Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2017 23:17:57 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 15

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com  This work
fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H.Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 15
Scenes de la Vie de Boheme

"Take this road for instance," said Bunny.  He was pointing with one hand
while he held the umbrella in the other.  "It's very narrow and I think two
autos would find it real hard to pass and if your Rolls Royce should meet a
farm wagon...well, I don't like to think of the wreck."

"Yes, it is narrow, Bun," said Martin, "but to widen it would mean
destroying the hawthorn hedges on both sides and the farmers would lose
some land...then there's the cost."

"But what is the cost of having traffic held up, not to mention the cost in
lives and injuries?"

Martin looked down the familiar road that led from Branksome-le-Bourne to
nowhere in particular.  There was no traffic at all, thought Martin.  Oh
not quite, here comes Mrs Flower on her ancient bicycle.  Martin waved.

"Good afternoon, your lordship.  Good for the ducks."  Martin agreed and
she wheezed on.

"It's only logical that the shortest route is a straight line," said Dwight
taking up Bunny's thread.

"Well it would be a big job to straighten all the roads in England."

"Well, what about that bump on the road from the village to your gates?
You know the one."  Martin did.  The road had a jog in its outline for no
particular reason.  "You own the land on both sides, don't you?" Martin
nodded.  "And a few hundred yards of hedge could be replaced quite cheaply
with posts and barbed wire or you could plant new hedges.  Are the trees
there of any great value?"

Martin thought about it.  "I think there are wild cherries and some suckers
of elm."

"Well, there you are, you wouldn't miss them would you?  And you would have
a nice straight run down to the village.  Think of the time you'd save!"

Martin thought about the old trap that they still took to the station to
meet the train and the bicycle rides with Stephen when they needed to go
down to the village.

"Or I could leave the house earlier or arrive a bit later."

"But it's so inefficient!" cried Bunny.  "It is a mistake--like the
appendix in the human body.  It's in the way of progress.  Back home all
the roads are as straight as we can make 'em and if they aren't we
straighten them or move the buildings back a few yards."

"Yes, but yours is a new country.  These roads are hundreds of year's
old--even older."

"It didn't stop the Romans building proper roads."

"That's true," conceded Martin, and couldn't really mount an argument for
maintaining the crooked roads on his estate, except that he would be sad if
they were all straight and efficient.  "I suppose it's tradition; people in
England, especially the country folk, enjoy their traditions and are
suspicious of new things--even if they have to suffer lanes like a dog's
hind leg.

"Then I feel very sorry for them," pontificated Bunny, "for with an
attitude like that they'll never get anywhere."

"But it's picturesque, Bunny."

"That's an English disease and you said so yourself: look at all those new
suburban houses in London you were complaining about."  That was a low
blow, but he was correct in quoting Martin's assessment of Hillingdon when
they had driven out to view Windsor.

They turned around and called the dogs and trudged back towards the house.

"When will it stop raining and summer begin?" asked Dwight.



 ******



The much anticipated visit of the two Americans had cheered the boys.  Jack
Rabberts Wilbur (Bunny to his friends) and Dwight Sleeper Hoyt ("Rip" to
Bunny at times) had been such boon companions in the strangeness of the
American Middle West in 1917 that Martin and Stephen had written letters
imploring them to come over.  Bunny had inherited his father's businesses
in Chicago and Dr Hoyt, buttressed by his family's fortune from a lock
company, was just about to take up private practice, having completed
internship at the Methodist Wesley Memorial Hospital.

The boys had driven to Southampton to collect them in Martin's Rolls Royce
and brought them straight (well, as straight as possible on the inefficient
English roads) to Croome through the sodden but beautiful countryside of
Hampshire and Dorset.  The wild country of the New Forest, Martin
explained, had seen much clearing with the inexhaustible demand for timber
during the War-- just another tragic loss in a land of so many.

Like many other visitors, they were anxious to know how much of the
surrounding land belonged to Martin and were dumb struck at their first
sight of the great house through the trees.  Both the Americans had
inquiring minds, especially when presented with something that they could
not ignore.  "So if the folks who live in these little houses don't want to
work for you they can leave?" asked Bunny.

Martin looked at him to see if he was serious.  "Of course, Bun, and not
everybody who lives in these cottages works for me.  The ones who do often
have a cottage tied to their position, but most of the land is tenanted to
farmers.  We meet together to discuss crops and livestock and repairs to
their cottages, but they are free to make a success or failure of their own
farm."

"You could give the lease to someone else, Mala," said Stephen.

"That's true, but in most cases neighbouring farmers will sub-let the
fields of any who are too old to farm."

"And what do they call you?" asked Dwight.

"Mostly `your lordship'," replied Martin, trying not to go red.

"And you can you judge them and send them to prison?" asked Dwight again.

"No, of course not.  But I can act as a magistrate--usually with two
others. That's like your elected commissioners and mayors in some towns.  I
can issue warrants, impose fines, set bail and petty things like that.  A
proper judge deals with criminal cases."

"So you can't say, `off with his head'?" laughed Bunny.

"No, more's the pity".

"If you don't mind me saying, Martin," said Dwight who had been thinking
about this, "that's not very fair.  You-- I mean someone like you-- could
have a dislike for a neighbour and not grant them bail, for example; you're
not elected by the people."

"That's true, although they could appeal to a higher court and there is
usually more than just me.  When it's time to elect judges and sheriffs in
small communities at home, isn't there great opportunity for favouritism
and corruption?"

Dwight had to concede that this had been known, even in Chicago.



The reunion with Chilvers was very heart-warming. "I look back on my trip
to America with great fondness, Mr Wilbur and I still receive many offers
of positions, including one from your aunt, Mr Hoyt.  I have not, however
adopted the naval uniform of Mrs Jackson McCoy's butler as you can see."

Carlo was pressed into service as their valet while Chilvers himself would
see to Martin and Stephen as there were no other guests at present.  The
reunion with Carlo was a happy one, although none voiced their remembrances
of their last night in Chicago together.

"What do you use all these rooms for?"  Bunny kept asking as they did the
grand tour.

"I can't really say, Bun, I mean I've just inherited it all and this is
what I've known all my life.  Each of my ancestors kept rebuilding and
adding until my father's time.  For me and those who will follow, it will
be a matter of maintaining what's here; the era of building is over."

"But not quite, Mala," said Stephen. "In your time you've added the tennis
courts and the new garden and electric light and central heating."

Martin hadn't thought of it that way; he had been comparing himself to the
7th Earl who constructed the baroque ballroom and the Chinese Bedroom, and
the First Marquess who built the wing that contained the Red Drawing Room.
They moved outside to Martin's new sunk garden which was now quite well
established and in which Martin himself liked to spend the odd hour weeding
and planting and tying things up.

"Why this is sure swell," said Dwight as he sniffed the scent of thyme,
catmint and camomile where these plants had escaped the strictures of the
garden beds and encroached on the old brick-and-stone paths.  "This is a
real English garden."  Martin knew what he meant; the formal garden with
informal planting was very English and this garden shared an affinity with
more humble ones such as that surrounding Miss Tadrew's cottage.  "It's my
favourite spot in the house, Martin!" concluded Dwight with real feeling.

The rain threatened to hold off for a short time and Chilvers brought
afternoon tea out to the pavilion by the tennis courts, which was gained by
Martin's new pergola walk. They discussed the possibility of playing
tennis, but decided to go riding instead.  A trip to the stables involved
Martin explaining how he had gone into business with O'Brien who was
breeding horses for sale and how well the venture had gone during the War.
Bunny was very interested and asked lots of questions.  They rode as far as
Pendleton and on their return leg called in at The Feathers.

The pub gave Bunny enough colour to satisfy him, although he did not think
the local yokels grovelled sufficiently to their lord, nor did Martin lash
them cruelly with his riding crop, when compared to the novels he had read.
Dwight kept suggesting helpful improvements that the landlord might make in
order to attract more customers, especially those with deep pockets in the
class called `tourists'. "...and then you could open a second and then a
third until all the towns in the county had a `Feathers'.  Martin said he
would discuss it with the landlord's wife who was the real brains of the
outfit, but on some other occasion.

In the lowering splendor of the gothic dining room they were joined by
Myles, Martin's secretary and, beneath the gloom, the candlelight reflected
theatrically off silver, china and crystal as well as off the stiff white
fronts of the boys' evening clothes while they were served by Chilvers and
the two footmen.  Nevertheless it was a jolly meal and was followed by
billiards-- which Dwight won-- and by bridge, which came out pretty even.

"I want to see something of bohemian life in Europe, Martin," said Bunny,
as he dealt the cards.  "I know all about how folks live at home and it
seems so stultifying; there must be more out there where the water is not
safe to drink."

"Well, we have our friend, Archie, who is a genuine artist and he is
certainly eccentric, if not actually bohemian.  He lives in a studio in
Chelsea and has very interesting parties.  Certainly some of his friends
are bohemians, but you would only be served very good champagne, I'm
afraid, and so the dangers are of a different order."

"We'll see him when we go up to London and you're sure to meet writers and
painters who are very up-to-date, not to say distinctly odd," added
Stephen.

"Yes, I hope it's not too quiet down here," said Martin.

"Oh, not at all," said Dwight. "I'm having dinner in a castle with a real
live aristocrat and sleeping in a bed that Charles I used before they cut
his head off."

"I think it was Charles II who slept here and the scandal of that visit was
that he insisted that his mistress, Moll Davis, must be invited too and
that lady had such a fine coach and such expensive jewellery that she
flaunted to all and sundry, that my ancestor wrote that she was `the most
impertinent slut in the land' and that it was an `infinite shame' that she
should have been invited at all.

"Well you have some fine cuff links, Mala," said Stephen, "and your Rolls
Royce is a very fine coach indeed."

"Are you saying I'm the most impertinent slut in the land, Derby?"

"Oh no, Mala. I've heard that there is one up in the South Riding of
Yorkshire that could knock you into a cocked hat, but..."

"Do you see what I have to put up with, Bunny and Dwight?" declared Martin,
looking at them in exasperation.  "In the days of Sir Ayland Poole I could
have had his balls removed with hot pincers for such impertinence as easily
as calling Chilvers for the coffee.  In fact I might have to devise
something similar myself tonight."

Bunny and Dwight were turning from Martin to Stephen with bewildered looks.

"It was a joke!" chorused Stephen and Martin in unison, putting their
visitors out of their misery.



"I think we will have to make it absolutely clear when we are teasing each
other, Derby, and wave a flag or something when we're being whimsical or
poor Bunny and Dwight will be tied up in knots."  Martin was saying this
from underneath Stephen who was naked and on all fours on their bed. Martin
had been interested in torturing Stephen's big balls which swung low under
the influence of gravity, but unlike Sir Ayland, he did not have the
convenience of pincers and a blacksmith's forge, and so was happily making
do with his tongue and lips, taking one, then the other of the village
stud's testicles into his mouth and occasionally pulling on the scrotum
with his hands.  "Your balls need a lot of attention, Derbs; it might take
me some time to do them justice."

"That's what I said to Prince George."

"What?" asked Martin.

"When he came to my room I made him get down and work on my balls before we
did anything else.  He is actually someone who likes being ordered around--
which is inconvenient if you're a prince-- but he loves it.  I'm sure Mrs
Allen does the same to him; he's really very young."

Martin was intrigued.  "What else did you do?"

"Well, I shouldn't kiss and tell, but I made him work on just my balls for
ever such a long time-- using just his tongue and then his hands.  I don't
like having dry balls and it's such a waste when someone is keen on them.
I then had him lie down while I squatted on his face; I tried not to think
he was the King's son.  He kept his tongue protruded while I slowly passed
back and forth-- it was heaven.

"I love it when I do that to you too, Derby."

"But you take the initiative; he likes me to force him.  I had him spit on
my cock and suck me-- although I was very hard already.  He nearly choked
himself."  Martin could imagine.  "I told him it would hurt, but he
insisted that I stick it in.  He didn't want me to use the Spong's, but of
course I did and so you can imagine the rest.  I made him clean me up
afterwards, which he did obediently and I even used his own pyjamas to wipe
up where he had spilt all over himself.  It was fun, but it could get
tiresome if the other person was forever the `slave' don't you think?"

Martin didn't ever think he'd ever be tired of being Stephen's slave but
was in fact enjoying being Sir Ayland Poole at the moment.  "Derbs, where's
your strap. I want you to put it on."

"Oh I had to give it to the Prince, although it was far too loose on him.
Sorry. We'd better buy a new one in London because I feel like wearing it
too."

Martin was now on his back under Stephen and chewing on intimate portions
while Stephen had taken Martin's cock into his mouth.  To continue talking
they each had to remove the other's member from their lips.

"Derby," said Martin, "let's go and get Dwight and Bunny.  If they want to
see something bohemian, surely an English lord with the village stud, his
lover, would be a good start.  And Derby, I wouldn't mind a bit if you
ordered me to do all sorts of things that strike your fancy, but we mustn't
confuse our visitors too much just the same.

Martin put on a dressing gown and Stephen pulled on the lemon silk pyjama
bottoms. These sat so low on his hips that his neatly trimmed pubic bush in
the shape of a heart was visible above the waist and the base of his cock
was hardly concealed at all. Where Martin had so lavishly tongued him,
there was a large damp patch on the silk. Martin felt proud.

They knocked at Bunny's door.  There was already lamplight coming from
underneath when they opened it.  Dwight was there too.  They were both
sitting up reading and Dwight's book looked to be of a medical nature.







"We thought you might like to come across to our room," said
Martin. Stephen stood behind him with his arms wrapped around his chest and
his arching cock placed in the folds of the dressing gown about where
Martin's buttocks would be.  He wobbled a little from side to side.  "It
can get rather lonely in this house and Stephen is very good at thinking of
things to do."  At this point Stephen reached around Martin and pulled his
dressing gown aside like a pair of stage curtains and Martin's half-erect
cock was displayed to the visitors.  Stephen made a playful loop of the
dressing gown cord and wrapped it around Martin's cock and balls.  Dwight
and Bunny just stared at them.  "I mean we had some fun together in
Chicago, didn't we?  And we don't regard it as wrong if we're both there,
but you might think differently."

"As you know," began Dwight, "we are faithful to each other as that is the
foundation stone of our union and what happened in 1917 was a long time
ago.  We think of ourselves as a married couple now and we try to live
decently, even though the world might think otherwise."

"Aw, don't be such a stuffed shirt, Rip.  We could play around a bit and if
we are truly strong for each other, it shouldn't make any difference at
all," said Bunny.  "You liked it once."  This was true Dwight had to admit
to himself, as he conjured up images of their romp in the Blackstone Hotel.
It was a wonder that the police had not been called.

Martin and Stephen swapped places and Martin now stood behind Stephen with
his dressing gown open and his cock pressed into Stephen's
buttocks. Stephen was practically at `full mast' and his cock tented its
silken confines obscenely. Martin ran his hands over Stephen's naked torso,
showing him off enticingly to the visitors. Stephen turned himself in the
direction of Dwight like a weather vane.

Dwight shrugged and had resented Bunny's suggestion that he was too prim.
He licked his lips at the sight before him.  "Sure, Bun. I'd like some
fun."

They got out of bed and Stephen wasted no time in removing their pyjamas
which he threw with contempt across the room and he made them traverse the
corridor, naked and on their tiptoes, as naked men are want to walk.

There was quite a bit of kissing, Martin beginning at Stephen's lips and
then moving down to kiss the soft patch of raven hair in the centre of his
chest.  Martin then turned and kissed Dwight's ear then neck while Stephen
softly kissed Bunny on the lips. Dwight, and Bunny to some extent, were
hesitant but became more enthusiastic when they got to run their hands over
Martin and Stephen.  Stephen loved Bunny's big shoulders and moved behind
him to plant kisses along their whole width while Martin was already on his
knees at Dwight's cock.  He had ceased to object.

Stephen's pyjama bottoms were removed and all three fell to worshipping
him.  "Bend over, Derbs," said Martin.  Stephen touched his toes.  Martin
parted the village studs muscular cheeks with their dusting of jet-black
hair at the margins.  "Isn't this just beautiful?" said Martin to Bunny.
Martin buried his face in the cleavage for a moment and then offered it to
Bunny.  "Bun," he said, "Stephen would love to feel your cock in there.
Wouldn't you Derbs?"  A groan signified the affirmative.  Bunny, with eyes
shining in the lamplight, began to work his own cock and Martin handed him
a tube of Spong's Soothing Salve.

At the other end, Dwight was mesmerised by Stephen's rigid, dripping
cock. "Dwight," said Martin quietly, "It feels wonderful when he's deep
inside you--even though it hurts a little at first.  Stephen would love to
put it in and I'd love to watch.  I promise you'll never forget it if you
let him do it."

"Do it, Dwight!" called Bunny, "And I will do it to him at the same time."

"And you can swap afterwards," said Stephen who thought he had better say
something seeing as how everything was being organized around him.  "And if
you give me a little rest I can fuck you too, Mala, if you'd like -- sorry
about the `cussing'."

"When have I ever said I wouldn't like?" replied Martin with a laugh and
indeed Stephen searched his mind and could find no instance; Martin was a
more than willing partner.

So they made themselves comfortable with pillows and blankets, now
unconcerned at their nakedness.  Martin and Stephen began dutifully on
their knees, using their mouths to get Dwight and Bunny hard and excited.
Stephen then spread himself with his hands and Bunny entered him, pushing
in hard to counter Stephen's strong muscles.  With a shove he was
practically all the way in and Stephen grunted and his eyes watered.
Stephen reached behind and seized Bunny's arms and clasped them around his
torso to ensure Bunny would stay inside him.  Bunny thrust and Stephen,
lost in pleasure, steadied himself on the bedpost and pressed back.

Presently Dwight presented his buttocks to a panting Stephen and Martin
assisted by repeatedly dragging Stephen's long cock the length of Dwight's
slicked cleavage. Martin had loosened him up with his fingers, but Stephen
wanted to insert his own fingers, which he did rather roughly as he was so
excited.  Bunny slowed to a halt so that this might take place but Stephen
urged him to keep him filled up.  With Martin's assistance Dwight was
finally penetrated.  He winced and Stephen went slowly, concentrating on
what he was doing without the distraction of being violated by Bunny.  All
of a sudden Dwight gave an electric jolt and his own flaccid cock jumped.
Stephen had touched him somewhere deep inside and Dwight informatively
named the exact spot in Latin.  Stephen did it again and again and there
was a similar response each time as Dwight came to enjoy it.  Bunny then
went back to work and presently it was an over-stimulated Stephen who was
pushing backwards onto Bunny and then thrusting forward into Dwight who now
held onto the bedpost as Stephen grasped his hair for leverage.

Bunny felt he was too close so he pulled out and Stephen turned round in
dismay at the sudden void he felt.  Martin took his place for a few minutes
until Bunny felt able to resume his labours.  Stephen, however never let up
on Dwight and was in so deep and touching the aforementioned spot so
effectively that the ragged Dwight's cock was hard and dripping and any
discomfort was now quite forgotten in the heat of passion.

Meanwhile Martin went from one to the other, assisting with the salve and
offering encouragement as he enjoyed the triple sight.  A sign from Bunny
drew Martin to work on his nipples and then a look of concentration told
him that Bunny had spilt inside Stephen.  Stephen sensed this and,
emphatically and repeatedly, backed into him, tightening his muscles to
milk the American dry.  Eventually Bunny pulled out and Martin was down on
his knees in a trice to sample his seed mixed with Stephen's juices.

Stephen then managed to pick up Dwight and throw him on the bed on his back
and re-entered him with renewed vigour.  Dwight spilled helplessly onto his
stomach and chest while Stephen was now a veritable tornado.  Suddenly he
pulled out and using his own hand to administer a couple of strokes, hosed
his seed all over Dwight's face.

Stephen was breathless and rested on his hands placed either side of
Dwight, panting.

"That was mighty fine!" said Dwight at last, the first to speak an
intelligible word in half an hour.

"Thanks," replied Stephen modestly. "And thanks to you Bunny; I always
produce a big load when I'm being well fucked.

"I'm next, Derby!" said Martin, excited.

"Hold on, Mala, give me a rest first.  Clean up Dwight if you can't wait
for your own."

And so he did and they found that in Martin's big bed there was plenty of
room for all of them.  It wasn't long afterwards, after much remorseless
stimulation by the impatient Martin, aided by Dwight and Bunny who had
worked out how to get Stephen aroused (which wasn't particularly
difficult), that Stephen entered Martin's choice buttocks and soon, with
the bed a sweaty mess, had deposited his seed inside him.  Bunny, however,
had fallen asleep and so he was left until the early morning when he too
was rewarded.



At half-past seven Carlo entered with a tray of coffee, having found
Bunny's and Dwight's rooms empty.  Bunny looked a little sheepish as he lay
in the midst of tangled bedding and three other bodies.  Carlo said nothing
and returned with the tea tray for Martin and Stephen that Chilvers would
normally have brought.

"Thank you, Carlo" said Martin.  "Leave them on the table.  We'll let Mr
Stephen snore on; he's had a tiring night."  Carlo left with a grin,
wishing he had been at the keyhole.

Dwight stirred and opened his eyes, just as Carlo departed.  He kissed
Bunny and looked over at the coffee.  "That was some night.  Thanks,
Martin," he said.

"Yeah, that was sure swell," said Bunny.  You sore, Rip?"  Dwight confessed
that he was.

"So, you don't want to do it again?" asked Martin mischievously.

"Oh no, siree, don't get me wrong," said Dwight in a panic, not realising
he was being teased.  "Let the big fellow sleep and regain his energy."

"He felt good didn't he?  He puts his whole heart and soul into it,"
observed Martin.

"And not just those," said Dwight, making a joke.

Martin pulled back the sheet to expose Stephen's half-hard cock that lay
across his hipbone.  Dwight, who was on the nearside, leaned down and
planted a soft kiss of gratitude on the blunt end where the long, brown
foreskin completely covered the plum-coloured head, save for just the tip.
He would have liked to have done more, but Stephen deserved his sleep.

Bunny had brought Dwight a cup of coffee from the table and Dwight took a
sip, finding it difficult to get his lips on the rim. "I think you will
need to wash your face, Rip," said Bunny and Dwight put his hand to his
cheek. Stephen's seed had dried there, puckering the skin.  He realised
with burning shame that Carlo must have seen him like this and Martin and
Bunny giggled.  The noise made Stephen roll over on his stomach and an
outstretched arm with foetid black armpit, pinned Dwight to the bed, but,
at the same time, revealing his classically-sculpted, masculine buttocks to
Martin and Bunny who then set about taking advantage of the opportunity
thus presented.



From that day onwards Bunny and Dwight were more at ease as they played
tennis went for walks and used the village gymnasium--which they thought
was `cute'.  On one rare fine day they decided to go swimming.  It had been
ever so long since Martin had been to the sacred pool in the wood, although
Stephen liked to swim even when it was cold.  The spot was largely
unchanged, with its arching ceiling and soft carpet formed by the grove of
copper beeches.  The water was very cold and only Stephen really enjoyed
splashing about.  It took a great deal of persuasion just to get Bunny and
Dwight to remove their clothes and they were terrified of being seen.
However, at last they did strip naked but could be persuaded to go no
further, despite Martin making playful grabs at their privates.  On other
occasions, however, Martin noticed that they were more inclined to be
physical with each other, touching hands and patting bottoms when no one
was about and they would now also kiss in front of Martin and Stephen,
which Martin thought was very sweet.

He and Stephen were much more daring, by comparison, Martin realised, and
frequently shocked the visitors, by their sudden passions which had to be
instantly consummated; Stephen suddenly saying that he simply must bite
Martin's buttock cheeks when they were in a deep sand trap at the golf
links; Martin having to urgently feel Stephen's recumbent manhood during
Mr. Destrombe's sermon, under the cover of an open hymnal.  Bunny was quite
shocked at this particularly sly act of blasphemy and found he had to make
a noise with the poker in the grate to cover his confusion. Mr Destrombe
merely paused and looked over the top of his glasses at him and then
returned to James Fordyce's Sermon To Young Women On Being Pleasing to Men.

However in their beds, especially after some good dinners at which the wine
flowed liberally, the Americans were now enthusiastic participants and
enjoyed swapping partners and watching the other being pleasured.  Though,
they were still a little awkward in front of the servants, even Carlo, and
made sure they were found in their own separate beds in the morning.

"Do you think they're ready for London, Mala?" asked Stephen as he lay in
bed with his arm around his lover.

"They were a bit provincial at first but I think we must be a particularly
depraved pair. I'm quite sure we would not pass that test they keep talking
about for membership of that Rotary Club thing."

"We're not so depraved; we just don't go in for humbug, that's all, Mala.
I think most people are like us underneath, except they cover it
up--`repress it' as they say now and it is probably unhealthy."

"So, if I say that I want to suck your cock right now while I insert the
black dildo in your bottom, that is not depraved?"

"Certainly not, Mala--as long as you use the Spong's first and don't put
ice in your whisky and call a dinner jacket a tuxedo."

"Derby, please don't become too sophisticated; it would spoil you.  I like
you as you are at our swimming place-- a bit wild, like Tarzan of the
Apes."

Stephen digested this for a moment and decided that it was a compliment.
He climbed from beneath the blankets and swung by one hand from the tester
over the old bed and beat his bare chest with the other and made a
bellowing noise that brought Carlo from his room.  The servant opened the
door and was wide-eyed to find Stephen still hanging there above the bed
and being silly as Martin grabbed at his cock.  "Don't worry, Carlo," he
said. "Mr Stephen simply saw a mouse and was frightened."

Shortly afterwards they found themselves on the train to London.  They were
in a first-class compartment with Carlo and Myles and they glared so
ferociously at potential interlopers in the corridor that they remained
free from the intrusion of strangers.  Martin chatted on to Myles about
appointments he must attend to in London, going over the leather-bound
diary, which was now essential for the organisation of his life, and then
to Stephen about The Plunger whom they hadn't seen for several weeks.

"You'll like him, Bun.  He's our dearest friend and we love him very much.
He's terribly rich but lives the bohemian life of an artist," said Martin
and unconsciously rested his hand on Stephen's thigh as he spoke.  Dwight
wanted to hold Bunny's hand at that moment--perhaps it was Martin's remark
about love--but he hesitated; here he was in public in a British railroad
compartment with other people and complete strangers who passed up and down
the corridor.  He kept staring at Martin's hand as the conversation went on
about him.  At one point Stephen spread his legs imperceptibly so that
Martin could slide his hand a little lower and cup his balls with just the
tips of his fingers.  Dwight was mesmerised.  He suddenly looked up and
Myles caught his eye; he had been watching him.

"The Captain-- as he was then-- and I were trapped for two days in the
cellar of a shelled farmhouse in France," he said quietly.  "I was a wreck
but he got me through. I've been a little in love with him ever since--in
love with them both really."







This confession strangely filled Dwight's heart and he boldly clasped
Bunny's hand under the cover of the light overcoat that was across his
knees.  He chanced a glance at Myles who smiled back at him.  He was
someone who understood about love.

Attention was soon directed out of the window as the countryside gave way
to the outlying fringes of London.  It was hard to make comparisons to
their native Chicago, thought Bunny and Dwight, who compared impressions,
as it was not so overtly industrial, although they passed plenty of
factories.  There were no wooden houses and, of course, everything seemed
older.  The landscape was not flat and the railways, like the roads, were
not drawn with a ruler.  Here the lines were often in cuttings whereas in
Chicago they were more often on great embankments offering a grey and smoky
panorama broken here and there by bright green patches where trees had been
planted; London seemed to have fewer trees when the endless rows of
suburban houses with narrow back gardens were at last left behind.

Finally they were at Waterloo.  Carlo and Stephen organised their luggage
while Myles found two taxis.  The rain eased and there were the initial
impressions of the great capital.  Martin was pleased when they both said
they would like to see the sights, as the leaden uninterested visitor was a
far greater burden than the enthusiastic tourist and Martin was proud of
London, even if it were not his home in the same way that Croome was.

Glass opened the door and the upper servants were lined up in the
traditional manner. There were now two young footmen at Branksome House and
their great prize, M Lefaux the chef, stood next to Mrs Smith the
housekeeper and Martin introduced les Américains to him with the
most flattering of comments.

Bunny and Dwight were shown to the first floor where their bedrooms
adjoined a bathroom in the American manner.  The old house was also very
warm and Bunny thought that only an elevator was required to bring it up to
American standards of comfort.  The visitors were taken down the carpeted
corridor and shown Martin and Stephen's room with its two doors for privacy
and the speaking tube with its silver whistle used to summon Carlo.  "At
home we have house telephones for that," observed Dwight.

Tea was taken in Martin's mother's pink drawing room-- the `double cube'
room that stretched from Piccadilly to the rear garden that was not much
more than a large plane tree in a square of indifferent lawn hemmed in by
brick walls.  The visitors were still not quite used to the ceremonial and
time-wasting tradition of afternoon tea.  It should at least have been an
opportunity for men to discuss business, but these Britishers did nothing
of the sort and, as Bunny knew, hypocritically frowned on the mere mention
of money.  Aunt Maude came with her daughter-in-law who, it was explained,
was their friend The Plunger's sister.  She was only about six weeks from
having her baby, but did not mind coming out to Branksome House.  With her
was Brian Chetwold, the fiancé of Sophia Vane-Gillingham who was
expected to be also joining them.  How did someone like Chetwold get time
of from his bank downtown to drink cups of tea in a fancy parlor?

Bunny watched all with great interest.  The ladies did not remove their
hats but did tug off their gloves.  They sat quite upright, but not
stiffly.  Chetwold left his derby--or bowler hat as they called them over
here--and his furled umbrella with Glass and sat with legs in their striped
trousers uncrossed and his knees not quite touching as he balanced a saucer
in his left hand and lifted the teacup with his right.  Drinking tea with
ladies was not considered effeminate over here.

Glass and a footman had carried in the trays a few minutes previously and
set them down on a table in front of Lady Vane-Gillingham.  There was a
silver urn with a blue spirit flame underneath to keep the water boiling.
There were two silver teapots containing respectively China and Indian tea.
Other silver bowls were for emptying out the slops in as elegant a way as
possible.  There was a silver jug for milk, which Bunny would have termed
`cream' at home and another with cubes of sugar and a set of `nips' or
tongs for their transportation.  Aunt Maude enquired of everyone how they
desired their tea--the Indian was not selected so Bunny thought it best not
to break suit.  The teapot was lifted and the tea poured through a silver
strainer, which reposed in its own silver dish.  Hot water was added for
those who desired it `black' and for those who didn't, a splash of milk was
added and perhaps a cube of sugar was dropped in without sound for such
addicts.  There was a certain way of stirring too that Bunny could not
quite make out, save to say that it was noiseless and no vortex was
created.  Sophia asked for lemon and Bunny saw there was a small dish and
tongs for this predilection.  Aunt Maude herself passed the cups to those
seated nearby.  All this was done with little interruption to the flow of
conversation--every Britisher, it seemed to Bunny, knew what to do and how
to behave and the tea was taken without any apparent regard to thirst or
display of relish-- it was simply something they did every day.

Glass and the footman then passed around small plates and napkins.  The
napkins were draped over the right knee---not particularly usefully-- and
tiny, tasteless sandwiches or thin slices of cake were dispensed.  It was
all rather bloodless, thought Bunny, and the paramount consideration seemed
to be to exhibit no expression whatsoever about the food or the beverage.
It was expected to be good, of course, but enthusiasm was considered
vulgar.

While the others could eat and sip without even casting their eyes down,
Bunny found he could not and a sideways glance showed that Dwight was
having difficulties and had already dropped his napkin.  Naturally the
visitors fielded many questions about life in America, which had something
of the air of anthropological curiosity.  When Bunny found himself giving a
rather long account of Mr Henry Ford, he found that he had let his cup tilt
and now the saucer was awash.  Deftly the footman took it way and it was
replaced with another.  Nevertheless Bunny burned as he knew the tea ordeal
was some kind of British test.

Dwight had just launched dangerously into a rather overly detailed
dissertation on diseases of the skin (his specialty) and Bunny had
understood that the enquiry from Lady Vane-Gillingham had been merely a
rhetorical one which Dwight had taken literally, when the arrival of Sophia
in the drawing room caused a welcome interruption.  All the gentlemen rose,
placing their cups and balanced plates and napkins on any available flat
surface while greetings were exchanged.  Sophia kissed her mother and her
fiancé.







The conversation resumed pleasantly, with Dwight's topic left to lapse.
Bunny began to realise there was another side to the frosty Britishers, for
Dwight and Bunny were automatically included in it without the need for
fulsome introductions and hard-sell testimonials that would have been used
in his own country--And please make the acquaintance of Mr. Jack R. Wilbur
the Third who is a swell guy and knows all the dope on property prices on
North Michigan... These people had nothing to sell and they simply assumed
that you were one of their own if you were drinking tea in Lord Branksome's
drawing room; they wouldn't dream of embarrassing one by explaining what
Wimbledon was or who Biffo was (presumably a friend rather than a pet) --
they just assumed you were like them and the human condition (at least
among the upper classes) was universal.  It was a nice feeling, decided
Bunny.

"I do hope you will both dine at Lowndes Square on Thursday," said Aunt
Maude to Bunny and Dwight, pulling on her gloves and standing.  The
gentlemen stood too. "We are going to the theatre afterwards to see Outward
Bound which has been a great success, I believe."

A quick exchange of looks with Martin told the visitors that this was
possible and Bunny replied, "That would be delightful, Lady
Vane-Gillingham," in his best English manner, rather than the more
enthusiastic, That would sure be swell that he might have been tempted to
employ at home.

In a few minutes the room was empty and Bunny realised that `tea' had taken
less than fifty minutes and that he had negotiated it successfully.

That evening they were to go to The Plunger's studio in Cheyne Walk where
he had organised a party particularly for Bunny and Dwight, and Martin was
sure that he would have gone to a great deal of trouble.  It was decided
not to dress in evening clothes and already Bunny was sensing the
bohemianism he so craved.

The first surprise as they climbed the stairs was the music --if indeed it
could be called such.  This consisted of various wails and sirens and toots
and was terribly discordant and seemed to follow no pattern.  If this was
going to be kept up all night it was going to be very hard to bear.

Gertie answered the door and was dressed as befitted a gentleman's
gentleman except for a quantity of make-up.  Dwight was a little taken
aback and was reluctant to hand over his hat and coat to this painted
houri.  The Plunger rushed up and Martin and Stephen were taken aback for
The Plunger now sported a red moustache and pointed Van Dyke beard.

"Why Plunger, you look simply marvellous.  I love it!" cried Martin.  He
went to pull it and Archie knocked his hand away.

"Steady on, Poole.  It's bad enough that children in the street call out
`beaver' without having my friends trying to pull it off."

Martin recovered himself and apologised and then introduced Bunny and
Dwight to their Svengali-like friend.  "I say Archie, what is that
frightful din."

"It is a bit challenging," admitted The Plunger, "but I expect him to be
finished in the next half an hour."  He led them through the crowd of
people to the source of the music, which proved to emanate from a group of
machines in a corner, under the control of a young man who leapt from one
to the other under the direction of the composer who was conducting
furiously with a baton.

"They're factory sirens," Archie informed them in a raised voice.  "He is a
Bolshevik, you see, and he is very anxious to create authentic
revolutionary proletarian art untainted by bourgeois traditions."

"Why is he playing here?" asked Stephen.

"Why, I wanted to give him a chance, of course, and I thought Dr Hoyt and
Mr Wilbur might be interested in something so unorthodox.  Besides, apart
from playing at Lady Londonderry's last week, he hasn't been able to gain
an audience.  His performance at Tate & Lyle's factory in Silverton was not
a success--see the bandage on the side of his head?  That was caused by a
spanner being thrown."

The performance abruptly came to a halt--the labours for the day apparently
being at an end--and the composer bowed to the room where The Plunger
glared about fiercely until everyone put their hands together.  Someone
else wound the gramophone while the factory hooters were being placed in a
suitcase.

Many of the guests had brought their paintings with them and these were set
up about the studio where small knots of people bent in earnest discussion.
Bunny ad Dwight went about the room too, armed with glasses of champagne,
and gave their opinions and talked with the artists.  Bunny felt he was at
last touching Bohemia, especially when one artist explained that his odd
composition in a trapezoidal frame and consisting of colourful overlapping
squares and triangles, was actually a portrait of his mistress holding
their illegitimate child.

Then there were the literary types.  One author turned out, on closer
inspection, to be an authoress who had just written a book on her previous
life as a horse, which, apparently, was in the time of the Amazons.
Another was an intense poet of the `Imagist' school.  He declaimed:

My boots are useless now

Their soles let in the water

Once I had a man mend them

He used leather and small tacks

These he drove with a small hammer

On a last in his shop.

Dwight eagerly reported back to Bunny that one guy he'd been talking to
lived in a windmill in Essex while Bunny confessed he had learnt that a
painter-- presently filling his pockets with sandwiches on the other side
of the studio--lived in two rented rooms in a place called Camden Town with
his mistress and four children.  It was all terribly exotic.

Along towards 2:00 The Plunger, aided by Gertie, began to throw the guests
out.  The Plunger himself paid for taxis to take the more hard-up ones to
their abodes, especially if they had to also carry their works of art home
again.

Now only Martin and Stephen and the two Americans remained in the empty
studio. Gertie appeared with his hair in curlers but carrying a very
welcome tray of bitter black coffee in tiny glass cups.  "Why thank you,
Gertie," said his master with genuine feeling.  Gertie just sniffed but
gave an adoring look to Stephen.

They climbed the ladder to The Plunger's leather mattress and sipped their
coffee in recumbent postures.  "Are you coming with us to Antibes, Archie?"
asked Stephen.

"Of course.  It's next week?  I'm looking forward to it."

"We've never been to France," confessed Bunny.

"You'll love it," said The Plunger with enthusiasm.  "The light in the
south is superb for painting.  Antibes is quaint and the peasants are au
naturel."

"The sailors are pretty natural too," said Martin recalling pleasant times.
"Do you think you'd like to have fun with some matelots, Bunny?" he asked
provocatively.

Bunny wasn't sure but felt he'd like to look at them, just the same.  "What
about it, Rip?"

"I don't know, Bun.  I'm new to all this and I don't think I'm ready for
rough strangers. They might be diseased."

"Tell them about our time with the guardsmen right here in town, Derbs.  We
were still at school then," said Martin.

Stephen put his coffee aside and lay back on a satin pillow shaped like a
zeppelin. "Well, we disguised ourselves and rented this terrible room above
an empty shop near the barracks.  It was easy to pick up three fit recruits
at the pub near the barracks. They might all be dead now," he reflected
solemnly.  "They really worked us over, didn't they, Archie?  Except for
yours, Mala."

"Yes, it was his first time and he had a fiancée who was having a
baby.  He didn't want to do anything."

Stephen went on to describe the rough encounter and The Plunger filled in
some colour.

Stephen then talked about the two Norwegian sailors at the Mission to
Seamen.  The talk was getting them all hard in their trousers and they were
quite openly rubbing themselves.

"I'm not going to make it home," confessed Stephen and brazenly unbuckled
and slipped his trousers off.  He spread his legs luxuriantly on the cool
leather squab and sighed.

"May I, Martin?" asked The Plunger.

"When have you ever needed to ask, Plunger?  Just so long as you leave some
for us, isn't that right Bunny?"  Bunny and Dwight nodded and began to
remove their own trousers.  Presently Stephen had four mouths and eight
hands on him.







"I want to watch," cried Stephen and sat up, freeing himself from the
overwhelming attention.  "Archie, you with Martin and Bunny, you with
Dwight!"

There was not much the Americans could teach the Englishmen (if The Plunger
could be so loosely described) and vice-versa and soon they had all spilled
while Stephen knelt and stroked his own cock while he watched them writhing
on the mattress. When the four had finished they lined up eagerly and
Stephen spilt generously but haltingly by manipulating the tip of his penis
with his fingers to make sure the productive fluid was spread equally to
the upturned faces and eager mouths.  Bunny, boldly and perhaps in the free
an easy spirit of bohemia, dived on Stephen's member to make sure he was
properly drained while clasping his balls as he had seen Martin do.

There was no tedious analysis, instead they simply dressed and climbed down
the ladder and crossed the studio where The Plunger bade them good night.
On the stairs the artist who had stolen the sandwiches earlier was fast
asleep, not having made it back to the bosom of his family in Camden Town
and Dwight's sharp eyes made out the distinctive broad brimmed hat of
Hibbertson the sculptor and the peacock feathers of the poetess who wrote
only in capital letters, recumbent under the cedar trees in the Apothecary
Garden where they were practicing an Art of a different kind--despite the
damp lawn.  Yes, this was certainly not Wilmette, Illinois.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGQASun9d8E



To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.