Date: Fri, 23 Jul 2010 08:22:53 -0700
From: Jay roberts <diplomat1501@msn.com>
Subject: "Tom, Tom, the Pumkin Eater, Part One"  by Jay Roberts    Gay Adult

+++It sounds like an innocent nursery rhyme...NOT!  This is a story for bad
boys of over eighteen.  I know you are a good boy, so please hang up now.


George Mayberry Kenton'S name was impressive in sound, but more
impressive in his bank account, inheritance and style of living.

I came to know Georgie when he was eleven and I twenty one.  I
was hired to be a combination tutor, body guard and companion for
the poor little rich boy.

He had, even at that age, at sense of his own specialness and he
expressed it with boyish arrogance.  I remember that first time I
met him.  I arrived for my interview with his mother, Lydia
Kenton.  As I waited in the entry foyer, I glanced up the winding
marble stairs that boasted Roman statues at each landing.  He was
looking down at me, a faint smile wreathing his...I have to say
gorgeous face.  His honey blond hair was worn long and cascaded
in a long bob sweeping past his pink-blushed cheeks.

I waved at him.  He frown as though I had taken a liberty.  Later
on, I found that he was ambiguous about expressing affection for
me.  At times he was aloof and imperious; other times he begged
for an embrace and affection.  That part of his personality kept
me on edge, never knowing how to handle my time with him.

The butler, Walker returned and bade me go into the library where
I found Mrs. Kenton waiting for me, seated in an ornate wheel
chair with cane back and ormolu carving.  I had never seen such a
chair, it must have been specially made.

She was peering at my resume through hand held reading glasses.
"Thomas Grady," she said with a family frown.  "Catholic?"

"No, my grandfather was from Ulster."

She seemed to relax and settled deeper into her chair.  "I've
interviewed four applicants.  You are the only male.  A male
might be a good choice.  Are you athletic?  Do you throw balls
and such?"

"I am not a jock, but I do like being active.  I jog and ride
horses and..."

She cut me off.  "That's sufficient, I do think that an excess of
muscles on men's bodies is obscene."  Then reading further she
nodded and said, "Your education is excellent.  Was your family
wealthy to have afforded Wellington Preparatory and then
Harvard?"

I took a deep breath, "Well, that's a bit of a story.  We were
comfortable, my father and mother both were college professors.
That helped my admission, but in addition, there were several
funds that helped pay my way."

"I see," she said neutrally, but I think it mean that I was not
upper class. Then abruptly she let her eyes roam up and down my
person. "You dress well, neat, but not self-conscious.  You're
not an invert are you?"

I struggled to understand her reference, then I realized that it
was a word from Oscar Wilde.  It was easy to deny it, and I did.

She outlined my duties and nodded firmly.  "We'll try you out for
a month, before making it permanent."

I guess I became permanent, for now I am thirty one and Georgie's
twenty one.  It's been a difficult, yet absorbing ten years,
witnessing the changes in my charge and the changes in the estate
and fortunes of the family.  Mrs. Denton, already sickly, died a
year after I was hired.  Mr. Walker grew old in service and was
replaced by an younger butler, James (more about him later)
however he stayed on as estate accountant.

Teaching Georgie was easy.  The boy was brilliant.  He learned
difficult material almost instantly and had a prodigious memory.

We had good times.  We ran five miles each day and we both loved
the exhilaration in all kinds of weather, even pouring rain.

I had a special place in the life of the estate.  Walker
considered me above him.  Georgie was now taking control of his
fortune and his life.  He consulted frequently with his lawyer
and financial consultants.  All this was done without my
presence.  What he thought about me was hard to determine.  I
know he looked to me for comfort and many a time I hugged him
while he cried.  He also...and I must whisper this...at these
times he would call me his "body servant" and ask for sexual
favors.  He did it so prettily that I always obeyed.  He loved
his suck fests and his cum was sweet as honey.  Later, he would
turn and stick his perfectly shaped buttocks at me and plead,
with his eyes, for some attention to that area.

I had a willing tongue and licked his hole and pushed my tongue
in and massaged his prostate.  That action never failed to bring
him to orgasm.

As for tending to me, it was made clear that he was not "queer"
and there would be no reciprocity. I didn't go to bed with a hard
on.  Just working on him would get me off with violent blasts
from my large organ.  A few times, Georgie asked me to masturbate
in front of him.  He would make remarks that taunted my passion
but I noticed that he would be wanking himself all during those
sessions.  I believe that he really longed to touch me, but his
station in life precluded it...in his view.

James, the new younger butler was not interested in man to man
sex and he let me know this as soon as he was ensconced in his
position.  He was a good looking fellow of Scotch background.
Once he took me aside and said that Georgie was a latent
homosexual and that if I was interested, I could command him to
offer me sexual favors.  "You, Thomas, are the handsomer, with
your height and fine wavy hair.  Your master is a pip squeak."

As George (as he insisted on being called now) grew towards his
majority, he began a bad habit: brandy. Most evenings, we sat
together having dinner served unhappily by James.  By the end of
the meal, George was quite drunk and no able to manage the stairs
to his room.

I would sling him over my shoulder and carry him up, undress him
and tuck him into bed.  Those were exciting times for me.  I was
able to see all of his sweet body and admire his cheeky cock,
then kiss him goodnight, on the lips.

James mentioned to me that it might be the brandy, or something
in George's nature that was beginning to be evinced.  George
began withdrawing his affection for me.  He said one evening at
dinner, slurringly "Thomas, as a servant, you ought to consider
ceasing the custom of eating with me.  After all, I don't need a
tutor, certainly not a nanny and for companions, I have, of late
been cultivating the fair sex."

It was true.  He had enlisted James in contacting young ladies of
indifferent morals to come to the estate for a bed tossing with
the half drunk George.  While I do not wish to make myself too
important, I often felt that he was doing this to break away from
me and to separate himself from the intimacies were shared.

This period marked the beginning of his outrageously insulting
comportment toward me.  I now helped serve the dinner and ate
mine in the kitchen.  One occasion, he invited some ne'er do well
young guys and harlots to dinner.  He insisted that I help serve
the meal along with James and were a butler's uniform.

All during the meal he hurled insults at me. "Thomas, don't be so
clumsy.  Thomas, Tom, Tom did you bathe before serving?"  Turning
to an overly made up woman next to him, he said, "Too bad you
can't see him in the bath.  He has hair on the center of his
chest, quite low class, and a disgusting penis."  Then he ramped
up his insults.  "Tom, Tom, Tommy, Tommykins, the pumpkin eater.
You like to eat my pumpkin."

Then the final insult, he kept spanking my backside whenever I
was close.

I owned a small pistol, his mother had gotten a permit for me as
protection for little Georgie.  I kept it all these years.  I had
that gun with me, in my tight trousers.

As the pitch of his insults increased, I was hot and red of face
and breathing with difficulty.  Finally, unable to stand the
verbal abuse, I took out the pistol and meant to fire at the wall
to frighten him.  Somehow my hand shook so hard that my bullet
landed on a path through his heart.  Within an instant, his dress
shirt was soaked with blood and he slumped in his chair.  He
couldn't speak, but his eyes were fixed on me in with a plaintive
look I shall never forget.  With a gurgling sound, he slipped to
the floor.

A young man was dialing 911 and another boy listened to George's
chest.  "He's dead.  Hold that servant."


End Part One