Date: Sat, 18 Jun 2016 15:21:08 -0400
From: Pete Bruno <farmboy7456@gmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige chapter 16

This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws ? 17 USC??
101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement
at the beginning of Chapter One.)

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who have written to tell how much
you're enjoying the story, I hope you stay tuned.  For all the readers
enjoying the stories here at Nifty, remember that Nifty needs your
donations to help them to provide these wonderful stories, any amount will
do.


Noblesse Oblige
By Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 2
An Indian Summer
Chapter 16
A State of Mind


The new term at school saw Martin in the Upper Fourth and the amount of
work he had to do increased commensurately, so much so that he wondered how
he was ever going to be able to attend the meetings of the Local Education
Authority in order to press for a new higher elementary school at
Branksome-le-Bourne.  Things were so much simpler in feudal times, he
reflected sadly.

He wanted to achieve success in this matter for two reasons, he told
himself himself: Firstly, he wanted to see the new school built on his own
estate-or rather the estate he would one day inherit along with his
brother's title- as he felt that it was his duty to press for it for the
sake of the people who lived there-noblesse oblige-for education had been
shamefully neglected under the Pooles of previous generations.  He felt
fairly certain that his father could read, although apart from The Times
and the Bradshaw, he could not recall ever actually seeing his father with
a book.  His father and grandfather had placed a greater emphasis on bloody
rural sports and Martin recalled that the first Christmas present he could
remember receiving from his father was a small rifle for shooting
starlings.

The second reason was that he wanted a success on his own account so that
Stephen would be proud of him.  Stephen's transformation of the estate had
been like a whirlwind when Croome had barely recovered from the enclosures
and the coming of the railway.  Martin ticked off the milestones on his
fingers: there had been the drainage of the fen on the Home Farm, there had
been the mechanical dairy which was even now being constructed and new
milkers were being sought; there was the electric light and the scheme to
provide indoor plumbing to all the cottages which would be entering its
second year.  Stephen referred to still other schemes, which were as yet
only in his fertile brain, such as the horse stud and the golf links.
Therefore, there was much to compete with, Martin grimly realized, and a
new school would be, for him, a highly visible success unlike the
scholarship bequest he had made to Toynbee Hall, which was modestly named
after his late Majesty.

The first meeting had occurred at the beginning of September, just before
school started.  Martin had gone over to Dorchester with Mr Plainsong, the
local M.P. and the Rev. Mr Destrombe.  There he had met with Mr Morden, the
headmaster of the village school.  There were two other politicians and a
non-conformist minister and Mr Tatchell, the factory owner.

Martin had been welcomed as the proxy of Lord Branksome but had actually
said very little.  One of the politicians had ventured that the views of a
student would be valuable and the others perhaps concluded that the young
aristocrat was in above his head and thus could be ignored.

Martin sized things up: Mr Plainsong, although as a Tory and naturally
opposed to extending education, out of loyalty to the Pooles who for years
had made sure he was returned to Westminster and out of a dislike for
Tatchell who had opposed him (unsuccessfully) in the last General Election,
would side with Martin if the question ever arose.  Mr Destrombe would also
support Martin as there was no Church school to feel aggrieved by a new
Higher Elementary stealing its pupils.  Mr Morden had already declared his
support and would possibly see himself as its new headmaster.

The Liberal politician who had welcomed Martin kept looking at him and so
Martin sat where he could enjoy an uninterrupted view in the hope that he
would be an ally.

The other one was at this moment complaining about the new legislation that
made school dinners compulsory and thought it outrageous that the nation
should have to pay for what parents ought to provide for their offspring.
Tatchell was agreeing with him saying that taxes would have to be imposed
on the middle class who not only had to provide food for their own
children, but were now expected to feed other people's.

"And how do we know we are not providing dinners to Roman Catholic children
who could just as easily be going to a place of their own?" said the
minister.

Tatchell agreed again and said that they would have to be vigilant that
priests were not teaching catechism in religion classes and that the
Catholic children must be kept quite separate for those.

Martin looked at Tatchell hard.  He saw an old person- in his late
thirties, he thought- although he didn't consider he was very good at
judging ages of adults.  Tatchell spoke with an ugly Brummie accent.  His
lips were thin and his eyes bulged unpleasantly and aggressively when he
spoke.  He probably had a small angry cock, thought Martin, unkindly, as he
sat there, bored.

Tatchell caught him staring.  "It's not your sort of schooling we are after
here, Lord Martin.  Here we want the three R's drummed into boys' heads and
no fancy nonsense.  They don't need Homer and Horace-Oh I've read 'em-Lord
Martin, don't think I haven't.  The girls want teaching how to make proper
homes for their menfolk.  You know where I was lettered and learned, Lord
Martin?"  he asked rhetorically.  "The Great University of Life, that's
where, and that was all the education that was needed for a hardworking lad
to make a success of himself, if I may be pardoned for saying so."

Yes, and your wife's money too, thought Martin silently.

The other members were shifting uncomfortably in their seats and the next
agenda item, the wasteful heating of classrooms in October and April, was
quickly turned to.

Martin left, apologizing in advance for missing the next meeting, but he
would be able to attend the one that coincided with a half-holiday and the
one at the beginning of the mid-term break.



It was on an overnight excursion to Lincolnshire that Martin had a second
idea and he wondered if knowing Stephen had somehow caused him to become
smarter.  The excursion was one of the periodic journeys required of the
boys' lacrosse team of which Martin was now captain.  As there were only
five other boys' schools in England that played the game, it was necessary
for teams to travel and Mr Daventry, the games master, was keen to promote
the sport, which had been introduced by a former master from Canada.

Martin had scored well himself and his team was victorious and united.
Martin had also made sure that his boys were well taken care of by their
humbled hosts and, save for the two lads that had been carried off to
hospital with injuries that proved, after all, not to be life threatening,
all his team had been eagerly pleasured by the losers in the communal bath
at Spalding.  The opposing captain had even smiled with the un-bandaged
side of his face and waved his crutch sportingly at the departing train,
vowing to seek revenge at their next match.

It was in this ecumenical spirit that Martin suddenly thought it would be a
fine idea if the cricket First XI from Stephen's school were to play the
First XI from his school.  In the democratic twentieth century, he
reasoned, it should be possible to bridge the gulf between his own very
ancient institution and that of the grammar school at Blandford Forum
which, while comparatively new, had a good reputation and was attended by
some fine fellows, including his own noble cousin and the yet to be
ennobled Stephen.

He put the idea to Mr Daventry, stressing the essentially democratic spirit
of the game of cricket and describing the character of their captain,
Julian Newell, the vice-captain, Christopher Tennant and their opening
batsman and all-rounder Stephen Knight.  The master was enthusiastic.

Martin presented the same idea to the headmaster, Dr Henson, who sat
turning it over in his mind.  Martin helped matters along by saying that
his brother had offered to donate an elaborate silver cup for the annual
Davis-Henson challenge and the headmaster, thinking of the recent bad
publicity the school had received in the popular press due to the
indiscretions of two old boys in the Foreign Office, gave his approval for
the Henson-Davis Cricket Cup, should Blandford Forum be agreeable.

Thus it was only a few weeks later that the train from Blandford Forum
steamed up to the station for Martin's school and where the visitors were
greeted by a large contingent.  The boys were given a hearty welcome and
there was a fine tea with buns and sausage rolls before a service in the
chapel where both sides prayed for victory.

Martin was terribly excited and showed Stephen, Christopher and Julian
around the ancient buildings, trying to recall who the statues commemorated
and retelling the lurid popular histories associated with the whipping
block in the quadrangle which had remained unused since the Papist Riots of
1799.

However the real highlights of the tour were the American shower baths in
the Craigth Pavilion and The Plunger's own bedroom for which a sixpenny
entrance fee was charged, all proceeds going to the fund for sporting
equipment for the Anglican Mission in Nyasaland.

While the visiting team members were to share the rooms of the First XI of
Martin's school, a special dispensation had been allowed for Martin, who
although not a cricketer himself, was a true sportsman and therefore should
be allowed to host his relative and champion all-rounder, Stephen Knight.

Thus Stephen found himself looking around Martin's unremarkable bedroom,
where he inspected his homework (unfinished), the books he was reading
(Erskine Childers' The Riddle of the Sands) and he asked particularly to
look at Martin's underwear drawer which involved some tiresome
cross-examination which still did not dampen Martin's joy.

There was a splendid dinner in the ancient hall into which Edward II had
once ridden his horse. The silver plate at the high table, at which sat
with Dr Henson, Dr Davis and Mr Daventry, was made from silver looted from
the Empresses' Summer Palace during the Opium War.  On the walls dingy
portraits frowned down on the boys and through their cracked varnish could
be seen the personification of England's great-a collection especially rich
in bishops of the Established Church.  There were more prayers and speeches
and then there was a watery soup followed by boiled mutton and cabbage.  To
Stephen's relief there was no kish, but instead there was a large pudding
popularly called by the boys, 'boiled baby', anointed with very good
custard, if the lumps could be avoided.

The housemaster made his nightly rounds and checked on Martin's room where
he said goodnight to Stephen who had settled his beefy form uncomfortably
on a folding cot, encased in striped blue pyjamas, while Martin, in spotted
green pyjamas, was innocently tucked into his accustomed bed.

When the lights went out, Stephen jumped into Martin's bed and made a grab
at his night attire.  "You know the rules, Stephen," Martin said, "if you
want to sleep with me you have to wear striped pyjamas."

Stephen looked aghast, then hurt.  "Mala, you can't be serious?"

"Why not, Derby?  Rules are rules and besides you look very handsome in
them.  I particularly like the cord."

Stephen felt unmanned, but knew all about the importance of such rules and
therefore with no further complaint, snuggled next to Martin who said, "Are
you excited about tomorrow, Derbs?"

"Rather!  Thank you for organizing this.  You must be getting good at
persuading people, Mala."

"Yes I must be," he reflected and then fell to talking about Mr Tatchell
and the committee.

"Do you need me to help, Mala?  I could sleep with Mrs Tachell or if he has
a daughter- or a son??"

"No, Derby but thank you, your special talents I won't call on this time-I
don't want it to be another Mlle Otero.  I think this is something I have
to do myself and I'd like to win this by good arguments rather than resort
to blackmail or trickery.  I will possibly have to find money from
somewhere to provide electric light and maybe an omnibus.  Selling pictures
won't be enough.  How can we gain more income without raising rents,
Derbs?"

"Well, you will be able to make money by selling electricity in the
village, and not just to the school.  Maybe the bus will pay its way too.
However you could cultivate more land, Martin."

"What do you mean, Derbs?  Should I buy land from our neighbours?"

"No Mala, it's obvious.  Do you know how many acres you have that are not
cultivated and just kept for shooting?"

"No, Derby."

"About 1200 acres.  You father and grandfather have kept this huge area
simply for shooting for a few weeks a year."

"But Mala, we must have shooting.  What will our guests do?"

"When did you last shoot, Mala?"

"Well, it was three years ago, but what about all the pheasants and snipe?
What will happen to all the wildlife if we plough up the land?

"Well they won't live to be shot, will they, Mala?"  Martin admitted to the
logic of this argument.  "Look, I'm not saying that it should all be
farmed; some rough land is good for little else, but you could think about
using the land more productively, Mala."

"You're very clever Derbs," said Martin and laid his head on his pyjama
buttons and reached for the cord.

When the housemaster called on them in the morning the boys were up and
hunting for their toothbrushes.  How odd, he thought; Poole is wearing
spots and stripes and his visitor is wearing stripes and spots.



The cricket match was the occasion for a general holiday at the school.
After absence had been called, the boys and masters streamed out to the
oval.  The rain cleared by half-past ten and there was polite applause as
the teams walked out.  Martin found a deckchair and settled next to The
Plunger.  Mr Daventry came by, beaming.  "I'm wearing it today," he said in
a whisper.

Martin was very excited when Stephen, his team having won the toss, marched
to the crease in his pads.  The first delivery he tapped away to mid-on and
the second one he hit in an elegant cover drive and took a run.  Julian
faced the next delivery and snicked it away to deep fine leg.

"Wake up Poole," said the Plunger. "Julian's declared at 140 and Stephen
has made 57 not out."

"Well that's marvellous, Plunger, would you get me an ice?  That sun's
frightfully warm."

When The Plunger returned Martin was asleep again and so he ate it himself.

"What's that?" said Martin sitting up at the sound of a slow applause.

"We're all out for 67 and they've put us in again.  They're very good.  I
say its terrifically exciting isn't it, Poole!"

Martin tried to concentrate and saw Christopher take a diving catch in
slips.  Stephen took over the bowling and with his first delivery there was
a successful appeal for l.b.w.  The next thing he knew was that Stephen was
standing over him congratulating him on the fight back his school was
staging.  It was lunch and they were 150 for 7.

"I thought I was on a hat trick there, didn't you Mala?" said Stephen as
they walked to the sandwiches.

"Yes, you were very unlucky when you were... dropped," guessed Martin.

"You mean when that run out was disallowed, you mean?

"Oh yes I mean the run out.  Good for us, unfair for you, Derbs."

Martin resumed his seat after lunch and the next thing he knew was that a
cheer had alerted him to something.  It was tea and the match was already
over and there was much applause and players were congratulating each
other.  He tuned to The Plunger who had finished his sketch and the artist
pulled him out of his chair and took him to the tea tent, which was buzzing
with excitement.

Stephen was already dressed and insisted that Martin walk down to the
station with him.  Stephen was excitedly planning the weekend in London
with Christopher and Julian who were waiting on the platform.  He gave
Martin a hug when no one was looking and told him to make sure he wrote
about the cricket match to William.  Then he was gone.

Later that evening Martin did write to William and said that the occasion
had been a splendid success and that Dr Henson had declared that it will be
an annual event, next year his school visiting Blandford Forum.  The one
thing he could not write was the outcome of the tussle, for he had no idea
who had won, but cricket, after all, he reflected, was a state of mind.



*****



"And this place is yours, Knight?"

The question had been asked by Julian Newell as he was being shown over
Branksome House by Stephen.

"No, not really, it is my guardian's.  Lord Branksome has made me his ward.
The house will probably go to his brother, Martin whom you've met.  I've
only stayed here a few times myself.  Do be careful there; that door sticks
a bit.  The house has settled rather since 1750."

"Have a look at the dining room, Newell," said Christopher Tennant
excitedly, " you could play football in there and the one at Croome is as
big again."

Stephen explained that as a special treat the two footmen, Carlo and
William, had been sent up from Croome to supplement the small staff who
were permanently in London and that they would act as their valets and lay
out the boys' clothes, draw their baths and serve them at table.  "They'll
even undress you."

"I can't imagine asking our old parlour maid to do that!" exclaimed Julian,
laughing.  "Fancy not being able to dress or undress yourself."  Stephen
just shrugged.

The fire had been lit in the drawing room upstairs.  It looked out over
Piccadilly and Green Park.  To the left the roof of the Ritz hotel could be
glimpsed.  The three boys toured the room, looking at the pictures and
peering into the cabinets containing bibelots.  They clumped around the
room in their boots and finally settled in front of the fire, three figures
dwarfed in the enormous room.  Stephen rang the bell and William appeared.

"Could we have tea in here please, William, and maybe crumpets as well as
cake?"

"And Cook has made ribbon sandwiches sir."

"Very good.  Thank Cook."

They fell to talking about the exciting cricket match, its delightful
intricacies still fresh.  "What shall we do tonight?" asked Stephen at
last.

"Oh the music hall, please," said Christopher."  The other two looked at
each other and nodded and Christopher outlined the program at the Holborn
Empire.

"We could go to a pub first", suggested Stephen.

"I'm itching to meet some pretty girls," said Julian, adjusting his groin
as he contemplated London's fairest.

Thus it was decided.  Christopher and Julian went out for a walk while
Stephen concentrated on his German homework-working through some simple
poems by Heine, the dictionary close at hand.

When it was time to dress for dinner Stephen had had Carlo and William lay
out the boys' ordinary suits, which had been carefully pressed and
brushed. "I don't want us to look like toffs tonight," explained Stephen.

"Carlo, Mr Newell wants you to shave him."

"Very good sir," said Carlo while Julian looked alarmed.

The servant returned with hot water and towels and a razor.  Julian sat
back in a chair placed in front of a looking glass and submitted to the
knife while Stephen watched.  "Don't cut an artery, Carlo, he has to play
rugby next week." Julian wanted to nod, but was too frightened.  "And do
you think you should shave his knuckles, Carlo?"

All three looked at the hairy digits.  "Mr Knight is just teasing, sir,
take no notice," said Carlo.

"Well he is very hairy, Carlo.  There might be some other places you could
barber too,"

"Oh sir!  You say such things, although I'm sure it would be a pleasure,
sir."  With that he made a final flourish with the towel and Julian was
clean-shaven and no more was said about further operations.

Stephen then went from room to room watching with amusement as the boys
were helped into their clothes by their temporary valets.  He discreetly
handed out some money 'in case of emergencies' and they went down to dinner
in the enormous empty dining room.

They were served more informally by a maid, in the absence of Mr Chilvers
and the other footmen and thankfully their places had all been set at one
end of the mahogany table or they would have had to shout.

They played a game of billiards and then set out in a cab for Oxford Street
where they found a lively public house near the Tottenham Court Road and
they enjoyed their pints.  They walked happily the half-mile east to the
Holborn Empire where Stephen made sure they had the good five bob seats.

The program was mostly comic with Marie Lloyd making a comeback with I'm
One of the Ruins Cromwell Knocked About a Bit and Billy Williams sang a
saucy one about his 'Australian Matilda down in St Kilda'.  Vesta Tilly was
a male impersonator and sang Girls are the Ruin of Men, which had the
audience in stitches.  In between acts they went backwards and forwards to
the bar and to the lavatory and when they rolled out on the street they
were in the mood for some more fun.

They walked back west looking for a suitable pub when a pie stall in the
vicinity of Holborn Viaduct beckoned with agreeable greasy smells.  A slim
young girl was engaged in buying something when she dropped her money, a
penny rolling like a cartwheel towards a grating.  Christopher's fielding
practice paid off and in a few strides he stopped the errant coin with his
boot and swept it up and presented it to the girl.

In gratitude for her fortune being restored, particularly by such an
agreeable and smiling young man, she fell into conversation and then
Christopher introduced Millie (for that proved to be her name) to Stephen
and Julian.  Millie worked in a teashop and had just been enjoying an
evening out with her friend, Jane, who managed the teashop.  They were
chaperoned by Jane's older sister and they were waiting to join her at this
very moment just a short distance away in the snug bar of a superior public
house where Millie and Jane and another girl lived.

"Have you ever been to the cinematograph, Mr Tennant?" asked Millie.  "We
have just come from the Scala in the Tottenham Court Road where the show
was very thrilling," she declared and went on to describe it to Christopher
who had yet to see a moving picture.

In the pub, the boys were introduced by Millie to Jane and to her older
sister, Agnes. The chivalrous rescue of the penny was related and Stephen
brought them all drinks.

Where Millie was slight and pretty and looked about 16, Jane was buxom and
heavily made up and looked a year or two older.  Julian was immediately
attracted to her and pulled his chair around to speak to her all the
better, sitting on his bowler hat in the process.

Stephen took better care of his straw `masher' and thoughtfully removed
that of Christopher's who was so eagerly talking to Millie about moving
pictures that he had forgotten its presence.  The older sister was grateful
for her gin-and-lemon and her general demeanour showed that she was
immediately attracted to Stephen.  Agnes, or Aggie, as the others called
her, was a slightly blowsy married woman of 24 but her husband had,
apparently, `cleared orf' and she had been forced to return to her father's
roof in Hoxton.  "Do you know Hoxton?"

Stephen confessed that he was practically a stranger in London and, as an
orphan, was presently lodging at his guardian's house further west.

"Shepherds Bush?" inquired Aggie.

"Not quite so far west," said Stephen.

Aggie was terribly moved by Stephen's status as an orphan and the other
girls paused in their respective conversations to say, "Poor young fellow"
and the like, while Aggie now had her hand on Stephen's knee in a motherly
fashion.

Miss Jane, although at this moment extolling the virtue of tea as a
beverage in its relation to her place of business, did not object to
another lemon-and-port, while Millie said she would try a half of ale.
Aggie was now consuming gin (sans lemon) as fast as Stephen could buy it
and her tears were flowing steadily even when Stephen tried to steer the
conversation around from fatherlessness to cricket.

Millie saw how wet Stephen's sleeve was becoming and leant over and
explained that the moving picture had been a particularly sad one where a
poor child had been cruelly treated and that Aggie was not normally so
lachrymose and in fact held down a good job in a pickle factory.

After another round of drinks Aggie cheered up somewhat and, led by
Christopher, they were all singing:

I met her at St Kilda, my beautiful Matilda

My love got so very hot, oh, it absolutely grilled her.

Presently Aggie asked Stephen if he would see her home.

"But I thought you were chaperoning Jane and Millie?"

"But they's just live upstairs, Mr Knight, and who's going to take care of
the chaperone, that's wot I sez?"

So Stephen and Aggie left the pub, but not before Stephen gave urgent
instructions to Christopher, taking his watch for safekeeping and imploring
Julian to look after him.  Julian dismissed Stephen with a beery wink and
Stephen found himself out on the street, an orphan but supporting a married
sister.

"Hoxton's a long way Aggie, we'll get a cab."

"You've got the goods for a cab?  Why you are a gent, Mr Knight," and the
functionary of the pickle factory let out a piercing whistle which summoned
a hansom.

"Is it respectable for a young married lady to be seen getting into a
hansom cab with a swell?" she said as they settled.

"I'm not a swell, Aggie."

Aggie didn't reply but raised her skirts and placed Stephen's hand on her
nether regions.  For reasons of economy or perhaps from peculiar domestic
arrangements, Aggie was not wearing any bloomers and Stephen began to warm
to her.  She kissed Stephen while he pleasured her with his hand.

As they turned into Pentonville Road, Aggie said between ragged breaths,
"Oh you're very good, Mr Knight.  Did you say you were a finger spinner?"

By the time they were in the City Road Stephen had undone her blouse and
was sucking on her firm breasts while she murmured something about a poor
motherless baby and Stephen had begun to wonder why her husband had indeed
'cleared orf'.

Presently they arrived at an address in Hoxton and the driver was paid
through the trap door while Aggie adjusted her garments as best she could
in the darkness.

"I'd ask you in Mr Knight, but my father and brothers are home.  Eric
sleeps in the kitchen so its awkward.  But here, follow me."

Humming the music hall tune she took Stephen by the hand down a passageway
towards the canal.  "Mind them bins, Mr Knight."  There was a sequestered
space underneath the wall of a warehouse where a good view of the
Shoreditch gas works could be obtained on a fine day.  Here Aggie opened
Stephen's shirt and ran her hands over his chest.  Stephen kissed her.
Then Aggie slid Stephen's braces aside and undid his trousers.  His cock
rose lewdly.

"You in the Guards, Mr Knight?" she said, noting the leather strap around
Stephen's cock and balls. "I like a big boy wot's strapped tight," she said
and began to stoke his member.

"No, I'm a porter at Paddington Station."

"You ain't no porter, you speaks too nice, but I bet you could carry a lot
of traps with them arms and shoulders."  She made no further inquiries and
set to work milking Stephen for dear life.

Eventually Stephen spilled and apologised for hitting her skirts. "That's
no never mind, Mr Knight.  It won't hurt Aggie.  It was a real pleasure to
service a gent like you, sir, although me arms is tired and me hands ache
so that I don't know how I'll go fitting the lids on them jars tomorra."

Stephen pressed a shilling into her hand, "That's for the moving pictures,
Aggie, take the girls."

Having been pointed in the right direction, they parted and Stephen safely
found a cab near The Angel that conveyed him home.



Stephen had not long been in bed when there was a knock on his door and
Julian appeared in his dressing gown.  He was still rather drunk.  He asked
Stephen what had happened after he had left and Stephen sketched a
description, noting the envious looks he was receiving.  "Why, what
happened to you and Chris?"

"Well, they were all over us, my one especially, June."

"Jane?"

"Was it?  Well she's blowing in my ear and rubbing me down here," and here
he opened his dressing gown to reveal a large bulge in his drawers.

"And Tennant's one is getting all giggly and giving him little pecks on the
cheek and then she says we should come upstairs.  But when we get there her
friend is there-with some bloke!"  I mean she says she's sorry and all
that, and that we will have to meet up again.  Tennant thinks he will meet
his Millie at the cinematograph, the fool.  And here I'm left with an
aching cock and balls.  Tell me what your one did again, Knight."

Julian sat on the bed and Stephen set to work giving a more lurid
description, embroidering some parts for dramatic affect.  As he told his
tale he saw Julian's bulge distended even more and a damp spot the size of
thruppence had grown to the size of a florin by the time he had finished.
Julian kneaded his groin and moaned.

"I had equipped Christopher with these Julian," said Stephen as he produced
the box of pr?servatifs.  I hope you had the same.  You wouldn't want to
get a girl with child."

"Oh I have my ways, Knight.  I sometimes pull out before I spill."  Stephen
thought he'd never be able to master that skill.  "Sometimes I just slide
it between their lovely thighs and get them to squeeze," he continued.
"And I have taken a girl, you know, up the other hole."

"No!" said Stephen.  "You've done that?"  Julian nodded and smirked.

"Girls actually let you?"  Again Julian nodded, pleased that he could tell
Stephen a thing or two about love.

"What did it feel like?" asked Stephen in breathlessly disingenuity.

Julian removed his dressing gown and stood there, his hairy chest and
strong arms naked above the distended material of his stained drawers,
which strained painfully to conceal his big cock.  He demonstrated a few
rudimentary moves and was sweating profusely.

"I say, Knight, could you help a fellow out?  I'm dying here!"

Stephen said it was clearly a matter of mercy and pulled down Julian's
valiant drawers, throwing them aside.  His large veiny cock slapped up
against his hairy belly.

"It's a big cock, Julian.  I bet it could do same damage."

"I've had no complaints from the girls in Blandford Forum, Knight."

"What do you want me to do, Julian?"

"Well you know, Knight," and he made a motion with his hand.  Julian was
now kneeling on the bed and Stephen had slid from beneath the covers and
was expertly attending to his cock.

"Try some of this.  I use it all the time," said Stephen pouring some drops
of oil on it.  Julian moaned loudly and gratefully.  "Tell me again about
the other place you can stick it, Julian?"  And so Julian did, getting more
and more excited.  Then Stephen struck. "Do you want to stick it in me,
Julian, I won't mind if it will help you."

"Oh would you Knight?  I feel that I will burst."

Stephen quickly applied some oil to his hole before Julian changed his mind
and got on his knees.  Julian entered him roughly, as Stephen suspected he
would.  He gave him a really good fucking, showing all the stamina and
muscle power he was famous for on the sporting field.  He turned Stephen on
his side and then on his back.  Finally he pulled out (by way of
demonstration) and finished himself on Stephen's chest.  It was an
impressive load.

He was panting with his hands on his knees. "Oh that's better.  Jane missed
out on that, but thank you, Knight.  And Knight.  "I don't think there's
any need for Christopher to know about this.  He's very impressionable."

"Yes, and we don't want him to get the wrong idea."



The following day the boys decided to go out to Twickenham to watch a rugby
match at the new stadium.  This involved a trip on the electric tram
through the outer suburbs that were rapidly filling with new housing.  It
was a thrilling contest, with many Welsh supporters singing hymns and
putting their whole being into it.

Stephen then produced three tickets from his pocket. "Martin got these for
me from an old friend of his father's, Lord Lonsdale.  They're tickets for
the National Sporting Association.  Do you want to see a boxing match?"

They went to a little street near Covent Garden and were admitted to the
club.  The main match was between heavyweights `Bombardier' Billie Wells
and `Porky' Flynn, an ugly American brawler who was only about 5'10'' but
very mean.  Only the previous week Wells had been down to fight the
coloured American, Jack Johnson, for a purse, it was rumoured, of ?8 000,
but the fight had been prohibited by Mr Churchill because there had been
race riots in the United States and possibly because Johnson was bringing
his wife-a white woman- with him.

Stephen was bitterly disappointed to be unable to see this black giant of
whom he had heard so much.  Wells was a very good fighter, however.  He
stood at rangy 6' 3'' and had a straight left and a powerful right.  His
jab was impressive.  Although he was a poor boy from the east end, he was
no brawler and adopted an orthodox approach.  He easily beat his opponent.

Christopher said that he had to leave to meet Millie.  Stephen and Julian
exchanged looks.  "We'll wait here Tennant," said Julian.  "If she doesn't
turn up we'll go to the pub."  Christopher left, sure that she would be at
the picture theatre.

Halfway through the next fight, he returned and slid into the seat next to
Stephen.  Nothing was said.

Later they went out for oysters and a few pints at a pub and returned home.
Again there was a knock on Stephen's door and Christopher slipped in.

"Did I wake you, Stephen, I'm sorry," said Christopher shedding his pyjamas
and climbing in.  "Did I make a fool of myself over Millie, Stephen?" he
asked.

"No, certainly not, Chris.  She might have turned up and she certainly
seemed keen on you last night."

"I liked her too, although I may have got carried away by all the talk of
moving pictures.  I think I'm a little confused."  He rested his head on
Stephen.

"Some of these girls lead very tough lives, Chris," said Stephen.  "They
are often untruthful because they they're desperate and it's become part of
how they live.  Often they have no families to fall back on and so a drink
or a meal or a few coins are worth a few lies, especially to a nice fellow
like yourself."

Christopher was lost in thought. "Thank you for helping me with-you
know-and I feel much better knowing that my father did it too.  He actually
taught my uncle how to do it.  Can you believe that?  I know now that he
was telling me those things because he loves me, which is silly, but there
you are.  I'm certainly not going to show my brothers how to do it- they're
too young.  They'll have to work it out for themselves, but I will never
lie to them if they ask me anything.  Is that cricket, Stephen?"

Stephen thought it was fair.  "So are you pleasuring yourself every day,
Chris?"  Chris blushed and said he was.  "Good boy.  Do you want to do it
now with me?"

Chris was already hard under the blankets. "Tell me a story Stephen."

"But we don't have any pictures?"

"I can make up moving pictures in my head when you talk."

Stephen let out a small sigh. "There were two sisters, twins, and they had
ginger hair-which was unusual in their part of France-and they had been
sent to the mountains to a remote convent school because they had been
found in bed with each other.  This was a very strict school and the nuns
often beat the girls for the smallest infraction like not wearing the rough
bloomers that were prescribed by the order.

"Well, this convent school had a young gardener, whose name was Christophe,
who the girls could see most days digging the pommes de terre or planting
courgettes without his shirt on from the rooms where the candles were
stored..."

Chris spilled and Stephen complimented him on the quantity and the taste.
He suggested that Christopher might like to go back to his own room. "But
you haven't spilled yet.  Do it for me, Stephen."

"Slick me up, Chris," said Stephen.  Chris spat on Stephen's cock and
stroked it a few times, marvelling, as always, at how silky was the action
due to his abundant foreskin.  Stephen took over and tried a few unusual
manoeuvres including lifting his knees and reaching beneath with both
hands.  After about ten minutes he was getting close and told Christopher
to push his legs back over his head, which he did, then Stephen worked
himself furiously until he spilled, much of it landing in his open mouth.

Chris wanted to applaud, but contented himself with saying it was ripping.
Where a rope had landed on Stephen's cheek he scooped it up and tasted it.
"Nice, but different to mine."

Stephen cleaned them both up with Chris' pyjama top and sent him back to
his own room.  Stephen himself contentedly went to sleep thinking of his
Mala, and of boxing and of the particular cruelty of French nuns.



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

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