but realising there was nowhere to go.  “I maintained a dignified silence, although I was accustomed to something bigger, you must realise.”

“I know that now.” said Spong grinning.  ‘Stephen, he was a great champion with the lacrosse team, though.  He could take them one after the other in the pavilion after a match.  We all used to watch that.”

“Ah, happy days!” sighed Martin lost in the thought.  “Did they continue to play lacrosse?”

“It rather died out after you left, what with the War and all.  When Daventry left it was finished.”

“Why did he leave?” asked Martin thinking of the mad games master.

“His wife left him.  She’d been having an affair with Dr Chantry the divinity master for several years.  Everyone knew but poor Daventry.  Try the Enlarging Crème, Stephen.”

Stephen was not shy and put some on his palm.  “I’m not sure that I want him any larger, Peter,” said Martin with a frown.

“I always thought I’d like to be just an inch bigger, Mala,” said Stephen.

“That’s what we’re hoping all our potential customers will be thinking,” said Spong, chuckling.

“It feels absolutely marvellous, Mala,” said Stephen slipping his hand up and down the shaft. “It’s a little more oily than the Salve, but it’s not wet and it feels so good I want to rub it everywhere.”

“We want that too,” added Spong.

Soon Martin and Spong had their cocks out and were enjoying the Crème as well.  Spong was uncircumcised and thick, but of average length. “I think I will be the ‘before’ picture,” he said looking down at his own member. “Sit in that chair by the writing desk, Martin.”

Martin looked surprised, but did so, still rubbing the Crème on himself.  Spong came and sat on his lap. “Here is my prep, Mr Poole,” he said.  “I had trouble conjugating my irregular French verbs.” He squirmed on Martin’s cock as he opened his imaginary jotter.

“How can I read this, Spong?  What do you do to get your book in such a disgraceful mess? Do stop squirming.”

Martin’s erect cock was now between Spong’s naked thighs (his trousers were down at his ankles) and Spong’s cock was also hard and flat against his shirtfront.  Spong squeezed his thighs together and Martin’s slippery member was happily trapped.  They laughed at the parody of their school days.

“Get out of your clothes, boys and come over here!” cried Stephen who was busy smoothing the product all over himself, reaching between his own legs and slicking his crack with both hands. “This stuff won’t make my arse bigger, I hope, Peter.”

“We guarantee to maintain or enlarge…Stephen,” laughed Spong.  “Make of that what you will.  You’re a lucky devil, Poole,” said Spong running his hands over Stephen.  “No wonder you were so anxious to get home in the hols.”

“We’ve been together for sixteen years—since I was about fourteen.  It only seems like about six.” Stephen nodded and put his arm around Martin’s shoulder affectionately. “Do you have a boyfriend, Peter?” he asked.

“No.  My father wants me to marry the daughter of the Stearin King of St Louis.  She’s a nice girl and an alliance would be most advantageous to both families.”

“So you would not do anything with boys?” asked Martin, thinking how hard that would be for himself.

“There are a few chaps from school and I travel a lot Poole.  I’m not wed yet,” he said with a wink.  Martin let the topic drop. “I say chaps, while we are all slicked up, do you think you would roger me, Stephen.  I’d love to feel what it was like with you.”

Stephen gave a familiar look in Martin’s direction and Martin nodded. “If you like Peter.  I warn you now, I hurt,” said Stephen.

“It will be a good test for our products, Stephen.  Just go slowly.”

Plenty of Soothing Salve and the last of the Enlarging Crème were applied to the parts of both boys where it was judged that there was likely to be friction.

“You know, I think that Crème may actually work, Spong; Stephen looks a bit bigger to me,” said Martin as he stroked his own cock while he watched Spong settle on his back on the settee.  Spong held his legs up and Stephen pulled his cheeks apart.  He was attentive with his fingers and was soon slipping three into the supine visitor.  He removed his fingers and stroked his cock to full hardness.  The pink head emerged from the loose folds of foreskin. He rubbed it up and down Spong’s slicked crack before probing the entrance.  He was in. Spong winced.

“Oh it hurts!” he half sobbed.  “I don’t think I will stretch that wide.”

“Do you want him to pull out?” asked Martin solicitously.

“Oh yes, do you think he will?”

“I don’t think so, now, Spong.”

“Oh well, you better keep going then, Stephen and I’ll take it for the dear Old School.”

And so he did, with Martin thinking that he would have made a courageous addition to his lacrosse team.  Stephen was working him over with vigour now and the action had caused Spong to spill all over himself.  He turned him over and began all over again.  Martin was trying to hold himself back.  Stephen eventually pulled out and Spong righted himself on the settee.  Stephen worked just the tip of his penis with his fingers and delivered a big load of his seed in several powerful jets onto Spong’s chest where it mingled with his own drying ejecta.  Martin moved across the cabin and contributed too.

Carlo came with an ivory hand mirror and Spong inspected his ravished person.  “It’s a bit puffy and swollen, but it’s amazing how it contracts after having been stretched so wide.  I think we need to invent a product to take down the inflammation,” he said in a matter of fact voice.  “Thank you Stephen.  You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you, Peter.  I could have done better with some notice.  If you bring us some more of the Enlarging Crème…”

“I can’t tomorrow night because of my parents, but maybe the next night?”

Both boys nodded, Martin thinking that he might like to become more involved next time.

“I have the shower bath ready, gentlemen,” said Carlo in his best Chilvers voice, “and I have cleaned and pressed your clothes, Mr Spong.”

“Thank you Carlo; you’re a fine fellow.”

There was a hasty shower with the three of them in the cabinet and then Spong dressed and promptly returned to his parents’ cabin.

The remainder of the voyage passed very pleasantly, with Spong returning twice in the remaining evenings as well as swallowing Stephen’s cock in the changing room of the Ile’s magnificent swimming bath where Stephen spent some hours every day. 

***** 

At the 14th Street Pier there was an enormous crowd to greet the Ile as she was chivvied into her berth by the tough, hardworking Port Authority tugboats.

“That’s Mayor Walker,” they heard one of the other passengers say at the rail.  “He is here to meet Manuel II, I suppose.”

There was the usual phalanx of newspapermen who were eager to interview the ex-king and photograph the Chevaliers and The Marquis and Marquise de la Falaise.  When Stephen and Martin descended the gangplank to their surprise the Mayor made for them.  The press surged forward. “James J. Walker, Lord Branksome.  Pleased to meet you and welcome to New York.”

“Why thank you very much, Mr Walker,” said Martin in surprise.  “But I’m sure you are not down here for me and Mr Knight-Poole.”   

“Well, actually no, but my boys told me you were on this boat and I remembered your visit in 1917.  I was a Senator up in Albany then.  We met at the Roosevelt’s.  We talked about boxing, Mr Knight-Poole,” he said shaking Stephen’s hand.

“Yes, I remember, Jimmy,” said Stephen, responding enthusiastically and smiling radiantly. “You were fighting against those who wanted it banned and for Sunday baseball too.”  The cameras flashed.

“That’s right.  Say, come to the reception this afternoon.  The boys will give you tickets and it’s at your hotel.”  There was a stir as Miss Swanson, swaddled in white furs, was making her way down the gangplank, pausing for the cameras.

Martin and Stephen moved out of the way and one of the Mayor’s aides took them aside and handed out two invitations on pasteboard. “How did Mr Walker know we were staying at the Plaza?”

“There ain’t much Jimmy doesn’t know as goes on in this town, sir,” said the man. 

A taxi swept them uptown.  New York seemed to have been entirely rebuilt since 1917 and they almost failed to recognise it.  Only the relentless pattern of streets and the gasoline-fuelled energy of the inhabitants were familiar.  Glimpses of the brownstones down the side streets were oddly reassuring.

To their delight their suite had a view over Central Park once again but they could not see south to 55th Street where Peter Spong was staying with his parents at the St Regis before they departed for Pittsburgh.  Carlo returned from the lobby with a thick wad of invitations.  Martin groaned as he didn’t want to go to stuffy dinners every night of their holiday.  He sorted through them.

“Mala,” said Stephen, “It might be fun to go to this afternoon’s one in the Oak Room downstairs, if you’re not too tired.  Mr Walker doesn’t look like he’d be too stuffy.”

“But if it’s for the Portuguese royals it might be,” cautioned Martin.

How wrong he was.  It proved to be a cocktail party for the Marquis and Marquise de la Falaise and not for poor Manuel and it was a great deal of fun with a jazz band and many Hollywood folk in attendance and no shortage of illegal liquor.  Jimmy Walker broke away from some important-looking people to talk to Martin and Stephen.  He was enthusiastic about boxing of course and then the conversation drifted. “I want to see as many shows as I can, Mr Walker, said Martin.  I love American music.”  He was given the names of several clubs where he might hear good jazz and Martin noted them in his silver notebook before the alcohol made writing too difficult.

“I don’t understand how The Plaza isn’t prosecuted for serving alcohol in its rooms, Mr Walker.  I thought Prohibition made it illegal.”

“It does, Lord Branksome,” he said with a grin.  “But we’ll get that overturned.  Don’t you realise that you’ve rented an apartment from the Plaza people?  They are contracted to supply your towels and meals, but if you have liquor in your private house, that’s not their business.”

Martin was just about to say how clever that was when the Mayor was taken by the elbow and directed to some of the other guests.  There was plenty of champagne and lively conversation and Martin, listening to the music that to him represented the very essence of American life, found himself quite elated by the time they emerged into the five o’clock rush of 5th Ave, as Martin said he needed a walk before dinner.  Stephen was suspicious, because Martin did not dawdle but made his way purposefully down the street.  At a shop that sold gramophones he stopped and suggested with poorly conveyed casualness that they might enter and ‘just have look around’.

Martin made firstly for the records and had the assistant play one in a little cubicle so that he might hear.  Stephen sat with him.  “Marvellous isn’t it, Derbs,” he said as they listened to an orchestral arrangement of Lady Be Good.  “They are all electrically recorded with microphones in the United States now.  We’re getting them, but we’ve still got acoustic records at home.”  Steven had to admit that the sound was very realistic.

Next Martin idly went up to the sales assistant and asked about ‘Victrolas’—this being the term used here.

“Well, our best model, sir, is the Credenza. It is ‘Othophonic’—an entirely new process— and is of concert quality.  Does sir have a large house?”

Martin replied that he did and was assured that this cabinet model would be most suitable.  A record was placed on the turntable and the handle was wound.  Martin and Stephen jumped involuntarily as a Sousa march filled the shop.  The assistant replaced it with a classical lullaby and the sound was still remarkably loud and undistorted.  Martin was terribly excited.

“Are they expensive?’ he ventured.

“Well, Sir…”

They were on the street again. “Two machines for $700, Derby.  Am I a good bargainer or what?” said Martin with pride.  Stephen smiled and was happy that his friend was so happy. 

***** 

At 10 o’clock a buzzing announced there was someone at the door.  Carlo answered and then returned from the little courtesy hall into the sitting room.  “There are two persons asking for you, your lordship—female persons.”

Martin looked at Stephen who shrugged and then said: “I’d ask you to show them in, but we are hardly dressed to receive visitors.  It’s not Mrs Rhinelander and her daughter is it Carlo?”

“Although I have not met the Rhinelanders, I think I can safely say that it isn’t and I don’t think your dress matters.”

“Well then…” said Martin as he pulled his dressing gown about him and retied the cord. Stephen was bare-chested and barefooted and his nakedness was barely concealed by the lemon silk pyjama bottoms that sat low on his hips to reveal an attractive patch of pubic hair neatly trimmed by Carlo whose razor, ever since Mr Weintraub, now described but a straight line just above the base of Stephen’s member, the heart shape now being out of favour.  Stephen’s preparation for the arrival of the guests merely consisted of scratching himself.

Two tarts bustled into the room.  They were young—perhaps eighteen or nineteen— and both were as blond as peroxide would allow.  “Excuse us,” began the younger one in a squeaky voice, “but Jimmy sent us…” There was a dig in the ribs from the older one. “I mean Mayor Walker.  He thought you gen’lemen might be wanting to go dancing or somethin’ and as you is being noo to Noo York you might not have been acquainted with any dancing partners for whom to go dancin’ wit.”

“We’re good friends of the Mayor,” began the second one in a deeper voice as if dismissive of the utterances of her friend. “We are in the chorus of Legs on Lexington.  Have you seen it?  It is what they call an intimate revue.”

Martin and Stephen both confessed they had neglected to see the show and murmured something about not wanting to go out.

“Oh youse is British; I think that’s so cute,” said the first.  “Jimmy said you were and I forgot.  How do you do your grace,” she said bobbing in the direction of Stephen.  Stephen said nothing but pointed to Martin and this was repeated.

“And your names, ladies?” asked Martin.

“I’m Poil,” said the bobber, “and this is my friend Zeralda.  You sure do speak American swell for imm-i-grants.”

“We were taught it at school,” replied Martin who couldn’t help but smile.

“Well, if you’d like to come up to the Roseland…”

Meanwhile Zeralda’s eye was taking in the two boys, the intimacy of the hotel room and their informal attire.  She noted the ménage à deux.

“We love dancin’, don’t we Zel?”

Zeralda gave her another elbow and made to leave.  “I think we have a wrong party here; I’m sorry gen’lemen for havin’ disturbed you.  C’mon Pearl, we’d better go.”

“Aw gee, Zel, my dogs is barking.” And to Stephen:  “I practically drug myself here.  We couldn’t find a cab and we walked all the way from 34th.”

“You must let us give you taxi fare for your kind impulse,” said Stephen.

“Huh?” said Pearl.

“Five bucks should do it,” said Zeralda.  Steven gave her eight. “Thanks, honey.  Say what’s your name?” Stephen told her. “And yours, sweetheart?”

“Martin.”

“Well you sure have a pretty face and lovely skin,” hasn’t he Pearl?”

“Just like a flapjack at Childs” said Pearl.  “Well I suppose we’d better get going; you British folks sure go to bed oily.”

Martin and Stephen looked at each other.  “Perhaps you girls might like a drink before you go,” said Martin, “seeing you had such a long walk to get here.”  There was a brief discussion.

“Well that would be mighty kind of you Marty.  You’ve got some liquor?”

“Yes. Carlo will mix us something.” Carlo was called. “Carlo, these young ladies would like Fallen Angels; do you know how to mix them?”

“Gin, milord,” said Carlo furrowing his brow, “and lemon juice…”

“And some of that green stuff and a few shakes of the red stuff,” said Zeralda helpfully.

“That would be Crème de Menthe and Angostura bitters, Carlo.  We’ll all have them.”

The girls sat down together, drawing their hatpins and removing their bucket-like chapeaux. They pulled their gloves off and produced compacts from their bags and proceeded to repair the ravages of the journey as they talked.

“So you’re in Noo York for business, Marty?” asked Zeralda.

“No, this is a holiday—a holiday for both of us.”

“That’s wunnerful; much better than Atlantic City.  I never want to go home.  I love Noo York.”

“Where are you from, Pearl?” asked Stephen.

“Salina, but you would never heard of it.”

“Yes we have and we’ve been there, haven’t we Mala?”

“Yes, during the War.”

“What war?” asked Pearl.

“Don’t take any notice of her, Marty.  I think a sand bag must have dropped on her backstage. The Great War, Pearl— you know in Europe.”

“Oh yeah, but there was no fightin’ in Kansas, I don’t think. Who won?”

Before anyone could frame an answer, Carlo appeared with a tray of Fallen Angels and some nuts and the German savouries called ‘pretzels’.

“We were sent on a recruiting drive in 1917,” said Martin returning to the topic.  Stephen here was a gen-u-ine war hero,” continued Martin in a teasing voice.  Stephen glared at him.

“I can believe that, what with all those muscles,” said Pearl emboldened by the cocktail. “Can I feel them?”

“Pearl, can’t ya see he’s a gen’lman, not one of your prize-fighters, keep ya paws off him.”

“That’s all right, Zeralda, I’m used to it.  Where is your home?” asked Stephen as Pearl was busy feeling his biceps.

“Out in Queens, if ya call having an old gra’ma in Corona ‘home’.  What do you do when you’re not fighting Wars, big boy?”

That was a good question, thought Stephen. “Well, I trained as an engineer.”

“My little brother always wanted to drive an engine,” began Pearl, as she was feeling Stephen’s chest, “and he used to lay in bed listen to the whistle as the train crossed the trestle near our place…”

“Not that kind of engineer,” explained Zeralda, “buildings and bridges and stuff.”

“But mostly I help Martin run his estate—it’s very large and there are a lot of farms on it.”

“Well I couldn’t wait to get away from Kansas and all that dirt, but you probably have very refined farms in Britain,” said Pearl.

“It’s very pretty,” said Martin thinking of the respective merits of Dorset and Kansas, “and there are lots of trees and hedges and no barbed wire fences.”

“Sounds like Central Park,” said Zeralda. “I’d like to become broader by travellin’.  I think I will take a trip to Mexico one day.”

“A lot of girls I know become broader in Monte Carlo,’ said Pearl who was now sitting on Stephen’s knee. “Have you ever been to Monte, Steve?”

“I have a little old house on the coast near there— just a shack really.”

“Really? Still even a log cabin in Monte Carlo would be the swellest.”

“I bet you live in a great big castle, Marty,” said Zeralda who was now sitting next to him and running her hands through his blond hair, looking for dark roots.

“Something like that, Zeralda, but I like New York hotels, very well.”

“A castle with room service; a girl can but dream.” She had slipped her hand inside Martin’s dressing gown and was running it over his chest and nipples.  “I often wonder why boys have these,” she mused. Martin was feeling a little uncomfortable and forcibly removed her hand.  She did not take offence.

The girls prattled on and talked about their show and the characters that inhabited Broadway. “…and when the show was a flop, he dove right off the Paramount Building, kersplat!” said Zeralda with relish as she recalled some ghoulish story.  “None of us girls saw a penny.”

Pearl meanwhile was being a little more forceful and was squirming on Stephen’s lap.  Her short dress had risen well above her pretty knees and there were two wide margins of exposed, naked flesh where her rolled down stockings and garters did not cover her soft thighs. “Oh I bet you could have killed a lot of Germans with that,” she giggled.  “Zeralda, you really ought to come over here if you want to broaden yourself by travel.”

The girls swapped berths, downing another cocktail from the tray as they passed.  Stephen smiled sheepishly at Martin who returned a look that suggested that this was all getting a little too much for him.

Zeralda now settled herself in Stephen’s lap with her arm about his neck.  Her eyebrows shot up and she whispered something into Stephen’s ear.  He shook his head.

Pearl meanwhile was busy with her hands on Martin.  “As soft as silk,” she sighed.  “It seems wasted on a boy.  Isn’t his hair just darlin’!”  She made a grab for Martin’s balls beneath the dressing gown and her myriad of plastic bracelets became snagged in the material and Martin found himself completely exposed.  He went red and hurriedly tried to correct matters.  Pearl said: “That’s so cute.  I’d give anything to be blond like that downstairs.  It’s a real peach, Zel!” she called.  Martin was looking distressed.

Meanwhile Zeralda was having trouble with her shoulder straps and found she was sitting on some vegetable other than a peach. “You sure look like Gene Tunney, sweetheart, let me feel your arm again.  Are you goin’ to the fight at the Square on Thoisday?”

“Why yes, I love boxing and Mr Walker invited us to sit with him.”

“No kiddin’? Me and Pearl will be there too, that sure will be swell.”

“Well ladies, I think it is getting late and I have to be up early for training myself.  Perhaps Carlo could see you to a taxi.  You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t stand,” said Stephen.

Martin however stood, dumping Pearl onto the floor. “Aw gee, I was looking for some grown-up fun.”

“Come on,” said Zeralda.  “These boys need their rest, she said with a wink in Stephen’s direction.  We can do our workout at Roseland and sleep until it’s time to go to the Automat.”

Each of the girls kissed each of the boys, Pearl giving Martin’s cock a tweak while Zeralda placed Stephen’s hand on her breast as she leaned down for a kiss.  She arose giggling at Stephen’s huge erection in the lemon silk. Stephen spluttered, but giggled too.  “Pity,” mouthed Zeralda as she pulled her cloche on and thrust the pin in deeply and with meaning.

“Thanks for the drink, boys.  Until Thoisday,” trilled Pearl as she made for the door, which was held open by Carlo who bowed slightly as they flounced into the night.

“Derby,” said Martin as he occupied the place on Stephen’s knee lately the perch of Zeralda, “Do you think I look like a girl?  Those two seemed to liken me to one; do you think I’m effeminate?”

“No of course not, Mala.” Stephen stood him up and, with a forceful movement, removed his dressing gown without untying it.  “You are beautiful and handsome; I thought so that first day—you know, where we swim.  You are a blond god,” he continued, and he ran his hand over Martin’s almost hairless chest.  “Like one of those fellows in the operas by Wagner,”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know— they’re all the same, but one where the German boy had a quest.  You look like a Norse god; look at the muscles in those arms.”

“I’ve been using the rowing machine.”

“And your strong legs and chest.” Stephen kissed the wiry blond hair that ran from Martin’s navel to the trimmed blond bush lately so admired by Pearl and Martin was electrified.

“I am Thor.”

“Are you, Mala?  I will use more Spong’s next time.”

“Very droll, Derby.  I don’t suppose I am as masculine as you are.”

“Well,” replied Stephen grinning and clasping his hands behind his head to show off to good effect his muscles and armpits, “that would be stretching it, but…”

“Oh you conceited ass!” said Martin and twisted the hair painfully until Stephen winced and slapped him away like a girl and with much laughter.

“You could give me something only a real man could, Martin; those two couldn’t do it. Please fuck me.  I want to feel your blond hammer inside me.  Transport me to Valhalla and call Carlo.”

Carlo was not far away and brought cushions and the Spong’s as Stephen had expressed a desire to be subdued right there in the Plaza Hotel sitting room.  “Isn’t his lordship as beautiful as a statue, Carlo? Or a Viking?”

“He’s every inch a god,” said Carlo who had been listening. “More blond than Lance even…” he said without thinking.

“Lance, our footman?” said Martin in surprise.  The boys looked at the valet who reddened.

“Yes, he’s fair too.”

“Carlo,” said Stephen, “there is more to it than that. ‘Spill the beans’ as the young ladies said.”

“Oh it was nothing, sir.  Well, perhaps you might enjoy hearing it while you…um…”

Stephen sat in the armchair with Martin standing astride him and he divided his attention between sucking Martin’s cock to hardness and listening to Carlo who related the story of Mrs Vetch with a fulsome description of how ardent young Lance was in the buttery.  Martin tried to concentrate, especially as he lathed Stephen’s masculine buttocks as Carlo aided by holding his legs in the air as he continued to talk.

“I made some helpful suggestions to the lad, thinking that it might get him untangled from her clutches and provide some more entertainment for me.  I suggested he take Mrs Vetch up the arse, if you will pardon my vulgarity, your lordship, which he did, repeatedly, giving me a good view from my window, however Mrs Vetch seemed to like it and it only intensified her desire for the young fellow.  You might have wondered why you have had so many omelettes over the last four months.

“I then guided Lance in the direction of the pretty new assistant in the Post Office— Bessie by name.  However she is girl brought up with all the prejudices of the lower middle classes, sir, and Lance is sorely frustrated; only getting a chaste kiss when he walks out with her or takes her to the pictures in Wareham.  He clearly needs much more and so comes up to my room some nights in agony and sweating and I help him assuage his disappointment, your lordship.”

“He’s a big lad?” asked Stephen in a halting voice but with interest as Martin had three fingers inside him and was causing Stephen to spasm in pleasure.  “I should have taken more notice of him in the cricket pavilion.”

“He’s big, blond and handsome just like his lordship, although more fleshy like a puppy, Mr Stephen, and let’s just say that Mrs Vetch leaves a happy woman on Wednesdays and Saturdays.  I’ve now got him to squeeze into the tightest breeches for serving at table and poor Mathew has to pick up anything Lance drops for he can’t bend over without splitting the seams and there’s nothing under there— I saw to that too.  It is a risk but I think Miss Plainsong appreciated it when she dined two weeks ago and twice asked for more potatoes.”

“Make me feel it, Mala,” sighed Stephen as Martin fought to push his blond erection into Stephen.  He was soon pounding him and trying to be a man for him, but the conviction soon dawned on him that no matter what he did, even this, Stephen’s masculine dominance remained unchallenged.  Martin felt it was his duty to pleasure the big stud.  They altered positions and Martin sat in the armchair with Stephen squatting over him on his muscular, hairy haunches with his feet planted on the wide arms.  He lowered himself and Martin inserted his erection into the void. “Oooh, that feels good Mala.  Really give it to me.” Martin did his best.

Stephen fragrant groin was close to Martin’s face and he inhaled the familiar manly scent. Stephen maintained his erection and it bounced and bobbed before Martin’s eyes, slapping him on the chest and occasionally swiping him across the face if Stephen squirmed too much.

Carlo wiped Martin’s brow with a towel.  “Spill in me Mala; I want it inside!” commanded Stephen at last.  Martin had been holding back, so it was a benediction and a relief to just let go.  Stephen thought he could feel it.

They came to a rest, staring into each other’s eyes. Suddenly Stephen got off.  “The plug, Carlo, quickly I need to keep him in there for a while!” Stephen fitted the plug himself. “Now both of you, on your knees!” he ordered.  The lord and his valet knelt side by side and turned their expectant faces upwards to Stephen who stood over them with his legs apart and with his back arched.  Their tongues protruded wantonly.

Stephen stroked his big cock with his familiar action and Martin watched his muscles, gilded with sweat, contract and relax and his buttocks dimple.  In a few minutes Martin and Carlo knew from experience what would happen and Stephen suddenly let loose and hosed their faces with his voluminous seed.  Martin knew at that moment, whatever he might be, Stephen was his man.

Stephen chivvied them into the shower stall in the luxuriously tiled bathroom.  Under the warm water Stephen soaped Carlo and Martin and they washed his hair.  Carlo left to prepare the towels and Martin clung to Stephen and whispered into his ear.  Stephen pulled back slightly in surprise and then renewed his embrace.  In a moment Stephen relaxed and released, his thick cock pouring forth a stream of warm piss, which flowed down Martin’s leg and swirled down the drain and into oblivion.  Whatever sort of man Martin was, Martin knew he was a man who belonged body and soul to Stephen. 

***** 

The following night Martin was almost beside himself with joy, and it had nothing to do with Stephen for once.  They collected Peter Spong and dined in a restaurant in Times Square and then went to The Imperial Theatre of West 54th Street to see a musical that had been running for some months.

Oh, Kay! had a suitably silly plot about English aristocrats who were bootleggers, but it was the music that sent him into a delirium— it was jazzy and up-to-date—and he dragged the others around to the stage door afterwards to meet the English star, Gertrude Lawrence. “You certainly like musicals, Mala,” observed Stephen as they waited in their evening clothes.

His title proved useful and the boys were admitted.  Miss Lawrence was charming, but had the manner of a great star about her and she was a little bit frightening.  The fact of three attractive young men in her dressing room, was however, not lost on her and she held court, regaling them in her throaty voice with anecdotes about her time in the Charlot Revues.   Martin almost fainted when the composer and his brother the lyricist suddenly arrived with some other people and there were already the makings of a small party in the star’s sumptuous dressing room.  Mr Gershwin sat down at the piano with a cigarette drooping from his lips and played two of the songs straight off.  Martin knew that he would never get the words and syncopated rhythm of Do, Do, Do (what you’ve done, done, done before) out of his head.  Gershwin struck the keys with great vigour and in a staccato manner all his own.  There was a change of mood when he played the tender Someone to Watch Over Me, to which Miss Lawrence hummed throatily but didn’t sing and Martin thought of Stephen and began to melt and hoped he wouldn’t cry.

The party piled into taxis and someone ‘in the know’ directed the cab down Broadway and into 7th Ave at Times Square.  Then they traversed the length of Manhattan to the old quarter known as Greenwich Village and there, in an ordinary narrow street, was a town house with an arched door.  This was apparently ‘Chumely’s’ and the well-dressed party were shown to tables around a scruffy dance floor and Mr Gershwin enjoyed the luxury of listening to someone else’s playing.  Stephen reminded Miss Lawrence of how they had met in London some years before when she was with Noel Coward.  She pretended politely to recall, but Stephen knew she did not.

Miss Lawrence had a matinee the following day and had not been drinking and at midnight she excused herself and disappeared in a cloud of perfume and silver furs.  Martin however was getting quite drunk but was very happy.  When the others made to leave at 1:30 Martin wanted to ‘go on’.  They were given the address of ‘Connie’s Place’ a long way ‘uptown’ on 7th Ave in Harlem.  “The music there is better than the ‘Cotton Club’,” said George Gershwin,” as he took his leave.  It was only the three boys who made the second long cab ride of the evening.

The crowd was white, but the musicians and singers were coloured.  Martin was terribly excited but they had just settled down expectantly when there was a commotion.  It was a raid and, unlike Lady Austin’s, this time there was no escape. 

“Hello ya Royal Majesty!” cried a cheerful voice in the next cell.”

“Hello Pearl,” called back Martin without enthusiasm.

“Do you like my new dress?” she called, swiving about causing the beads to lash against the iron bars of the police cell.”

“It’s lovely. Is Zeralda with you?”

“Here I am,” came a less cheerful voice and Zeralda sat up from the narrow bunk upon which she had been laying with a headache.  Her cloche hat was all crushed.

“It sure is swell, seeing you guys in here.  We won’t be here very long.  Hi ya Stevie, big boy!” trilled Pearl.  Stephen gave a brief wave. “Who’s ya friend there?” Peter Spong was introduced to Pearl and Zeralda and there was a discussion of their respective evenings on the town.  Pearl apparently did not consider their present situation to be in any way a mark of a social failure.  From her garter belt she removed a small hip flask. “I snuck it in here,” she said quietly and offered it around, but there were no takers apart from herself.

“Hey copper!” screamed Zeralda suddenly when a large policeman ambled into view.

“Aw, you be shutting ya big trap now.”

“You don’t know who you’ve got in here.  We’re all friends of Jimmy and you could be in a lot of trouble.”

The policeman gave a Gaelic snort of disbelief. “And you’re all friends of de Mayor are ya? Hey, I smell booze.  Give me that flask, you!”

“Get your mitts off of me, flat foot!” screamed Pearl.  Hey Francis!” she screamed at another policeman dimly seen behind the first. “Francis Xavier Hurley!”

The man turned and approached the cells. “Hi ya Poil. Hullo Z’rada,” he said brightly.  Turning to the first policeman he calmly said: “Let ’em go, Kevin, or we will be pounding a beat on Staten Island. They’re pals of the Mayor.”

Pearl squirmed in triumph and added. “And these boys are the friends of Jimmy’s too.  Don’t ya read the papers?”  Sgt Hurley picked up the newspaper on his desk that was open at the racing guide.

“There ain’t nothing here, Poil,” he said.

“Try yesterday’s.”  It was retrieved from the wastebasket.

“Well will ya look at this!” cried the officer, “King of Portugal is greeted by Mayor.”

Martin looked surprised. “Let me see.”

“Say, you speak English mighty good for a foreigner.” 

“I went to School in England,” said Martin quite truthfully as he took the folded paper through the bars. “And look Derby, you are the French husband of Gloria Swanson” There was Stephen, handsome and smiling radiantly alongside the dapper figure of James J. Walker.

Heavy keys were turned in the locks and friends of the Mayor of New York City, both royal and common, were released with suitable apologies onto the bleak early morning pavements. The girls departed for bed and Peter was just saying that his parents would be worried when there was a growing noise from somewhere distant.  It grew louder as they moved south along the avenue and at Columbus Circle they found themselves in a sea of mayhem.  People were screaming and dancing, the streetcars were immobilised and citizens were jumping off them into the swollen crowd that had filled the road.  Taxis were marooned and their drivers set up a deafening cacophony with their horns.  Everywhere was joy unbounded.

Stephen forcefully grabbed a man by his shoulders and shouted into his face, “What’s going on?”

“Buddy, Lindbergh has just landed in Paris!”

To be continued…