Date: Tue, 7 Feb 2017 20:39:33 +0000
From: h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book IV (Revision) Chapter 4

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),
302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 4
A Bill of Fare


The hot pâté en croûte was superb and Martin recorded
this hors-d'oeuvre in his tiny silver notebook with a pencil.  He was
planning to discuss the food of France with M. Lefaux, the chef at
Branksome house, lately returned to them.  He knew he would have to be
diplomatic, for Lefaux was a Great Artist and, like many a diva, inclined
to be temperamental and to break things.  This pâté was
followed by brochettes et truites, tomates farcies and then a very plump
poulet aux haricots verts --really the spécialité du
pays--then coeur à la crème and finally pâtisseries et
fruits.  It was really one of the finest luncheons of their trip so far.

They were avoiding the big towns and the more luxurious hotels that catered
for what foreign tourists expected to find--breakfasts for the English,
absence of garlic for the Parisians and iced water and prepared foods for
the Americans.  They had sought out the little unpretentious places where
the local bourgeoisie went to celebrate and where mamam did the cooking,
rather like the Bistro de Blezon in Antibes.  At present they were about 60
kilometres beyond Lyons and had been on the road for a week.  They had just
finished an interesting bottle of Seyssel followed by a perfect Beaujolais
and were now, as the conversation was flowing, capping the lazy afternoon
with a glass of the local Marc.

"We will have to have separate rooms again, I'm afraid," said Martin.  "The
pension is charming but tiny and the walls are paper thin.  Do you think
you can save yourself, Derby?"

"Of course, Mala" said Stephen.  "I have powerful self-control.  However,
just don't bend over to pick up that sou, Archie, I might find myself
mounting you like a bull."

The Plunger shivered with delight.  He had been having a wonderful time
with his two friends, with only a few moments when Stephen and Martin could
detect a certain sadness-- tristesse as the French called it--in his eyes.
He was a solitary fellow, The Plunger, and not given to revealing much
about himself; you had to work at it.  Martin perhaps had been his only
close friend at school.  He had also been very good in the matter of
bringing just a small Pullman trunk on this trip.  Gertie, his valet, had
been left behind, for it was one of Stephen's rules that they were to look
after themselves in Antibes, without servants.

Martin's huge Rolls Royce had been packed with luggage.  The Plunger's
trunk was lashed to the luggage rack as were a suitcase each for Martin and
Stephen.  A picnic hamper was strapped to the running board and distributed
throughout the vehicle were supplies for Antibes including some army
blankets (for Stephen had a liking for them), presents for their friends,
documents, maps and two cans of petrol, as France was ill-equipped for
motorists and it was easy to get stranded.  They had obtained British
passports, for the days of unfettered travel across Europe were at an end
and borders were now hostile, dangerous places even for the upper classes.

The route they had chosen avoided those parts of northern France lately
associated with the War.  They had headed for Brittany and wound their way
through central France, marvelling at the differences in the huge country.
They had seen Chartres and had eaten duck with calvados.  They turned south
to the Vendée and, beyond Nantes, they saw houses painted pink and
yellow and there were oleanders in tubs at their doors.  There they ate
wonderful soles with delicate sauces, plump Atlantic sardines and a stew
called chaudraie.  There was goats' cheese.

They headed to Perigueux in the curious region called Perigord where the
barefooted peasants still worked the land of the métayer and lived
under his roof.  It seemed a happy land where snails were the
spécialité du pays and there was a hearty peasant dish of a
fowl cooked in soup.

They followed the banks of the Dordogne then turned northwest to the Rhone
below Lyons.  From here they headed south to Dijon (where the dined at des
Trois Faisans) and on to Chablis (where they ate Jambon à la
Bourguignonne) and finally to ancient Avignon, with the Mediterranean in
sight.

It was late in the morning when Martin's motorcar rolled into Antibes. They
negotiated the narrow streets of the old part of the town and drew up in
front of the familiar house. The car blocked the street and would have to
be moved.

The first thing that Martin noticed was that there was a well-grown plane
tree in front of Stephen's house.  It reached up to just below the balcony
on the first floor.  Down the twisted street could be seen several more
trees in handsome wrought-iron guards casting welcome pools of shade on the
light-coloured stone.  "This must be Mrs Chadwick's work," said Martin.

They had just made a start on the luggage straps when there was an eruption
from the Bistro de Blezon opposite and a small crowd surged into the street
lead by the Patronne and her husband.  There were squeals of delight, tears
and kisses.  Mme de Blezon kissed and hugged the three boys and was so
overcome that a chair had to be fetched and she was lowered into it and
fanned with a napkin while she wiped her eyes with her apron.  M. de
Blezon, also with moist eyes, kissed them more formally-- three times on
the cheek and he was followed by others in the crowd, including M. le
Maire, but most of whom were comparative strangers to Martin.

All the boys could do was smile and summon French phrases that stated they
were glad to be back and how `Antibes must have missed us'.  Presently Mme
de Blezon recovered and excitedly bustled the boys across to the old stone
house, which had formerly been the retail and manufacturing establishment
of a maker of coffins, while the townspeople returned to their morning
coffee and brandy or inspected the fine silver-and-red motorcar which even
now was blocking a donkey wagon and a camion.

The old door was opened and there stood the great room with its big table
from the convent, the dresser from the apothecary with its thick
earthenware plates, the chairs of rush and cane on the rag rugs and the
paintings done by William, Martin's brother, so long ago.  Martin was
pleased to see it all again, but was curious why Mme de Blezon was so
excited.

"Why the place is spotless, Mala!" cried Stephen and turned to Mme de
Blezon who smiled broadly and explained that all their friends had worked
hard when the news of their imminent return had reached them and the dust
and cobwebs (and mouse droppings, it had to be admitted) of the past six
years had been expunged.

M. de Blezon stepped forward and explained some small repairs that had been
effected over that time and how he had stored potatoes in the cellar room
during the bad winter of 1917-- but assured them that they were now gone.
They stood on the flagged terrace next to Stephen's bathtub (which had yet
to be cleaned) and marvelled at the delicate green light cast by the
grapevine that was little more than a stick six years before.

Stephen was almost bursting with happiness.

They returned to the street and commenced to ferry in their luggage, Mme de
Blezon taking note of everything.  The problem of the large automobile was
glaringly obvious but the Patronne put forward the plan that the vehicle
might be garaged in the empty stable of her neighbour, the dealer in silk
and ladies' underwear, for a small fee which she herself would take for the
convenience of the English visitors and to speedily expedite matters.

Alone at last, the tour continued and many things, once familiar but then
forgotten, were rediscovered.  There was sadness in Stephen's eyes when
they went down to the cool cellar bedroom that had been Christopher
Tennant's.  Nevertheless, they thought they would use it if the weather
became any hotter.  The Plunger inspected his room, which had a tiny
balcony that looked over M. de Blezon's immaculate vegetable garden and the
ancient, twisted olive trees.  "I think it will be best for you to sleep
with us, Archie," said Stephen.  "I fear you might be lonely at night."
The Plunger replied that he feared nothing more that loneliness and agreed
that it would be for the best.

The army blanket was spread over the matelas de plumes in the main bedroom
and, despite the heat, Stephen was persuaded to strip off and climb
underneath.  Of course Stephen looked devastatingly handsome under it and
The Plunger vowed to sketch the scene and arranged the blanket so various
portions of Stephen's shoulders and chest were exposed and his muscular
arms and black armpits were given full effect by placing his arms behind
his head.

"Never mind the drawing, Plunger, I'm about to spill in my trousers," said
Martin urgently and both boys commenced to work on the grinning Stephen,
rubbing his cock and balls though the rough blanket and planting soft
kisses on his lips, chest and the flaunted armpits from either side of the
bed.

Soon Stephen was uncovered and his long, brown foreskin was worked
backwards and forwards, revealing and then concealing the pink head. He
groaned in delight. Martin then showed The Plunger how to tease out the
foreskin with the tip of one's teeth.  "He likes it stretched, Plunger; you
won't hurt him."

Stephen grabbed his ankles and rolled back, indicating what he would like
next. Martin parted his muscular cheeks with some force and licked the
silky black hair that lined his trench and tasted of sweat.  A deeper
exploration revealed the tender hole and Martin probed that with his tongue
before changing places with The Plunger.

"Finish me off, boys," moaned Stephen and the two friends began to suck and
masturbate him until Martin judged that he was ready to spill.  The
eruption, when it came, was partly intercepted by their expectant, panting
tongues and also, so it seemed, by everything else in sight.  Stephen
scooped some up and tasted it. "I like yours better.  Spill on me, you
chaps."

Martin and The Plunger put their arms around each other and, after
experimenting with masturbating each other, reverted to their own hands and
cocks and presently, in perfect timing, deposited their seed simultaneously
on Stephen's chest where it congealed with Stephen's effluvium in a mess
that was at once disgusting and terribly attractive--such as being the
oddity of human perception.



It was a more acceptable sight that greeted the maid, Cloutilde, who opened
the door at Mrs Chadwick's fine house in another part of the town.  She
bobbed and smiled at the three good-looking young men and ushered them into
Mrs Chawick's highly polished drawing room that smelled of potpourri and
beeswax.  It was little changed. Mrs Chadwick appeared almost instantly.
She was on a stick and appeared somewhat older.  Martin felt distressed at
the cruel, inexorable passage of the years; they had not seen each other
since 1914.

"It's nothing, Lord Branksome," said Mrs Chadwick, indicating her stick.
"I had a fall on the cobbles, that's all."  When she spoke she was of old
and the years seemed to slip away as she talked animatedly about all the
events that had taken place.

"We saw the trees, Mrs Chadwick," said Stephen.

"Yes, they've been a great success, haven't they?  They were planted in the
early part of the War and we've had very little vandalism.  A local man
made the iron guards.  I was thinking that we could plant an avenue,
perhaps along the quay, with a tree for each of the fallen men of the town.
What do you think?" The boys thought it was a fine idea.

"Could there be a plaque for each one?  Could, perhaps, the members of the
family plant the tree in a ceremony?' suggested The Plunger.

"That is what I was thinking, Mr Craigth," said Mrs Chadwick.  "You know
the Trust funds have accumulated very nicely over the years and the fall in
the franc has meant our sterling will buy much more."  Martin nodded.  Mrs
Chadwick was no fool, Martin thought, as she outlined schemes for the
orphans and the maimed as well as more light-hearted ones such as for
picnic shelters ("But not like Brighton") for tourists on the plage and
along the ramparts and at the old fort, which were tourist attractions.

"Mr Podberry has retired to England, I'm afraid," she continued.  "Mr Worth
is the new vicar of the English Church over at Nice.  He's a youngish man
and very keen on the sung Eucharist.  He fears that they will soon want to
build super hotels here, like Cannes and Nice, but I can't see it myself.
Of course we have the hotel and the new villas at Cap-Eden Roc, but they
have always been a bit different to us here in Antibes d'ville, I've always
maintained.  "Have you seen Hélias?" The boys shook their heads.
"His aunt tells me he is engaged to be married to a girl from Vallauris.
It will do him good to settle down.  He was wounded in the War, you know,
and gassed too.  He lost that little friend of his, what was the fellow's
name?"

"Joni"

"Yes, that's him.  He got you your boat, Mr Knight-Poole, didn't he?"  It
was true. Joni had found the Joue Rose, which was painted and named for the
hue of Martin's buttocks and he had taught Stephen the rudiments of
sailing.  The whereabouts of the vessel had not occurred to Stephen since
they had arrived.

Cloutilde served a very English afternoon tea with cucumber sandwiches and
a caraway seed cake improved immeasurably through the addition of a French
liqueur. As they balanced their plates on their knees and held their
teacups in the correct English manner, Mrs Chadwick asked after all those
`at home' whom she'd met on her memorable visit before the War, paying
particular attention to Miss Tadrew, whom she had slighted, not realising
she was the women who had raised Stephen.

"I do hope you can come and see the new roof at the Little Sisters' convent
and the start we've made on the Mission to Seamen," she said as they rose
to go, "we have purchased an old warehouse not far from the fisherman's
quay."  They promised they would and took their leave into the hot Riviera
sun.

There was time for a quick bathe on the plage in Antibes and their bathing
costumes were worn.  The Mediterranean looked as blue as the coloured
postcards depicted it and the sky was cloudless.  They frolicked in the
water and held swimming races, ducking the losers, and cast their eyes
about for the German boys who used to come before the War.  It was mainly
French families now--which was not surprising in the summer season--and
there were a few voices that might have been Russian, but it was hard to
tell.  Two good-looking Italian boys walked past in their costumes.  They
were swarthy and heavy-lidded and they smoked in the continental manner,
knowing that all eyes were upon them, their glossy hair, elaborately
coiffed, suggesting that they had not been anywhere near the water unlike
the hearty English types.

They dined at 9 o'clock at the Bistro de Blezon where the Patron had
prepared something special (which Martin recorded in his silver notebook)
and where Mme de Blezon sat down at their table and commenced to inform
them of all the doings that had not been covered by Mrs Chadwick.  Madame
and Monsieur both looked older, with more grey hair, but Martin realised
that they must look older to them too-- no longer the young schoolboys who
had first come here by accident.  Mme de Blezon made Stephen show some of
his scars and when Martin revealed that he had won the Croix de Guerre at
Peronne, the couple wept and Stephen was made to stand and was kissed on
the cheeks.  A small crowd gathered at their table.  M. de Blezon was moved
to fetch a really good bottle of champagne but was careful to add it to the
bill at the end of the meal.

Over coffee, the Patronne returned and told them all about Hélias.
His fiancée was a young girl from a good family in Vallauris where
her father owned a very prosperous clay hole.  Cecile was very pretty--
especially in a chic seal coat she possessed--and was entirely devoted to
Hélias when not on her knees in church (she went to mass practically
every day) and her dowry, as Hélias' mother had arranged it, would
be a substantial one.  The boys looked at one another as Mme de Blazon
continued the breathless narrative.

They crossed the street but it was too hot to sleep.  The lamps were lit
and they sat in the basket chairs for a long time, quietly reading.
Stephen had started This Side of Paradise by an American author.  The book
had been sent over by The Plunger's aunt along with a grittier one called
Three Soldiers, which The Plunger was now embarked upon.  Martin was
completely lost in an English translation of a French novella called
Chéri and could see many similarities between its protagonist and
his own Stephen, but he kept quiet and merely smiled to himself when he
read about Chéri admiring himself in the looking glass wearing
nothing but Lea's pearls.

At two in the morning they descended to the cool cellar room.  Stephen felt
disappointed that he would not be able to walk out onto his balcony over
the street in the morning with his erection hidden only by the tubs of
geraniums; however they could make as much noise as they wanted to in this
downstairs room as they could not be heard by passers-by.  Stephen thought
they might make a lot of noise.

Stephen was positioned in the middle and he had his big arms about Martin
and The Plunger.  They talked for a while with Stephen distributing little
kisses when he felt the need.  "Are you still boxing, Archie?" he asked as
he ran his hands over The Plunger's shoulders.

"I haven't for years, but I use the chest expanders every day at home."

"I'd like to box with you again, Archie.  I like to see you sweating and
your cock swinging.  We'd go easy on each other, of course."

"Do you think I should buy some gymnastic equipment for my studio?  There's
room."

"That would be a good idea.  I could come and train with you sometimes.  We
still have the equipment in the mews behind Branksome House.  We could get
some equipment for here too.  Would that be extravagant?  We could hang a
punching bag from that beam and we could have nude training--that would be
a rule.  Let's make a list of equipment tomorrow.  We'd have to go to Nice
or Cannes to order it, I suppose."  The Plunger agreed.  There was a long
sleepy pause. "Archie, are you happy?"

"I'm not sure, Stephen.  I think I need someone-- someone other than
Guevara."

"What's he like, Plunger?  We've never met him."

The Plunger drew a long breath in the quiet of the cellar room and began:
"Well, he's very dark and good-looking, like you Stephen.  I told you he is
also a boxer, like you, Stephen.  He's also quite unfaithful."

"Like you, Stephen," chimed in Martin, mischievously.

"Steady on Mala!" cried the accused, spluttering.  "I love you."

"Yes, Poole, that's the difference.  Guevara doesn't love me and he has no
idea of faithfulness.  If only he was like you, Stephen, I might be happy,
but there you are."

"Poor Plunger!" said Martin, leaning over to plant a kiss on his
lips. "Does he satisfy you with his cock like Stephen does?" he asked
quietly.

"He's not as big as Stephen, of course."

"Of course," replied Martin.

"It goes without saying," added Stephen who received painful pinches for
several minutes until the conversation resumed.

"I think you and I both like it a bit rough, Poole; we like a very
masculine man to possess us-- even for a short while.  Stephen does that
naturally where Alvaro thinks only of himself and is just brutal.  Stephen
is the complete opposite."

"You're a very perceptive old thing, Plunger.  That's exactly what Stephen
is like.  I'm his when he has me...well...when he..."

"When I have my cock right up your arse or deep down your throat, Mala?"
suggested Stephen, helpfully.

"Well I wasn't going to put it so poetically, Mr Wordsworth, but yes, but
he's doing it for me, not just to me."

"And it's a bit for me," said Stephen ruefully.  "I love making your toes
curl, Mala and he screams like a girl when I stick it in, Archie, you've
heard him."

"I do not!" said Martin hotly, "I moan like a whore."

"Yes, so you do, Mala, I must have been thinking of someone else," replied
Stephen, archly.

"It's always about the other person, Derbs," said Martin sincerely. "You're
always thinking of nice things to do to me.  You're always thinking of me
even if we are just walking down Piccadilly."

"I do think about carnal delights an awful lot," admitted Stephen. "I'd
probably be a better student if I could concentrate more on other things."

"Plunger, one day your prince will come.  In the meantime you can borrow
mine for a shilling," said Martin.

"I'm your prince, Mala?"

"Certainly and I'm..."

"My darlin'?"

"Poole," said The Plunger, suddenly. "Could I watch Stephen make love to
you right now?  It would do me good to see two people who love each other
fuck."

"That would be lovely, Plunger," replied Martin.  "Stephen will put on an
extra good show, won't you Derbs?"

"I will," confirmed Stephen who began to do a boxer's limbering up
exercises.  "And I was just thinking of doing something new which I will
keep as a surprise.  But I might need you to join in, Archie if I get a bit
carried away. The course of true love..."

"Is apt to meander?" completed Martin.

"Very good, Mala.  Now roll over and show us your best side."



The next day the boys slept rather late and it was even later by the time
they showered and scrubbed under Stephen's careful supervision.  They
missed their morning coffee at the bistro but were soon in the Rolls Royce,
which had been extracted from the stable of the seller of lingerie, and on
the Corniche bound for Nice.

Naturally they recalled the marvellous adventure some years before when The
Plunger had been kidnapped and shaved by sinister German pornographers.
"You see why I'd be reluctant to be photographed by Mr Weintraub, Mala,"
said Stephen.

"Yes. I'm beginning to understand what perils good looking boys like you
and The Plunger must face every day, Derby."

"I'm glad you do, Mala.  Our private parts and...er...our hair are a
permanent temptations to others, aren't they, Archie?"

The Plunger detected an arch note to this exchange so kept silent.

In Nice they went to three shops and at last found some German-made
equipment that suited their requirements.  Chief among these was a large
punching bag, which they took with them straight away and it was placed in
the back seat next to Martin who had been relegated there so that Stephen
and The Plunger might sit in the front as two pillars of male temptation.

A brief call was made upon Mr. Worth.  The maid at the vicarage directed
them to the church where the vicar was found to be improvising organ
variations on an old hymn and could be herd intoning in a fluting tenor
voice from the organ loft:

Lord circumcise our hearts, we pray,

And take what is not Thine away.

The clang of the door alerted the prelate and the playing stopped.  He
looked in the mirror that allowed the organist to see into the nave and,
noting the three boys, and swivelling around, offered a fulsome greeting
before descending and taking them by the hand.

"Mrs Chadwick said I should expect you, gentlemen.  You must be Lord
Branksome. How d'you do your lordship?  And Mr Knight-Poole and Mr Craigth.
I met your father once, sir."

Mr Worth was a blubbery young man with prominent teeth.  He spat slightly
when he spoke and the three involuntarily stepped back, glad to drop the
limp hand that was proffered.  Although he was unattractive they felt
compelled to tour the church.  The volume of spittle increased and the
permanent ulcer on his lower lip throbbed excitedly when he persuaded
Stephen to bend over to read the inscription on the bottom of the font.  An
invitation to lunch had to be extended as Mrs Chadwick was already coming
on Tuesday and the Trust would be discussed.  Without a thought for the
Mother's Union meeting on that day, Mr Worth accepted instantly and licked
his lips unpleasantly.  He escorted them out to the motor, his hand
accidentally sliding down to Martin's buttocks to emphasise a particular
point he was making concerning the separation of the Welsh Church.

In the afternoon, when the punching bag had been manoeuvred into the cellar
room, Stephen thought it would be nice to try and find Hélias to see
if he wanted to bathe. He went to his mother's house and a girl
there--presumably Helias' sister--told him to try an address near the town
wall.  There he was directed to another house and from there to a shop that
was being extended.

He saw Hélias holding a spirit level on the wall.  Hélias
turned when he heard Stephen's voice.  His eyes were wide and his mouth was
agape, his slender cigarette still adhering to his lower lip.  "Etienne!
Mon ami!" he cried and moved toward Stephen.  Stephen noted with horror
that Hélias had a pronounced limp and favoured his left foot.  His
black hair was still the same and he was still good-looking, but he had
aged and was no longer the handsome young blade that he had been before the
War.  He was also notably short of breath--the result of the mustard gas,
no doubt. However, all that was glossed over in the excitement.
Hélias had not heard of their arrival as he had been in Vallauris to
see his prospective father-in-law.

"Yes I've heard you are to be married, Hélias," said Stephen in
French, "congratulations."

"Oui. Elle m'aime beaucoup, Etienne," said Helias airily lighting another
cigarette. "Son père est riche."

Stephen nodded and they both looked down at their feet.  They were quiet
for a moment and then Stephen invited him to bathe.  Hélias
brightened and said he could come in an hour.  They embraced and clapped
each other on the back and departed.

Stephen brought food and wine for their picnic on the sands and soon
Hélias arrived and the air was filled with shouts and there were
hugs and kisses.  They walked slowly to the plage-- Hélias was slow
and kept apologising.  In the water, however, he was like a fish and swam
between their legs and grabbed at their cocks, bursting to the surface,
laughing.  They sat on the warm sand on a blanket and ate and drank,
passing the bottle from lips to lips.  They had just started to talk about
the War when Hélias asked for the time.  "I must go home.  Cecile's
brother is coming to fetch me in his wagon.  I am to go her father's house
tonight.  I will be back tomorrow," he said in a mixture of languages.
With that he pulled on his trousers and was gone.  The boys said nothing
and packed up and returned home not long afterwards.





*****



 "Archie is really handsome, isn't he, Mala?" said Stephen as the three of
them lay on the bed.  He rubbed his hand across The Plunger's broad chest.
"See how his nipples are so pink?"  He pinched the left one and The Plunger
winced.  "And his skin is so milky but dusted with freckles and ginger
hair.  Scotchmen are so masculine," he continued, now rubbing his
shoulders.

"I'm English, Stephen".

"You know, Archie," said Stephen taking no notice, "I think you would look
good in a kilt.  Don't you Mala?"  Martin wasn't sure.  "I can see you in a
kilt, Archie.  Your handsome chest would be almost bare-- just a tartan
sash across it and maybe a Celtic clasp?"

"One with a jewel in it, Stephen?"

"Yes a big purple stone."

"An amethyst?"

"A big amethyst-- uncut like my cock--in a silver thistle--and maybe you'd
have smeared your body in woad.  What is woad exactly?"  No one knew.  "And
your cock and balls would be swinging freely and menacingly under the kilt.
That would be the most marvellous feeling, wouldn't it?  I'd love to walk
down Piccadilly in a kilt, myself, naked underneath and feeling he breeze
on my cods and not caring if the wind lifted it.  You'd have a sporran too
Archie," he said returning to the subject.  He moved down and put his nose
in The Plunger's ginger bush and gave a lick to the circumcised head of his
plump white cock.

"You'd lead a band of savage Picts in raids south of Hadrian's Wall and
Sassinack villagers would tremble when they saw you leaping over their
palisades in your kilt. He has fine athlete's legs, doesn't he, Mala?"
added Stephen, rubbing his palm very firmly over the hair and muscle.
"You'd be hard under the kilt from the excitement of battle and so would
your clan.  And you'd put the village to the torch and the sword and young
and old in the village would taste Caledonian cock--especially the boys."
The Plunger became caught up in the fantasy.  "But you'd probably have to
have a beard."

"Oh!" said The Plunger, who wasn't going to have a beard under any
circumstances.

"You'd look handsome in a beard, Plunger," said Martin, "with your red
hair."

"It's titian, Poole" said The Plunger who had regained some of his
composure, despite Stephen playing with his balls.

"Archie," said Stephen.  "I think we need a nice long talk--entre nous--and
I think just you and I should sleep together tonight.  Is that all right
with you, Mala?" asked Stephen beseechingly, looking at him and giving a
wink.

"Yes, Derbs.  You both need to catch up."

"And you can do anything to me you like, Archie," said Stephen placing The
Plunger's hand on his flaccid cock."  The Plunger brightened.  "And I can
do anything to you," he added.  An anxious look crossed The Plunger's face,
but before it could register, Stephen had risen from the bed and announced:
"It's now time for my bath. Bring the champagne and olives outside, boys."

The next morning found that Martin had finished his novel while the
Plunger, who it was presumed had done no reading at all, walked down the
stairs very gingerly.  He tried not to smile, but couldn't help it.  Martin
rose and gave him a kiss, but said nothing else.

Presently Stephen thundered noisily down the stairs in his fisherman's
clothes.  He brightly announced that today it was a rule that The Plunger
and Martin had to be naked for the whole day--at least until sunset.  "I
have been thinking for some time that we need to have this important rule
and perhaps it should be taken up by The League of Nations," he said, as he
laid out the guidelines for the fiat.  Martin and The Plunger just shrugged
and it was a simple matter for them to shed their clothes-- even simpler
for Martin who did not have expensive silk underwear like The Plunger.
"You can go outside if you want, but no clothes.  I will bring you your
luncheon."

It was a fairly easy business on the hot, lazy day.  They read, wrote
letters and did some rudimentary tidying of the old house--only Martin's
scrubbing of the lavatory being onerous under Stephen's supervision.
Stephen made them an excellent cold lunch and several cups of tea--he did
not think it safe for naked boys to be too near the stove.  A small
inconvenience arose when Mrs Chadwick called with Mr Worth. The Plunger and
Martin hid upstairs and Stephen told a small untruth, saying that they both
had a chill and were in bed.  Instinctively Mrs Chadwick wanted to go up to
them but Stephen interposed his body at the foot of stairs, saying they
were sleeping. This lie also put a stop to Mr Worth who wanted to `lay his
hands upon them'. Stephen then assured them that they would be well enough
for tomorrow's luncheon and that he would see them at half-past one.  They
were propelled to the door and Stephen eventually called the `all clear' as
he peered through the shutters.

The next visitor was Hélias who was admitted, despite the risk of
infection, and his eyes were wide when he saw the two naked Britanniques
drinking tea.  Stephen had them stand and bend over.  Both had been fitted
with plugs.  Hélias' eyes grew even wider.  Stephen had to explain
about these bouchons. "Pour plus de commodité- à distendre"

Hélias nodded gravely as he felt them. "Très sage," he said,
nodding.

It took little to persuade Hélias to return at 7 o'clock and there
was the added inducement of dining with them at his aunt's establishment
across the street and he limped away with a big grin on his face.

When he returned, unusually promptly for a Provençale, he was
quickly admitted and the two naked ones presented their arses for
inspection.  Stephen gave a little tap to Martin's which sent an electric
thrill through him and Hélias did the same to The Plunger-- perhaps
a trifle too enthusiastically.  Les bouchons were eased out, Hélias
copying Stephen as he removed Martin's, and he noted its structure.

"Elles sont belles!" cried Hélias in awe of the red and gaping maws
before his eyes, which were even now contracting. He roughly shoved a
finger into The Plunger who winced.

"Non Hélias!  Utiliser celui-ci," said Stephen as he squeezed some
Spong's onto his hand.

"Pardonnez-moi!" said Hélias sincerely, a little horrified at what
he had done.  He kissed The Plunger who was still bent over "Je ne suis pas
un brute."  And The Plunger did indeed agree that Hélias was no
monster.

Stephen and Hélias began to give their partners a good fucking, with
Hélias looking over a good many times to see what techniques Stephen
employed.  Stephen moved to the basket chair and Martin climbed on top of
him, facing outwards and with his chest clasped by Stephen's arm.  He
lowered himself up and down on Stephen's big cock with Stephen flexing his
hips and thrusting upwards.  In a trance Hélias pulled out of The
Plunger who was left cruelly in want and went over to the chair.  "C'est
formidable!" he said, almost to himself and put his fingers around the base
of Stephen's cock as it entered Martin's hole.  Stephen's cock was like an
iron pipe.  He bent down and somehow managed to kiss the slicked mess that
smelt and tasted of masculine love.

"I think Monsieur Archie would like to do it like this, Hélias.
There's another chair next to us.  Ne le négligez pas."

Soon Hélias was copying Stephen.  It presented a comical sight for
The Plunger was much taller than Hélias and his long white arms and
legs were akimbo over the smaller, but vigorous Frenchman underneath him.
Despite this, The Plunger was lost in pleasure and was only brought around
when he saw that Martin had spilled all over his own chest and Stephen had
presumably come off inside Martin.  Hélias reached for the Spong's
and applied it to the Plunger's leaking cock.  It only took two or three
strokes before The Plunger erupted all over the floor--the rag rug might
possibly have to be washed.  Hélias renewed his concentration and he
too spilled on the rug, almost catapulting The Plunger from his lap.

When he looked over he saw Stephen tenderly licking Martin's enflamed hole,
tasting his own seed that tricked out and ran down Martin's leg and dripped
to the floor -- the rug would definitely have to be washed in the bath
tomorrow. "Vous faites cela?"

"Yes I do that, Hélias.  It is sweet.  My lover is sweet."

Hélias copied-- gingerly at first, then with more alacrity.  The
Plunger was in ecstasy all over again.

"It is important that neither of them is humiliated, Mala," whispered
Stephen.  "The passive ones must also be allowed their moment and the
dominant ones must be occasionally humbled, I think."

"You're wise beyond your years, Derby," whispered Martin, kissing him on
the cheek, "but you would have given that years of thought, I imagine."
Stephen merely grinned.

As it was near the hour for dinner, the boys took to the shower.
Hélias, however, was reluctant.  "Il n'est pas Samedi nuit," he
protested and wished only to cover up with some of The Plunger's cologne.
However, when Stephen insisted, Hélias relented, despite it being
only Monday and Stephen got in with him and soaped him and scrubbed his
skin with a soft brush.  He made a couple of grabs for Hélias' cock,
but it was too tender, he cried.  Stephen laughed and commenced to wash
Hélias' hair. Soon Hélias was ready and, wearing a pair of
The Plungers silk drawers and a great deal of his frightfully costly
cologne, crossed the street with them to his aunt's bistro.

It was a fine meal, with snails and lamb's liver.  Martin's notebook was
rapidly filling. With the Patron and Mme de Blazon joining them,
Hélias gravely proposed a toast to "Joni and Monsieur Christophe--
nos amis absents!"  Stephen was caught unawares and was quite overcome.
Mme de Blazon kissed him on the cheek and used her apron to wipe away the
tears.

When they returned to the house at midnight, Hélias led The Plunger
by the hand to The Plunger's bedroom, dragging his left foot as he climbed
the stairs that he had helped fashion so many years ago.  Martin looked up
at Stephen's face and saw that he was troubled.  He took Stephen's hand and
they retired to their own room.

"Well, I think that was a good thing for The Plunger, Derby," said Martin
as they lay under the cool sheet."

"You know he's getting married next week," said Stephen.  "We're invited.
He wondered if you would drive the happy couple in your motor, Mala."

"I suppose so."

"The girl, Cecile, is pregnant.  That's why it's so soon."

"Do you think it will make much difference to Hélias, I mean..."

"I've absolutely no idea, Mala.  But I do know one thing."

"What?"

"I am determined to get Hélias' leg fixed.  "Mala," he began with
real anxiety in his voice, "Mala, I failed to make it alright for
Christopher and Doling and Rugg, but I will try my damnedest for
Hélias.  That will be at least one thing put back to how it was
meant to be-- it was never meant to be like this...there has to be some
order to it all..."

"You're a good fellow, Derby.  We'll see Sir Thomas, if he's still
practicing, and he will know someone good.  I wonder if you might take some
photographs of his bad leg--without him knowing, of course.  We'd have to
persuade him to come to London or Paris or somewhere.  I say `we' because I
want to help you."

Stephen kissed him and put his big arm around his shoulder and pulled him
into his armpit.  Eventually Martin wriggled free and laid his head on the
triangular patch of soft black hair that was the chief adornment of
Stephen's chest and went to sleep listening to his big heart beating.



The luncheon the next day was quite a success.  To begin with, the visitors
were this time admitted and their hosts were fully dressed.  Martin had
taken charge of the cooking and consulted his silver notebook to produce a
ragout of mutton with celeriac which was not difficult--rather like an
Irish stew-- and he arose early to make sure it cooked for four hours.
There were bitter greens from the garden and a simple fish dish with a
sauce made from sweet peppers.  A large cake had been purchased and there
was a pile of delicious peaches that Mr Worth drooled over.  Martin thought
it might be some time before he could touch stone fruit again.

All this was served under the grapevine and afterwards there was a tour of
the unconventional house.  In the cellar room, where the bed had been
carefully made, Stephen explained that the punching bag and the weights on
ropes were to be installed by Hélias the following day.  Mr Worth
was quite keen to see these being used by the boys, but had to be content
to see Stephen deliver two heavy blows to the bag, which The Plunger and
Martin endeavored to hold upright.  Mrs Chadwick let it be known she
disapproved of boxing.

The gymnasium led around to the topic of the Mission to Seamen and soon
they were deep into discussion on their future projects as they drank their
coffee.  Martin looked down and saw to his horror that the rag rug was
stained incriminatingly with seamen of a different order.  His ears went
red and in the corner of his eye he observed Mr Worth following his gaze
down to the spattered floor while Stephen and Mrs Chadwick were earnestly
discussing the purchase of an x-ray machine for the little hospital.
Martin enthusiastically joined in on some pretext and in doing so spilt his
coffee all over the rug.  There was a moment's fuss, but when Martin looked
up he knew that Mr Worth knew.

That night, after they had returned from their walk along the town walls,
it was decided that Stephen should be pleasured.  In the cellar room the
lamps were lit and Stephen was undressed.  Martin had a wicked look in his
eye when he produced the box and a large new tube of Spong's.

First the Burmese balls were employed--these had been little used until now
and Martin was surprised to see Stephen's eyes nearly pop, as first one,
then the other was inserted rectally.  "How does that feel Derby?"
Stephen's answer was to just moan and his big cock, which was hard and half
way up his chest, and seemed to give eloquent approval.  "Pull them out,
Plunger!' commanded Martin when he was satisfied with the elapse of time,
and the thick silken cord was firmly and steadily drawn until one, then
two, of the gold balls was reunited with the outside world. Stephen was
wracked with delightful spasms, and he tried to touch his cock; the other
two prevented this.

Next the dildos were pressed into service; firstly the glass one with the
ribs, which Martin knew Stephen enjoyed and then the new flexible rubber
one with the steel spring.  Martin and the Plunger took turns in
manipulating these fiendish devices and the sight of Stephen vulnerable,
with his legs spread and a large dildo protruding from somewhere deep
inside him, caused them to have to release their own aching cocks.

"Who is it that screams like a girl, Derby?" asked Martin sarcastically as
he touched Stephen somewhere inside that made him shout.

"It is me, Mala," confessed Stephen under this inquisition.

"Apologize to those girls down by the quay.  Who is the moaning whore?"

"I am, Mala.  I'm a whore.  I love it.  Keep doing that."

"Fetch me the camera case strap, Plunger.  Tie it around those big balls."
Stephen nodded desperately as he continued to writhe.  "I can't stand his
noise, Plunger, give him some ginger."

The Plunger climbed onto the bed and squatted over Stephen's
head. Stephen's tongue went furiously into The Plunger's cleavage where he
slobbered and lapped.  The Plunger lowered himself further, not sure that
Stephen could even breathe.

Martin commenced to pull on the leather strap while his other hand
continued to manipulate the invading object.  At a signal from him, The
Plunger leaned forward and lightly touched Stephen's cock.  It twitched
then erupted like Vesuvius.

Most of the explosion, when the damage was assessed, went over the
Plunger's groin. Stephen's chest was also coated by some long drifts, which
even now were trickling down his flank to soil the bedding.  One rope had
struck the stone wall behind the bed and it hung there like an obscene
decoration.

As the chaos subsided, The Plunger could feel Stephen moving underneath
him.  He raised his dripping self and there was Stephen, gasping for breath
and convulsed with laughter.

"Oh boys, that was topping!  I thought my inside would come out.  Sorry
Archie, I've made you rather a mess.  Spill on me and then we'll go to
sleep right here.  I want us all sticky with joy.  I feel wonderful!"



The final days passed.  The Joue Rose was found to have disintegrated for
lack of attention in the years they had been away.  Stephen found some boys
whom he knew to have been friends of Joni and told them he wanted to buy a
boat similar to the ghost of the one before them and he nominated a price
he would pay.  The boat was to be painted blue.  Their leader said he would
contact Mrs Chadwick (everyone in Antibes knew Mme Chadwick) when they had
found something and she would arrange payment.

There was a visit to the beach at Cap-Eden Roc.  They went in the Rolls
Royce because Hélias found it difficult to ride his bicycle.  Helias
enjoyed having his photograph taken and it was a simple matter to point the
camera at his legs. They also drove up to the old town of Valbonne, little
touched since the sixteenth century.  Here there were comparatively
straight streets with arcaded buildings around the old square and the ruins
of a monastery.  The Plunger was busy with his paints.

Their final day was that of Hélias' and Cecile's wedding.  Martin
found that he had to be a general taxicab service for all Hélias'
relations.  The Provençales smelled abominably of garlic, sweat,
cheap perfume and mothballs--for the best clothes had been brought out of
hibernation for the occasion.  Martin didn't mind too much, for the
peasants were kindly and sincere in their enjoyment of life and
Hélias was well-liked by all.

The groom, his mother and three other people were placed in the car and
rode haughtily to the church.  Hélias was sweating and his good suit
seemed much too tight.  The Provençales had excelled themselves in
the matter of flowers and the church was like a florist shop--with
tuberoses being to the fore.  The bride was, of course, pretty, and it was
hard to detect that she was with child.  The reception that followed in the
afternoon was a hot, noisy affair held at the Bistro de Blezon.

They sat at long tables and there were many toasts and speeches.  There was
plenty of food.  A small orchestra played waltzes.  At one point, the
Patron took Martin aside and explained that Cecile's father was rich and
was paying for all this.

Towards evening the three boys were taking a break from dancing (they had
had many partners) and they found themselves sitting at the tables in the
comparative coolness of the street just as the moon was rising.
Hélias sought them out and proudly introduced Cecile.  They were to
live with her parents for the moment, explained Cecile, although
Hélias was to be frequently detained here in Antibes for there was
much building work to be done--especially for Monsieur Etienne--she added
and they would not be going on their voyage de noces for some time.
Stephen apologised for making Hélias work so much for him and wished
them well with the baby-- for it was no secret.  She blushed prettily and
smiled.  She was drawn back inside by her sister and Hélias was left
alone with the three of them.  He started to say something, but was
overcome.  Instead, while no one was looking, he kissed each of them
passionately, wiping the tears from his eyes.  He then recovered himself,
pushed his hair back, grinned and lit a cigarette and said: "Le jours se
suivent et ne se ressemblent pas!"  No, you can never tell what tomorrow
will be like, thought Martin.

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.