Martin was seated with his feet up in the red drawing room idly leafing through the London Illustrated News and playing some of his American gramophone records when Chilvers entered.  “Oh, Chilvers, would you put on the recording of Sunday by the Ipana Troubadours and wind it up?”

“Is that a group of American musicians, your lordship?”

“Yes it is,” replied Martin irritably, not liking the dripping tone of the servant.  “I thought you said you were musical.”

“And there is that to consider too, your lordship,” replied Chilvers who made no move to the machine but bent so that Martin could see that he was carrying a silver salver which bore a note.  Martin took it and read through it quickly.

“And who is this Flora?”

“She is one of the maids, sir; has been with us about six months since coming from Glasgow.  She has a young man, also from Glasgow, who works over at Tatchell’s, I believe, your lordship.”

“What else?”

“Well, your lordship, she has been proselytising revolutionary politics in the servants’ hall…”

“And you’ve let her?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’ve done my best, but she’s very combative and won’t listen to reason and…”

“And what, Chilvers?”

“And I’m a little scared of her and now she has organised the housemaids into a union and they are threatening a strike.”

“Good God!  Can’t we just sack her—sack them all?”

“Well, it is very hard to find good servants, your lordship. Most young women don’t want to enter service and then we might have to consider the Irish.”

“And you want me to entertain this list impudent of demands?” said Martin, outraged.

“She calls it a ‘log of claims’, your lordship.  Mrs Capstick and I considered it carefully before passing it on to you, but now that the maids are refusing to dust or use the vacuum cleaners and have taken to humming the Red Flag when they are working…”

“Well, don’t feed them; lock them out of their rooms!”

“I don’t think that would be quite legal, your lordship, and with you being on the bench…well…”

“Oh well, said Martin, now sitting up straight, “I’d best have her in.  I wish Stephen were here.”

When Flora entered the room Martin recognised her.  She was short and possessed of red hair and green eyes and her thin lips were fashioned into a determined line.

“Good afternoon…er…Flora,” he said pleasantly, refreshing his memory from the note.

“Well I di’neh know about thart, your lordship,” she replied in a tone that made Martin’s blood run cold.  “I will ney bob, your lordship, because I’m not here as a servant.”  Martin was taken aback.  “I’m here as a shop steward and I want you to know I’m sincere.”

“Well I’m sincere too…er…Flora.”

“Are you?  And are you in a position to negotiate wi’ me or do you have to report to your masters?”

“Well, I am the master, Flora.  We don’t have a board of directors.”

“Oh aye,” said Flora, evidently ticking something off a mental list.  “I represent my comrades on the shop floor— the maids — and I want you to recognise me as speaking for them— you’re not to listen to that class traitor Daphne; she’s a wee weak in the head.”

“How do I know you are their representative?”

“Why, we had a show of hands in the scullery, that’s why!”

Martin agreed to listen, but did not concede to her being their sole voice.  Suddenly Flora sat down.  Martin was again unnerved, but remained seated too.  “Now, what are your demands?”

“We only want justice and what is right and fair; a fair return for our labour.  We have been oppressed for far too long…” Martin interrupted her and sought the germ of the dispute.

“We want a rise of ₤10 a year.”

“Well that is ridiculous,” said Martin.  “I already pay you ₤3 more than anyone else in the district.”

Some hard Glaswegian bargaining ensued and Martin agreed to five.

“Now we want an extra maid employed.  Since Betsy left to marry the postman we have been down to eleven housemaids.”

“But with the Hoovers and all the improvements we have made, we don’t need such a big staff, Flora.”

“Mah members is not going to stand idly by and see our jobs taken by machines.  What is the point of all this modern stuff if it doesn’t make our lives any easier?”

Martin thought this was a fair point and agreed to consider employing an extra maid but Flora had to promise that her girls would stop taking guerrilla action and cutting the electric cords to the cleaners.

“Now we want shorter hours,” demanded Flora.

“Well I’ll shorten your dinner hour,” said Martin, trying to make a joke.

“That’s just the frivolous attitude mah members di’ney appreciate in the oppressing class.”

Martin almost apologised, but stopped himself in time and asked what were the hours for maids at Croome.  Flora outlined them with considerable passion.

“Well, as we now do not have fires to clean out and set in the mornings and there is piped hot water, I think that 6 o’clock might be fair and if we want a fire in any of the rooms, they will have to be cleaned and set later in the morning.”

“A quarter past six.”

“Very well, a quarter past—in winter.”

Flora was pleased and turned to days off.  Her ambit claim was for one-and-a-half, but after a battle it was agreed to two half-days with a whole day once a month.  The next battle was over latchkeys.  Martin refused to let the servants have their own keys and insisted they had to be home when the house was locked up.  On this he would not budge.  Flora took this in good part and then moved on to uniforms.  The maids did not like their present black garb and wanted grey for the morning and deep purple for the afternoons.  Martin didn’t care about this and agreed that they would be phased in.  Flora then added that the maids wanted shorter skirts in line with the fashion.  Martin said he would discuss that with Mrs Capstick as he didn’t think he was in a position to decide.  He was firm, however, on the question of maids wearing lipstick and on this Flora didn’t press so hard, Martin assuming this was a particular claim by one of her sisterhood.

Martin found he was exhausted and perspiring freely.  Flora then demanded that grace be discontinued in the servants’ hall.  “What ha’ we, the oppressed, got to be grateful for?” she said.  “Instead of praying to some mythical being, the servants would be better studying economics and history to see the cause of their present plight.  Religion is the opium…”

“That’s quite enough, Flora!” snapped Martin.  “I will tell Mr Chilvers to not say grace.”

“Tripe and onions.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Martin wearily.

“We d’ney want no more tripe and onions.  Just because Mr Chilvers likes it we have to have it once a week.  Most of us refuse to touch it and have been redistributing sustenance from the larder when Cook’s back is turned.”  This too was settled, but not before Flora threatened to take Martin to the International Labour Office of the League of Nations.

“Right then,” said Flora.  “I will put your proposals to mah members.”  With that she returned to being one of the oppressed and stood and bobbed and left the room just as Stephen came in with his dogs.

“Hello Mala, have you been loafing here all afternoon?” 

 *******

Stephen had thrown himself into the running of the estate.  An inspection showed that there were more cottage roofs to be rethatched than they had previously thought and some of the cottages needed major repairs.  “Should we have straw thatching rather than reeds, Mala?  It only lasts fifty years but it is cheaper.”

“No, we must do it properly.  A reed roof will last for more than two centuries.”  Stephen was secretly pleased and looked forward to seeing the team of thatchers at work.

There was worse news: At Croome itself it was discovered that two large sections of roof were in a terrible condition, with water having entered and rotted some of the roof beams that were hundreds of years old.  The single storey portion over the Victorian gothic dining room was also leaking and was the obvious cause of the slow deterioration of the interior.  “This will all cost thousands of pounds, Mala, what are we to do?”

“Well if it’s not made good, the whole house is in jeopardy and I would not be passing it on to the next generation in good condition. It is a question of stewardship, Derbs.  I think we need to talk to Daniel Sachs and touch some of our capital.  If I don’t— if we don’t I mean Derby—Croome will surely go the way of Hamilton Palace, Thirkelby Hall and Norton Priory and face the wrecker’s ball.”

Stephen busied himself with Blake and his assistant Norton and surveyed the damage and broke the work down into logical stages.  Then he set about obtaining quotes from firms of building contractors who specialised in this sort of work from London and Birmingham.

 *******

“I’ve had seven quotations for the work Mala.   Good shot!”  They were playing a round of golf early one Monday morning before the arrival of the better players who would show them up and grumble at their slow progress around the links.  The golf course had done spectacularly well with the back nine recently finished and the hotel full on most weekends.  The manager had suggested that another half dozen rooms could be constructed and the company had even paid a small dividend to its loyal investors.

“And they vary considerably in price, Mala,” continued Stephen as he placed his ball on the tee and lined up. Martin was silent while he addressed the ball.  He took a mighty swing—Stephen was very strong—and the ball sailed beautifully in the direction of the pin on this par three.  Unfortunately the ball kept on sailing, unheeding of its intended destination and dropped over the horizon into a treacherous bunker, which Martin knew lurked behind the green.

“Lovely shot too, Derbs, but bad luck as to the length.  You may need your mashie-niblik.”

“The most expensive is for over seventeen thousand pounds and that firm said they would replace two-thirds of the entire roof and that special parts would have to be engineered, but they could start straight away.”

Martin blanched at the figure and didn’t know how he was going to be able to play a stroke when they came to his ball three quarters of the way down the fairway.  “And the other quotes, Derbs?”

“Well that’s just it—and I haven’t got them all in— but they vary from nine to thirteen thousand and apart from the first one, they don’t see the need to replace so much roof and will reuse slate and lead where possible.”

Martin’s next stroke placed his ball on the green— well almost, he told himself; it was on that annoying margin of short grass just surrounding the velvet-like green itself.

“I have had an idea…” continued Stephen who left it in mid-air as he went round to the sand to search for his first shot.

A plume of sand erupted.  There was a second and the ball plopped onto the green.  Martin took a stroke with his putter and did not allow for the retarding effect of the long grass and a second shot was needed before he was on the green properly.  Stephen climbed into view and Martin pointed to his ball.  Stephen grumbled about his short game when it took him two more strokes to sink his ball.  Martin was feeling smug until his next shot ran around the perimeter of the cup, surely in defiance of the laws of physics, and failed to drop in.  “Bugger!” said Martin and tapped it in.  “We drew on that hole, Derbs; we have to pay a shilling to each other.”

“No that was the previous hole, Mala. This one was for sucking, remember?”

“Oh yes.  Whoever lost had to suck the other one behind the oak trees.  I forgot.  We will just have to suck each other.  You know, Derbs, I’m beginning to hate golf a little less, I do believe.”

They repaired to the oak trees in question in a secluded dell.  “My idea,” said Stephen, unbuttoning the flies on his plus fours, “is that I act as the contractor and hire day labour and tradesmen myself. Of course I will need a builder— but surely Mr Stone in Pendleton has done enough work for us to know the quality of his work and it would provide employment for local men. I might get Charles and Jack to look at it too, just to back up my judgement— although it is not in their area of expertise exactly.”

Martin was smartly on his knees and had fished out Stephen’s flaccid member and was already teasing the nineteenth hole with his tongue.  He stopped and looked up, with a worshipping expression in his blue eyes.  “I trust your judgement implicitly, Derby.  I know you will go into it thoroughly and it surely won’t be more expensive than those quotations you have already.  Are you sure you want to devote all that time to this project though?”

“It’s just what I need, Mala.  It will take my mind off things and will be my contribution to our house.”

“Well I want you to concentrate on something else just now.  There are going to be many strokes— too many to count— and I want you to have a good follow through.”

Stephen relaxed in one respect; a decision that had been weighing on his mind had been made.  On the other hand he felt the need to concentrate his energies on rewarding Martin who was doing his best on his knees at that minute.  Then he had to suck Martin’s cock and he hoped that the Ladies’ Auxiliary would be a little tardy in reaching the 10th hole this morning, although they were due at any moment now.

 *******

Over the next months, while the weather held, Stephen worked tirelessly with the team he had assembled.  When the roof of the great house was peeled back it exposed the rotten timbers and also the delicate, vulnerable interiors, so Stephen employed a special tarpaulin roof he had invented and which was supported on a lightweight frame like an umbrella and made tense and secure by an ingenious system of wire cables.  This domed roof was made from an old circus tent, which Stephen had bought cheaply and windows had been cut into this and these were originally to be filled with ‘isinglass’ allowing work to continue underneath in all weathers, but at the last minute Stephen changed it for ‘cellophane’.  This was a new transparent fabric and Stephen had purchased a roll of it from America.  The whole structure could be taken down and reassembled on the other side of the house for ‘Stage II’ as Stephen called it, when the time came.  Martin thought it was the cleverest thing he had ever seen.

Martin spent a pleasantly idle afternoon at the sawyers in Pendleton where he leaned on a railing and watched the great fragrant green oak beams being drawn through the terrible teeth of the steam saw. These were some of the twenty great beams that were needed for the house- his own house- his own rooftree.  Others had to come from Wimbourne Minster and were hauled by great teams of Clydesdales up to the house where they were stacked and covered with sacking.

Stephen meanwhile had travelled to Blaenau Ffestiniog to select the best Welsh slates and he watched the men in the quarry miraculously splitting the stone with single blows.  Then he went up to Birmingham to obtain copper nails for them and drove a hard bargain, obtaining several kegs for ₤10.  In the tennis pavilion which had become a temporary workshop, the skilful carpenters fashioned elegant and precise scarf joints where the old wood was to be joined by the new and made fast, not by nails or screws, but by traditional pegs hammered into holes patiently bored into the wood with an auger.  Stephen thought they were as fine as any works of art.  Then there were the more slender rafters and purlins stacked and numbered waiting to be lifted into position and notched and mortised with the crisp tap, tap, tap of mallet and chisel and finally the lead flashing which was a joy to be seen being laid by workmen with soft blows from the ball-peen hammer.  All these sights and sounds and smells held their own delight.

Thus Stephen spent hours each day on the scaffold and inside the roof spaces until he felt he knew the complex old house inside and out and he gradually came to feel that it was his own home, not someone else’s place where he was merely a guest.  When he was not assisting the workmen he was pouring over his plans and estimates, rising at dawn and not going to bed until the wee hours.  Martin, in selfish moments, felt neglected and was worried that Stephen was overdoing it.

“Derby, I want you to stand in front of the looking glass,” said Martin who was still in bed.

“Why?” asked Stephen who had just slid from beneath the covers to check on some pages of measurements that had been troubling him all night.

“Because I like it when you admire yourself.”

“I don’t do that, Mala!”

“Yes you do; you do it all the time when you think no one is watching.  But I’m watching you and I find it very exciting.”

Stephen could hardly continue with such a flagrant lie so he looked at himself in the long pier glass between the two windows.

“Spread your legs a little more, Derbs.  Now feel yourself.” Stephen slowly rubbed his palm over his own chest and stomach and then ran both hands over his thighs before going on to his balls, all the time gazing like Narcissus at his own reflection.  “Does that feel good?”  Stephen did not answer, but continued with his hands.  “Put your hands behind your head.”  Stephen did, flexing his muscles and Martin, who had risen from the bed, could breathe in the heady masculine aroma emanating from his sweaty armpits with their tufts of soft, black hair— just the right amount and in just the right pattern, thought Martin as he looked in the reflection; I love them the most.

Stephen started to rotate his upper body to and fro while leaving his bare feet planted on the carpet; his cock and balls swung rhythmically.  All the while he held his head still, and he stared fixedly at his own blue eyes in the mirror.

“You’re very beautiful; you know that, Derby.”  Stephen was conscious of his own broad shoulders and his chest like a shield with its triangular tuft of black hair in the centre; of his tapering silhouette as his torso narrowed dramatically to his waist and hips; of his meaty thighs and muscular calves.

“I know,” he said in a distant voice, almost mesmerised by his own reflection.  He turned around and tried to look at his own back.  Martin fetched the hand mirror and held it.  Stephen felt his own strong neck and then ran the backs of his hands downwards to his buttocks.  These were firm like steel and dusted with hair.  He turned his hands over and spread his cheeks while Martin tilted the mirror.  He then bent and continued to feel his legs, ending with his feet.

The mood changed.  “It’s only an accident, Mala.  I can’t help how I look.  I’m who I am on the inside.”

“I love that even more, Derbs,” said Martin, touching him for the first time when he planted a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I sometimes think this body doesn’t belong to me at all.”

“What about your cock?”

“Even less so; it has a mind of its own as you have said on more than one occasion.”  He was chuckling now.

Carlo had come into the room to say that the bath was ready.  He stopped when he saw the show.  “I love his hairy armpits the most; what’s your favourite part of Mr Stephen, Carlo?”

“That is a hard question to answer, your lordship.  I’ve always wanted balls that hung just like these, if you will pardon my crudity, your lordship; I don’t think I could handle a cock as big as Mr Stephen’s— it would land me in all sorts of trouble.”

“I always thought I’d like my cock to be just a little bit bigger, Mala,” said Stephen, examining it critically in the looking glass.

“Well I think it’s just right, Derbs,” said Martin, now sounding like Goldilocks.

“Suck his balls, Carlo,” commanded Martin.

“But your lordship, my morning duties!  And this is hardly part of my job— not on the wages you pay me.  Now if I was to get another ₤20 a year…”

“Twenty pounds!  You’ve been listening to that Flora.  You’re already well paid — as much as Chilvers,” cried Martin.

“Well ₤10 then.”

Five pounds two and six was agreed upon, with a commensurate rise for Chilvers and Glass before Carlo dropped beneath Stephen’s legs to the relief of Stephen who felt that his balls had been sorely neglected during the protracted negotiations.

Martin enjoyed watching and enjoyed the expressions on the faces of his servant and his lover.  Stephen stroked his own cock and, with now suitably soggy balls, moved to a chair where he would be more comfortable.  Carlo and Martin were both now masturbating but stopped long enough to shift the chair and Stephen in it to a position in front of the looking glass so he could see himself.

This continued for some minutes, Stephen pleasuring himself but conscious that he was the attraction for the other two.  With a wink, he leaned forward and, after a couple of tries, sucked the head of his own member, using his tongue to lubricate it.

It was an effort and he gasped when he released himself and unbent.  “My stepfather caught me doing this when I was fifteen.  All he said was ‘keep goin’ lad and thee won’t be needing any supper’ and then I thought I heard him mutter ‘lucky bugger,” as he closed the door.”  He laughed.  Carlo and Martin urged him to do it again, which he did, but said that it did not feel as good as when someone else was sucking him.

“I’m close Mala,” said Stephen after about ten minutes.

“Watch yourself spill, Derbs,” said Martin, intent on the performance.  Stephen was using two hands now and his move to pinch the end of his penis signalled that he was in orgasm.  He controlled the flow and more than half a dozen ropes of semen burnished his chest, the first one jetting over his shoulder and the second landing in his black hair which had fallen forward over his left eye.

“Did you like that, boys?” he said grinning when he had recovered his breath.  “Come here and clean me up.”  The peer and the valet knelt on either side of him and took turns in lapping up his tasty ejaculate, running their tongues over the attractive muscles of his torso.

Stephen, perhaps feeling some shame for his recent vanity, or more likely simply because he liked it, drew Martin and Carlo to either side of the chair when he brought them off with suitable gratitude with his hands and mouth.

“Now do you think the three of us will fit in that bath, Carlo?” said Stephen.

“Perhaps you’d like it filled with ass’s milk?” said Carlo. “For your complexion.”

“Yes, Cleopatra,” teased Martin holding the hand mirror up to him, “but where would we get it?”

“You could try milking each other,” retorted Stephen readily and who then had to suffer a volley of slaps and pinches from the other two until he retreated, laughing into the bathroom where he locked the door against his tormentors.

 *******

Stage I of the roof was completed and in a few days the men would be starting on the second stage which was a smaller job on the north side of the house above several bedrooms.  After that there was only the flat roof over the gothic dining room to be renewed.  Martin had insisted that Stephen come up to London with him for a break.  “The Plunger misses your sparring practice on a Thursday, Derbs. It would be good to see him.”

“That’s because I’ve made it naked boxing, Mala; it’s more difficult to concentrate but it feels good.  Come and watch us.”

There was also Daniel Sachs to see in the City to deliver the good news that Stage I had cost a mere ₤2400 and that very little of their capital would have to be touched.  Martin was feeling very happy and the same evening took Stephen out for a walk.

They strolled along Coventry Street in the direction of Leicester Square, Martin silently indicating nice looking boys with the head of his stick and Stephen doing the same, except with an excited elbow in Martin’s ribs.

Against the drab background of men’s clothes, the brilliant white stood out.  Protruding from the white sailor’s uniform was a dark-skinned face on a muscular neck, matched by wrists and hands of the same honey-coloured hue.  The sailor was tall and broad and very handsome and Martin felt weak at the knees.  His cap sat upon a full head of black locks that reminded Martin of Stephen’s hair and Martin craned his neck to read the name of the ship, which was written in gold braid upon the cap’s band. 

“It is Bahia,” said the sailor giving Martin a smart, but ironic salute. He spoke with an accent— Spanish perhaps and showed a great many white teeth.

“What does that mean?”

“It means ‘bay’, senhor, and it is the name of a state in my country.”

“Spain?”

“No, he said with amused scorn, Brazil.”

“Well, welcome to England…”

“Lucio.”

“Lucio and it must be very chilly here compared to your homeland.”

“That is true, senhor, but we have been on the Atlantic many times and on the river Clyde for some months for new turbines so we are used to it.  But it is cold and that ‘pub’ looks a lot warmer.”

It was true and Lucio looked ever better as he warmed up from the beer they bought him.  They introduced themselves as Martin and Stephen.  Lucio, although complaining he was broke, insisted on using the last of his coins to buy drinks for Martin and for his ‘older brother’ as he had taken to calling Stephen because they did look alike, although Lucio was only twenty-two.

“My ship— she is a cruiser— is now laid up in Southampton getting new boilers and some of us have come up to London for a few days leave, but we return the day after tomorrow.”

“Where are your shipmates?” asked Stephen.

Lucio shrugged.  They had a lot more beer and Stephen tried to recount the story of his Portuguese great, great grandmother.  He kept getting the details wrong and Martin had to step in, but he too became mixed up.  Nevertheless Lucio understood they were connected to the famous mad Queen and kept commenting how Portuguese Stephen looked.  Martin judged that there must have been some coloured blood in Lucio’s ancestry— perhaps a grandmother or great grandmother, he idly wondered.

“I would like to buy you a drink, but look…” He turned out his pockets and put on a comically sad face.  “I was going to sell myself in the street when you came along; that is what I do when I am ‘hard up’ as you say,” he said in a whisper and then laughed at the expression.

“We would be delighted to buy you some dinner, Lucio,” said Stephen “and then you will not have to…you know.”

“But I can get five shillings if I let a man suck me,” he said.  “It is easy money and quite pleasant.  The others can only ask for three.”

This was left in abeyance and they went out into the darkening street.  Lucio knew a Portuguese café in Soho where the proprietor would cook some Brazilian dishes that he was anxious for the boys to try with some ‘pingas’ — a rum made from sugar cane.

The café was tiny and the stew of pork and black beans and other vegetables was unexceptional, but Lucio, who was homesick, loved it and he and the proprietor kept filling up their plates with the stew as well as their glasses with the strong alcohol.

The bill was modest and they spilled onto the street and headed along Brewer Street in the direction of where Lucio said he had rented a room.  Both Martin and Stephen knew what was going to happen next and they were not disappointed, for when Lucio had taken them up several flights of uncarpeted stairs and shut the door on the tiny room he had rented, the first thing he did after putting a shilling in the meter for some gas, was to pull his white uniform over his head.  There were tattoos on the left and right of his hard chest — two swooping birds, like starlings, but possibly small seabirds.   He really was very handsome and he knew it.  He showed off his smooth chest and muscles to the boys and invited them to feel him.  His skin was silky and almost the colour of milky coffee— coffee from his own land, thought Martin.

“Now my brother,” he said and took off Stephen’s coat and undid his shirt.  Stephen’s skin was pale but no less attractive.  He removed the shirt entirely and planted a kiss on each of Stephen’s nipples — the first endearment of the evening.  He placed his arm about Stephen’s shoulder and faced Martin, grinning.  Yes, they weren’t exactly alike- Stephen was a good deal taller and, with his blue eyes, more handsome and had paler skin— but yet there was something… thought Martin.

Martin had been watching what had been going on in Lucio’s bell-bottomed trousers all evening and it seemed to him to be quite busy down there so he knelt down before Lucio and felt what seemed to be a very large cock hanging down the right leg.  He unfastened the trousers at the waist and let them drop.  There were no drawers and Lucio’s big coffee-coloured cock was loosed.  It was a very beautiful one, with a long translucent foreskin, just like Stephen’s and the head, when Martin exposed it by sliding the skin back, was the colour of a pomegranate.  His balls were heavy and Martin thought of the big nuts his country was known for and tried not to giggle.

“Taste it Mala!” cried Stephen, excited.

Martin put it in his mouth.  It didn’t taste like Stephen’s but Martin proceeded to pleasure the sailor.

“He does this to you, Stephen?” Stephen nodded.  “He is your brother?”

“No,” said Stephen.  “He is my lover.”

“I think you need a good lover like Martin.  You are big yourself I think?”

Stephen removed his shoes and hose and then undid his trousers. He too eschewed drawers and his impressive cock leapt out, half hard and glistening at the tip.

“Nossa!  What a pinto!  You could get nine shillings for that, but I think that you don’t need the money; you both have very good clothes and expensive shoes.  Am I right?”

“We do not need the money, Lucio and we will pay you,” said Stephen.

“I want to see him fuck you, Derby,” said Martin, pausing in his labours.  I want you to feel what it is like.”  He looked up.  “Will you fuck my lover, Lucio?”

“I will fuck both of you if you like.  Take your clothes off, Martin, I want to gaze upon you.”  Martin was amused at the poetic turn of phrase, but did so.  Lucio stared and when Martin was naked he ran his hands over Martin’s blond body and passed his fingers through Martin’s golden hair, the opposite of his own.  He grasped Stephen’s cock, hefting it in admiration, and placed it between Martin’s buttocks.  “Do you take your lover, Martin?  Do you give yourself over to him for his pleasure?”

“For my own pleasure, Lucio and I can take him all.”

“Nossa senhora!”

On the bed Martin continued to suck on the Brazilian cock while Lucio turned his head sideways and sucked on Stephen who was kneeling.  Lucio was becoming excited and he had Martin stop to concentrate on Stephen, trying to swallow as much as he could.  Martin pushed him good-naturedly aside and showed him how it was done, getting several inches into his gullet until he too coughed and spluttered and came up with tears in his eyes.  Stephen kissed him for being a good lover and Lucio kissed him too for no reason and returned to Stephen’s cock.

Stephen was quite excited and suggested it was time for Lucio to get to work.  He produced some Spong’s Soothing Salve and Lucio was intrigued.  “We do not have this in Brazil,” he said rubbing between his fingers, slicking his own cock and finally tasting it on the tip of his tongue.

“Stephen first, Lucio,” said Martin thinking that a well-slicked cock would be less painful.  Stephen began on all fours while Martin watched on.  Lucio inserted a thick finger and then a second and wiggled them about.  Stephen fought against the invaders and grimaced.  “Relax, Derbs and push out; it will hurt otherwise.”

Stephen was panting even before Lucio inserted his big cock.  Stephen let out a yell and Martin rushed to kiss him, knowing that this seemed to help.  Lucio still went gently but Stephen’s eyes were full of tears and he grunted fearsomely with each thrust.  “You’ll enjoy it in a minute, Derbs; Lucio is going quite slowly,” said Martin, actually wanting to voice: Now you know what it’s like.

And then Stephen did begin to enjoy it, although he still grunted and yelled at every thrust and Lucio was worried about the neighbours.  Different positions were tried and Lucio proudly showed Martin Stephen’s gaping red hole when he pulled out.  Martin did not like Stephen’s cock being flaccid, so he arranged to suck him as Lucio ploughed on. Finally Stephen spilled, coating Martin’s face and adding imperceptibly to the dreadful design of the wallpaper.

“Uau!” exclaimed Lucio when he saw what had vomited forth.

Martin licked as much as he could from his face and held out his tongue for Stephen to inspect.  Stephen was too exhausted to notice, but Lucio approved.  Lucio hadn’t spilt but turned now to Martin who began on his back with his legs lifted clear. Lucio entered him and Martin hoped that Stephen was watching.  It hurt a bit, but it was nothing to being stretched by Stephen when he was satisfying himself in Martin’s rump.  Martin liked looking at the handsome young sailor toiling away.  He felt pleasurable waves on his insides and of his own volition changed positions when he thought that they both might benefit.  “Let me see you spill, Lucio,” panted Martin, so Lucio pulled out and finished himself off, spilling on Martin’s chest.

“That felt very good.  Lick it up, Derby.”

Stephen wasn’t used to orders like this, but now being able to walk and bend he did so and enjoyed the taste and even more so the sensation of Martin’s body beneath his tongue.

They rested on the bed together for some minutes and it was Martin who suggested that they should meet again the following night.  “I think I would like to make some money. Do you think we could all be sailors together and pick up some men?  Could you get us some uniforms, Lucio— just for the night?  I’ll pay you.”

Stephen was a little shocked, but then became enthusiastic.  Lucio considered matters. “My brother here could fit into my spare pair of whites; I think one of my shipmates is about your size Martin.  But we mustn’t get caught.”  They departed, Lucio again in the funds, and having made their date for the following evening.

 *******

“It’s a good fit,” said Martin as Stephen tucked himself into the uniform that Lucio had taken from his duffle bag.  He adjusted his cock and balls, his cock being visible down the left leg.  Lucio placed the hat on his head and adjusted it for the most fetching angle. “Do Brazilian sailors have moustaches?” asked Martin, for Stephen still sported the pencil thin moustache he had worn since the War.

“Certainly they do.  We Brazilians are hairy men,” laughed Lucio.

Martin’s uniform was a little short in the leg and he felt a draft about his ankles but he liked the hat and spent some time looking at himself in the dirty mirror in the rented room.

“Now we need names,” said Lucio.  “You are Teodoro, Martin; you are Silverio, Stephen. Let me do the talking and follow me.  We will not pick up dangerous types and we must be careful of the police.”

Martin felt a little worried and was running over scenarios in his head that he imagined himself telling to some humourless policeman when he was under arrest. “Don’t worry, Martin, I will look after us,” said Lucio as he adjusted his neckerchief.

They ate in a popular café; Martin paying and then went to a pub.  Martin felt strange walking down the street in his flapping white trousers.  He tried to walk like a sailor, rolling a little.  “Are you drunk already Mala?” asked Stephen. 

“It’s ‘Teodoro’, Silverio, and no I’m not; I’m a sailor from Brazil.”

They walked to Leicester Square.  There were two policemen on their beat and Martin froze. “ Just pretend we’re looking at the billboards,” said Stephen and they slowly traversed the square.  The police disappeared and the boys chatted, Lucio telling them amusing stories of his ship’s time in Clydebank and of a previous trip to Philadelphia.

They were just about to give up and go to another pub when Lucio drew their attention to two men on the other side of the square.  They were in their forties, perhaps, and seemed well dressed.  They did not look directly at the Brazilian imposters, but did begin to stroll in their direction.

“Do you have a match?” asked one man when he reached Stephen.

“Não senhor,” said Stephen.

Lucio took over and said a long sentence in Portuguese.  “What is he saying?” the man asked Stephen.

“My brother is saying that he regrets bitterly that none of us smoke, senhor.”

“You’re Spanish,” said the other man.  Martin suddenly recognised him as a fellow clubman from Boodles.  He tried to shrink back behind the others and pulled his hat over his eyes.

“We are from Brazil,” said Lucio.  “This is my older brother Teodoro; he speaks a little English.”

“And this blond one?”

“He is our cousin from Pernambuco, aren’t you, Silverio?

Martin thought he better say something so he dredged up some phrases from their trip to Cintra: “Você pode me dirigir aos arquivos nacionais?”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if you gentlemen were enjoying your evening.”

“We might yet enjoy it,” he said addressing Martin, “if you’d like to come with us.”

“I might— we might,” said Martin.

“Your English is very good,” said the second man in surprise.

“I had an English nanny,” replied Martin.  The man looked surprised.

“My cousin means ‘granny’ — the old bitch ran a bordello in Assumpcion,” interjected Stephen, hoping there was such a town in Brazil, “but her English was perfect.”

“If you want to suck us it will cost you a pound,” said Lucio boldly.

“A pound!” exclaimed the first man.  “Why I can have any boy in Leicester Square for three bob.”

“But not three Brazilian sailors. My brother and I are very big, senhor; he almost chokes me.”

“You suck your brother?” he said looking at Stephen and then down at his trousers.

“Naturally.  He’s very demanding and he makes me come to his bed— ever since I was thirteen.  He also fucks my cousin and me.”

“Foreigners!” said the first one to the second with disgust, but he was clearly excited.

“A pound and I have a room a few streets away,” insisted Lucio.

“You will have it when we get safely there,” said the second man who was suspicious of the sailors.

On the way Lucio talked of their ‘family’ in Brazil with ‘Silverio’ and ‘Teodoro’ adding their own stitches to the embroidery.

“We also have to satisfy our father at night and his brother who owns the plantation,” said Lucio.  “It is on a river deep in the jungle.”

“What do you grow,” said number one, no doubt thinking of some geography lesson from long ago.

“Bananas,” said Martin and the same time that Stephen said ‘sugarcane’.

“We grow both and beans as well,” said Lucio with finality.  “We had slaves in my grandfather’s time and we often go down to the old slave quarters where the men— the criolos live and…well you can imagine.  They don’t get to see many women.”

“That is if your sister doesn’t get there first,” contributed Martin in a flight of fantasy and with an accent to match.

“Our father likes to keep the men calm and happy; they work better,” explained Lucio.

“But our papai is a bad man,” said ‘Silverio’ — worse than myself.  He would get drunk and tie up my brother and me,” he said demonstrating with his hands, “and then use the chicote on us.”

“He would whip you?” 

“Sim, and worse.  That is why we joined the navy,” said Lucio.

They reached the room and Lucio went in first to make sure Martin and Stephen’s fine clothes were hidden.  The others entered.

“Now what do we get four our pound?” said the second man, handing over ten shillings. The second man took the hint and found four half-crowns in his pocket that he added.

Lucio stood close and placed the second man’s hand on his trousers where his big cock hung.  The man looked at his friend and raised his eyebrows.  “Now I introduce my big brother.”  Stephen stepped forward and spread his legs and both men felt him.

“I don’t believe it,” said the first man, so Martin, who was feeling neglected, knelt and undid the bellbottoms of both his ‘cousins’ and the evidence was there before the visitors’ eyes.  He pulled their white blouses over their heads to properly display them and the ‘brothers’ stood with their arms around each other.

“Why aren’t English boys built like this?” said the second man with his eyes wide. “Look at the size of those bananas!”

Martin quickly removed his own clothes (but kept his hat on) and stood behind the two and hefted their balls and cocks like a shop assistant with his wares.  The first man dropped to his knees and got to work on Lucio as if he was starving.  The second man took Stephen to the bed and made him lie down.  Starting with Stephen’s handsome nipples he ran his tongue over Stephen’s body, washing every single part with his tongue.  He licked between Stephen’s toes and up his thighs and calves, he kissed his eyelids, lips and underarms; he sucked every finger and licked his wrists.  Stephen was receiving a tongue bath and shuddered in ecstasy.  His cock was hard and glistening. 

“How does he taste?” asked the first man.

“Spicy, Latin.  Not like an English boy at all.”

Martin watched on and noted that Stephen’s surprise had quickly turned to pleasure and he determined to give him the same treatment himself at the earliest opportunity. The second man must have read his mind, because he paused and turned to Martin: “You should be treating your cousin like this, son; can’t you see that this is what he needs?”

While man number one was now down on the floor with Lucio thrusting his cock into his mouth and making him gag, the second man, whose tongue must have surely been worn out, was taking a break and he motioned Martin to take over, which Martin did with a new sense of enjoyment.  When he resumed he turned Stephen over and commenced to bathe his shoulders and back, working his way down his spine to the cleavage of his buttocks.  These he parted and lathed his tongue in the hairy crack.  “How is he back there?” asked the first man whose mouth was his own for a few minutes while Lucio stroked his own cock.

“Clean; he tastes of soap but he has a handsome cunt.”

“My friend prefers his boys to be a bit careless as to personal cleanliness.  He likes a crusty lad.”

Martin and Lucio pretended not to understand.

Stephen was now glistening with spit and was stood up where the second man could start sucking him in earnest.  He struggled to get more than the tip of Stephen’s manhood in his mouth and Stephen was looking displeased.

“Like this, senhor,” said Martin, taking over.  With practiced dexterity (although it was not his hands that were so adroit) he took the first few inches of Stephen’s big cock into his mouth, stopping only when the head touched his narrow gullet.  He tried to open this and took him a little deeper, before having to pull off.

“He likes to have it deep, but be careful when he…” he made a blowing movement with his lips.

“I think I know how to do a boy,” said the man testily.

Lucio had spilled.  He was sitting on top of the first man whose naked chest was now covered in his seed.  The man was frantically stroking he own cock and Lucio called Martin over so that the man would have someone else to suck on.  The man finally spilled and then used his hands to finish Martin off.  He didn’t want Martin to spill in his mouth.

“Senhor?”

“I don’t like the taste,” he said breathily with some mime.  Martin felt sorry for him.

The second man was getting Stephen dangerously near and had inserted a finger (or maybe Stephen had inserted it) in the ersatz sailor’s rectum and was stimulating him.

“Senhor…” began ‘Teodoro’ but it was too late.  Stephen was erupting into the startled man’s mouth.  He coughed and spluttered and tried to pull off but Stephen had ruthlessly held him fast — he was the bad brother after all.  When he did wrench himself free he was bent over double.  Martin thought he was going to be sick, but he wasn’t, but his eyes and nose were streaming and Stephen’s seed was all over his face were it had leaked out of his mouth and had run down his neck.  He spat several times on the carpet and Martin discreetly rubbed it into the floral pattern with his foot.

“Sorry, senhor” said Silverio. “That was a grande explosão!”

“It certainly was.  Come on!” he said to the other one.

“Do you boys kiss?” said the first man.

“Sim,” said Lucio and the first man kissed the three boys.

“Thank you,” he added.  The second man was not so demonstrative and left with no further endearments or even any thanks, but he was impressed, of that there was no doubt.

The three boys fell to laughing when the visitors had departed.  Lucio offered to share the pound, but Martin and Stephen refused and gave him some more money.  “You know that was the first money I have actually ever earned, Derby,” said Martin, chuckling.  “I’ve found my profession.”

Lucio didn’t want them to go so they all squeezed into the old iron bedstead in the stinking man-soaked room and slept tangled together until morning when Stephen fucked them both.  Lucio had to return to Southampton to his ship and was due to meet his shipmates for the journey.  Thus they said their goodbyes and Martin and Stephen found a taxi in the cold, empty London street and they returned home, sparing more than a moment’s thought for the southern warmth of Brazil and her handsome big sailors.

To be continued…