Date: Wed, 11 Nov 2015 20:56:06 -0500
From: Pete Bruno <farmboy7456@gmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Chapter One (Revised)

Noblesse Oblige

By Henry Hilliard
With Pete Bruno


Forward

Welcome, gentle reader, to the world of Edwardian England, an era soon to
be, like the great country houses themselves, swept away by the Great War.
Lord Martin Poole and his boyhood friend from the village, Stephen Knight,
provide the romance and adventure in a world where language, customs and
technology may differ from our own but when love, sex and the human
condition are easily recognizable.  Henry Hilliard grew up in the ruins of
Edwardian England before being exiled to one of King Edward's more distant
dominions beyond the sea.  He has been the driving force behind recording
this wonderful story.  We both hope you will enjoy the adventure.

P.B.



Book 1

Twilight of the Gods
Chapter 1



"What's past is prologue"
The Tempest, William Shakespeare



Martin was disquieted as he paced his room, unable to settle his mind.  He
decided to go for a walk.  His father had seemed very upset at breakfast
and his older brother, William, had not come down at all.  When he asked
Chilvers, he was told that his lordship had taken a turn for the worse
during the night and was expected to be going up to London the following
day to see his doctors again if he were well enough to undertake the
journey.

William, Earl of Holdenhurst, was heir to Croome and his father's title.
His father, Martin realised that morning as he watched him
unenthusiastically toying with his kippers, was aging; a stern product of
Queen Victoria's reign and not one to cope well with changing times; of
electricity and the New Woman and Mr Lloyd George.  The death of his wife,
the boys' mother, had left the Marquess of Branksome a lonely man and his
eldest son's illness seemed only to intensify his grief.  Above all this
hung the question of succession.  William at twenty-five had not found a
wife.  Martin, at thirteen, was the only close male relative, aside from a
bachelor uncle who administered an Indian province and made but infrequent
and disinterested appearances in England and even fewer at Croome.

The fresh air worked its magic and Martin began to think of other things.
He was to return to school the day after next.  He was doing well at
cricket and hoped to try out for lacrosse- an exciting new sport introduced
to his school by a Canadian master.  The almost unimaginable thought of one
day being part of his School's team, with all those six-formers he looked
up to almost as much as he looked up to William- thrilled him pleasantly.
Martin took every opportunity (and they were not lacking) to steal glances
at their muscular bodies and the older boys, in the spirit and traditions
of Martin's venerable and ancient school, were reciprocal in their
interest.  These stolen glances and, quite often, more physical
blandishments, invariably provided him with jolts of pleasure between his
legs.

Martin and Job the retriever had walked for nearly an hour on this warm
autumn day.  Job was having a good outing as he dashed, unsuccessfully,
after rabbits and was rewarded with several pats by villagers as they
passed through Branksome-le-Bourne, one of the three villages on the
estate.  Martin followed the rivulet into a wood, glad of some noontide
shade.  The sound of an axe grew louder and presently the pair came upon a
pool in the river, an old rope, obviously for play, dangled into the soft
brown water from the limb of an overhanging beech.  Standing on a log that
had fallen into the stream and deftly wielding the axe was a boy about his
own age.  He was shirtless and his muscles glistened with sweat, causing
Martin to experience the same delight he felt when in the presence of the
older boys at school.  A lock of unruly, black hair had made its way over
his forehead and was now plastered over one eye, making it difficult for
the axeman to observe Martin's noiseless approach on the carpet of russet
leaves.

The flash of the axe, the operation of magnificent muscles in his back and
shoulders, and the ferocious look of determination upon the countenance of
the boy caused Martin to stare transfixed for some minutes.  Then Job leapt
forward and let out a joyous bark.  The boy straightened up and, stilling
his blade, bestowed upon the dog a radiant smile- the most beautiful smile
that Martin thought he'd ever seen.  The boy was just about to say
something to the dog when he noticed Martin on the bank.  He went to lift
his cap when he realised it was with the rest of his clothes at the base of
a giant tree on the shore.

"Hullo, your lordship, I didn't see you standing there," he said with a
trace of the friendly, soft burr of the district.

"Hullo," replied Martin, still a little too stunned to think clearly, "what
are you doing?"

"Trying to clear this, 'ere fallen tree, sir.  It's blocking my swimming
place."

"You swim here?"

"Yes, sir, every day that I can, 'cepting when it's froze solid," replied
the boy, now roughly patting the adoring Job.

"Don't you go to school?"  Martin asked and then realised it sounded rude.
"I mean it must be marvellous not to have to go to school and spend all day
swimming and having fun," he added awkwardly, indicating the rope.

"Yes, your lordship, I do go to school," he replied with a trace of
annoyance.  He straightened up and with a deft movement swept the lock of
fallen hair from his eye exposing a flash of dark hair in a muscular
armpit, causing Martin to shiver at the sight.  "I'm nearly 15 and I'm in
the eighth grade at the village school.  And I'm captain of our cricket
team," he added to round out his resume.  "Your family watched us play last
August when we beat Holes by an innings and 11 runs."

"What's your name?"

"Stephen, your lordship, Stephen Knight, my stepfather is Titus Knight who
works for your father."

Martin took in his intense blue eyes that shone from beneath the raven hair
and the look of expectancy on his face with its square jaw attractively
divided by a cleft.

"Well, Knight, let's get this log moved so we can go swimming."

"Your lordship, I don't reckon that would be a good idea.  You will get
dirty and you might hurt yourself and?"

"Don't give me any of that," interrupted Martin a trifle petulantly.  "I'm
not a weakling just because I'm younger than you- I play cricket too and
I'm trying out for lacrosse at school," he lied, "and what else?"

"Well, I don't have a costume, your lordship, neither does you," he
replied, carefully examining the young aristocrat and noting with approval
his developing chest and legs and especially his well-shaped buttocks.
Stephen continued to stare boldly, expecting the younger lad to give way,
but Martin's full, red lips broke into a smile as a look passed between the
boys.

"Haven't you ever seen another chap without clothes?" Martin asked
provocatively as he removed his shirt and hung it on a low branch.  Now
shirtless as his companion, Martin moved closer and he could smell the
boy's sweat; it intoxicated him, but he recovered quickly he asked what he
could do to help.  Stephen gave him a few quick instructions and for the
next half hour they worked together like old friends, laughing and joking,
forgetting their differing stations, with Job lying not too far away
watching the proceedings.

When they cleared the log they were both drenched.  Martin looked at his
new friend and broke into a smile; he had never been so happy in his short
life he suddenly realised with a flash of self-perception-perhaps his
first- and was almost alarmed at the simplicity of it all.  With Stephen he
felt suddenly free, free to be whom he truly was.

He stood tall and began to unbutton his trousers while Stephen looked on
wide-eyed but not overawed.  "Well, I thought we were going to swim?"
Martin said as he removed his trousers.  Stephen shook himself back to
reality and began to strip as well and then the two boys were standing
facing each other, naked for the first time, each studying the body of the
other.

Martin found it hard to believe that Stephen was little more than a year
older than himself.  He had the body of a young man, not a boy, in terms of
his height and musculature and he carried himself with the confidence of
the sixth-formers at his school.  Stephen's legs were dusted with dark hair
and Martin's eyes travelled up to his groin where, surrounded by more adult
hair hung a big cock- a very big cock- to use the schoolboy vernacular- and
one that would easily have shamed the boys in the lacrosse team.  The long,
brown foreskin blunting the end fascinated the staring Martin who was
busying making envious comparisons to his own body; he had never seen one
like this at close hand since almost all the boys he knew at school were
circumcised.  And never had he one of this impressive size, for it was
hanging softly a good several inches over an equally impressive low hanging
scrotum that surely contained two quail eggs.  Martin wondered how he
tucked it all into a box when he went in to bat.  All this glory was
nestled in a patch of the same silky, raven hair that formed the shaggy mop
of loose curls on his head and reoccurred as an attractively masculine
triangle on his chest.  When he turned, Martin saw the same light dusting
covered his ample, muscular buttocks.

Stephen was equally fascinated with Martin's circumcised cock and by the
beauty of the young aristocrat, with his head of bright gold hair (a Nordic
heritage from his maternal grandmother) that lapped in a wave on his
forehead above a pair of soft blue eyes.  He had neat tufts of blonde hair
peeking out from under his armpits and a few wisps around his nipples that
complimented his porcelain-white skin and he was just starting to grow, if
one inspected closely, a thin line from his navel to a splendid adolescent
cock that sat in a developing patch of gold.  Martin's white cock wasn't
nearly as long as his own, he happily conceded to himself, but it appeared
good and thick, resting on a pair of plump hairless balls.  Stephen
recalled his encounters with both girls and boys in the village, but before
this moment he had never felt the full-blown desire for another boy until
today.  He was totally enthralled by his new friend and, at this moment,
wanted nothing more than to hold him and kiss those full lips.

Unconsciously they moved toward each other and, as they did, Stephen's cock
began to lengthen, his thick foreskin pulling back showing the large, shiny
red head.  "Another log to clear," said Martin cheekily, looking at
Stephens's uncontrollable erection.  Stephen blushed but did nothing
practical to alter the situation.

"I'm sorry, your lordship, it seems to have a mind of its own," he said,
looking down at the ground for a moment in a not very convincing show of
contrition.

"Please, it's Martin, if I may call you Stephen."  Martin said with a
smile, looking up into his eyes and giving Stephen's impudent erection a
playful slap before trying to encircle it with his hand.

"Very well, your lordsh?" Stephen gasped in surprise as Martin's actions-
pulling the skin back and rubbing his thumb over the sensitive head- found
sudden favour.  "I mean sorry, Martin," he panted as he reached for
Martin's equally hard member.  The two boys stood shaking with delight as
they pleasured each other until they were spent, Stephen coming off in a
great rush into Martin's hand.  Martin was so overcome by lust that he
completely forgot himself and stretched up and kissed Stephen passionately.
Halfway through the endearment he panicked until he felt Stephen taking
control, wrapping his arms about his skull and pushing his tongue down into
his mouth- Stephen hadn't been offended; he'd desired it too.  When they
broke the kiss the two boys looked at each other with broad grins and just
a trace of guilt as they caught their breath.  Then they both started to
laugh and ran for the water.



As arranged, the boys met at the swimming place the following afternoon.
Martin was there first, cycling from the house, and he had brought a towel
but had 'forgotten' his costume again.  He was almost sick with
anticipation and working out angry scenarios should Stephen fail to appear.
However, these were quickly made redundant as cracking noises announced
that Stephen was approaching the secret place, shouldering aside the
branches of Portuguese laurel that formed its enclosing walls.

He was dressed in tight trousers, perhaps a little too short for his tall
frame, with a jacket and a collarless shirt.  When he tossed his cap aside,
a wild, lust-filled look in his blue eyes thrilled and frightened Martin.
Without any preliminaries he kissed Martin full on the lips, panting, "I
couldn't sleep last night thinking about meeting you today."

"Neither could I," Martin managed to gasp; dazzled by the knowledge that he
was the object of these emotions aroused in such a lusty lad as Stephen.
They quickly undressed and Martin noted with approval that Stephen wore no
underwear while he was confined in clumsy 'combinations'.  Both boys were
hard as rocks before they were finished undressing.  Stephen pulled Martin
in for another passionate kiss.  While they were fighting to gain control
of each other's mouths, Martin managed to get Stephen's large erection
under his balls and then squeezed his thighs together tightly.  Stephen
groaned into his mouth and instinctively began to stimulate his member in
these intimate and convenient confines, his cock leaking a steady stream of
his young seed that acted as a lubricant and further fuelled his passion.

As with all lads, it didn't take long before Stephen loosed what seemed
like buckets of his manly seed between his lover's legs.  The feeling of
Stephen's release between his thighs made Martin's cock, which had been
trapped between their stomachs, erupt as well.  They gasped and pulled
apart to take stock of what their actions, if not their emotions, had
wrought, then, laughing from both their relief at the consummation of their
passion and the joy of its freshness, the boys ran into the water and
romped about for more than an hour.

After bathing, they both lay exhausted and dripping on the bank.  Martin
announced that he was starving and Stephen said, "Come back to the cottage
for tea.  I want you to meet my step-father, that is if you'd like to."

"I'd like that very much," Martin replied with sincerity and indeed he was
at that moment unable to think of any invitation he would prefer.

Stephen took the towel and carefully dried Martin.  When Martin went to
return the favour, Stephen just waved him away saying he was practically
dry already, pulling on his trousers over his naked legs and buttocks, the
damp shirt clinging to his muscles.

Stephen peddled the bicycle while Martin sat on the bar, his back pressed
into Stephen's comforting chest.  The intimacy of the simple act made
Martin's cock stir in trousers once again.

When the kitchen door was unlatched there was an excited barking from three
border collies as they greeted their master.  Knight, a little shocked by
his son's unexpected visitor, stood up and greeted Martin and then, taking
his cue from his son, fell into a relaxed conversation as tea and buttered
toast were produced.  The boys ate ravenously, their hunger fuelled by
their afternoon's activities.

Knight talked about Croome and the land he so obviously loved-his voice as
soft and warm as the fire crackling in the kitchen stove.  He recalled
visits to this very kitchen from Martin's mother and grandmother, treading
with some delicacy on the former topic for fear that he may upset the boy.
When the conversation turned to school and sport, the old man shone with
pride as he enumerated Stephen's successes and even ventured as far as to
say that he was the village hero.  At this, Stephen had the decency to
blush, but he did not deny it, clearly happy to be able to impress his
aristocratic friend.  Martin found himself wishing he had a parent or some
relative, who felt like this about him, but such successes were considered
impolite topics in families such as his own and he could only recall his
mother visiting his prep school twice and his father never.  The sudden
thought of returning to school and leaving Stephen made him feel sick.

Presently Knight stood up and announced that he had to go out for an hour
or so to set traps before it was dark.  Martin stood and held out his hand,
which Knight shook firmly.  He thanked 'Mr Knight' for the tea and made a
polite speech about visiting again with a view to seeing that badger sett
in a particular spinney that had been referred to earlier.

When his father was beyond the gate, Stephen shyly asked if Martin would
like to see his books.  With no thought to the fact that Croome had one of
the best libraries in this part of England, and indeed at this very moment
a full-time librarian was busy cataloguing medieval manuscripts, Martin
replied, thickly, that he would indeed.

Stephen led him up the narrow staircase, at one point grabbing his hand to
pull him down so as to avoid a twisted oaken beam that must have surely
been placed there solely to stun the unwary.  Martin noted the electric
thrill of his touch.

Stephen's bedroom was a tiny, twisted, whitewashed space beneath the
thatch.  Nevertheless it was a clean and attractive room in the afternoon
sunlight reflected through a dormer.  Martin went to the window and looked
out over the village.  There stood the church with its square tower.  There
was the brook that was the same one they swam in and probably the same one
that fed the ornamental lake in the garden of his house.  The house itself
was invisible on the other side of the park, a fact which Martin felt glad
of, but he was conscious how everything else he could see belonged to his
father: gamekeeper, village, park, stream, church-and possibly God himself.
His family owned it all, yet in this bedroom he was the one who ached to
belong to another.

The collection of books was the usual fare: boys' adventure novels and
popular school stories, but there were a few by H.G. Wells and some by
other current authors.  This impressed Martin.  On the wall was a newspaper
cutting outlining Stephen's success at cricket.  Stephen smiled proudly and
then, clouded by sudden doubt, said, "I know it's nothing compared to your
bedroom at Croome I suppose-I don't know why I brought you here."  And at
that moment he spied a pair of hose on the floor and deftly kicked them
under the little bed.  Then he blushed at the remembrance of what he had
just said.

"Rooms, actually-a bedroom, sitting room and a dressing room; but yours is
far nicer because it is yours, not like the museum I live in where nothing
is mine.  And it's cosy."

"We're above the kitchen range, that's why it's warm.  And I suppose you
have silver brushes and silk pyjamas and everything," he continued
cheekily.

"No, not silver, ivory with my initials in gold and just plain cotton, not
silk.  I'd buy you silk ones if you want, you'd look wonderful in them," he
added boldly, not to be outdone.

"Do you think so?" ventured Stephen with a sly smile, "I don't wear
anything and some might think I look even nicer."

At that Stephen dropped his trousers to the floor and held Martin to him.
Martin ran his palm up under his shirt, feeling the small patch of hair in
the valley of his chest and breathed in his smell.  Stephen gently brushed
Martin's lips with his index finger, holding his head slightly back so as
to focus on him. Then, in a more forceful movement, he pulled Martin close,
his hands sliding down Martin's back to rest firmly on his buttocks, and
initiated a passionate kiss.

The two new lovers continued to kiss as they hurried to undress.  After
their shirts were off, they both kicked their trousers aside and Martin
surprised Stephen by pushing him back onto the bed and kneeling between his
muscular legs.  He grabbed Stephen's large and very hard cock and began to
lick the head as he squeezed up from the base, causing droplets of juice to
collect in the slit.  And then, in one deft movement, he drew it into his
mouth, skilfully getting Stephen's manhood a good way into the back of his
throat, reflecting for an instant on his coming from one of England's great
families with a long tradition of service.  He began to move up and down
while lathing the sensitive head with his tongue, idly observing to himself
that Stephen's uncircumcised cock felt very different to that of the
sixth-former at School whom he dutifully pleasured.

After a few minutes of intense sucking, he pulled off and dived between
Stephen's legs and began to lick and suck on his balls whilst he stroked
Stephen's cock with one hand and his own with the other.  All too soon
Stephen announced that he was going to spill, so Martin moved back up and
took the slimy cock back into his mouth and began to use his tongue to
cause, what he confidently knew, would be the maximum of pleasure.  Soon
his efforts were rewarded by a stunningly volley of forceful blasts of hot
seed from Stephen which he swallowed from more than duty.  He spilled into
his own hand, which he brought up to his mouth and licked clean.

"Where did you learn to suck like that-I mean have you ever done this with
other boys?" asked Stephen as he lay panting on the bed with Martin's head
resting on his thigh.

"Only one other," Martin replied, thoughtfully.  "I'm his fag at school."

"What does that mean?" asked Stephen, now sitting up on his elbow and
looking straight at Martin, the bulging muscle in his arm flexed
impressively.

"Well?" Martin began and he launched into the duties and obligations of a
first former to a senior.

"And does he beat you?"

"Oh no, he even helps me with prep- I think I can get him to do anything
for me; he's quite spoony really, considering he's captain of the First XI
and down for Oxford next term."

"And do you like doing it with him?" enquired Stephen, feeling a little
jealous.

"Oh he's all right, I suppose, he's not a bit good looking like you are.  I
don't think anything of it really.  It's just something that I have to do.
Besides?" he added, wiggling his little finger to complete the sentence.
Stephen's pride was assuaged and he burst out laughing.  "And what about
you?  With your looks and big-you know-you must have plenty of girls and
boys after you," Martin asked, stroking his friend's ego.

"Oh I've had a few," said Stephen with more of an air of a man of the world
than he felt justified. "Some girls sucked me and one or two let me fuck
them-girls from the village-but I'm not telling who."

"And boys"

"Oh two or three- one was a man staying at The Feathers and he wanted me to
fuck him."  Martin flinched at the word but looked to Stephen for more
information.  "So I did-or tried to-and he yelled so much I thought the
landlord would hear.  He wanted to give me money afterwards but I wouldn't
take it.  I just wanted to see what it was like."

Martin asked no more questions and began to digest all this information.
At school with his sixth-former he was weighing up whether he was
performing the acts out of duty or because he enjoyed them.  He had been
reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he would like doing it to other
boys but now, with Stephen, it seemed to have a grander purpose that he
could deny no longer.  It was central to his being.

Martin left as darkness fell, riding his bicycle furiously so as to be in
time for a bath before dressing for dinner.

There were ten for dinner, but his brother was not among them.  His father
was morose and so it fell to Martin to keep up the conversation with the
adults who were guests for the weekend, even though all he could think
about was how he had cried in the bath as the suds washed away the smell of
his lover and how he thought he would die without Stephen until Michaelmas
half.

Martin left for school without seeing his father or his brother who had
departed for London by an early train.  The trap containing Martin and his
box trundled towards the station through the village of Branksome-le-Bourne
and Martin scanned the scene eagerly that he might catch a glimpse of
Stephen, but he was likely already in the village school or about some
other business.  He did spy Knight mending a hedge and who called out "Good
luck, your lordship!" in a cheery fashion which did nothing to lift
Martin's gloom and despair.


As term proceeded, winter drawing on, Martin's spirits were lifted by
occasional letters from Stephen which he read and reread as if to squeeze
out some hidden meaning and then afterwards furiously pleasuring himself at
the memory of what had gone before.  These letters were written in a firm
hand and evinced better spelling than his own.  They contained no words of
endearment but spoke neutrally about village life: Stephen had successfully
mended a broken bone suffered by one of his dogs; he'd acted as a beater
for a shooting party where the Marquess' guests had bagged a record haul;
he'd won a prize for Latin; he'd had taken up boxing in the village hall
where the Vicar, who was also the scoutmaster, had installed a punching
bag, barbells and other equipment... Martin fantasised about Stephen
boxing, stripped to the waist as he'd first seen him, his sweat-soaked hair
giving off a spray as it flicked with each turn of his head.  In fact
Martin invoked this image and that of kissing Stephen as his cock slid
between his clenched thighs quite often as he performed his nightly duty on
his sixth-former and the fool encouraged Martin to pleasure himself in the
ignorant belief that the stimulation were somehow due to himself.

Stephen's letters encouraged Martin to try harder at lacrosse and in
athletics and for his sake Martin did indeed try all the harder and was met
with some success.  The lacrosse captain said he would be considered in the
Lent half if he kept up his fitness.  Then a letter arrived which shook
Martin.  After reading about how Stephen had assisted with a difficult
foaling he referred casually to the fact that the young Earl, Martin's
brother, was now in a private sanatorium in Bournemouth.  Martin was
astounded.  Not a word of the situation had come from his father.

He decided to ask his housemaster if he might make a telephone call to
Croome, his father having reluctantly installed the mechanism a few years
previously.  This request was weighed in light of the boy's obvious
distress and it was acceded to.  His father was eventually brought to the
telephone and initially sounded annoyed.  However he soon softened and
explained to Martin that William had gone there for the best treatment
(treatment for what?) and that he had not wanted to alarm Martin,
especially as it was exam time.  Besides, his father assured him, William
would be home for Christmas, which was only a month away.


Martin arrived at Croome two days before Christmas.  There was to be a
large party as usual.  After greeting his father Martin rushed to William's
room and threw himself into his big brother's arms.  William was bright and
cheerful, dutifully asking about all Martins' triumphs at school.  But when
Martin looked at him he could see it was all a mask.  William's complexion
looked awful and his nose seemed misshapen, as if the bridge had been eaten
away.  Martin, however, echoed his brother's good cheer, feeling this was
what he wanted.  William asked him about the captain of the First XI and
facetiously expressed the hope that his brother was not getting rheumatism
in his hand.

"No, lockjaw!" said Martin with a giggle, and his brother pretended to be
shocked, although it was he who had taught him how he might pleasure
himself some years before and had helpfully enlightened him about the
peculiar practices of the school he was to attend.  They both laughed and
William pretended to press him for the sordid details but Martin blushed
and said nothing.

Suddenly William looked very tired and complained of a headache so Martin
left him.

Christmas Eve consisted of the usual family traditions and the entertaining
of the guests.  Martin was alarmed to learn that there was to be no hunt on
New Year's Day, the first time ever he could remember such a thing.  The
family paraded at church on Christmas Eve and Martin complimented the Vicar
on the boxing equipment, which he said he hoped to see.  He caught sight of
Stephen and his stepfather outside the church but it was impossible to say
anything.  When presents were opened at midnight (a German custom from his
mother's side of the family) there was a pair of boxing gloves and a new
bicycle.  Martin had no idea how his father knew about the boxing.  His old
bicycle, which was still like new, he was determined to give to Stephen.

As they were enjoying their lavish dinner the next day, a distressing
incident occurred.  For no apparent reason William began to shout and
dashed a decanter to the floor, wine mingling with blood from the cut on
his wrist which he drew agonisingly slowly across the snowy whiteness of
his shirtfront, leaving a bloody trail.  Paul and Michael, the two footmen
closest, helped William leave the room while the rest of the party tried to
resume their previous conversations, but too little effect, and the
occasion was ruined.

"I'm sorry, my boy, your brother is not quite mended after all and will
have to return to Bournemouth tomorrow."

Martin started to cry and his father, in a rare gesture, hugged his younger
son and murmured, "I know, I know."  They stood there for a minute in the
library before his father said, "Now we must carry on, we have guests and I
need your help now that your mother isn't here."

The next day, Boxing Day, passed in a series of horrors.  William was sent
off in the motor but not before Martin was able to hug and kiss him.
William managed a weak smile.  After a dismal lunch, the guests departed
over the slippery roads for the station in a convoy of traps.  Martin
followed on his new bicycle and turned in the direction of the Knights'
cottage.  He found the two of them at home in front of the kitchen fire,
bright horse brasses and copper pots winking on the old beams.  Warm
greetings were exchanged and Martin produced a present for each of them: a
folding silver knife with which to clean out his pipe for Knight and a copy
of Heart of Darkness for Stephen.  They looked pleased with their presents,
Knight fastening his to his watch chain and Stephen running an eye over the
first page of his own.

After tea, Stephen suggested that the dogs might like a walk before bed.
The stars were already in the black sky when the two boys and the three
canines left the cottage.  As soon as they were out of sight, Martin
grabbed Stephen and kissed him.  He couldn't help but run his hand over the
bulge in the older boy's well-filled trousers.  "I can't stand being away
from you."

"Nor I you.  I pleasure myself in bed every night-and just about every
morning as well- thinking of you and those damned soft lips," said Stephen.
Martin blushed in the darkness.

Stephen directed their steps towards the church and, just as they reached
the Women's Institute Hall, produced a large key from his pocket.  "The
Vicar gave it to me; it's for the gymnasium."

Stephen tied the dogs to the lych gate and quietly opened the door to the
darkened hall.  "This is where we set up the ring," he explained and then,
passing through a door to a smaller room, showed the assortment of
equipment to Martin in the dim, hard starlight.

"I want to exercise with you.  I want muscles like yours," Martin said,
picking up an Indian club.

"That would be ripping, but you look fine just as you are," Stephen opined,
drawing the younger boy to his lips.  Martin accepted his lover's tongue
greedily while he hung on to Stephen and then began to work his trousers
open.  Dropping to his knees, he began to suck Stephen's cock as skilfully
as he could, using his tongue to move under the skin causing Stephan to
groan and buck into his mouth.  All too quickly Martin received his long
awaited reward: the taste of Stephan's hot, sweet essence, which filled his
mouth.  He spilled his own into his hand.  When he stood, he was about to
wipe his hand when Stephan surprised him by pulling it to his own mouth and
sensually tonguing it clean.  Martin was both stunned and aroused by the
intimate act, so much so that his cock began to climb again. Stephan
noticed and laughed.

"No time for another round to my randy Lord," he said and gave Martin a
quick kiss.

As they dressed Martin explained about his old bicycle.  Stephen said it
wouldn't look right if he took it but said he'd think about it after Martin
protested vigorously.  Martin then launched into the news about his brother
and the incident, quietly crying as he described his brother being bundled
up in the motor.  "I feel as if I saw him for the last time."  Stephen
pulled him to his chest and kissed the top of his head, golden even in the
starlight.  They parted at the cottage gate and Martin rode his bicycle
carefully home in the dark, the very tears seeming to freeze on his face.

The day after the next, Martin's father made a startling announcement at
breakfast.  Including Chilvers in his audience, he declared that he was
going to Cannes for a month on his doctor's orders.  Martin's jaw dropped.
"What about me?  What about William?  What about Croome?"

"William is receiving the best of care and I'll receive regular reports in
France," replied his father.  "It is only a day-and-a-half travel if I must
come back-which the doctors are not expecting.  "Croome will be in the
hands of Blake" he added, naming the man who had for some years managed the
estate well and profitably, for unlike the Marquess of Branksome he was all
for modernisation beyond the house.  "And you are old enough to have a say
in what happens.  You're nearly sixteen."

"Nearly fourteen, Papa"

"Yes, quite, nearly fourteen and you're welcome to accompany me to Cannes
if you like."

"No thank you, Father, I'll stay here."

"Very well.  Now, have you a friend from School you'd like to invite down
for the next month or until you go back?  I don't want you to be bored or
feel neglected in the slightest.  You know you could take them up to London
and stay with your Aunt in Lowndes Square or we could open up Branksome
House."

"I do have a friend."

"Good!" said his father, cutting him short, "write to him-or use the
telephone if that's what you young people do these days."

"He lives here in the village: Stephen Knight"

"Old Knight's step-son?  Captain of the cricket team?  The one I presented
with a prize for Latin?"

"Yes, all of them," said Martin good-humouredly.  "I want him to stay at
the house as my friend, our guest.  He's teaching me to box."

"Well, this is highly unusual, but I don't see why it couldn't be arranged.
Fine manly fellow.  Do you see any problems with the servants, Chilvers?"
Lord Branksome asked, referring to the possibility of social awkwardness.

"I don't think so sir, if this arrangement is what you want.  Mrs Capstick
is particularly fond of the young man, I believe, and he is an excellent
spin bowler."

"Good, Chilvers," said Martin, with a final push, "he can sleep in my
dressing room, that is if I can persuade him to accept,"

Later that morning he cycled to Stephens's cottage and presented his plan.
It took some persuasion, but with a push from Martin in Stephen's direction
he again got his way.  Stephen questioned him about his position: "Am I to
sleep with the servants?"

"No silly, you're to sleep with me," he said blushing.  "That is in the
bedroom adjoining mine.  You're a house guest."

"But what will I wear?  What will the servants think?  What will I call
them, what will I call you?"

"Just wear your usual clothes.  I will be.  And there's no one there," he
added, conveniently forgetting the thirty-seven indoor staff who maintained
Croome.  "That is unless we go up to London- my Aunt has invited us- and
you'll just have to work out what to call the servants.  Mrs Capstick
adores you and I had to listen to her sing your praises for fifteen minutes
this morning.  And remember, in private we use our Christian names, but not
in front of the servants."

"London!  I've never been to London.  Taunton is about as far as I've ever
got, but I've read all about it in Mr E.V. Lucas' books and in Charles
Dickens, of course."

Martin smiled; he had put Stephen at a disadvantage for the first time in
their friendship and Stephen's enthusiasm for all the things Martin took
for granted was contagious.

The rest of the day belonged to Stephen, however.  Boxing in the Women's
Institute Hall only served to prove that Stephen excelled in all physical
activities.  They vowed to come here for two hours exercise every day they
were at Croome.  Stephen took Martin to the stables to look at the foal he
had delivered, the stable master singing his praises from the same hymn
sheet that Mrs Capstick evidently had, Martin rolling his eyes.  Stephen
carefully showed Martin a box containing a swarm of bees.  The bees had
been dead- killed by the cold snap- but Stephen had scooped them up and
placed the box against the back of the chimney where the heat had restored
the creatures, it seemed, to life.

Back in Stephen's little room they made love while Knight was having his
pint in The Feathers.  Afterwards Martin helped Stephen pack a few things
into a handbag.  Martin felt a thrill as he handled Stephen's clothes,
running his finger along the flies of his Sunday best trousers, the ones
that had showed off his prodigious endowment all those months ago at the
pool.

The next morning, only an hour after Lord Branksome had departed the house
from the front door for the Continent, Stephen arrived, as instructed, at
the same doorway and was met by Chilvers.

"Good morning, sir," he said, "I hope your father is well, Stephen."  This
fine judgement suggested to Stephen that his stay might work out after all.
At that moment Martin bounded into the hall and wrung Stephen's hand,
taking the handbag and passing it off to Michael the footman, daring him
with his eyes to look the least bit sniffy at the object he now held
disdainfully in his white-gloved hand.

"Come and inspect your digs," he cried leading Stephen across the inner
hall and then the Great Hall to an impossibly grand staircase.  One flight
of stairs and a left and then a right brought them to Martin's rooms.
Stephen felt he could just remember the way back.

Martin's room was rather impersonal but very grand, with a large bed with
hangings and much furniture.  One door led to a small sitting room that
contained, among other things, a desk with Martin's homework on it and a
breakfast table.  "We can have breakfast laid here and we won't have to go
that awful mausoleum of a dining room.  "Here," he said flinging wide
another door, "is your room and that door leads to our bathroom- mother had
it installed when this was the nursery.  It's the best bathroom in the
house- even father has to use one down the passage.

Stephen turned his attention to his own room just as there was a polite
knock on the door and Michael brought in the handbag and set it down."

"Would sir like me to unpack?" he enquired icily.

Stephen looked at Martin.  "No, I'll do it myself, as you can see there are
only a few things."  At that the footman silently withdrew.

"Don't worry about him," said Martin brightly.  "You're my friend and we
can be quite alone up here if we want to be."

Stephen looked at his single bed. "It's a lot bigger than mine at home."

"Yours is the best bed in the whole world," said Martin, "at least when
you're in it.  Mine's enormous and it can get cold and lonely at night" he
said with a wink as Stephen turned to again look at the monstrous draped
barge.

"That 'ere could hold all t' Branksome First Uleven," said Stephen, putting
on a West Country drawl.

"Ooh! There's a thought!" giggled Martin.

Martin touched the bell and presently Chilvers appeared.  "Chilvers, we'll
take all our meals up here in my sitting room and we'll serve ourselves, if
that's all right with the servants."

"As your lordship pleases.  They would appreciate not having to staff the
dining room.  Will you be desiring wine with dinner?"

"Beer, I think," replied Martin looking at Stephen who nodded.  "I'll now
show Mr Knight something of the house."

"Very good, sir, but begging your pardon, Mrs Capstick would dearly love to
have you both take tea in her room after your tour."

"Tell her we'd be delighted," Martin replied.

"Both of us?" Stephen asked with surprise.

"Yes sir, both the young gentlemen she said."

Stephen beamed at the compliment.

The tour of the enormous pile was bewildering.  Room upon room was
encountered, some, even according to Martin, having no discernible use at
all.  In the great library they came upon the mouse-like archivist hunched
over a dusty parchment.  In the dining room, scene of the distressing
Christmas, Stephen took stock of the furnishing in the stygian gloom.  The
table, made of some rare tropical wood, must have seated forty in chairs
that looked as if they required two footmen to move in and out.  On the
sideboard, as big as a shopfront in the village, stood dully-impressive
plate while on an ugly object called a dumb waiter reposed a rich Wooster
dessert service.  He looked at Martin who said, "Yes, it's fucking
hideous!" then giggled.

Stephen became even more lost as Martin took him through the baize door
into the world of the servants.  Stephen had been in the kitchen many times
as a small boy, but was still in awe.  When they entered the servants' hall
several maids and the four footmen all rose.

"Do sit down, please," said Martin, "Mrs Capstick asked Mr Knight and me to
join her for tea.  Would you please tell her we're here, Daisy," he said to
a pretty young girl who was blushing furiously in the presence of the two
handsome boys.

As expected the housekeeper, Mrs Capstick, fussed over the boys and had
produced a smashing tea.  She enquired after Stephen's father and then
began the reiteration of how wonderful Stephen was.  Martin was secretly
proud of his friend but pretended for good form to be bored with this and
rolled his eyes when Mrs Capstick couldn't see.  Just as they were leaving
her little cubby, she clutched at Stephen's hand, "I'm so glad you've come
to stay.  Make his young lordship happy.  He may need a good friend, I
fear.  You're a fine young man, Stephen."

Back in their rooms Martin announced he wanted a bath and rang for the
footman who arrived just to turn on the taps and set out the fluffy towels.
Stephen couldn't help but wonder why Martin could not perform these tasks
himself, rather than having this young man walk up two flights of stairs
and along two miles of passageway.  When Paul had left, Martin tugged at
Stephen's clothes and said, "You're getting in with me, but you have to
have the tap end because I'm a lord and you're a dirty rascal."

"Yes, but I've got an enormous peerage that I just might let you pay homage
to.  Besides I'm well on the way to becoming a saint if Mrs Capstick has
her way."

The next morning Stephen made a show of appearing to come from his own bed
in one of Martin's dressing gowns as the breakfast trays were brought in by
Daisy.  Martin got out of bed, still naked, and stood before the fire which
Daisy had lit after she had set down the trays.  "We must go down to the
Women's Institute and begin my training," Martin announced.

He was about to ring when Stephen stopped him and laid out his clothes
himself: a pair of short trousers, a vest, underwear, sandshoes and a
cricket jumper.  "These are what you'll need," he said.  Then he subtracted
the underwear. "I want to see you move under your trousers; no drawers."

"Alright, but none for you either," said Martin as he walked over and slid
Stephen's dressing gown off his shoulders to reveal his splendid body,
still pink and rosy from the warmth of bed.  He grasped Stephen's half
erect penis and stroked it.  It rose in his hand.  Martin kissed him deeply
and then dashed to the table leaving Stephen stood naked and erect.

"I say, that's not fair!" Stephen whined.

"Sorry, but we mustn't let our breakfast get cold," Martin said with a
grin.

Stephen put his dressing gown back on and crossed to Martin.  He lent down
and kissed his cheek, "You are a very bad boy, milord.  I may just have to
take you over my knee."

Later that morning they rode their bikes down the frosty road to the
village and were soon lifting barbells and doing sit ups, Stephen giving
instructions.  Every now and then Martin would pause, gazing at Stephen as
he sweated and strained, reminding himself of their first meeting at the
pool.  This is how he would always remember him.

At the end of nearly two hours Stephen called a halt.  Martin walked over
to the older boy and lifted his arms behind his head.  He then buried his
face into the filthy armpits, sucking the sweat from the hair, pausing
occasionally to gently bite the swollen bicep that Stephen obligingly
flexed.  Stephen then slid Martin's trousers down and, prizing his firm
buttock cheeks apart, ran his tongue down the fair hair of the cleavage,
inhaling the musky, sweaty aroma of the young lord, before spreading the
muscular cheeks and placing his tongue deep between them.

"Oh my God!" moaned Martin, "Where did you learn that?"

"Nowhere, I was just watching you and I felt I wanted to do it.  I invented
it, Mala!  I shall call you 'Mala'," continued Stephen, "as you should know
that is a Latin word for cheek, because you have the sweetest cheeks I've
ever tasted, or ever will," Stephen said proud of his Latin, adding:
"You're a little bit naughty and that is 'mala' too and I love that.
Martin's heart swelled; this was the first time Stephen had ever alluded to
the relationship being more than just friendship.

"Then I will call you Derby," said Martin lifting Stephen's arms above his
head again; "The rich, black pits of Derbyshire," explained Martin, "Makes
me hard as t'chapel pew durin' t'long sermon when I go down into thine
pits," said Martin laughing at his attempt at an accent.

"Then if that's what you would like, that's the way it shall be," said
Stephen as Martin buried his face the boy's chest and inhaled his scent,
content to be held.

As the boys rode their bicycles back to Croome, Martin called over, "I say,
Derby, I think we should share a bath when we get home."

"That would be lovely, Mala," Stephen said, smiling broadly at the use of
their intimate nicknames as they cycled down the avenue of elms.

To be continued?