Date: Tue, 2 May 2017 22:41:45 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 16

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com  This work
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 16
Men Without Women

"It must be twenty times, Derbs."

"As many as that?  We didn't come at all during the War.  Oh yes, we did in
the summer of 1914.  Did you come when I was in Australia?"

Martin shook his head.

The boys were on the Blue Train heading south to the Riviera and the
contemplation of what lay ahead in the sunny south was, as always, the most
delicious part of the holiday.  In the modern, luxurious wagon lit they had
taken three first class compartments, for the party included Bunny, Dwight,
The Plunger and Donald Selby-Keam.  Donald had a few days leave from
Whitehall and would be returning earlier than the others.  Stephen had
discreetly paid his fare as Donald was a little hard up, having just taken
up his position and having set himself up in digs with Jack Thayer and
Charles Fortune in their house off the Fulham Road.  In fact Charles and
Jack would be joining them in a few days time when Jack had finished
supervising a PhD thesis.

Bunny and Dwight, by way of contrast, found that their American dollars
bought an awful lot of French francs and they had to be restrained from
being overly generous.

"I hope this is the last time we will have to wear these monkey suits,
Bunny," said Stephen, pleasantly, putting his finger under his stiff
collar.  "It's old clothes and short trousers at Antibes-- or no clothes at
all, if I had my way."

Bunny was very anxious to `get the atmosphere' of the south of France and
had been in earnest discussion with The Plunger about the correct artistic
attitude to adopt.  The Plunger had already in mind a particular
broad-brimmed hat and a beret, which he thought would be important as first
steps in Bunny becoming truly bohemian and to further this, a box of
watercolour paints had been purchased in London just before the journey.

Bunny's education had also been considered when they had lunched at a
little Italian place in Soho.  On this occasion The Plunger pointed out two
painters and a radical journalist sitting at another table.  In the street
some tarts plied their trade.  Bunny and Dwight were not naïve when
these girls gave them meretricious smiles, as they knew their sisters in
Chicago.

They walked around to Half Moon Street on the off chance that Custard
Featherstonhaugh was at home, but Keble, his manservant, said he was at his
job with the Northcliffe Press.  Martin and Stephen had another destination
in mind, but were unsure and they looked at each other nervously.

"Bunny," began Stephen, but taking in Dwight at the same time, "I need to
buy a new-- ahem--`athletic support' from a certain shop."  Bunny looked at
him curiously.  "This shop," continued Stephen, "sells all sorts of
interesting and exotic things, including those rectal dilators you so
kindly sent us.  Would you and Dwight like to come or would it be a bit too
much?"

The two Americans looked at each other; Bunny anxious for new experiences
and Dwight, at the mention of something that sounded vaguely medical, was
able to justify his own curiosity.

"Yes, we're game, if you are," announced Dwight.

Thus they walked the distance to respectable Bond Street where The Plunger
told them all about the expensive silver ring that he had bought some years
ago and that had been mislaid or possibly sold by Gertie.  Martin related
them something of the story of Mr and Mrs Weintraub and how the poor man
had been interned during the first years of the War.

The shop was on the first floor and a morning-suited assistant answered the
bell.  The front part of the business still specialised in books and these
were now supplemented with some fine pieces of Sevres china and some
pickled French furniture that announced they were for sale.  The more
interesting goods, as before, were in a second room gained by a pair of
mahogany doors framed by heavy brocade portieres. Here was Mr Weintraub
himself, a little older but looking terribly prosperous in elegant striped
trousers.  In the room there was another pair of customers, but at the
intrusion of the visitors they fled, making no eye contact as Mr Weintraub
bowed them out.

Bunny looked a little flushed but went from cabinet to cabinet with Dwight
who was murmuring advice about preventing infection and skin abrasions and
the like.  The Plunger went straight to the cabinet of expensive jewellery.

"Good afternoon, Mr Weintraub," began Stephen brightly, "I need a new
strap."

"Oh I hope the last one did not break, sir; they are guaranteed."

"No, I simply lost it," replied Stephen.

"I had hoped that you might have reconsidered the offer I made to his
lordship about posing for artistic portraits, sir.  I know there would be a
great demand.  We could photograph you from the neck down or you might
prefer a Venetian mask.  Your lordship might also enjoy the experience."

"What, photograph me?"

Mr Weintraub shrugged in a European manner and Martin and Stephen looked at
each other.

The proprietor directed them to a vitrine where the rings and straps were
displayed on baize.  "I'd like one that goes around my member and also my
scrotum," said Stephen frankly and then turning to Martin said, "I don't
think I will get the stretching type this time; they're too ugly and you
can do that for me, Mala."



"We have this type that lifts and separates," said Mr Weintraub with
delicacy.  "From memory you would need the largest size, but they have
press studs rather than buckles and perhaps you would find them more
convenient, although the struggle itself can be half the pleasure."

Martin nodded excitedly.  "Derby, I also think I'd like to see you in a
strap that held your member to your thigh.  Do you have such a device, Mr
Weintraub?"

"Yes, I do, but they do make walking and bodily functions a little
difficult, but a big gentlemen like sir might well profit from some
restraint."

"Well I'd certainly profit because I'd like to think of you being
restrained, Derby; it's as exciting as thinking of you flopping around in
freedom; both are exciting."

"Could I try one on Mr Weintraub?" asked Stephen.

There were a series of very elegant crimson and gold dressing rooms-- not
merely the old screen that had adorned a corner of the previous shop--and
in one of these Stephen removed his trousers while Martin watched.  Mr
Weintraub coughed and opened the curtain and joined them.  He had a thin
black leather strap with him.  He knelt down with his nose just inches from
Stephen's cock and proceeded to fit the strap around Stephen's meaty thigh.

"If sir would put his leg up on that footstool...ah, that's better."  The
strap was snapped closed.

"It's a bit too tight, Mr Weintraub," said Stephen.

"Well that's the last setting, but our workroom could add another.  Would
this be better?" he said holding it with just his fingers.  Stephen nodded.
A second strap looped around his cock and tethered it loosely to his hairy
left thigh.  It felt warm.

"Is this what your lordship had in mind?"

Martin said it was exactly.  Stephen put his foot down and, because he
wasn't hard, his cock lay obediently flat against his thigh.  He practiced
walking for a few steps while Martin fetched the others for their opinion.
It became quite crowded in the little room as Stephen admired himself in
the looking glass, and all said that they liked it.

Other purchases were made: A new silver ring for The Plunger with an
emerald; a simple cock strap for Dwight and a rectal dilator made of
flexible rubber for Bunny.

"I could have all your purchases delivered first thing tomorrow with the
alteration," your lordship.  We are very discreet, as you know, and our
green delivery motor bicycle and our green wrapping paper are
indistinguishable from that of Messrs Harrods, if you would find that
convenient?"

They did and Martin reminded himself to tell Glass to expect a package from
Harrods.

"Well, what did you think of that place?" asked Martin after they had
politely inquired after Mrs Weintraub, late of the Cameroon and now
president of the Ladies Guild at the Anglican Church in Wimbledon, and at
last they found themselves on the footpath.

"Well, we sure don't have a store like that in Chicago.  It's all so
British and all so discreet; I might have been buying life insurance or a
casket rather than something to shove up my ass!" giggled Bunny.



*****



The next morning found the express train steaming along the spectacular
Mediterranean coast, with its Alpine backdrop, its azure sea, its palm
trees, stone pines, tunnels and viaducts, orange roofs, vineyards and
tumbling bougainvillea.  They could feel the summer heat and their
excitement grew.  The train halted at Antibes and they had to heft their
own luggage and find a dozing cab driver if they did not want to walk the
whole way.

Stephen watched Bunny and Dwight as carefully as Martin had watched them in
the elm avenue at Croome.  What would their first impression be?

The horse drawing the open carriage clopped slowly through the hot, narrow
streets, where the sunlight reflected fiercely off the creamy stone walls.
They came at last to the old shops and the new plane trees of their own
street where it widened enough for M. de Blezon to put out a double row of
tables on the footpath amid kerosene tins filled with scarlet geraniums.  A
dozen locals were having their lunch.

"The plage is just down there and to the left," explained Stephen.

The Patron looked up and waved just as Mme de Blezon bustled out in her
pantoufles, wiping her hands on her apron.  She rushed over and gave each
of the boys a kiss, to the surprise of Bunny and Dwight who were then
introduced.

"And there will be two more of us in a few days, Madame," explained Stephen
to the Patronne who was always eager for customers who paid in foreign
currency.

Stephen waved his arm in the direction of his own attenuated dwelling
opposite, which hung crookedly over the street.  Bunny and Dwight were
obviously delighted for it looked rather like some illustrator's drawing in
a child's book, with the ancient stones, its peeling plaster, its crooked
roof and yet a wrought iron balcony of extraordinary delicacy.

Inside, Bunny could immediately sense act one scene one of La Bohème
with the luxurious absence of furniture, the overly solid table and the
bare boards.  Dwight noticed there was no electricity and dared not ask if
there was a telephone.

An addition to the usual tour, there was the further inspection of the new
room built into the attic.  The stairs to reach it were no more than 24
inches wide, but Hélias had put in a clever trapdoor and hoist that
would enable heavy furniture to be raised to it and indeed another bed and
mattress would be required.  The ceiling and walls were lined with
varnished boards and two little dormer windows looked out sideways over the
tiles and there was a glimpse of the sea if one stood on one's toes.  A
clever ornamental vent exhausted the heat and it functioned best when the
casements were opened wide.  "We must also get an oil heater before next
winter, Mala," said Stephen as he looked about the room.  Hélias had
done an excellent job all on his own.

It was a hot day, but the house was cool.  The cellar room was delightful
and Bunny and Dwight were pleased when it was offered to them.  "We are not
so strict about who sleeps where," confessed Stephen with a grin, "so it is
only notionally your room."

Stephen was strict about other things, however, and they quickly removed
their good clothes and dressed as fishermen.  Each person was assigned an
area to sweep and make free from the cobwebs that had accumulated over the
past six months.  There was a little scrubbing to be done and a shopping
list was compiled.  A large crate of supplies had been sent out from
England and linen and new plates were found homes and the crate itself
became kindling for the stove.

"Stephen is adamant that there are to be no servants," explained Martin to
Dwight. "We could easily get a girl to scrub and a woman to cook, but
that's not how he sees this place.  It's like camping and it does make a
nice change.  We're hardly fussy."

By 3 o'clock they were finished and were glad of a rest in the hottest part
of the day. They repaired for a meal to the bistro and Stephen ordered and
paid for yet another matelas de plumes made by the belle-soeur of the
Patronne.

"When I saw Hélias was building you an extra chambre à coucher, I
told her you'd be needing a new one.  Yes, give the money to me,
M. Etienne, it will make things easier and I will pay her when it is safely
delivered."

The food was as good as ever--calves' liver in cognac--and Martin could see
that Bunny and Dwight were impressed.  Several glasses of the local
wine--slightly rough but somehow very fitting-- put everyone in a relaxed
mood.

Bunny and Dwight went with Donald to the fisherman's quay and then the
bathing beach while the others returned to the house with bread, olives,
oil and the other things from their list.

There was a siesta, but at about 6:00 Stephen announced it was time for his
bath.  "We don't dine until about 9:00 so it's a good idea to have some
olives and such," said Stephen as he brought forth a couple of bottles of
champagne.  Bunny and Dwight were still full from their lunch, but were a
little unnerved by the late hour at which meals were taken on this side of
the Atlantic.  Dinner at 8:00 had been an ordeal enough, but they steeled
themselves and would try hard to become European.

The bath under the grapevine was ceremoniously filled with the soft, brown
water from the tap.  Some hot water from the kitchen stove was added and
Stephen swaggered out with his cock and balls swinging and lowered himself
beneath the surface.  The others gathered about on chairs and chatted and
drank the cool wine and picked at the local olives in a terracotta bowl.

"It's so hot.  Why don't you take your clothes off?" said Stephen.

Martin undid his shirt and dropped his short trousers.  The Plunger slid
down his old duck trousers and his silk underwear.  Donald pulled off his
fisherman's trousers and striped vest.  Bunny and Dwight looked at each
other then they too stripped and sat down on the slatted wooden garden
chairs, which left stripes on their buttocks.  Martin aired his sweaty
balls and shook his plump, circumcised cock in the direction of the others
and laughed.  The Plunger's long white cock remained in dignified repose,
like its owner.  Martin noticed that he had trimmed his red pubic hair,
even though Stephen often urged him not to.  Donald sat with his legs apart
and his veiny cock was slightly inflated in the warm air.  Then there was
Bunny and Dwight: thinking hard of the sporting locker rooms they knew as
they sat resolutely naked on their chairs and tried to look
unselfconscious.  Their broad, athletic shoulders tapered down to pairs of
narrow hips and their good-sized cocks were set in fields brunette and
blond respectively.

"That's better boys!" said Stephen with approval, looking about.  "Mala,
would you wash my hair?"

Martin commenced to but somehow his hands strayed and he was soon
masturbating Stephen in front of the others.  They all watched eagerly and
started to become hard.

"Stop Mala!" said Stephen.  "I just wanted everyone to feel comfortable, I
didn't mean it to lead to this."

"No, it's too late," huffed Dwight, coming over to the bath.  "Bring him
off Martin; I've got to see it now."

"Me too," said Bunny who had joined him.  Donald was stroking his own cock
with one hand while pinching Stephen's big brown nipples with the other
while The Plunger had got down between Martin's legs and was milking him as
he was performing on Stephen.

Presently Dwight arched his back, grunted and spilled into the water.
Donald was next and shot uncontrollably all over Stephen's hair.  All eyes
were now on Bunny as he was being urged on by Stephen.  He worked his
member furiously and finally he too arched his back and unloaded into the
water.  Stephen suddenly pulled him close and sucked the remaining seed
from his deflating cock.  Stephen was next and was making waves as he
spilled into Martin's hardworking fist-- an enormous load in the bathwater
that floated there like an arctic ice flow.

Martin and The Plunger then stood up with their arms about each other and
brought themselves off, adding to the soupy mixture.

"Oh, that was nice," said Stephen, laying back and relaxing.  "But I wanted
us to be naked about the house and feel comfortable without any need
for...you know..."

"No, I needed that Stephen,' said Dwight.  "It was a help in fact."  He
grinned and Martin thought how much he had unbent over the last few weeks.

They remained naked for the next hour or so and drifted in and out the
shower bath. Stephen begged them to leave the door open so he could watch
from the basket chair where he was relaxing with Beau Geste.

They dined at the bistro where just a couple of American dollars bought for
the six of them a superb meal of chicken stuffed with pickled chestnuts.
It was getting dark, but was still hot.  They strolled down to the water
and looked back to the lights of the old town.  Some noisy sailors rolled
past and the boys looked at each other.

"Well go out in the L'espoir tomorrow," promised Stephen.  "You sail a bit,
don't you Dwight?"

"I have a sailboat on the Lake."

"Good, will you teach me?  I'm still learning."

They wandered back and had a few rounds of cards in the lamplight before
`turning in'.

Stephen, as was traditional, wandered naked from room to room making sure
his guests were comfortable.  The Plunger and Donald both planted kisses on
him.

"Thank you for inviting us, Stephen," said The Plunger with candour.  Down
here is the happiest time of the year for me."

"And thank you for the train fare, Stephen," said Donald.  "I'll repay
you."

"Don't be silly, Don.  It wouldn't be the same without you and we might
need you to pick up some sailors.  Did you see how Dwight and Bunny looked
interested down on the quay?"  Donald grinned and nodded and kissed him
again before putting his head underneath the sheet where he headed for The
Plunger's happy groin.

Stephen went downstairs, out onto the terrace under the moon and stars, and
then, with soft footfalls, down the stone steps to the cellar room.

"Are you boys comfortable?  Do you have water?"

They were and they did.

"We love it here, Stephen.  We're sure grateful," said Bunny.

"I'm glad you like it and we love having you here."  He bent down to kiss
Bunny on his cowlick, but he shifted so the kiss was delivered on his lips.
At the same time Dwight seized Stephen's swinging hose-like cock and
planted a kiss on its tip, touching the slit with his tongue.  It was both
tender and electric.  Stephen pulled away.

"You two have become very naughty boys," laughed Stephen.  "How are they
going to keep you down on the farm?"

Stephen left before anything else happened.

"What happened to you?" asked Martin, perhaps a trifle needlessly, when
Stephen returned to their room with an aching erection.

"I think our American friends are becoming too bohemian, Mala.  We should
lock the door.  What do you want me to do with this?" he asked, indicating
his cock with a wave of his hand.

Martin told him.



The next day was spent sailing around the rocky coast.  It was blissful,
despite thoughts of Christopher intruding from time to time.  They all wore
hats because the sun was so fierce and the thermometer was well into the
nineties.

Martin and Stephen took Dwight with them when they called on Mrs Chadwick.
She had already picked out two possible sites for the clinic for the girls
who served the sailors and fishermen, and the contribution of Dr Hoyt was
welcome.  There were several other matters concerning the Trust that were
troublesome and Martin found he was required to produce some papers and
write a number of letters to people in England as well as here France.

"Why don't you ask Myles to come out here?  He can bring the papers and do
your correspondence," suggested Stephen.

"But this is our holiday; I don't want to be bothered with all that."

"You'll find it easier in the long run," pressed Stephen and Martin knew he
was right. A telegram was dispatched at the post office and they would meet
with Mrs Chadwick again in less than a week.

That night Stephen was getting ready for bed.  This was a simple matter of
removing the pair of fisherman's shorts he was wearing and scratching his
bottom.  "Mala, would you like to sleep with Archie tonight?"

"I'd rather sleep with you, but it might be fun.  Will you watch me getting
fucked?"

"I'd like that, but I thought it might be nice if Don slept in here with
me; he'll be going back soon and we can both talk about our school days."

"That's very sentimental of you, Derbs, but that would be nice.  Shall we
go and ask them in before `it's too late'," said Martin with a laugh.

The arrangement was swiftly agreed to and, although Stephen would dearly
have liked to have seen The Plunger's ginger cock pleasuring his lover, he
walked back to his room with his big arm resting heavily on the slight
frame of Donald Selby-Keam.

"You know, Stephen, I've always been in love with you.  I know that it will
never amount to anything, but ever since school...well quite a lot of the
boys had a `pash' for you."

"I know about Chris but...?"  Donald reeled off a list of names.  "Really,
are you sure?"

"Tompkins said he used to bring himself off behind the cricket pavilion
while he watched you doing fielding practice.  I used to do the same in my
bed at night."

"Really?" said Stephen, surprised.

"It's the way you filled out your school trousers; I don't just mean this,"
he said hefting Stephen's cock and balls under the sheet as they lay in
bed, "but your bottom was terribly attractive-- just as attractive as
Martin's, but in a different way."

"Really?" said Stephen again.  "I have a nice bottom?"

"Of course, you must know that."  Stephen rolled over and let Donald have a
closer re-acquaintance with it.  Donald kissed the hairy, muscular pair of
domes and then planted his tongue on Stephen's hole.  "You know, he said
lifting his head, "when I was at Cambridge, I frequently serviced the whole
rowing team-- usually four-- sometimes six-- fellows.  I loved being
stretched by the muscular hearties and being utterly used by them.  Was
that terrible of me?"

"No, Don, as long as you enjoyed it."

"Oh I did, but I still wished you were one of them."

He had inserted two greased fingers into Stephen, and was working
diligently.  "How does that feel?"

Stephen groaned and got up on his knees so Donald might have access to his
cock as well.  Donald's hands were small and, with the application of more
Spong's Soothing Salve, he added a third and then a fourth finger.
Stephen's cock was hard and leaking and Donald loved the fact that it was
he who was pleasuring this great slab of masculinity that he could never
hope to be and it was he who was now bringing him low --or at least under
his control.

Donald inserted half his palm.  Stephen rested his forehead on the bed on
his crossed arms while Donald continued to pleasure his raised rectum.
"Feels good, doesn't it? That's how it feels when you fuck us, Stephen.
Your hole is really opened up now; I like the way you can take it like a
man."

Steven moaned.

"Apart from Latin and Literature," continued Donald, "I think the most
important thing I've learnt is how to pleasure other chaps-- and I'm good
at it-- I love it, actually.  It's not a skill that is required all that
frequently in the F.O. of course," he laughed, "but you never know...
There were some big fellows on that rowing team too--none the size of you,
Stephen--but big chaps just the same-- although our best stroke was rather
small in fact, but I did him just the same-- and it is constantly
surprising how many of them have a fondness for other chaps when you get
down to it and for having themselves stretched like I'm doing to you."

Donald then climbed under Stephen on his back and continued to move his
fingers in and out while he took Stephen's distended member in his mouth
and worked on it with his free hand.

"Give me your load," he panted, removing Stephen's cock for just a moment.
Stephen concentrated and Donald did not flag.  Then through his fingers he
felt Stephen's muscles contract and at once his mouth was flooded with
Stephen's fulsome seed.  He was not able to swallow much and it flowed out
the sides of his mouth and ran down his neck in a terrible mess.

Stephen was panting, but was careful not to collapse too heavily on his
friend.  They worked themselves into a comfortable position on their backs,
Stephen with his arm around Donald and Donald with his head on his friend's
chest where he could feel his rapidly beating heart.

"Oh that was good, Don!" he said, reaching down and feeling his own greasy
hole, which had now miraculously contracted to its normal inscrutable
pucker.  And after a pause: "Do you remember sleeping like this at Mrs
Leybourne's?"

"Yes, of course," said Donald dreamily, "and do you remember how I would
have my hand down your trousers during lessons?'

"I was very thankful for that.  I was always randy in the afternoons."

"You were always ready for it at any hour, Stephen, and it was a heavenly
way to spend a dull afternoon in school," he said with a fond sigh.  He
bent down and kissed the side of Stephen's flaccid cock.  "Stephen," he
continued, "I'm very happy with Charles and Jack, but I don't know how to
ask them if I can bring boys back to my room.  I often feel like a soldier
or a sailor or someone a bit rough and now that I'm on my own...well it
seems a waste not to indulge."

"Don, you'll have to be very careful.  Strangers can turn on you,
especially if they find themselves in trouble with the police over some
other matter.  The police are always trying to get people like us that way.
You have a career in Whitehall to think of and Jack and Charles have
academic positions that could be in jeopardy if the police were involved,
even peripherally.  I wouldn't bring strangers back, if I were you; friends
are different.  You'd better talk to Charles and Jack about it."

"Yes, of course you're right.  I never thought of it that way; I was
excited by being on my own at last, that's all."  He turned his face
upwards and kissed Stephen then he kissed the triangular patch of hair on
Stephen's broad chest.  "It's lovely being in bed with you here, Stephen.
It's safe and warm.  Do you think you could fuck me, if you're not too
sore?  I won't let you go to sleep until you do," he giggled.



Hélias was invited to come to the beach the following day.  He came
across to Antibes on his bicycle, grinning and showing his gleaming teeth
and smoking as always.  He distributed hugs and kisses and showed off his
leg, now healed completely.  He was introduced to the Americans and was
charm itself.  A picnic was loaded into an old hired carriage and the seven
boys managed to find room, Hélias sitting up next to his cousin, the
driver, and they slowly made their way down to Cap-Eden Roc.

There were other bathers there--Germans and some French families-- however
they were all unashamedly naked.  Hélias, the most brazen, was the
first and of the group to remove his clothes and it took some persuasion
for Bunny and Dwight to follow suit.  Hélias made things worse by
saying complimentary things about their bodies rather than accepting the
situation with sang froid.  However, swimming races were a distraction and
there were the inevitable wrestling games to be played in the shallows.
Behind the rocks Hélias was very cheeky and encouraged his cock to
hardness and grinned while Dwight and Bunny--and the others--were alarmed
that strangers on the beach might see and Martin had visions of the police
being called.

Back at the house, in the privacy afforded by the thick stone walls,
Stephen encouraged an afternoon of male nakedness, with the boys reading
and playing cards as they nearly expired in the intense heat.
Hélias was disinclined to ride his bicycle home and, forsaking his
wife and daughter, slept in Martin and Stephen's bed.  The boys hoped that
Hélias' exhaustion in the morning and a certain tenderness as he
mounted his bicycle would not betray his secret to those at home.



The next day Myles arrived on the same train as Charles and Jack.  It was
such a hot and sunny day that work was immediately forgotten and they
headed directly for the plage.  It was the crowded beach closest to the
town so they wore their costumes. Stephen now wore just his trunks and had
abandoned the singlet that had formerly formed a rather inadequate fig leaf
covering his handsome chest and back.  Several other young men-- French and
Italian--were also naked above their waists, Martin noticed.

In the evening Myles got out his papers from the important looking
attaché case he had carried on the train.  These were spread out on
the big table and Martin was engaged for some hours.  They would see Mrs
Chadwick the following day.

"Where am I to sleep, Martin?" asked Myles on towards midnight.

Jack and Charles occupied the new bedroom where Hélias had helped
them haul up the new bed through the clever trapdoor in the landing floor.
Bunny and Dwight had possession of the cellar, although this was shared
with Stephen's punching bag and exercise equipment.  Donald and Archie had
the other bedroom where sounds in the night indicated that the unlikely
couple was finding common ground.

"Well, it's either down here on cushions or in with Stephen and me.  Which
do you prefer?' asked Martin needlessly.

Martin sighed, for the answer was obvious and when Myles was naked and in
their bed on one side of Stephen and Martin was on the other Myles added:
"I hope that this is alright, I mean this is your holiday and we have kept
things on a professional footing this last 12 months."

"Don't worry, Harry, I'm used to having to share him.  There is enough of
him to go around, isn't there?"

"There certainly seems to be an unfair distribution," said Myles in a
lightsome tone as his hand met Martin's on the shaft of Stephen's half-hard
cock.  "Did I tell you about us in the War?"

Martin had heard the story more than once, but he let Myles relate it again
because he liked stories that showed Stephen in his true light and he
understood that it meant a great deal to Myles.  Besides, the story, as
recounted, was quite erotic and Martin's imagination went readily to the
shelled out farmhouse where the scared private was given comfort--or at
least distraction-- in the form of a brutal, but clearly memorable, fucking
by his captain who was also scared but could not let one of his men see it.

"Do us both, Derby," said Martin at long last, "make us forget."



Lazy days followed.  It was a terribly hot July and August and the beach
was really only bearable in the mornings and late afternoons.  The shade of
the grapevine and the cool of the cellar room were therefore welcome.  The
Plunger taught Bunny to sketch in the vegetable garden and he did some nice
little studies of the surrounding houses with their crooked outlines.  The
application of watercolour was not always successful, but Bunny looked and
felt anything but American in the broad-brimmed hat that The Plunger
produced that had once belonged to Augustus John.

Donald had to return to London and there was a certain amount of shuffling
about of beds, however Stephen tended to respect the privacy of the
couples: Charles and Jack, and Bunny and Dwight and, apart from his little
visits at bedtime, they were left largely unmolested. However in the
daylight hours Stephen did encourage the four of them to move about the
house in a state of nature, without embarrassment and he thought himself a
poor host if they were not.

With Martin and The Plunger it was different.  He liked them to sit on his
knee (and other places) in front of the others until a point came where
Bunny and Charles and the two Americans were quite used to walking into the
main room or out to where Stephen's bathtub sat to find Stephen with his
nose in The Plunger's red pubic hair or his tongue tasting Martin's
circumcised cock-head or to find both of them down on the floor and working
on Stephen's balls as he squatted on his haunches; Stephen's balls,
apparently, requiring much close attention and at frequent intervals.  It
was, therefore, a somewhat uninhibited male household.

At the end of the second week a letter arrived from San Raphael.  It was
from Gerald and Sarah Murphy who had heard that Lord Branksome was at
Antibes and they invited them to lunch.  Charles and Jack were unsure if
they wanted to go--they hadn't come to Europe to meet other Americans-- and
The Plunger was also disinclined as Picasso had not been mentioned, but
Stephen and Martin felt that they must, even if it meant putting on their
linen suits and soft collared shirts.

A hired car took them around the coast to the red-and-white villa the
Murphys were renting as their own was still unfinished.  They were in time
for luncheon, which was an informal affair but taken in a very elegant
dining room with tall windows opening on to a terrace with steps that led
down to the bright sea.

Gerald and Sarah were quite relaxed, as usual, and their glasses of whisky
perhaps indicated another reason for it.  Handshakes and kisses were
exchanged and Bunny and Dwight were presented to them.  Immediately they
fell into conversation and of course they inevitably had people they knew
in common--especially Dwight who had family in Boston.  Martin noted how
the American twang in their accents became more pronounced when they were
at ease with their fellow countrymen.

"Hemingway, I'd like you to meet my friends from last summer and their
houseguests from over at Antibes," called Gerald.

Hemingway proved to be a young man of solid build with a rather big square
head. He was from Chicago and knew of the Hoyts and the Wilburs.

"Ernest is a writer, aren't you, Ernest?"

"I'm trying to be.  At the moment I'm just a stringer for a Toronto paper."

"What are you writing?" asked Martin, knowing that this was always a touchy
topic to broach with budding authors.

"Well, short stories and poems, but I've had a bit of bad luck; the
suitcase containing some manuscripts was lost on the French railroad."

As he said this, he glared at a women with bobbed hair who had just entered
the room. He broke off while Gerald introduced Mrs Hemingway who was an
attractive woman, several years older than her husband, and of a
comfortable roundness that seemed to be very pleasant indeed.  "But I'm
working on a War story now."

Martin thought that this might be the sum of his revelations, but Hemingway
was in a talkative mood and kept returning to the topic all through lunch.

"I was on the Italian front during 1918.  It was pretty terrible I can tell
you.  Up in the mountains the men froze and had to sleep together just to
stay alive.  Down on the Venetian plain there was hard fighting against the
Austrians.  It was no place for shirkers and pansies."  He glared fiercely
around the table.  Martin felt uncomfortable.

"You were in the infantry?" asked Dwight.

"No, I drove a Red Cross ambulance, Dr Hoyt."

"It was Ernest's experiences when he was wounded that prompted him to
write," said Hadley, his wife, who the boys thought might have a hard time
of it living with her husband.

"Yes, I met Dos about then.  He told me to write.  Gerald tells me you met
him here last year." Martin nodded.  "He encouraged me and persuaded me to
come back to Europe.  But it was the courage of the men--the wounded men I
saw in my hospital in Milan--that impressed me while I lay near death."
There was a dramatic pause after this confession.

"Ernest received shrapnel wounds in both legs-- in Veneto wasn't it?" said
Gerald, breaking the silence, "and he still managed to carry a wounded
Italian soldier to safety."

Hemingway didn't deny it and went on: "In my story I have an American who
has been wounded-- shot in the balls," he said bluntly, "and he feels he
can't go home to America and so he drifts around Europe.  Can you imagine
what it would be like, Lord Branksome, not to feel like an entire man?"  He
concentrated his black eyebrows on Martin who was attempting to drink his
chilled lettuce soup.

"No, I can't.  It would be awful, I imagine," he said with his spoon
poised.  He thought of Stephen; his big balls would have been easy German
targets.  How would he feel about his lover if he were impotent?  Hemingway
had asked a good question without knowing it.

"The question, I'm posing," he continued, "is: what is it to be a man?  I
mean a real man, not the pathetic products of this age, which seems
dominated by faggots and fairies, but a real man who pits himself against
the world and sees the beauty in physical actions--even violence; one who
aches with the confusion that this brings. Ezra says to look to Italy for a
revival of the glories of strength rather than the worship of weakness."

"Of course we can't be soldiers all the time.  No one wants continuous
war," said Bunny.

"No, of course not, Wilbur.  War and inflation are the two signs of a
failed country, but war is the crucible in which our mettle is tested.  In
war there is courage and grace as well as bloody murder.  Men need war and
women need men who need it.

"Do you know what the Italian soldiers wrote on the walls of the houses
after they had beaten the Austrians at the Piave River?  E' meglio vivere
un giorno da leone che cent'anni da pecora.  That means: it is better to
live one single day as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.  That sums
up what war means for the Italians.  They know what it is to be a man.
Look at Italy today; it is a nation discovering its cojones as the
Spaniards say."

Martin wasn't so sure and thought of the comic opera figure of Mussolini
who was all puffed up like a bullfrog.

"Have you been to Pamplona for the San Fermin Festival and the running of
the bulls?" continued Hemingway.

"What's that?" asked Stephen.  The others at the table sketched him the
details.

"We're going again in two days again, Hadley and me.  There you see the
virility of the unspoilt Spaniard in all its glory and simplicity.  The
Spanish worship it in their matadors and in the bulls they are pitted
against.  Every Spanish boy knows what it is to be a man."

"Both are well-endowed reproductively, Ernest?" suggested Sarah Murphy
mischievously, raising an eyebrow.  Hemingway didn't answer her directly
but observed that the bullfighters and the bulls had a respect for each
other that bordered on the sacred.

"I couldn't make Scott understand that.  He has a fondness of weakness."

"But his new novel is already published," said Gerald, trying to change the
subject. "You remember the Fitzgeralds of course," he said to Martin,
"Well, Scott's new book should be available in London by the time you
return.  It is short, but very good."

"I hear you box, Mr Knight-Poole.  Would you care to spar with me after
luncheon?" asked Hemingway suddenly.

Stephen didn't particularly want to, but he agreed.  The servants set up
cane lounges under the shade of the stone pines on the terrace on which the
less virile guests reposed with their ice-filled drinks while Stephen and
Hemingway stripped to the waist and Hemingway tied a pair of gloves on
Stephen.  Hemingway apparently carried a great deal of sporting equipment
in his luggage.

Hemingway had a good pair of shoulders, like Bunny, and he explained that
he had `done track' and played football at high school.  His chest was
broad, although not as deep as Stephen's and despite being slightly
younger, his chest was already covered with a drift of dark, wiry hair.

"Can you lend Mr Knight-Poole some trunks, Gerald?" asked Hemingway.

"Stephen, please."

Murphy had none but a servant found some loose short trousers that would
do.  They were too big to have been Gerald's, so they must have been left
behind by a house guest--perhaps Picasso.

Stephen went back in the direction of the house to change into them and
Hemingway followed him as the gloves would make changing impossible.  The
improvised locker room was the luxurious lavatory and bathroom adjacent to
the front door.  Here Stephen fumbled in his gloves.

"Leave me have a go," said Hemingway and proceeded to undo Stephen's
belt. Stephen was silent.  His suit trousers cascaded to his ankles and his
cock was free.  It was girded by the new strap that embraced and divided
his balls.

Hemingway visibly blanched. "Good God!  What's that?"

"Just a support for my privates," replied Stephen.  He bent down to pick up
the trunks from the floor, perhaps a little unnecessarily slowly, and
Hemingway gained a superb view of Stephen's big balls from between his
sturdy legs.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"No, it feels good.  Makes me conscious of them.  Could you help me do up
these?"

"What?"

"Help me put my trunks on, Mr Hemingway."

"Ernest, please.  You don't wear any undershorts?"

"Not since I was 11."

"My mother never would have allowed that back in Oak Park.  She was very
strict," he replied with a disgusted snort.

"I was an orphan."

"Lucky you.  Sorry I didn't really mean that, it's just that my mother..."

The budding author was clearly rattled and looked pale beneath his tan.
His hands shook as he tried to do up the buttons.

"You'd better do up my fly.  I don't want to shock the ladies," said
Stephen good-humouredly.  It took Hemingway more than one attempt.
"Thanks.  Please don't go too hard on me; apart from my weekly practice, I
haven't had a proper fight since 1919.  I made some money by boxing against
Australian soldiers--it was tough, but fun."

"You were in the War?"

"Yes," said Stephen simply.  Hemingway noted the scars on Stephen's white
skin, but asked no more.

"There, that's better." Stephen bounced on his feet and touched his gloves
together. Hemingway was mesmerised by Stephen's cock and balls, which were
outlined in his trunks as they moved recklessly about.  "Now we'll get
Gerald to lace up your gloves. Are you ready?"

Hemingway wasn't entirely sure, but followed Stephen out onto the terrace
where the others were waiting with lazy impatience.

They began in good grace, not really trying for body blows, although
Stephen thought that Hemingway might well be very competitive under
different circumstances.

Stephen made some silly jokes and Hemingway smiled weakly.  Something,
however, was putting the American off his game and he found it hard to get
into a rhythm. Stephen did a lot of work on his toes.  A few blows
connected and Hemingway replied with a few of his own.  He had a strong
right, but it was no use; Hemingway was distracted by the memory of
Stephen's privates of Pamplonian proportions and he was leaving himself
vulnerable.  The match continued for a few more minutes and Stephen landed
some powerful blows to Hemingway's unprotected side and then Stephen
complained of a cramp in his calf and the contest was called off and the
guests on the terrace resumed their individual conversations.

"Sorry, Ernest," said Stephen.  "I'm not in very good form and have
probably been drinking too much wine, but thank you for the match."  Gerald
Murphy untied their laces and Stephen put his sweaty arm around Hemingway's
neck in a friendly fashion as they headed back into the house.

"I stink!" said Stephen, sniffing his armpit and grinning.  "Unfit for
polite society."  In the bathroom he simply dropped his improvised trunks
on the marble floor and moved to the mosaic-tiled shower recess, removing
the strap from around his cock and balls and casting it aside.  The shower
bath was an elaborate continental type with many taps, gold-plated pipes
and handheld sprays.  It took Stephen a few minutes to work out the
plumbing and to get the temperature right.  Soon he was being soothed by
the hot water over his body in a cloud of steam.  He soaped himself
vigorously and washed his hair.  "Come on Ernest; get in or you will be a
pariah all afternoon!" he called.

He saw a naked form moving in his direction through the wired-glass of the
nickel-framed door.  He leant forward and opened it for Hemingway who
stepped inside, looking down at his feet.

"You've got a powerful right arm, Ernest, and a strong chest; you're very
fit."  He handed the soap to him and smiled.

"I try to keep myself in shape.  I do a lot of hunting too.  Have you ever
shot a bear?"

"No," said Stephen. "Cricket is my other sport."

"Oh," said Hemingway who was running the water over himself, but not daring
to do more than sneak a sideways look at Stephen who was rinsing his hair
while a cascade of water flowed from the end of his flaccid cock onto the
floor.

"You must have had a lot of women," he began suddenly.  Stephen wondered if
he was blushing, but couldn't tell in the shower.

"Some, but not so many."

"Older or younger?"

"Some older; some younger."

"Ever fucked more than one at a time?"

Stephen thought about this question carefully and found it could be
answered honestly.  "Yes, quite often."  There was a long pause.

"And you were always...adequate...that is you never had any trouble...I
mean you never had any thoughts that cruelly intruded and made it suddenly
impossible...to... um...satisfy..."

"No, Ernest, I suppose I am lucky that way."

"I mean when I saw you just now...you know...and I saw that heart you've
had trimmed down there I knew you were both a man's man and a ladies' man,
if you don't mind me saying."

"I don't know anything about that.  I'm just a man, that's all, Ernest.  I
don't know what a man's man is.  It's hard enough just being an ordinary
man."

Hemingway said nothing and left the shower cabinet soon afterwards.
Stephen let the water run over his back for a little while longer.  When he
emerged, Hemingway was getting dressed.  Stephen took one of the Murphys'
luxurious towels and put it around his neck and swaggered out with his cock
and balls swinging provocatively between the two tree trunks that were his
muscular thighs.  "Thanks again for the match."

"How's the cramp?"

"Still painful," lied Stephen and put his foot up on a stool and massaged
what he hoped was the correct calf.  This gave Hemingway a movable feast
for his eyes, for Stephen's cock and balls were displayed to their
finest--although Martin liked them in any mood.

"Try some liniment," was all Hemingway was able to say as he was making a
poor job of his tie with nervous fingers.  In a moment he was out of the
door and Stephen smiled to himself as he imagined him breathing hard.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=UCdCyqkJGZQ

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.