Date: Tue, 29 Dec 2015 15:02:26 -0500
From: Pete Bruno <farmboy7456@gmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Chapter 8

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at the beginning of Chapter One.)

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Noblesse Oblige

By Henry Hilliard
With Pete Bruno

Book One

Twilight of the Gods
Chapter 8


The summer half at Martin's school began at a gallop.  He was now a
permanent fixture in the lacrosse team, having moved up the hierarchy as
several of the boys who had been so encouraging on Parents' Day were now
gone up to Oxford or were training at Sandhurst.  Even so, Martin still
loitered in the Craigth Pavilion's shower baths in the hope of learning new
things and seeing some action that neither of these great institutions
ostensibly prepared its young men for.

It was in the first few days of term that he received a letter from
Stephen.  In it he gave an account of how well he was doing at school and
this made Martin feel guilty and he vowed to work harder for Stephen's
sake.  Stephen was looking forward to his first proper boxing match that
was to be held in the village with the publican from The Feathers as
referee.  Mr Destrombe had come to see Stephen in an agitated state and
said that the Verger must have failed to lock the Women's Institute Hall
because Miss Plainsong had complained that the ladies had found the hall in
considerable disarray and that she had ruined a pair of new gloves when she
picked up a soiled Indian club.  Stephen had been out to inspect the
drainage scheme with Blake, and Lord Branksome was still in France and
Stephen wondered if Martin had heard anything of William.

Martin hadn't heard anything and was feeling rather depressed and lonely.
He decided to call on The Plunger.  When he arrived at his chum's room,
which had so lately been in le style Rothschild, he found it was again
miraculously transformed.  In an alcove, guarded by a pair of decorative
wrought iron gates, a 'lady chapel' had been arranged in the Spanish
baroque taste.  Here there was a heavily carved prie-dieu on whose shelf
was a number of leather bound volumes that may have been religious works
and, over one end of this, was draped a large collection of costly
embroidered lace vestments.  Next to a stoup stood a pair of tall Italian
candlesticks carved like barley sugar.  The Sargent, that had been so
unfortunately a victim of an accident, had been replaced by a large and
rather gory crucifix.  The Plunger, the school had heard, had become an
Anglo-Catholic and had arranged for a Roman priest from a nearby town to
cycle over on Wednesdays to say Mass, which The Plunger pronounced,
'Marse'.

"Hullo, Poole," he said, removing his monocle and putting down the Robert
Benson novel he'd been reading.

"I say Plunger, what's that awful pong?"

"Poole, you sound like a non-conformist.  It's incense," he said, pointing
to an elaborate silver censer that hung from a hook on the wall.

"What do you think of my chasubles?"  Martin didn't quite know how to reply
so Archie said, "Have a toffee," offering one from an aspergillum.

"I've got a photograph of Stephen that I thought you'd like to see."

The Plunger's green eyes lit up and he pulled a curtain modestly across the
chapel so that they could concentrate on more secular matters.  They sat on
the bed and Martin removed the unframed portrait from beneath his jacket
and handed it over.

Archie Craigth drank in the photograph.  There was Martin's village lad
stripped to the waist, apparently waiting on the ropes to re-enter the
fray.  His heroic body seemed to glow from exertion and his jet back hair
had come loose and was plastered over one side of a handsome face with its
square jaw subdivided by an attractive cleft.

His eye was lead down past the exposed and vulnerable nipple to linger on
the silken boxer's drawers, which showed the pugilist's all too evident
virility, tenting the fabric for some considerable distance toward its hem.

"He's magnificent.  So deliciously working class."

Martin looked annoyed but let him continue, "He represents all those
vanishing traditions of rural England, don't you think?"  Martin wasn't
sure.

"Do you think he'd box with me?  I mean boxing is a noble art, Lord
Queensberry and all that; agricultural labourer and his lord, all equal in
the sight of God and all equal in the ring; nothing like ski-ing or golf,
thank goodness."

'Well you've got a good reach," admitted Martin as he considered The
Plunger's aptitude for the sport.  The Plunger stood up and flexed his
muscles and then did a little jig on his toes in the manner of a fighter
preparing himself.  Martin couldn't help noticing The Plunger's ample cock
bouncing beneath his trousers with their knife-edge crease.  He felt The
Plunger's biceps and chest.  "It might be fun," he said, unsure of whether
he was referring to the boxing match or to something else.

They sat down and resumed their study of the photograph while Martin
related the story of its commissioning.  They were both rubbing their cocks
through their clothes, when The Plunger said, "I say, Poole, help a fellow
out?"

Martin quickly took off his trousers and let The Plunger more carefully
remove his own garment to preserve the crease.  Both boys were wearing silk
drawers rather than combinations and when they had removed their shirts
they stood and sparred for a bit and tried to imitate Stephen's ringside
pose.

Martin was keen to taste a ginger cock and so he slid down The Plunger's
underwear and pushed his nose into the attractive red bush and sniffed the
expensive, clean scent of his friend.  It didn't take very much for The
Plunger to become fully erect.  His long cock with its smooth bell-shaped
head was in pleasing proportion to his tall frame, and the contrasting red
and white elements reminded one of the tower of Westminster Cathedral,
which had in recent years become such sight in London, but a considerably
less attractive one at this moment, Martin thought.

Martin pleasured The Plunger with a skilful combination of hand and mouth.
The Plunger looked down in fascination as his cock slid across the full
lips of his beautiful friend who even now was paying extra attention to the
underside with his protruding tongue.  The Plunger grasped two handfuls of
Martin's golden hair in his frenzy.  Suddenly, he pulled Martin to his feet
and lightly kissed him and asked him quite sincerely if he liked his cock.
Martin nodded.  They then moved towards the prie-dieu and The Plunger
placed Stephen's photograph on the slope so that he might contemplate it
while Martin resumed his devotions on his knees.  The pace and vigour
increased, Martin just using his wrist now.  Then, invoking the name of our
Lord and with an expression on his face that only Caravaggio could have
captured, The Plunger spent his white seed all over his own chest.

Eager to return the favour and prudentially in the hope of more to come,
The Plunger knelt on the prie-dieu while Martin stood and placed his cock
through the gothic trefoil where there was a convenient gap level with The
Plunger's eager mouth.  He could suck well, thought Martin, as he felt a
tight vacuum form around his thick cock and The Plunger's lips gripped
tightly enough to pull the loose skin on his shaft backwards and forwards.
The Plunger's tongue stimulated the slit in the opening and he swallowed
the clear liquid that flowed from it like a benediction.  This tight and
thorough action brought Martin to a state that Bernini could have sculpted
in marble, and the first ropes of his seed were just pumping down The
Plunger's throat when the door opened and the housemaster walked in.  The
visitor did not see into the Lady Chapel immediately, giving time for
Martin to pull the pile embroidered vestments over the top of himself in
concealment, all the while continuing to pump his load into the kneeling
Plunger's mouth through the prie-dieu.

"What are you doing, Craigth?" demanded Dr Mitcham

The Plunger did not answer or look up until the last of Martin's seed was
consumed.  After a long pause he replied, head still bowed, "I was just
saying my prayers, Dr Mitcham, and I had a rather long litany to recite in
Latin."

At this, the housemaster gave a disgusted snort and then said, "Very well,
but why are you naked?"

"I was reading about penance, sir, and I was contemplating mortification of
the flesh to atone for my sins."

Dr Mitcham was lost for words and so merely turned on his heel, reminding
The Plunger that he had geography prep to do, and shut the door.



The very next day Martin received two communications.  The first came when
Dr Mitcham called Martin to his study: "Poole, there is a telegram for you.
Please sit down, sir, if you want to open it here.  I will just be
outside."

Martin's heart sank and he felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he opened
the ominous Post Office envelope with numb fingers.  It took him a few
moments to understand the combination of letters that made up the brief
message, but when the words at last made sense, he let out a schoolboy
whoop that brought the housemaster back into the room.

"It's good news sir, about a friend of mine, sir, in our village school:
he's won a scholarship to the grammar school in Blandford Forum!"

Dr Mitcham was genuinely relieved and thought it noble that young Lord
Martin should take such a personal interest in the education of his
tenants, although he'd be more pleased if he took the same pains over his
own.  He saw the beaming boy to the door, and sent him away with several
pats to his golden head and a slight valedictory gesture with his palm to
his equally attractive rump shown off to such advantage in his tight school
trousers.

Martin was on his way to tell The Plunger when he passed the post rack and
saw there was a letter for him in his brother's hand.  He stuffed the
telegram into his pocket and tore the envelope open and read with delight
William's note informing him that he was having 'a good spell' and would be
happy to see him in Bournemouth.

So overcome was Martin that he just managed to get into The Plunger's room
before he collapsed into tears.  Unable to speak he simply handed over the
two missives for his friend to read and the equally delighted boy swept him
into a hug.  When sufficiently recovered, Archie suggested they might take
a walk over the fields, as it was a sunny afternoon.  This they did: the
tall and immaculate figure of The Plunger oddly swinging a shooting stick
and, when he was sure they were unobserved, puffing on a briar pipe, with
Martin talking excitedly.

Behind a convenient hedge they were pleasuring each other, but Martin was
really too excited and kept breaking off to give expression to some thought
concerning recent matters.

"It will mean that Stephen will have to go and live in Blandford Forum
because, although it's a good school, they take only day boys.  He could
come home at weekends and in the holidays, of course.  It is only what he
deserves, with all his brains."

"But hasn't he a father or something?  And will the scholarship be enough
for him to live on; he'll have no family to support him like the other boys
will?" cautioned The Plunger, not wanting to particularly dampen his
friend's joy.

"Yes, I suppose that's right," he said and, after a silence of some minutes
during which he resumed stroking the long, ginger cock of Archie, said:
"And I say, isn't that topping news about William.  I wish I could see
him."

"Well, why don't you?" said The Plunger, buttoning his fly when he realised
that he was going to remain unsatisfied this afternoon.  "You could ask
Mitcham if you could have a leave pass to go down to Bournemouth, say next
Monday when its Founder's half-day.  You wouldn't miss much."

"I say, Plunger, do you think he'd let me?" asked Martin in surprise.

"I think he might, for he likes you."

And so Martin found himself on an early train south after having spent the
previous day writing to Stephen, William and his father.  He watched the
fields of England speed by, wishing Stephen were here with him.

When he saw William he rushed, as usual, across the room to greet him, Dr
Alexander standing in the doorway, smiling.  William seemed greatly
improved and even suggested that they might go for a walk along the front
as it was such a nice day, although he cautioned that the bath chair should
be also taken.  Progress was slow because William was weak from his months
of inactivity so when they reached the pier William had his brother push
him in the chair to the end where they had tea.

They fell to discussing Stephen and the welcome news of the scholarship.
William made the suggestion that they should provide Stephen with some
funds to enable him to not be at a disadvantage among the other boys
because of his humble origins.  Martin was delighted and offered a ?100
from his Father's allowance and was stunned when William offered ?400 from
his own.  "That's very handsome of you, William.  Do you think Stephen will
take it though; he's very proud?"

"Then it will be up to you to convince him, won't it?" said the Earl.

Back in William's room the paintings were examined; the ones from his
recent bout were distressing sights.  Martin then asked his brother if
there was anything he could do to help him.

"No, thank you Martin, but I look forward to seeing you and Stephen in
Bournemouth at the earliest opportunity, and besides, it's Monday, and the
gardener's boy had just left before you arrived."



Back at school Martin applied himself to his studies, with The Plunger
giving him help with his French.  The Plunger's rooms were now redecorated
in the style that a rural squire might have found comfortable had he been
in a play at the Aldwych Theatre.  Gone were the high church trappings (the
little priest having been sent away on his bicycle having failed to convert
another Newman) and the walls were now adorned with framed scenes of
hunting and boxing, with a number of antique loving portraits of bloated
cows that were such popular subjects in the Shires a hundred years ago.
The Plunger put down Surtees' Jorrock's Jaunts and Jollities in order to
unbutton Martin's trousers.

After he had finished pleasuring his friend and had looked over his
irregular French verbs he said, "I say, Poole, do come and watch me box in
the gymnasium tomorrow after prayers."

Martin attended the boxing exhibition and marvelled at how good his chum
was.  It was no surprise that The Plunger held an elegant upright stance,
with his chin held high, however Martin was impressed by his muscular frame
and by the power of his blows, delivered coolly and disdainfully by his
long arms.  Even with his monocle removed he kept his eye firmly on his
opponent (a sixth former) and maintained an unperturbed balance.  When the
older boy was knocked to the canvas for the second time there was some
cheering from the small crowd of boys who had gathered and Martin called
out, "You're a natural, Plunger!"

It was following one of these matches that Martin joined The Plunger in the
shower baths.  They were soaping themselves up under the hot water, Martin
having given The Plunger's shoulders an appreciative lick, when they were
joined by four boys from the sixth form and Cave-Jones, the lacrosse
captain, of the upper fourth.  The boys congratulated The Plunger on his
pugilistic skills and gathered around under the spray to feel his biceps,
encouraging him to make a fist.  Cave-Jones performed his party trick of
opening his mouth wide and accommodating The Plunger's whole fist in it and
the others, having seen this many times before, urged him again to go on
the stage.

The appreciative rubs were extended to Martin who, in all honesty, had not
been boxing at all and quite soon he and The Plunger were being pleasured
by the eager seniors.  Two of the boys were kneeling before The Plunger and
working over his cock and balls while a third was dividing his time between
the lips of The Plunger and Martin's own beautiful mouth, with somewhat
painful twisting attention being paid to his boy nipples.  Cave-Jones was
doing an encore on Martin, taking the entirety of his cock and balls deep
into his mouth and throat without gagging while Rogers was busy tonguing
Martin's fair arse trench.  There were some alterations of personnel and
swapping of positions that Martin could not remember clearly afterwards but
he did remember spilling down Cave-Jones' acrobatic throat and the next
thing he knew he was lying on the floor of the Craigth Pavilion shower bath
covered in the seed of the five boys who were even now dressing and
preparing to return to their respective houses.  He looked across at The
Plunger who was lying similarly slumped under the running water, looking as
if he'd just done ten rounds with 'Gentleman Jim' Corbett.



*****



"Will you have another, Stephen?" said Elsie the barmaid at The Feathers.
She had stepped from behind the bar in the absence of the landlord and any
other customers and had one arm around the waist of Stephen who was stood
there in his shirtsleeves and was using her other hand to rub up and down
the length of his hardening manhood beneath his trousers.

Stephen had emptied his mid-day pint and was reading Martin's latest
letter, which contained, among other news, his successes in lacrosse and
French syntax.  "No thank ye Elsie love.  I've got to get over to Miss
Tadrew's to mend her parlour door," said Stephen and the disappointed girl
had to be content with one of Stephen's more radiant smiles.

The Marquess of Branksome had returned to these shores and had seen that
the estate had been prospering in his absence.  He toured the drained
fields with Blake and Stephen and marvelled at the ripening grain growing
there.  He also listened patiently to Stephen's dissertation on motor
tractors, while remembering how he loved the sight of a team of beautiful
horses ploughing and always wished he had the artist's skill to capture it.
He turned suddenly to Stephen and said that he hoped that he and Martin
would find time to join him in Cannes during the summer, as it was
intention to return there, despite the Riviera's reputation for oppressive
heat in that season, and that he would send funds to Martin should they
desire to accept the invitation, adding that it would help his French
syntax.

"Merci, mon seigneur. C'est un invitation tres genereux," said Stephen, "Je
n'ai jamais ?t? en France. J'aime nager dans la mer."

"Avez-vous un maillot de bain?" inquired the Marquess.

"Non. Je dois obtenir un costume pour la baignade."

The aristocrat looked up and down the handsome lad and replied sadly:
"Quelle dommage."



A few days after this, Chilvers sent word to the cottage that Stephen's new
clothes had arrived and that he might find it convenient to come to the
house to try them on.  Steven arrived at the kitchen entrance and was
greeted warmly by Mrs Capstick and the rest of the staff who were relieved,
but hardly surprised, that the village boy was not too proud to visit them.
He was congratulated on his scholarship that would see him schooled well
beyond any other village boy and many of them marvelled at the changing
times they were living in.

Chilvers escorted Stephen to Martin's room where the new suits were laid
out for inspection.  Stephen was delighted and Chilvers looked at him,
trying to determine whether he felt unmanned by accepting the gifts.
Stephen caught something in the servant's look and said, "Mr Chilvers, I
know some in the village and in this house may not think it proper for a
boy like me to accept gifts like this and for me to get above my station.
I have thought about it long and hard.  I don't think I'm just a 'kept
woman' (and he gave a short laugh) and I intend to earn my place if I can.
I can't help where I was born, any more than his lordship can, but I'm man
enough to know I can better myself, even without his lordship's help.  But
it's more complicated than that for I feel for his lordship something that
makes every other consideration pale into insignificance.  I actually
couldn't manage to better myself without his love.  I would be just as
happy if he came to live in my cottage- and that would mean you'd be laying
out very different clothes on his bed right now," he laughed again.  "I
could ruin our relationship if I made the clothes and such into a matter of
my pride.  They are only things.  I hope you don't think any the less of me
for accepting them."  Stephen knew he had said the right thing by the look
in the servant's eye- the sort of eye with the support of an eyebrow that
was unusually eloquent.

He said: "His lordship's happiness is one of two the most important things
to me, sir; the second being the future of Croome.  I believe, Mr Stephen,
that you are the key to both of these.  You are a young man, but have never
disappointed me, sir, if I may say so, and I hope that you never will."

Stephen was moved by his words and said, "And I hope I never shall, Mr
Chilvers."

For the next half hour Stephen, modestly wearing some silk drawers, tried
on the new clothes which fitted well, Chilvers paying particular attention
the fit and to the side Stephen 'dressed' on, and a new list was prepared
of things that had been forgotten or might be required for the Riviera.

i

*****

The train steamed into the station at Blandford Forum, which, like the
market town itself, was sheltered under the picturesque ruins of Blandford
Castle that dominated the hill onto whose skirts the town clung.  Stephen
got the impression of a town of grey stone and brisk inhabitants who went
about their business in a manner quite different from the slow and gentle
ways of Branksome-le-Bourne.  This stimulated Stephen rather than alarmed
him and he thought that this was the place where he'd be sure learn more
about the wider world over the next two years of his schooling.

Stephen walked to his new school, which stood a little apart from the town
and sought out the headmaster's study for the interview that had been
arranged.  Dr Davis was a rotund, elderly man with white hair and who wore
a normal suit rather than an academic gown.  He was serious, as befitted
his position as principal of one of the best schools in the county, but
Stephen could also detect the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth
and in his bright blue eyes that spoke of a kindly human being and not of a
tartar.

Dr Davis congratulated Stephen on his scholarship and on his school results
from Croome.  "I hope you do not find us too different here or the work
strange.  I would imagine it is a big step for you, sir.  Have you thought
anything about the direction in which you'd like to go and of the studies
you'd like to undertake here at Blandford?" he inquired.

"Dr Davis, I am very keen to keep up my Mathematics, sir, as I have an
interest in engineering and in farm management," said Stephen.

"Well, Mathematics we certainly have, but this is a grammar school and we
do not offer business or agricultural studies, I'm afraid, although some of
the school governors are keen for commercial subjects to be introduced.  A
good grounding in Mathematics, however, will enable you to take these
subjects elsewhere in the future.  What other subjects were you thinking
of?"

"French and Latin and Literature, sir, and I'm a keen cricketer and I am
learning to box."

"Indeed.  Well, we offer all these things; now tell me about the cricket."

And so Stephen gave an account of his captaincy of the local side and the
successes that had crowned it over the last two seasons.  Dr Davis seemed
impressed.  Just then there was a knock at the door and a man in a gown
appeared.

"Ah! This is Mr Mingis our Literature Master.  Mingis, this is Mr Knight
who you will have heard will be joining us next term."

The two shook hands, Mingis instantly forgetting why he had come to see Dr
Davis.  Mingis was a thin-lipped man with a moustache that strove to
compensate for his baldness.  His gimlet eyes fixed on Stephen as Dr Davis
continued: "Mr Knight has expressed an interest in taking Lit, Mr Mingis."

"Is that so, Mr Knight?"

Stephen nodded.

"Well, you may like to think carefully before you say yes because the
standard here is very high; you'll find it very different to where you have
come from.  You're the scholarship boy aren't you?"

Again Stephen nodded.

"We'll be studying Beowulf.  Have you heard of Beowulf, Mr Knight?"

"No sir, I haven't.  Is he a British writer?"

Mingis rolled his eyes and said, "Of course he's British.  And Scott, we'll
be studying the works of Sir Walter.  Have you heard of him?"

"Yes I have, sir," replied Stephen becoming annoyed, "but I have only read
Ivanhoe and Rob Roy."

"No doubt they were Sunday School prizes," sneered the Lit. Master

"And Heart of Midlothian, I forgot I have read that."

"Our Dux last year is now studying at Oxford.  He is reading modern
literature," said Mingis proudly, "Antony Vane-Gillingham has done this
school proud."

"I believe I have met his sister sir, in London, at his mother's house."

"You were a servant in Lady Vane-Gillingham's house?"

"No sir, I was a guest.  I also obtained the autograph of Mr Forster, the
novelist."

Mingis looked incredulous.  "He was at Lady Maud's house too?"

"Oh no sir, I met him at the Caf? Royal."

Mingis was speechless and during his pause to regroup Dr Davis led Stephen
out into the hall where a lofty, brown-eyed schoolboy was waiting.  "Mr
Knight, this is Mr Tennant our head prefect and vice-captain of our First
XI.  Christopher, this is Mr Knight.  I want you to show him around the
school."

Stephen liked Christopher at once.  He was tall and athletic with an
easy-going manner.  There was a ready smile beneath a pair of liquid brown
eyes that were framed by long brown lashes.

"I say Knight, did Mingis cut up rough?  He's a bit of a bastard.  Don't
let it worry you.  Dr Davis is alright and so are most of the other
masters."

Stephen did look a little shaken but quickly fell into easy conversation
with this country doctor's son who had a love of cricket.  The tour
revealed to Stephen a school that, while not large, had pleasant old
buildings dating back to Queen Anne's time.  Christopher concentrated on
the games room and the cricket pitch.  They took turns in bowling and
batting, sizing up each other's skill.

"By Jove, we'll have to get you onto the team, Knight.  You're a bit of an
all-rounder."

Stephen modestly admitted that he was.  "Do you have lacrosse here?" he
asked.

"No, that's the game with net-things isn't it?  Do you play it?"

"No, a friend of mine does at his school.  Is there a tennis court?"
Tennant took him behind a laurel hedge where the gardener was at that
moment mowing a pair of courts.  "I need someone to teach me tennis.  There
was no court in my village or even at the Big House."

"Your pa is an estate labourer, is that right?"

"He is.  He's my stepfather; my parents are dead."

"Oh, I'm sorry old chap.  It's just that I meant you must be terrifically
brainy to win that scholarship here and all.  I'm not all that good at
lessons, but my father wants me to do well.  He's not all that flush with
funds as his practice is in a poor part of Northumberland and so he sent me
down south and I'm trying not to disappoint him.  He was awfully proud when
I made prefect.  I can teach you tennis, if you like.  Do you know anything
about Maths?"

The tour of the school was completed and they were walking back to Dr
Davis' study when Christopher suddenly said, "I say, Knight, where are you
lodging?

"I was going to look for board this afternoon."



"Well, if you can't find anything you'd like better, I believe there's a
room at Mrs Leybourne's.  That's my digs.  It's all right there.  Food's
good.  It might be rather jolly to have a chum there."

Later that afternoon saw Stephen, escorted by the excited Christopher,
arrive at a narrow house about fifteen minutes' walk from the school.
Christopher opened the street door with his key and bellowed into the hall,
"Miss-us Ley-bourne!  There's someone here I'd like you to meet!"

The summons drew a fleshy woman of middle age out into the passageway where
she lightly admonished Christopher for his lack of manners and shook hands
with Stephen when he was presented.  Mrs Leybourne was a gentlewoman and a
widow.  She made both these facts clear in the manner of her dress and in
her feigned reluctance to even acknowledge awareness that she had a spare
bedroom in want of a tenant; all designed to confirm she was no keeper of a
common lodging house.

Stephen's circumstances and requirements were outlined as Mrs Leybourne
formed a favourable assessment of the handsome, well-built sixteen year-old
who looked much more grown up.  When this was combined with the bona fides
of Stephen's modest income, she had already determined to let the room even
before Stephen had seen it.  The room proved to be clean and light.  There
was a bathroom just off the half-landing and it was next door to
Christopher's.  Stephen's good appetite would be well satisfied assured
Mrs. Leybourne, who kept a good plain cook and various nods and
interjections on the part of Christopher were testimonials to this fact.

Therefore Stephen agreed to take the room after the summer, but paid a
deposit so that it might be held until the new term began and Mrs Leybourne
made an appropriate little speech about her 'two young gentlemen' and
departed for her own apartments on the floor below.  The boys were left
alone and surveyed the room with its few pieces of furniture and a number
of odd African curios arranged over the striped paper and then Christopher
invited Stephen into his own next door.

Christopher was excited and Stephen caught something of its contagion as
they planned the new term.  Christopher spoke of his friends whom he was
sure Stephen would like-especially if he was an asset to the First XI.  He
showed Stephen photographs of his family and his collection of music hall
programs and photographs of actresses, because Christopher was a budding
stage door Johnny.  Stephen related some of the details of his visit to the
Empire Leicester Square and the boy was amazed that someone so young could
have had such an adventure- he had only been to London once himself.

By this time Stephen was getting tired.  He said, "I say, let's go up to
that pub on the corner for a pint before I have to catch my train."

"But we're too young," said Christopher.

"I always have one or two in the pub in my village.  Look, change out of
your school uniform and come with me."

Stephen observed how good-looking Christopher was when he took off his
school clothes and stood there in his combinations.  His legs, for their
length, looked sturdy and muscular and there was a small tuft of light
brown chest hair visible above his vest.  His shoulders attested to his
prowess at cricket and his buttocks looked slender but firm.  Stephen stood
and messed up Christopher's soft, brown hair, to make him look older.  His
Sunday trousers and a not particularly clean shirt suggested some other
occupation.  He tried on Stephen's coat but it was too big and made him
look younger again.  After several adjustments, the young men strolled to
The Nelson and, parting the doors, fronted the public bar.  Stephen paid
for the pints with the money he had left over, handing one to Christopher,
while he flirted with the barmaid, making sure that they would be served in
the future.

At the end of the day, the two new friends parted, Christopher remarking
with a chuckle that he was being led astray and Stephen hoping that this
might be so.



*****



The term ended and the long summer holidays stretched out before Martin and
Stephen.  Martin found Stephen in a state of excitement as his first two
boxing matches were scheduled for the day after tomorrow.  Stephen elected
to stay at his father's cottage to prepare for the bouts and Martin was
disappointed that Stephen was avoiding all sensual pleasures as he had read
that this was essential even though the Owens brothers had expressed their
doubts.  As a result, Stephen was feeling unbearably frisky and agitated
and complained that his balls were aching.  Martin had twice been to watch
him prepare himself in the Women's Institute Hall where the Owens boys were
acting as his trainers.

The ring was set up outside The Feathers in the long summer twilight.
There were to be several amateur bouts and Stephen was to have two before
the professional fighters came on.  The first was against Greenoak, a brick
carter from Wareham.  He was a very large middle-aged man, clearly a
heavyweight and much older than Stephen.  Martin was worried that Stephen
would come off badly against this hairy oaf and thought that the whole
thing had been poorly arranged.  He felt sick in the stomach.

When Stephen climbed through the ropes he looked determined but nervous.
The first round passed with few blows being exchanged, the combatants
merely sizing each other up as they danced around.  Martin breathed a sigh
of relief when the bell rang.  In the second, Stephen landed a few blows on
Greenoak's hairy body and Martin wondered if he was going to beat him.
However Greenoak suddenly sprang to life and landed two hard blows on
Stephen's head and shoulder, which unsettled him and another blow, not
nearly as hard, sent Stephen to the floor.  Stephen got up quickly but
never regained his balance and a few more blows from Greenoak saw Stephen
on the mat once again and the match was over.

When Martin found Stephen, he was surrounded by the Owens brothers and
Elsie who were all congratulating him and lamenting on the unfairness of
the match.  Stephen was dripping with sweat and his chest was heaving.  A
small cut on his eyebrow and a little bruising was all the damage that was
noted.  Stephen insisted that he would fight in the second match in about
an hour's time.  This time the match-up was fairer.  The lad was about five
years older than Stephen but didn't have Stephen's reach or build.  Stephen
kept his coordination better and landed six punishing blows on his opponent
before the match was called off, the two boxers embracing.

After the congratulations had died away, Martin put his coat over Stephen's
naked shoulders and started on the long walk up to the big house.  Stephen
put his heavy, tired arm around Martin's neck as they walked.  Despite
being towelled down, Stephen was still gloriously sweaty and Martin put his
head underneath the coat to inhale the scent of victory.  They were just
passing the vicarage when Stephen said, "I'm sorry I can't possibly wait
another moment, Mala, I've got to have you right now.  I'm dying."  He
placed Martin's hand on his half hard cock by way of confirmation of his
arousal and then kissed Martin and practically dragged him by the head into
the shadows of Mr Destrombe's summerhouse, where he tore off Martin's
clothes and slid down his own silk boxing trunks, the material agonizingly
caressing his sensitive cock.  He was hard in an instant and said, between
pants, "All the time I was boxing all I could think about was fucking
you. Every punch made by cock quiver."

"But we don't have the olive oil, Derby," cried Martin in a panic.



"Yes, you're right.  I don't want to rip you open- which I might just do,"
said Stephen wildly looking around.  He almost threw Martin onto the tea
table and, parting Martin's cheeks, began to tongue his crack and hole,
filling it with his spit.  He inserted his own index finger after placing
it in Martin's mouth to lubricate it with his own juices.  When he saw that
Martin was opened up he spat repeatedly into the gaping hole, over and over
again, at the same time as pleasuring his own aching cock.  With a second
finger sliding in easily, he scissored them to increase the diameter, again
hawking up saliva with which to irrigate the conduit.  Martin was panting
in pleasurable expectation and kept spreading his cheeks and tilting his
arse to desperately increase the opening.  At last Stephen put his cock in
Martin's mouth saying, "Get it nice and slimy or it's going to hurt but
I've got to be inside you, Mala."

At last, wild with passion himself, Martin passed control of Stephen's
mighty organ back to its rightful owner and leant back.  Martin was
anticipating a rough entry, but Stephen was suddenly tender and caring,
kissing Martin and intoning endearments.  He entered very slowly, with
frequent pauses so Martin could relax and only on the last inch did he push
with his usual cheeky arrogance- just to let him know he was in control and
had a big cock.

However this is where it ended: Stephen gave Martin 18 rounds of pounding,
deep and hard, and Martin was lost in the sensory world of sweat and
pleasure.  Martin cried out for Stephen to go deeper and harder and Stephen
had to cover his mouth with his hand lest Mr Destrombe wonder what was
taking place on this warm and windy evening in his summerhouse.

By now Martin had been turned over, not caring that fragile cane table must
host the Hon. Eudora Plainsong and her daughter the next afternoon.  In
this position, Stephen could spit on his cock as it entered Martin's hole
to keep the friction down and, with Martin opened up with such abandon, he
was able to thrust from just his athletic hips, leaving his two hands free
to pleasure him.

Stephen timed the bout to perfection; Martin spending just moments before
Stephen's own eruption and giving him the added pleasure of feeling the
contractions around his cock as Martin spilled.  Stephen's climax was
shattering and he stayed still for a long time inside Martin until his
several days' worth of his seed was completely sown deep in the bowels of
his lover.

Punch drunk and not heeding the gong, Stephen wanted to continue, but
Martin persuaded him to fight another day and they dressed as best they
could and resumed their trek up to the house.



When Chilvers's opened the blinds and laid the tea the next morning he was
delighted to find the two beautiful boys still asleep, Martin cradled in
Stephen's right arm, with his cheek to his chest.  The rattle of the
teacups stirred the boxing champion first and he opened his eyes.  "Good
morning, Mr Chilvers," he said, with a grin.

"Good morning, Mr Stephen, sir, and congratulations on your tournament.
Daisy told me the news; she was very excited, sir, and the servants would
be delighted if they could offer their congratulations."

"Thank you, Mr Chilvers, I will go down directly."

"May I take a look at the cut above your eye, sir," said Chilvers with
concern.  "I will fetch some antiseptic and bathe it before it turns nasty,
if I may."

"Thank you, Mr Chilvers."

The butler returned with some cotton wool and a saucer of liquid and Steven
sat up in bed, his torso on full display.  Chilvers, with loving care,
dabbed at the wound above the eyebrow and a bruise on his chest.  Steven
lay still and grinned.

"I say, Mr Chilvers, I'm afraid the sheets are rather a mess again, I'm
sorry."

"Are you, sir?" he replied, with his own eyebrow raised.

"Well, actually not awfully, apart from the work it makes."

"I will sponge them before the maids see them, sir," said Chilvers as he
put the saucer down and fetched the tea.

Stephen shook Martin awake and they both drank their morning tea, Martin
reading his post.  They fell to the pleasant task of planning the summer.

"The first thing we must do is go down to Bournemouth," said Martin and
Stephen nodded.

"We must swim and go to the Women's Institute every day," put in Stephen.

"I'd like to have Archie Craigth visit.  Would that be alright with you?"

Stephen was unsure.  He wanted it just to be the two of them.  He didn't
know if he liked the sound of Craigth and felt that he might look down on
him in front of Martin.  And then there was the nagging feeling of
jealousy.  He looked at Martin.  "Would I like him?"

"Well, he's a perfect ass, but we could have fun.  He adores you already
and he's taken up boxing just because you have."

"Really?" said Stephen trying to assess matters.  "Well let's have him down
if you think it would be alright and I'll try and be on my best behaviour."

"Oh no, just be yourself.  I don't want you to behave," said Martin,
stroking Stephen's cock under the blankets.  While he was doing this and
while Stephen was trying not to spill his lapsang souchong, he said, "And
father has written to us again asking us to come and spend some time with
him in Cannes.  Would you like to go to France?"

Stephen tried to curb his excitement and simply said yes, but was unable to
contain his joy so he threw the blankets back and pulled Martin's head down
to his cock just as Chilvers re-entered the room to collect the things.  In
one swift movement his lordship was concealed beneath the blankets and so
all the butler saw was the rolling ocean swell of satin counterpane and the
grinning, naked top half of Stephen.



The Bournemouth visit was arranged for a few days hence, the preceding time
being taken up by meetings with Blake and some of the duties of being the
squire that now fell to Martin.

William seemed to be having a good spell and once again they went out on
the pier with William in his chair.  Back in his room the boys put on a
show for the invalid, the Earl of Holdenhurst occupying a dangerous front
seat for the performance.

When they had cleaned up, having delighted William vicariously, Lord
Branksome's eldest son turned to serious matters.

"Stephen, as you are to go away to school next term, Martin and I have set
up a small bank account for you.  The money is yours to do with as you
wish, but you will need to sign these papers so you can draw upon the bank
in Blandford Forum."  Martin smiled while Stephen looked stunned.

"In addition-and I've done this without consulting you, Martin-I've made
you an allowance of five pounds per week.  I'm doing this because I want
to.  I'm a dying man and money is going to be no good to me after I'm gone.
The pleasure of your visits -ahem!-and the knowledge that I might be able
to give both of you some pleasure is very important to me.  I look at the
money as an investment in your future and I think the future of my father's
estate."  Both boys looked stunned.  "Will you take it?"

Stephen looked at Martin.  There were tears in his eyes.  He nodded, "Oh
thank you, William that is more than generous.  It will change my life."

"I hope it does, money is no use unless it can change one's stars," said
William, "but you are a fine fellow as you are.  Martin loves you, I love
you, so don't ever change in the essentials."

"I don't know what I can ever do to replay you."

"You can't.  I'll be gone.  But you can take your clothes off again if you
think you might be able to manage another offering; the gardener's boy has
gone off to a blasted 'jamboree' with the Scouts and won't be back for a
fortnight."

So Steven was undressed and his private parts were inspected once again.
With his muscular legs spread wide, he pleasured himself in front of
William with Martin standing behind him kneading his chest muscles and
William pulling on his low hanging ball sack until Stephen felt that he
couldn't take any more pain.  Nevertheless, he had little trouble producing
another generous offer of his own for the peer's son.



*****

Stephen and Martin leant over the basket in the cottage kitchen.  One of
Stephen's dogs had produced a litter of adorable black-and-white puppies
and they were wondering which one Miss Tadrew would select for her own.
Steven had spent two nights at his father's place so that he might nurse
one of the pups, the smallest, which was all black save for the tip of his
tail and his paws, which were dipped in whitewash, and he wasn't feeding.
The little fellow seemed to be better now and Stephen gently placed him on
the nipple of the contented bitch, removing one of the other puppies, who
had already had his fill.

Martin gladly offered to help Knight and Stephen prune a few storm-broken
limbs in the orchard and then the old man sent the boys into a coppice of
willows on the bank of the brook to pick 'withies'-the supple branches with
which Knight was going to weave a new basket for the dogs.

They were just returning with their bundles of withies under their arms
when Miss Tadrew called to them and asked them if they would like to take
tea with her.  Stephen replied on his lordship's behalf and said they
would, but asked to be excused because they weren't properly dressed and a
bit grubby from their labours.  Miss Tadrew made a dismissive noise and so
Martin found himself with Stephen in the tiny parlour of Miss Tadrew's
cottage a few minutes later.

Miss Tadrew's parlour was very pretty.  Chintz curtains hung at the
diminutive casements, which were open to a small front garden that divided
the cottage from the road.  There was no fire in the little black stove
that sat in the fireplace as the day was warm but the chairs were gathered
around the tea table in a cosy huddle.  Martin noticed the vases of summer
flowers gathered from her larger garden at the rear that ran down to the
brook and the bunches of dried lavender that hung from the ancient ceiling
beams. There were some framed portraits, one of which showed two ladies,
one of whom was Miss Tadrew, evidently a few years previously, and the
other, an older woman with short grey hair and a determined expression,
which Martin thought he recognised as Miss Tapstowe.  Stephen's large form
filled his chair and seemed to overflow it and threaten, at any moment, to
knock over one of the many small tables that supported sundry doilies,
vases and Dresden shepherdesses; happily such a disaster never eventuated.

Miss Tadrew was very happy to have her two visitors and they chatted about
local affairs such as the Croome Agricultural Show, which was less a week
away.  An invitation for dinner to welcome The Plunger on Tuesday was
extended and accepted.  Miss Tadrew, as had others on the estate, began to
sing Stephen's praises which made Stephen blush and look sheepish and she
then related a number of embarrassing stories of things Stephen had done as
a child which made him redden some more, but delighted the other two.

After Miss Tadrew had made the tea herself and admitted that her crab-apple
jelly was to be entered in the forthcoming show, Stephen was sent to fix a
pump handle that had become stiff and Miss Tadrew settled down to a
heart-to-heart with Martin.

She told him something of how Miss Tapstowe and herself had been like
mothers to Stephen and suddenly she looked squarely at Martin and said, "It
is the worst thing in the world to be lonely and I miss Sarah very much.
It was only ever she and I.  How she would have loved to see our boy grown
into such a fine young man and to have found someone so that he won't ever
have go through life alone."

Just then Stephen returned to the room and Miss Tadrew took both their
hands in between her own and smiled up at them.  Then she withdrew her own
hands leaving the boys united.

"Now," she said brightly, "let's have a look at these puppies."  They
walked to Stephen's cottage and cooed over the wriggling litter.  Miss
Tadrew bent and picked up the coal black runt that Stephen had been nursing
and held him aloft and said, "His name will be Coker."



Towards the end of the afternoon the boys decided to exercise.  At the
Women's Institute Hall, Douglas Owens raised his cap to Martin and said
hello to Stephen.  He was as pleased to see the boys as his impassive face
would allow.  He was alone, as his brother was required to help their
father.  There were three other lads using the equipment that afternoon and
they shared the barbells, speedball and the rowing machine.  Mr Destrombe
dropped by and expressed delight in seeing his lordship back from school
and that the gymnasium was being so well and responsibly utilised.  He
discussed parish business for a few moments as Martin rested on his oars
and Martin told him to expect an invitation to dine at Croome the next
Tuesday.

When they were at last alone, Douglas and Stephen exercised with the
skipping ropes while Martin watched on from the rowing machine.  Martin was
amused at how the boys' cocks bounced and flopped about madly as they
jumped, Stephen's especially as he was unrestrained by anything
beneath. The action soon made Stephen half-hard with the result that his
cock, sticking out, performed manoeuvres that in fencing have elaborate
French names, while his balls continued to jiggle uncontrollably like a
pair of dice.

Stephen took off his boxing trunks and had Douglas do the same.  Soon their
privates were performing the same St Vitus dance and Martin began to laugh
and the contagion quickly spread to the other two, Douglas' doughy face
becoming almost attractive for the first time.

The exhausted and sweat-drenched pair were now terribly randy and laid
their ropes aside and presented their armpits to Martin who licked them,
inhaling deeply as he stroked their cocks.  Stephen begged Douglas to lick
his arse crack and Douglas, without comment, obliged, dropping to his knees
and prizing the muscular cheeks apart.  Martin came around to watch this
skilled master at close quarters, with Douglas occasionally halting to
share the taste on his pointed tongue with Martin and letting his lordship
try a few licks of Stephen's sopping cleavage for himself.

Douglas, assisted by Martin when his arm tired, pleasured himself until he
spent with a grunt on the floor, pushing into Stephen's buttocks hard and
mashing his nose into the wet black locks.  Greatly animated today, Douglas
had both the boys stand and sucked them for a comparatively short duration
until they spilled, one at a time, into his mouth whereupon he swallowed
their seed, making sure to run his hardworking tongue around his own mouth
so as to not waste any.

"Ar that be right beautiful y'lor'ship, Stephen.  That be right beautiful,"
he said.

"What does mine taste like?" inquired Stephen.

"Well, Stephen," he replied slowly, thinking, " 'tis an awful lot, mind
you, but thine tastes of sob apple when t' baint quite ripe wi' little bit
o salt and smells like't chestnut flower, all creamy like.  But t'your
clear stuff thart thou drips such a might, tastes sweet t'like nectar t'
little red sage flower that you can pick in t'summer if you min' t'out for
t'bees." And he went on to describe the habits of the old-fashioned cottage
plant, Salvia grahamii.

Martin was fascinated.  He had never heard Douglas say so much.  "What does
mine taste like?" he asked.

"Your lor'ship's tastes o' strawberries: t' wild little ones what grows in
summer by t'brook, but not' t'berries, but t'leaves- t'little green leaves-
sharp and wi' just a faint smell o' t'berries what will ripen by St
Anselm's day.

"But t'sweetest o' all be Reuben's," he continued.  "Reuben's tastes of t'
haws o't wild bramblethorn in t'autum w' just t'hint of t' soursop.  Ar
'tis a beautiful taste is Reuben's," he concluded with a faraway look in
his eyes.

"That's beautiful, Doug!" exclaimed Stephen.  You're like a Michael
Fairless."

"I don't know no chap by t'name o'Fairless, Stephen," he said.

"Michael Fairless is a women, not a man," explained Stephen.

"I baint no Nancy, Stephen, I tol' you tha,' " replied the poet, as the
boys headed to The Feathers for a pint and a chat with Elsie.

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.