Date: Sat, 12 Dec 2015 08:07:37 -0500
From: Pete Bruno <farmboy7456@gmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Chapter 6

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Noblesse Oblige

By Henry Hilliard
With Pete Bruno

Book One

Twilight of the Gods
Chapter 6


"Well, what do you think, Poole?"

Martin was standing before a large gilt-framed portrait that that only
minutes before had been concealed beneath a dustsheet as two tradesmen
carefully hung it above the absurdly small fireplace in Archibald Craigth's
school bedroom.  The boys were not encouraged many personal touches, nor
were they supposed to decorate their rooms with foreign furniture.  The
Plunger and his mater, however, had caused more than one van to arrive at
the school from which emerged objects gleaned from the antique shops and
auction houses of London and these gradually came to replace the meagre
sticks supplied by the school, until The Plunger's room looked more like it
belonged at Clivedon than a boys' public school.  The portrait, however,
was possibly a step too far.  Despite the fuss it received in the press
when it was Picture of the Year at the R.A., the school governors politely
declined it as a gift for Senior Common Room, arguing that new shower baths
were one thing but this was a different matter entirely, and so now it hung
in Archie's own room.

Martin read from the cutting that The Plunger had given him:

? Mr Singer Sargent's skilful brush has accurately captured all that noble
and fine in the English race whose essence he distilled in this portrait of
a youthful aristocrat, whose cool demeanour speaks of the sublimation of
the grosser passions through the cultivation of certain unspoken and
ancient inheritances of blood and tradition, whose fruits nourish and guide
that class which naturally assumes the mantle in this sceptred isle and its
dominions beyond the sea.

"Gosh, Plunger, it's you!" said Martin as The Plunger produced a silver box
from his yellow waistcoat and took a pinch of snuff.  Indeed it was The
Plunger, revealed full length in hunting pink, the artist having caught
just nicely, by the use of Chinese white, the glint of light on the shiny
boots (which appeared to be made of patent leather) and on The Plunger's
monocle which was fixed in his eye and seemed to peer down at the viewer
from a lofty eminence by way of a long straight nose and tilted chin.  For
some reason The Plunger appeared to be standing in his mother's drawing
room in this costume, whose windows were thrown wide giving onto a park
that might or might not have been their estate near Dorking.  He also, it
seems, had carried a small riding crop into this room for purposes that
remained obscure.

When the topic of the star of the R.A. had at last been exhausted, The
Plunger asked eagerly if Stephen had written again.  Martin handed over a
letter and again Archie noted the remarkable bowling figures down the sides
of the pages, amazed that cricket was played with such frequency in Poole's
county.

The major item of interest was that, as Martin already knew from his own
letter from his father, that this gentleman had at last returned from
Cannes.  He had also made some visits to Bournemouth and reported that
William seemed much improved and had actually been taking some short walks,
on fine days, trailed by a nurse propelling an empty Bath chair.  Martin's
heart lifted at this.  Job, Martin's dog, was also well.  His father had
then alluded to the fact that he had seen Stephen and this was more fleshed
out in Stephen's recent letter which The Plunger now read, having come to
sit right next to Martin so to do.

It appears that Blake had told his lordship about Stephen's suggestion for
the drains and this, combined with a curiosity to see again at close range
the boy-the Latin scholar-who was well-known and universally liked on the
estate and whom Martin had introduced so unorthodoxly to his sister-in-law
in London, caused Stephen to be sent for.

Stephen had arrived by the separate entrance to the estate office and thus
avoided the dilemma of whether to use the front door or the servants' door.
He wore his Sunday best, the London clothes being carefully laid away.

Blake reiterated the story of the drains, which were even now were nearing
completion with the prospect of now planting grain where none would grow
before.  Lord Branksome took stock of Stephen who was slightly intimidated
and kept thinking of the things that he had done to the peer's son-indeed
both sons.  His lordship saw before him a fine-looking boy who appeared
much older than his years and whose steady gaze spoke volumes about his
character and pluck.  When complimented again on the drainage scheme,
Stephen blushed then managed one of his magnificent smiles, the first in
the interview, which did the trick for Martin's father.

Stephen was asked if he had any further ideas for the estate.  When Stephen
replied that he had, the two men expected that it would be a modest scheme
like the drains on the Home Farm, but they were surprised when Stephen,
pressed to be forthcoming, spoke and it was this that formed the bulk of
the letter that The Plunger was now reading.

Stephen outlined a scheme to convert part of the estate, a portion of
relatively useless rough grazing land on the downs near Lesser Branksome,
into a golf course.  Stephen gave an account of the popularity of this
sport and instances where resort towns had profited by the construction of
links and accommodation for its well-to-do devotees.  He pointed out that
the land, while useless for agriculture, would appeal to golfers if laid
out by a professional.  He went on further to suggest that younger persons
on the estate could find work in the construction of the links and later in
their running.  Greater mechanisation on the estate, which would also bring
greater profit but may throw some out of work, would thus be compensated
for.  The construction of a hotel, perhaps near Lesser Branksome Halt,
which he knew from experience (here he blushed again) had a fine view of
the sea, would surely be a profitable venture.

The two men were stunned at the speech.  After some minutes his lordship
said, "You mean you think we should sell off our land, sell part of
Croome?"

"No, your lordship you should lease it to a company who would construct the
course and manage the hotel-one company or two, I don't know which is
best."

"I don't fancy that, young man.  I don't want some bally outside fellow
taking over part of Croome and throwing his weight around, even a small
part."

"What if you formed the company, with your lordship as chairman and invited
investors-perhaps people you knew and trusted-and you could keep a
controlling interest.  It wouldn't be putting anything into the hands of
strangers."

"But it would mean outsiders would be coming here- tourists- because the
locals have no interest in staying in hotels and playing golf.  We'd be
vulgarised, like Margate."

"Or like Cannes?" suggested Stephen at which the Marquess' face froze and
Blake quickly ushered Stephen out the door.

When they were alone Lord Branksome smiled.  "Cheeky bugger!" he said.
"Damned clever lad for fifteen and damned fine looking too.  But we don't
want golf courses and pier amusements and motor tractors at dear old
Croome, do we Blake?"

"No milord," replied the manager, with the slightest of sighs.

The Plunger had been trying to imagine the scene described in Stephen's
letter to Martin and reconcile this with the Tsindis portrait.  All the
while he had his right hand in Martin's trouser pocket and was tweaking up
and down the length of Martin's attractive cock, making it plump and warm,
occasionally sliding the skin backwards and forward under the pocket lining
between his thumb and index finger.

"This is bad form, Poole.  He's a clever chap to be sure, but our sort of
people don't go in for this sort of thing and golf's a cad's game and the
people who play it are awfully middle class.  These ideas come from people
who don't know about traditions- about noblesse oblige; it's just grubby
trade," which he pronounced, 'twade'.

Martin banished The Plunger's right hand from its pleasant labours and
stood up.

"Craigth's Caledonian Ale," was all he said.

The Plunger rose to his full height before the fire, screwing his monocle
into place and gave Martin an icy stare.

Martin went to the door and looked back at the offended Plunger who was
even now was 'sublimating the grosser passions' of his fine and noble race
under the portrait, which at this moment, he indeed greatly resembled.



Hot on the heels of his father's letter came an unprecedented visit from
the correspondent himself.  It was Parents' Day and the Marquess made a
distinguished contribution to the throng at Martin's school.  Martin was
greatly chuffed at this sudden display of interest in his younger son and
proudly showed his pater around the school, his father marvelling at the
modernity of shower baths and antiseptic food preparation, undreamed of in
his day.

Martin was overjoyed to be playing in a lacrosse match with his father
among the spectators.  The team was largely composed of boys of the senior
classes, Martin at fourteen being the youngest, but he played with great
strength and agility, showing off his fine muscles, which impressed his
father along with the general violence and bloodthirstiness with which this
game was typically conducted.  In the baths afterwards, the sweaty team
showered together, many of them congratulating Martin on his game and
several of the older ones combining their plaudits with good-natured and
generous rubs of Martin's soapy body, one beefy prefect actually giving
Martin's erect cock half a dozen strokes, while others of the sixth watched
on, making approving comments about Martin's qualities as a 'team player'
and about the beauty of his body in particular.  However, Martin could not
linger as he was to walk with his father to the town to have lunch at his
hotel and he arrived at their meeting place not greatly less flushed and
sweaty than before he showered.

At the White Hart his father talked of affairs at Croome, although made no
allusion to the audience with Stephen.  Martin said he was looking forward
to coming home at Easter and that he would certainly be making a trip to
Bournemouth to see William, especially as he seemed so improved.  With this
change in direction, Martin noticed his father withdrew, looking older than
his sixty years.  Martin pressed on however and said that he might take
Stephen Knight with him, as William seemed to find him cheerful company.

"Knight!" said his father, looking up, "He is a fine young man, Martin,"
with the undoubted implication that he was being contrasted favourably with
his school fellows, especially with The Plunger whom he had introduced to
Lord Branksome when Lady Eudora Craigth insisted that they had to all come
to Archie's room to inspect the Sargent.

"I think so too, Pater," replied Martin.

"Have him come up to the house at Easter, I'd like to see more of him.
Damn fine cricketer too."

"Archie Craigth thinks so."

"By the way, Martin, I must tell you, I'm thinking of returning to Cannes
after Easter.  Can't seem to stand it here anymore.  England is going to
the pot: Pensions for indigents; being crippled by taxes on property;
closing public houses to appease the non-conformists.  And I miss your damn
mother.  It's different for you; the future belongs to the young.  I'm only
in the way of ? golf links."

Martin digested this miscellany of woes and sensed a little something of
the grief his father was bowed under, but the knowledge that he would be
alone at Croome for most of the holidays only lightened his heart.



*****



Martin arrived at Croome on Ash Wednesday and was glad to see his father
still in residence.  They dined alone and had a pleasant evening.  On the
following day Martin was out early with Job, determined to see Stephen,
perhaps for a swim or for exercises of one form or another at the Women's
Institute Hall.

At the cottage door, he was greeted by Knight, who was all smiles and
deference.  He looked eagerly about for signs of Stephen and was told that
the boy had gone out early with the dogs and seemed out of sorts.  He hoped
that he would return before the morning was over because he was to help his
stepfather with several jobs on the estate because the old man was heading
over to Corfe Mullen in two days to spend Easter with a niece who had
written, unexpectedly, desiring her uncle's company for this Christian
festival.  Martin smiled and said he would go and look for Stephen and tell
him he was wanted.

Martin was a little perplexed and uneasy at Stephen's absence at a time
when he surely knew Martin would be coming to see him.  Such was Martin's
heightened anticipation of being reunited with his lover that he'd been
running images of Stephen smiling as he bounded down the cottage stairs
into his embrace, or coming up to the house because he couldn't wait a
moment longer, so that this seeming lack of interest was doubly wounding.

He did find Stephen at the swimming place where Stephen, in his naked
magnificence, was swinging from the rope and dropping into the cold stream.
For a moment Martin wished he could be held like that manila hawser,
wrapped tightly in Stephen's well-developed thighs.  Stephen saw Martin but
completed another drop before he swam ashore and greeted him less than
enthusiastically.  Martin felt like he would die.

"What's the matter; didn't you receive my letter saying I'd be by today?"

"Yes, Martin, it came two days ago."

"Then what is it?"

"We're apart more than we are together, aren't we?" began Stephen
ominously.  "I was lonely.  Were you lonely too?"

"I was very lonely, Stephen, you must know that I was."  He suddenly felt a
pang of guilt about The Plunger, but that couldn't be it.  Could (the
loathsome) Custard have something to do with it?  "Have you been speaking
to Custard?" he asked Stephen, who returned him at blank look.

"It's what you told me in your letter, Martin," he said and he retrieved
the document in question from his jacket pocket-he was stood there
naked-and handed it over.  Martin scanned the pages in a panic and found
nothing, the only reference to The Plunger being his report that the
Sargent had been tossed out the window and completely ruined in a rag by
some sixth-formers whom the housemaster refused to punish.  Martin looked
wildly at Stephen thinking he was surly going mad.

"What?  What have I done?" he almost screamed.

"Here," said the older boy, and snatched the letter back: "'I had spotted
dick for the second time this week-filled me up'. "

Martin let out a strangulated cry and then was violently sick on the
ground.  When he arose he was laughing so much he couldn't speak at first.
"Spotted dick is a type of pudding you ass.  You know the only dick that
fills me up is that one," he said pointing; "It looks like it belongs on
donkey but it really belongs to a silly ass!" he screamed with laughter.

Stephen didn't immediately see the humour.  "The trouble with you public
school boys is that you have a language all your own-boys named after
desserts like Custard and Kish and naturally I thought Spotted Dick was?."

"Kish?  But a Kish is-oh never mind.  Now come and greet me properly-no
armpits first-then I might kiss you and I will certainly taste your spotted
dick, two helpings if you've got a supply please, steward."

"Oh I think so, milord," said Stephen with a swagger, laughing himself now.

Martin did indeed bury his face in Stephen's fragrant arm pits, pulling at
the long black hair with his teeth in the manner that one eats artichoke
leaves in polite society, and thus recaptured the redolence of his lover
that he missed most of all.  After came the lips, with Stephen leaving
Martin's puffy and bruised in his ardour. Then came the pudding and indeed
the village stud hadn't been boasting when he said there were two helpings
and he thought there may have even been three, but he turned his attention
to Martin's body which he spent some minutes admiring first, feeling it all
over and commenting how much he had grown in the Lent half and how well his
arms and chest were developing, but noting, aloud, that his cock was still
smaller than his own and he swiped at Martin's like a conker as if to prove
the point.  Martin laughed at his arrogance, which he loved.

It was indeed close to the dinner hour when they returned to the cottage,
Knight happy to see his boy smiling again.  Martin gratefully accepted
their offer of bread, cheddar and a slice of cold game pie and asked if he
could help in the tasks of the afternoon, as he had been partly responsible
for Stephen being so late-which he said with a straight face, not daring to
glance at Stephen.

"That's right generous of thee, your lordship. I baint insult you by sayin'
that the work 'tis a might dirty and hard as I ken see thou hast developed
quite a bit o muscle y'sel since thou bint away from Croome.  An hextra
pair of strong hands will be a help."

The work in the April sunshine was pleasant indeed.  Martin and Stephen had
to dig two new postholes for a five barr'd gate.  The boys, with their
shirts off, enjoyed challenging each other in a digging
competition. Stephen won easily, despite encountering a stubborn rock in
his shaft but was proud of Martin's effort, especially as he was unfamiliar
with the operation spades and shovels and indeed even of their distinction.
When no one was in sight he put his arm around the naked shoulder of the
young lord and gave him a hug.  Mending a rock wall on the main road was
lighter work, the stones having merely toppled, but several of the
villagers noted the odd sight of the younger son of the Marquess hard at
work alongside the village lad and his old father.  Some muttered that
these were changing times.  The third task was shovelling a pile of dung,
which was dirty but accomplished swiftly.  Lastly the three men were to set
traps for voles (Martin forgot to ask why) by the stream as it flowed past
the cow pasture.  It was an education to see how knowledgeable Stephen and
the old man were in the ways of wild animals and the delicacy with which
they were able to make intricate traps with their large and agricultural
fingers.

Finally they went for another swim and removed all the traces of the dung
and when they returned to the cottage Knight told Stephen that a note had
arrived from the house.  Stephen opened it.  It was an informal invitation
for Stephen to dine at the house that night.  They would not be dressing,
the note ran, and that the guests would include the Vicar and Mrs
Destrombe, Mr Plainsong (the local Member of Parliament) and his wife the
Hon. Margaret and their daughter, Prudence, and Miss Tadrew, a gentlewoman
from the village that Stephen knew and liked, as well Martin and Lord
Branksome himself.

Martin was mightily pleased with his father's initiative and noted the
consideration with which the invitation was couched.  He told Stephen what
to wear and promised that he would sit close by.  He reminded him of how
successful he'd been in London (though he doubted there would be any visits
by a Miss Orchard-Baird this time) but suggested that the Western
Australian gambit would not so useful on this occasion.  Lastly, Martin
repeated his father's assessment of Stephen from the White Hart.

Indeed the dinner was a success.  Stephen was modest and let others do the
bulk of the talking.  He was attentive to the ladies and had his brilliant
smile in operation, often to cover where words failed.  The guests went
away with a picture of a quiet boy, well-mannered, but no fop, and with a
good head on his shoulders.  Miss Plainsong also heard it rumoured in the
village that he had a good cock between his legs, and being seated on his
left, she had no evidence to contradict this from the six occasions on
which she dropped something that she must retrieve, the last one causing
her to collide heads with Stephen himself who had also stooped to retrieve
her careless fan.

The next day, Martin attended cricket practice with Stephen's team.  There
was quite a crowd of villagers gathered on the green, which was
conveniently located by The Feathers.  Several people pressed Martin to
take a turn in the nets.  He faced Stephen's deliveries.  The first one
passed on the leg side and Martin chose to ignore it.  The second one also
broke to the leg side and Martin tapped it away.  There was polite
applause.  The third delivery was pitched well up, almost a Yorker, and it
landed right on Martin's left boot causing him to yelp with pain.

The crowd immediately saw how his lordship was injured (in a noble pursuit)
and how grief stricken was his friend from the village, young Knight, who
had caused the injury and should have gone easier on a non-player; and how
the assailant was required to half-carry Lord Martin to the doctor's house
where the injury was treated and impressively bandaged.

Later that evening, in Martin's room, the boys unwound the bandage and
examined the wound.  There was nothing broken but it was painfully bruised.
Martin did need some assistance in walking.  Therefore, it was only natural
that at Midnight Mass that night and again on Good Friday and again on
Easter Sunday that Stephen should sit by the injured Lord Martin after
assisting him to the Poole family pew, taking care of his prayer book and
hymnal, assisting him to the communion rail (except on Good Friday when
there was no sacrament) and poking the small fireplace at the end of the
family pew that Martin's great-grandfather had caused to be installed in
the more feudal days of the Prince Regent.  By the end of Easter, the
village had become quite used to seeing Stephen sitting with 'the family'.

On Holy Saturday, Knight went to visit his niece and Martin eagerly looked
forward to spending some days and nights in the cottage.  They thought it
best that Martin be not too obvious as to his place of residence so he went
to the cottage after dark, not really needing any assistance from Stephen
because his toe was already healed, however it would provide an excuse for
him not to be seen about.  They sat by the fire and Stephen played with
Martin's cock with one had while he held the toasting fork in the other.

When it was time for bed, as promised, they were to sleep in Stephen's
quaint attic in Stephen's narrow bed.  Martin was absurdly excited as he
was led up the ladder-like miniature staircase once again and into the
little world where everything spoke of the boy he loved.  In fact he began
to hum the music hall tune to the effect that 'the boy he loved was up in
the gallery'.

"Right," said Stephen, "Take those clothes off.  If you want to sleep with
me, you sleep naked or you can sleep downstairs with the dogs!"

Martin was thrilled with this command, although he never had any intention
of doing otherwise, but it was just part of Stephen being in control.

They attacked their bodies with tongues and hands.  Eventually Martin said,
"I want you to fuck me!"  Stephen, pausing, told him that he too would like
to try being fucked and then swiftly outlined his experiments with the
dildo.  Martin was both shocked and pleased.  But for now Martin was to be
done-over first, he begged, and the Soho box was produced from its
sequestered location.

Martin began by lying on his stomach on the bed where his nose pressed into
the blankets that smelled of Stephen.  Stephen gently kissed and kneaded
the boy's buttocks, occasionally delivering a nip when they looked just too
irresistible, then he lapped as gently as a cat along his crack, so
invitingly lined with the palest gold hair, and finally all round his hole
until it opened like a flower before his tongue.  The gentle lover then
stood a gave such a resounding slap to Martin's left cheek that it caused
the dogs in the kitchen to stir in alarm from their slumbers before the
fire.

"Ow!" cried Martin and looked around at the grinning Stephen and then
giggled himself.

Stephen then applied the olive oil to Martin, but noticing that his own
cock was not fully erect commanded, "Get me hard first!" which Martin did,
pushing himself upwards with one hand and taking Stephen's member in his
mouth, assisted by the other hand, as Stephen half squatted to line matters
up.  When Stephen began to feel good he went back to Martin's arse and
inserted an oiled digit, quickly followed by another.  He pistoned them in
an out, applied more oil, and felt Martin relax and open up.  Martin was
positioned on his back, propped on a pillow, and with his legs beyond the
bed wrapped around the standing Stephen's waist

When Stephen, in an excited state, brought his penis to the opening he
hoped things would go (or go in) better than last time.  For all his gruff
play he didn't want to hurt Martin and wanted him to be pleasured.
However, the initial entry was still traumatic and Martin howled and
thrashed so much that a worried Stephen said, "Do you want me to pull out?"

"Oh would you, please, it hurts?"

"No!"

"Oh well, you'd better get on with it then: more oil and another pillow
under here!"

However Martin did accommodate Stephen's cock in the end (in both senses)
and both boys were smiling like idiots at their accomplishment.  Martin
said, "I feel so full, as if the head were up here somewhere," he said,
indicting his sternum.  I feel so stretched.  I'll never be able to fart
again!" he giggled.

"That's vulgar.  Where were you brought up?" said Stephen.

"You sound just like The Plunger," said Martin, almost to himself.  "How
does it feel to you?"

"Tight."

"Oh really?" said Martin sarcastically.

"You know I love you, Mala," declared Stephen.

"I know you do.  Do you think you could show me your armpits while you fuck
me?" Stephen clasped his hands behind his head, which gave Martin a fine
view if his boy pits, the hair already attractively foetid.  "Now let's
stop all this badinage before you go soft.  Fuck me!"

Stephen slowly pulled himself in and out with a motion somewhat resembling
that of a steam engine on a Cunarder beginning its Atlantic crossing.  With
his hands behind his head it was up to Martin to hold himself still on the
bed, but this novel arrangement had to be abandoned when Stephen's
increasing pace and the inability of the transported Martin to be given any
responsibilities, made it necessary for Stephen to place his hands
elsewhere.  Thus he clutched at Martin's arms and legs for leverage, pulled
on Martin's nipples, wrapped his arms underneath Martin to drive in deeper
and even pushed himself off the wall directly behind him.

Martin was a mess.  His eyes were rolled back, he was making incoherent
noises, he had spilled twice on his chest and his cock was achingly hard
again.  His nose and mouth drooled unattractively and he was covered in
sweat and worse.

Stephen had already spilled in him once but kept hard and continued,
without a pause, for another 15 minutes until his spilled again.  He slowly
pulled out, panting.  Martin returned from the dead like Lazarus and
grinned as best he could.  "That was wonderful," he said and added
pleasantly, "Might I have something with which to clean myself up?"

Stephen's answer was to roughly turn Martin on his stomach, then draw him
up on his knees, leaving his ravished hole exposed to Stephen who mounted
him as if the younger son were a mere farmyard bitch and then fucked him
again for some minutes, spilling a third load of seed, which Stephen had
suspected was there all the time.

This time Martin did not ask to clean up, but instead pulled Stephen down
into the bed and they fell asleep, as they were, with Martin's head on the
triangular patch of raven hair that was the chief adornment of Stephen's
impressive chest.

When the April sun rose on Easter Sunday, its first slanting rays
illuminated a once tidy room that contained two very attractive and naked
boys on the bed-well, almost on it; Martin who woke first found that he was
practically off the edge as the narrow cot was fully occupied by its broad
shouldered owner who was not only snoring abominably but had taken all the
blankets.  Martin lifted these, revealing that Stephen was as hard as a
rock, and pulled some over himself.  He ached all over but had forgotten
all about his toe.  He was marvellously happy for he had long dreamed of
waking up in just this situation.

Casting caution to the wind, he shook Stephen several times until he ceased
to snore and awoke.  They shared a wordless kiss.  "I want to fuck you,"
Martin said.

"Charming greeting, my lord; and good morning to you too."

With little further ado, Martin knelt on Stephen's chest with his thighs
somewhere near the latter's ears and thrust his cock into Stephen's mouth.
Stephen bobbed his head to meet the thrusts of young Martin's groin.  A
couple of thrusts went too deep causing Stephen to splutter.  "Sorry!" said
Martin with transparent insincerity, which was met by a black look from
Stephen that was unable to be rendered vocally.

When Martin thought himself sufficiently rewarded, although not fully
revenged, he pulled out and had Stephen assume that undignified position
which was lately associated with female dogs in agricultural
establishments.  Stephen's young arse was a beautiful sight: it was covered
in a dusting of dark hair, which grew more thickly along the trench.
Martin dived in and gave his lover a treat equal to his own.  He found that
Stephen's hole was quite puckered and made it his mission to try and nip
the proud flaps with his teeth.  He tried for several minutes, painfully
spreading Stephen's muscular cheeks so that he might get in closer.  He was
just about to retire in defeat and come up for air when he remembered the
indignity of the slap.  He pressed in harder and at last managed to nip his
hole with his front teeth, causing Stephen to yelp.

Martin appeared from below the horizon of Stephen's buttocks, just as
Stephen turned to see his grin, which he returned it with a scowl.

Martin applied the olive oil and made a note to buy some more.  He then
spent several minutes making Stephen moan as he inserted an oily finger
into the village stud.  Martin had thought that Stephen was relaxed and
open but, when he tried, he could not force his cock past his sphincter,
even though Stephen urged him to keep trying. The dildo was employed with
some effect and Martin marvelled how Stephen was hard and leaking.

Stephen then suggested that Martin lay on the bed while he tried to lower
himself onto Martin's cock.  This was more successful as Stephen could use
his weight to force himself down, but at his own pace and perhaps with more
of a sense of control over their lovemaking.  For Martin it had the
advantage of having his head in his lover's aromatic groin area and being
able to watch his cock and balls or, by looking up, his chest and face.

Nevertheless the initial entry hurt because Martin had a big cock and
Stephen was unused to being buggered, not having had the advantage of a
public school education.  Stephen shed some tears, which affected Martin
greatly.  But then Martin found himself all in, with Stephen's beautiful
set of balls resting near his own and the arch of Stephen's cock coming to
earth somewhere on Martin's chest.

Stephen began to bob up and down on his powerful haunches and, when in the
swing of it, encouraged Martin to raise his buttocks off the bed so as to
push in more deeply.  Stephen's hole felt velvety on Martin's cock and the
muscles that tried to push him out were as ardent as their owner.

"Don't spend yet!  Don't spend yet!" cried Stephen over and over as his own
cock slapped repeatedly on Martin's chest.  On his own initiative, Martin
used both his free hands to pleasure Stephen and was actually able to take
the tip of his cock in his mouth, although when Stephen rose up, he lost it
every time.

Finally Martin cried, "I am going to spill!" and Stephen sat down hard,
grinding with his hips, forcing Martin to spill into the deepest, most
secret recesses of his body, which he did.  At the same time, Martin was
able to now take Stephens's cock securely into his mouth where skilled
manipulation caused Stephen to spill into his lover's eager throat.

Time was desperately short as the morning service was at 10:00 and Martin
was expected to read the collect this Easter Sunday.  To make matters
worse, the kitchen fire had yet to be lit for hot water and in Martin's
seeming abduction from Croome he had not thought to bring his clothes nor
offer any explanation.

When there was at last some water, the boys took turns in standing in the
tin tub placed in front of the range while the other rubbed a soapy rag
over his body, scrubbing fairly hard where necessary.  They inspected each
other's abused holes; Martin's looking particularly violated and a tiny
trickle of Stephen's three sowings could be detected finding its way down
to the rolling sea.  Stephen licked it up.  "Do you think you can hold it
in there until after church?"

"Oh God!" moaned Martin, "but I've got to read the collect!  I'll try if
you really want me too."

Stephen nodded his woolly head vigorously like an excited child, his eyes
shining.

Some of Stephen's London wardrobe was hastily pressed into service to
provide Lord Martin with Sunday clothes, and it being a Sunday, the number
of garments required was one less than on Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays
and the consequent saving in time was useful as the young lord, assisted by
Stephen, limped pathetically into the Church just as the bell ceased
tolling.  The congregation stood respectfully as the pair made for the
family pew and the welcome warmth of its thoughtful grate.  Stephen had
covered Martin's ill-fitting costume with an overcoat and the brilliant
substitution of a crutch for the stick all added to the intensification of
general sympathy elicited from the congregation for this most pious young
peer.

When Martin, aided by only his crutch, rose to the lectern and sincerely
read:

"'O God who didst to make this most holy night to shine?'" he couldn't help
but think of a more recent night and mentally corrected Thomas Cranmer's
spelling by silently adding the eleventh letter of the alphabet.

Lord Branksome at this point nudged Stephen to poke the dying fire and, as
Stephen leaned across Martin's empty seat, he noticed a certain familiar
stain on the oak and smirked, noting that Martin best wear his overcoat
even though the day was warming.

As the congregation departed for its Sunday dinners, Chilvers, who had been
sitting with the servants, caught the boys attention and quietly said:
"Begging your pardon, milord, but it might be more convenient for your
lordship if I send across some more appropriate clothes the next time you
go out for a very early morning walk in order to personally ask Mr Knight
to luncheon.  I have taken the liberty of anticipating your invitation by
informing your father, sir, and Miss Tadrew, who are delighted of course.

"Thank you Chilvers," the boys chorused in unison.  And the butler gave the
pair a hard stare at which Stephen, like the sun appearing from behind a
particularly dark cloud, smiled radiantly.  Chilvers pursed his lips,
perhaps in an effort to repress a smile of his own and, cocking an eyebrow,
said no more.

"What did all that mean?" asked Martin.

"I'm not sure, but I think he's our friend," said Stephen as he anticipated
another meal at Croome.

In the afternoon the sun did come out like Stephen's smile and the boys
decided to swim. They lay on the bank on this perfect afternoon and had
their first row.  A general election was looming and Stephen had expressed
support for Tatchell, the Liberal candidate for South Dorset and Purbeck.
"But we always vote for Mr Plainsong, he is father's friend and is never
opposed," said Martin.

"Well it's about time he was.  Tatchell is a good man, 20 years younger,
and full of new ideas."

"But he is that factory-owner from Wareham; he makes brass things and lives
in the town," bemoaned Martin thinking of the ruthless Birmingham man who,
with a rich wife's fortune, had made a successful business in this town
just beyond Croome and had won some lucrative contracts to supply the navel
depots along the south coast.  "He'll not understand our ways and want to
change things.  Father won't allow it."

"Some things need changing in your world, Martin; you are just blind too
it.  And your father can't do anything about it.  And he can't tell the
villagers who to vote for.

"Can they vote?" asked Martin in genuine surprise.

"Yes, except for servants, and that will come too."

"Servants vote?  And I suppose you want women to be able to vote as well!"

"Why not?  Isn't Chilver's vote worth just as much as your friend (the
loathsome) Custard?"

This was a convincing point but Martin surprised himself at how hot he was
getting.

"Do you want people like Tatchell to be able to just take away Croome and
to build horrible factories on it and make people work in them making
terrible things like so many ants?and turn us all out to make golf courses
for clerks, bookmakers and scullery maids to play on?"  This was a low blow
and Stephen retorted by telling Martin a few home truths.  Both boys had
begun to regret the courses they had embarked on, but by now it was too
late to turn back.

Stephen had the better arguments with which he attempted to demolish the
feudal walls of Croome.  Martin's arguments lacked organization but were
compensated by his local examples of the benefits of the old order and the
drawbacks of the new.  These were backed up by his genuine distress.  He
was nearly in tears, Stephen saw.  Stephen still pressed on.

"?people want to be free, Martin, that's the most important thing, to be
free; free to be whatever they want to be without some lord telling them
'this is the way its always been done' and trying to keep them down."

"No its not!  Your sort can only achieve what they want to be at someone
else's expense. That's not right either.  What about those who aren't as
strong as Mr Tatchell?  What can they achieve?  Don't the meek deserve
something just as much as the strong?  Aren't there some things-some
people-that should be kept even if they have no use?  People also need to
belong to somewhere, Stephen, to have a place, to be loved, not just free."

Stephen was much shaken by unexpected violence of this sudden storm and by
the force of Martin's last argument, which he admitted to himself presented
an aspect he hadn't properly considered.  He reached across to the red and
heaving golden-haired aristocrat and hugged him to his chest until the
clouds lightened.

"You're right about belonging being important too.  I'm sorry."

"All I have ever wanted was to belong to someone," said Martin quietly, "if
I was free I'd be the unhappiest person in England."  He let out a final
sob and then collected himself.  "I will inherit Croome someday and I will
belong to it and the estate will belong to me.  I will have to see that all
the people whose home it is too are well cared for in cottages that aren't
damp," and here he glanced up at Stephen, "and that the estate can provide
jobs enough for those that choose not to go into Mr Tatchell's mills."

"Or out play golf?" interjected Stephen.

"And the old and the poor, the Vicar, the chair bodger and poor Miss Tadrew
on just ?100 a year, they'll all be my responsibility.  I can't just tell
them to go and be free.  I also want to make sure that there are
opportunities for those who are strong and clever like you, Stephen.  The
school has to be improved.  Noblesse oblige.  Even if I didn't want to, I
have to belong here at Croome and, most of all, I want to belong somewhere
and to someone.  That's all I ever wanted really; I want to belong to you.
I want to marry you, Stephen.

"You want to be my wife?"

Martin laughed, "No, I'm a chap not a lass, I want to be your husband."

"But I'm no lass!" said Stephen, wounded.

"Aye, you baint be no comely village luss but t'village stud!" mocked
Martin. "On your knees before his lordship, vassal.  "I want my husband to
crawl here and suck his wifey's hard cock."



*****



Lord Branksome departed for the Rivera the following day.  The boys went to
the Hall and exercised with the Owens brothers who were pleased to see his
lordship and also commented on his gains in height and muscle, confirming
their impressions with their large hands for several minutes.  This
inspection was curtained by the arrival of two other village lads whom
Martin did not recognise and he saw Stephen give a slight shake of his head
in his direction.  The exercises consisted chiefly this day of sparring
practice and the Owens boys informed his lordship that Stephen was becoming
almost as good as they were at the noble art, although Martin had never
seen him in a match.  When the vanguard of the Women's Institute arrived,
the company cleared away their equipment and departed, leaving the hall to
the ladies of the parish for their meeting.

At the cottage, Martin unpacked some clothes that Chilvers had sent across.
He was wearing only a shirt as Stephen said he wanted to have him naked
from the waist down all afternoon and, at regular intervals, would look up
from Tono-Bungay to make sure Martin had not dressed and would
occasionally, as Martin passed his chair, lift the shirt to expose his
lover, bestowing a kiss or a lick on some favoured portion that lay
revealed.

In late afternoon, the sky darkened and it came on to rain.  The boys
retired to the attic and in the half-gloom lay together listening to the
beautiful sound of the muffled rain on the thatch, with periodic tattoos as
it lashed the tiny casement.  This was background to the throatier gurgling
of a drainpipe somewhere and the pizzicato of drops landing on tin pots,
old buckets and sheet iron out in the yard.

"It's a pity about the Women's Institute today," said Stephen at last.

"Yes, Reuben did look disappointed, didn't he?  I would have loved to have
done something with them," said Martin.

"I say, you don't mind me having some fun with them when you're at school,
do you?  I wouldn't do anything-or I'd try not to do anything," he
prudently qualified, "if you didn't want me to.  I don't love them or
anything- you know that-although I love Douglas' tongue on my arse."

"Gosh no, I just wish that I was here to watch!  Do you want to do things
with other boys -or girls?"

"I do like lasses too, but not like I love you.  Elsie at The Feathers is
pretty keen on me," he said with a slight swagger in his voice, naming the
pert barmaid at the pub, "and I fucked her once-just before I met you
actually-and I know she'd like to walk out with me."

"But you're walking out with me," completed Martin.

"Aye," said Stephen and planted a soft kiss on Martin in the grey light.

"What was it like?"

"A gentleman bain't supposed to tell," said Stephen with a smile, "n'
you're bin atryin' t' make a gent'man tout of village lud.  It was good
actually.  She can suck well for a lass. The village call her a slut, but
she isn't really; she just likes men-and boys-like you and I do.  She did
moan and wail when I put it inside her.  But she loved it all the same.
Just like some other lasses I know."

"Shut up," said Martin, half-amused.

"But I won't be going near Elsie or any other lasses or lads while you're
away."

"Except for the Owens."

"Aye, 'septing t' Owens of course.  Unless it's an emergency."

"Oh yes, emergencies are different," admitted Martin, resigning himself to
the uncertainties that came with walking out with the village stud.

"Derby," began Martin, broaching a subject that had been on his mind, "that
boy Archie- The Plunger-that I have mentioned, he seems to have quite a pet
for me at school.  He's a pompous ass, but he's funny and I really like him
as a friend-not like I love you-and I wondered if I should allow him to-you
know-do things with me?"

"And you to him?"

"I suppose so, yes."

Stephen considered this as Martin sketched a description of The Plunger,
which did not help.  He enumerated his sporting abilities and knew Stephen
would not be jealous of a hurdler.

"And he's a ginger?"

"Yes, and he has a red bush above his cock."

"Not as big as mine?"

"Heavens no!" exclaimed Martin, diplomatically, but nevertheless rolling
his eyes in the dark.

When Martin told him how interested The Plunger was in him and how his eyes
popped when he saw the Tsindis drawing, Stephen started to see matters in
another light.

"Well, yes, I think then it would be alright for you to pleasure each
other-but don't let me hear of him making you do anything you don't want
to.  And don't let him fuck you.  That's special between you and me.  He
can be like the Owens.  Ginger, did you say?" And Martin went on to give a
more fulsome description of The Plunger and promised to invite him to
Croome, but demurring when Stephen suggested that he might like meet the
chair bodger's sons.

Then he grabbed Martin and kissed him deeply.  "Just remember, Mala, your
sweet bottom is mine alone," Stephen said, causing Martin's heart to swell,
along with his cock.

To be continued?

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I
would love to hear from you.

Just send them to farmboy5674@gmail.com and please put NOB in the subject
line.