Date: Tue, 22 Nov 2016 21:58:29 +0000 From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com> Subject: Noblesse Oblige Thanksgiving Special From: Pete Bruno & Henry H. Hilliard 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 reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement at the beginning of Chapter One.) Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who have written to tell how much you're enjoying the story, I hope you stay tuned. For all the readers enjoying the stories here at Nifty, remember that Nifty needs your donations to help them to provide these wonderful stories, any amount will do. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Noblesse Oblige by Henry H. Hilliard with Pete Bruno Thanksgiving Special Foreword Martin, Lord Branksome, did not experience the pleasant American festival of Thanksgiving until after the Second World War, when a trip with Stephen Knight-Poole across the Atlantic renewed old friendships and brought into sharp relief the disparity between the two nations. Of course, he had heard about the national holiday, but tended to confuse it with the more modest Harvest Festivals at home held in the little grey church in Branksome-le-Bourne, or with the pyrotechnic picnics and parades he had seen on the Fourth of July and, periodically, with all the hoopla that seemed to accompany the election of judges, dogcatchers and presidents in that Great Republic across the water. He asked, stupidly, if that was when householders decorated their front doors with wreaths -- a practice then in Britain only associated with mourning. His opinion was not improved by the arrival of a copy of the Saturday Evening Post during wartime (a present from `Bunny' Wilbur) whose lurid cover depicted a painting thoughtlessly entitled `Freedom From Want' in which an idiotically grinning family were seen enjoying a grotesque superabundance of food (principally in the form of what was surely a roasted emu) at the same time that blitzed Britain's populace was pinched and half-starved on meagre rations as it stood alone against Hitler. However, this view was softened when that post-war visit in November coincided with an invitation to dine with Bunny and Dwight Sleeper Hoyt III and patriotic privations (which Martin had now come to blame on the Labour government) were quietly forgotten and the abundance of American life was to be enjoyed and envied. On later visits, Martin enjoyed several Thanksgivings with other American families, including the lavish hospitality of his old friend, Mrs Marion Deering-McCormick, and with Pete Bruno in Ocean Grove, New Jersey, where the well-known author was both host and chef. On one Thanksgiving, Martin and Stephen invited an entire basketball team of homesick Texas college boys to their apartment in the Waldorf-Astoria where a hired chef prepared all the traditional dishes, including candied yams-- a delicacy unknown in England. Thus the two Englishmen became very fond of the American holiday. It was Stephen Knight-Poole's reminisces on the occasion of the visit to Ocean Grove that gave Mr Bruno and I the material for this chapter. H.H.H. The Village Swain The water slopped onto the brick floor of the cottage kitchen, making the old redbrick glow in the light from the kitchen range before which stood the tin tub with its excited occupant. "Steady-on lad!" chortled Titus Knight from the Windsor chair that was just on the edge of the circle of light as he refilled his pipe. "...and then Cripps-- he is supposed to be their best batsman--is anticipating another delivery on the leg side, but I toss him an off-break and he is confused and just gets an edge to it and Tom--who I'd brought round fine-- dives for the catch...." Stephen demonstrated with the soap causing another inundation at which his stepfather lifted his feet from the floor to keep his slippers dry. The old man had never seen the boy so elated and this thought warmed him, but with just a pang reserved for his own youth and such lost joys. This was just the second season that Stephen had played with the local side and, not only had his skills as an all-rounder secured him a permanent place in the eleven, but this year he had been made vice-captain--although he was not quite fifteen--and the sudden departure of Todd, their 22 year-old captain, for a new life in Canada, had suddenly thrust greatness upon the village lad. Today's stupendous victory over the team from Holes--a village four miles away--and one in which Stephen's metal as both a player and a canny captain was irrefutably proved, assured the Club that they had made the right choice in their captain of tender years and, as proof of this, they had taken the lad to The Feathers where Stephen had been cheered by all and sundry and had consumed a half-pint of the local ale. "It was only a half, Titus," said Stephen to his stepfather from the water. "A half ain't goin' t' harm a lad wi' as big frame as thine." "Oh, I forgot, I had another half that Oakapple bought for me--it would have been rude to refuse." "Well 'e must ha' been impressed for he's a close one is old Oakapple," and Titus smiled to himself. "And there was some cider..." Stephen did have a big frame and he made a ludicrous sight in the tin tub. So as to be able to wet the upper portion of his back he had to hang his legs outside the bath. They were long and sturdy legs, just with a light dusting of dark hair on his calves and the promise of more to come, and Stephen, when upright, stood a solid five-foot ten and was still growing. Titus now found that his stepson, whom he used to carry on his shoulders when they walked down the road to the village shop, now towered above him and would certainly have no trouble carrying him on his broad shoulders, should he be required to do so, or indeed, more likely, in order to show off his strength. "Scrub my back, would you?" Titus rose from his chair and took up the long handled instrument and Stephen hunched forward in the tub. Stephen's back was a white expanse of marble, but there was still puppy flesh on his narrow hips and his face was, as yet, smooth and boyishly handsome. Titus tipped a dipper of water over his soapy hair and Stephen's mop of loose, raven curls was plastered down over his eyes and he spluttered and laughed. "Tis a big responsibility on thine shoulders, Stephen," ventured Titus, slowly scrubbing as his stepson arched his back in evident enjoyment. "But you're practically a growed man--more o' man than many in t'village, t' be sure," he said quietly but with a glance down at Stephen's adolescent virility in the bathwater. "What dost thou mean?" said Stephen disingenuously and in the dialect of the village and hefted his man-size balls with a grin. "Aye they're beauties, lad, but it 'taint bollocks that makes a man, tis what's in here," he said, tapping his chest with his closed hand. "I know that," said Stephen quietly, as had heard this many times before from his stepfather, and he continued to wash himself. "And I've my first problem, Titus." "What is tha', lad?" said Titus as he settled back into his chair with his pipe. "Well, it's Albert Goodwin." "Aye?" "Yes, he is now a liability to the side; it's his eyesight and his wind. He's dropped easy catches in the last two weeks and he's regularly run out." "But he were t'best player a few years back." "I heard that, but he's now 47." Titus Knight snorted at this fact. "And as captain I should have the bollocks to drop him, shouldn't I?" "Aye, a hard decision, but one that a man must make. So you will tell him he's dropped?" "I can't. He was so generous in his support for me and for the other young fellows who look up to him. Then there as all those years that he was a champion." "It were in 1888, I think, that 'e took 8 wickets for 30 again' Wareham." "I don't want to break his heart." "What dost thou propose, Cap'n?" "I was thinking," said Stephen slowly as he ran the flannel meditatively but unnecessarily over his cock and balls. "I was thinking of asking him to collect the statistics--the figures, Titus--on all the players with a view to making up the teams with hard evidence. That way..." "He might exclude hisself?" "Yes, and that way his pride would not be so hurt and then I would make sure that he was given the other young fellows to look after." "And if tha' don't work?" "Then I will have to be man enough to tell him to his face." "You've got a brain on you, lad...and a big heart." said Titus, smiling, "and many a grown chap would have just used his bollocks and not his head and his heart. I'm right proud o' thee." Stephen, beamed under his stepfather's praise and rose, unashamedly, from the water to dry himself vigorously before the fire. From under his unruly hair he grinned radiantly at Titus who removed his pipe (which had gone out as usual) and the old man smiled up at the towering adolescent who looked more like a fellow of eighteen summers than one of just fifteen--and twelve since he had been his stepson, his widowed mother having passed away when he was just a tot. Stephen reached up to a pair of striped cotton pyjamas that were airing over the kitchen range, held secure on the mantelshelf by a pair of Staffordshire dogs. These had been a present from Miss Tadrew, a gentlewoman who lived opposite in a pretty little cottage and who, with the late Miss Tapstowe, had help raise the orphaned Stephen. Stephen pulled on the trousers and bent to pick up the coat. There was the sound of rending material; Stephen's meaty bottom had split the seat. Titus looked up and Stephen felt behind and laughed. "Well I reckon thou ist too big for fancy pyjamas, now, lad. We might just not tell Miss Tadrew." Stephen grinned and shed the garment, for Titus knew full well that Stephen preferred to wear no clothes at all and the gift of the striped pyjamas was a kindly meant but ill-judged attempt by Miss Tadrew to civilise Stephen. "Am I too big for you to read to me, Father?" "Well," said Titus slowly, taking in the full measure of the lad with the stem of his pipe, "you looks to me as if you are, but we needn't tell anyone our secret, need we? I'll be up when I've had my bath." "Ah..." said Stephen in a different tone. "There were those pints o' ale..." "And the cider?" "Yes, the cider too I'm afraid...and it's powerful stuff, Titus, and does go through a chap...." He looked back at the unoccupied tin tub. "Well, I won't allow tha' a big lad's honest piss will harm me," said Titus turning around and Stephen couldn't quite discern if he were amused or not. Stephen's white rump disappeared up the narrow flight of stairs that lead to the attic where he slept unencumbered. The cottage was small and plainly furnished. It had been Stephen's mother's cottage and so there were a few comforts, such as the Staffordshire dogs, that remained from that time. Otherwise it was principally Titus's meagre income as a labourer on Lord Branksome's estate that supported father and son. This, however, was fortunately supplemented by Titus Knight's earnings as a doctorer of animals, a skill for which the old man was greatly respected and one that he had passed on to Stephen. Miss Tadrew also helped with timely gifts of food and school books, for Stephen was being kept at school beyond the normal leaving age for other boys in the village and his appetite was now proportionate to his frame. It had been the Misses Tapstowe and Tadrew who had taught him to speak nicely and supplied him with books to read. It was they who had cultivated the good manners that he seemed to artlessly possess and these must have sprung, innate, from the fundamental character of the boy and the goodness of his stepfather, but Stephen certainly retained the spirit of old Adam and was no fop. The two spinsters loved Stephen and found him willing and eager to better himself. Stephen was sitting up bare-chested under the ratty old blankets. He had been reading The Boys' Own Paper and he picked up Fifth Form at St. Dominic's, which was evidently the volume that father and son had been reading. "I'm sorry about the sheets this morning, Titus." "That were you lad?" replied the old man with a twinkle as he sat in a chair at the side of the narrow bed. "I though that were Pharaoh," he said naming the stud shire horse on the Home Farm. "No, it were me, Titus." "Well it were a lot o' gruel, all the same, lad, but thou has big bollocks. And I'm proud of you," he added, touselling his hair, "and I won't mind in t' least if there is more." He opened the book to the marked chapter. Stephen grinned. "I think I can promise that." Titus began to read slowly. He occasionally glanced up at Stephen, sometimes when he stumbled over an unfamiliar word and when Stephen would unfailingly supply it without looking sideways. Stephen had his naked arms clasped behind his head and was staring up at up at the crooked ceiling, lost in a world of his imagination. They were impressive arms and well muscled from outdoor work-- the arms of a man. There was black hair in his armpits--that has not been there a year ago Titus reminded himself. Titus thought of the novel that Stephen was lost in--the story of boys at a public school, the sort of school that his Stephen would never see, no matter how intelligent he was or how hard he worked. It were not for the likes of him. He bridled at the injustice of it. "Would thee like to go to a school like that, lad?" he said, taking a break at the end of an exciting chapter concerning the rescuing of a drowning boy from a dangerous lock. "It would be something, wouldn't it?" Stephen replied, but with full knowledge that was improbable. "What would thee like to do when thou leaves school?" It was a good question. "I don't know, Titus," replied Stephen, with some anxiety creeping into his voice. "Mr Morden has begged me to stay on next year, but we can't afford it can we?" He turned an anxious face to his stepfather and Titus thought his heart would break. Stephen was already in the ninth grade when most boys had already left school for a working life. Titus himself had left school the day he turned twelve, but he felt no bitterness, for it was in his nature to be content with his lot. But for his boy it would be different... "We will talk to Miss Tadrew, lad. I think we might be able to manage it." "I promise I will eat less, father," said Stephen, but Titus knew he was not being serious. "Thou needs to keep up thine strength," and here he squeezed Stephen's bicep, which Stephen obligingly flexed, "for ye will be bringing in t'harvest this year and I reckon you can do the work of two men." "If they pay me for two, I will," laughed Stephen and proceeded to show off by flexing his pectoral muscles. "Enough o' your chaff, lad," said Titus playfully pinching his left nipple. And then in a softer voice: "Good night, Stephen" and he bent low and kissed him, "you're a good lad." The good lad settled lower into his narrow bed as the lamp was extinguished. He was excited by the day's cricket triumph and by the visit to the pub that resulted. He was excited by the story he had just read and tried to imagine himself in a dormitory in a famous boy's school and playing rugby and having adventures. Then the sheetless blankets excited him and he reached down and felt his hardening cock. Sleep would be delayed. Stephen came sleepily down the stairs the following morning, Sunday. His hair was untidy and his naked form still glowed from the warmth of bed. Also glowing was his hefty cock, which still showed signs of recent arousal, but Stephen was unashamed as he crossed the kitchen and put his head under the pump. The water was freezing and a cry quickly turned into laughter--Stephen laughed easily and was no sook when it came to a bit of pain--and he pushed his sopping hair back from his blue eyes, which sparkled like the drops of water which cascaded in rivulets over his shoulders and down his back and chest. "Are we chopping down that oak, Father?" he asked eagerly as Titus served out a large helping of porridge from a pot on the kitchen range. Stephen poured on some thick milk from a stoneware jug, for Titus kept a cow in the garden and had been up early to milk her, although the Jersey seemed to prefer Stephen's touch on her teats and was known to kick at others. "Tha' might have to wait, lad, as Miss Tadrew expects us to go to church wi' her and if I be not mistaken, I sees her a comin' this way." Steven managed to bolt the rest of the porridge down and dashed for the stairs just as the lady knocked at the white-painted ledged door that gave onto the street. When Stephen returned to the kitchen with a clatter he was almost contained in his Sunday clothes, although his shirt was not tucked in all the way around and his tie was not straight. In his hand he held his coat. A close inspection would reveal that he wore neither vest nor underwear. Titus had given up trying to make him do so, amid complaints from the boy that he felt he was being `strangled' and `smothered alive', and the absence of these conventions did not seem to diminish the enthusiastic greeting Stephen gave to their visitor as he tried (without complete success) to tuck the remainder of his shirt into his trousers. Miss Tadrew was a middle-aged lady, at first sight of slightly severe appearance, perhaps as a consequence of her cropped grey hair and no-nonsense attire; she wore a long, straight charcoal skirt and a white poplin blouse finished with a grey bow tie. However, it was soon quite evident that she was a warm-hearted woman who, although having no children of her own, adored Stephen beyond all measure and a token of this love, in the form of a bundle wrapped up in brown paper and string, was in her hands at this very moment. The present was opened by Stephen. His eyes were wide. It was a cricket jumper that Miss Tadrew had knitted herself, with all the cabling and moss stitch that such articles usually entail and its cream colour was counterpointed by thin bands of cardinal red and a blue that was the colour of Stephen's eyes--the Club colours for Branksome-le-Bourne in fact. Stephen was overjoyed and thanked her with hugs and kisses that threatened to squash the breath from the knitter. "Well, we can't have you in that borrowed one that is too small for you, can we?" she said beaming with pleasure as Stephen scrambled into it. Miss Tadrew had not stinted and it was roomy enough for Stephen to grow some more over the summer and, of course, he looked very handsome in it. There was a second present: it was a striped tie in similar colours--it had been her brother's school tie she explained, for Miss Tadrew had come from formerly comfortable circumstances--and she knew that the young blades liked to wear such ties in the place of a belt with their cricket creams. Stephen was thrilled and wanted to put on his flannels straight away. Titus was fearful that he would reveal his nakedness in his excitement and suggested that it was time for the morning service and that they had better go. Stephen put his trophies aside and marched, smiling radiantly, out into the street with his arms linked with those of the two people he loved best. The late afternoon saw Stephen free, as the venerable oak, which had died of natural causes, had been felled--Stephen doing the axe work himself to the praise of his stepfather and Hepwright, another man on Lord Branksome's estate. Stephen helped saw and chop some of the larger limbs, but had been dismissed while the less physical aspects of the project were left to the other two and so Stephen took his tired muscles to his swimming place in the dense beech coppice a short distance inside the wood near his house. Stephen was a popular boy--perhaps the most popular boy in his school-- and was highly regarded over the entire community for his fine character, handsome appearance and, now, for his skills with bat and ball. However, he also was a solitary figure, enjoying his own company and perhaps never having found a particular friend with whom to share his solitude, although he was not conscious of being lonely. In the wood he removed his boots and stripped off his old shirt and work trousers, leaving them on the bank, and executed a dive into the soft, brown water of the pool, where he knew it was at its deepest. He swam and dived like a porpoise and climbed the rope that dangled into the water and let himself drop with a great splash. He swam until he was tired. He was just making his way out of the water, being at a point where he was able to stand upright, when he heard voices. He paused, pushing his mop of sopping hair back from his left eye, and looked to the bank where his clothes ought to be. Standing there and giggling were four girls of his acquaintance: Dolly was in his class at school and, with her index finger stupidly in her mouth, was twisting herself from side to side in amusement; Mabel was her sister and was in the tenth grade thanks to an indulgent father and she had her hands defiantly on her hips and was hooting with delight; Ida was her friend who now worked as a dairymaid and Nettie was 18 and wore her hair up and she had recently become engaged to Walter Watt, the son of a farmer in Pendleton. "Stephen Knight," cried Mabel in a singsong voice, "where are your trousers?" The others screamed with laughter. "Give them back, girls, it's cold and I want to get out." "You're going to have to come and look for them," said Dolly, her braided blond hair swinging, "if you dare." "I might tell you where they are if you can catch me," said Nettie, giving her breasts a shake and dislodging her straw hat. "I'm coming out," announced Stephen calmly and took another step. The giggling girls shrieked and took some steps back themselves--but stayed well within harm's way. "You wouldn't dare!" cried one and Stephen took another step. His fine torso was now fully exposed and the water revealed a handsome triangle of dark hair above his cock. "Let him come out; I want to see him," cried Ida to the others. "Is it as big as they say, Stephen?" Stephen didn't reply but simply walked up the bank past the girls who had covered their eyes, but peeked through their fingers all the same. He couldn't see his clothes so he just flopped down on the carpet of leaves in the clearing and pretended to go to sleep The girls felt they were being ignored so they crept closer and dared to throw handfulls of leaves at Stephen and, thus emboldened by Stephen's inaction, drew closer still and proceeded in a game to cover Stephen with a blanket of leaves. Then some wildflowers were picked and Dolly and her sister arranged them carefully in Stephen's hair. "Don't you have a sweetheart?" asked Nettie sweetly. Stephen didn't reply. "Wouldst thou like t'be mine?" Still the lad remained mute and aloof. She pecked him on the cheek and drew back hastily and then the others, not to be outdone, kissed him too, taking longer with each endearment and when they all kissed him at once, Stephen broke into laugher. "Please girls, give me back my things; you'll get into trouble." "You won't tell on us, will you Stephen?" said Dolly, "We're supposed to be walking to Nettie's for tea." "I won't tell," said Stephen with resignation, "if you won't." They all assured him they wouldn't. "Show us your thing," said Mabel boldly. "Look for yourself," said Stephen and clasped his hands behind his head. "The remaining leaves were swept away and Stephen's youthful member was already on its way to being impressively hard. The girls gathered about it and fell to a whispered forensic discussion, as if Stephen were a corpse on a mortuary slab. They dared themselves to touch it. It twitched. Finally, to Stephen's amazement, Nettie, who had been the boldest, removed her bloomers and raised her skirts and proceeded to lower herself upon the now hard flesh of the mast, which she steadied with her spare hand. She moaned and closed her eyes. "Stop!" cried Stephen in genuine panic. "I don't want to become a father." "It's alright," breathed Nettie dreamily. "I'll tell Walter that it be his." "No, please stop, Net," pleaded Stephen. Nettie looked cross for a moment and deliberately, and with a smirk, did two more teasingly slow bobs before pulling off and lowering her skirts. "How does he compare to Walter?" gasped Ida. "Oh you have no idea!" She said dreamily and then made a face. "My Walter has a tiny, limp little thing, when I can get 'e goin'...and he's 23," she said unkindly, "and if it wasn't for the fact that he is going to be given his father's farm....Stephen, will you marry me...when you're older?" "I'd love to, Net, but I think you'd better settle with Walter; he's a good fellow and he made 35 yesterday." He grinned and Nettie gave a fleeting smile, but looked troubled none the less, perhaps anticipating a lengthy and unsatisfactory union. The other girls wanted a go and straddled the village stud, but only Ida was bold enough to put the tip inside her and then got off opining to the others that Stephen was far too big for anything further, but politely thanked him all the same, as if he'd just offered her a sweet treat, which in a sense he had. Then the girls fell to accusing each other of being shameless and then the details of Nettie's forthcoming nuptials were raked over, with their apparently forgotten victim still naked beneath the leaves. "My trousers!" came his plea and Dolly pointed silently to a low branch of a beech tree while still ostensibly engrossed in the scandalous volume of lace to be incorporated into the wedding dress. "Can we watch you swimming tomorrow?" called Mabel as Stephen stuffed his deflating member into his old trousers. He pulled his shirt over his head but left the buttons undone. "I'll probably be here after school," he said, wondering how the Captain of the Branksome-le-Bourne First XI would handle this one. *** Tobar barked joyously and Stephen looked up from where he had been repairing a stone wall, handling the stones as if they were mere pillows. "Hullo, Elsie," said Stephen, straightening and pushing his sweat-soaked loose curls from his eyes. "You look nice." "Thank you, Stephen," said the girl. She twirled around so that Stephen might admire the full effect of her ensemble, which consisted of a full skirt which stopped short to enable a fine view of pretty feet and ankles encased in white button boots, and a tight bodice and blouse which fought unequally in the challenge to encase her well developed bosom. "Do you like my hat?" The creation was a thing that may or may not have been a hat--if the purpose of covering the head were put to one side-- and was composed of several sorts of material, the exact nature of which remained allusive, and it had been fastened, with much careful artlessness, on an angle which may have fairly been described as `fetching' by the male sex of which Stephen was undoubtedly a member. "It's very nice." "Harris bought if for me in Dorchester," Elsie informed him, naming the son of the publican whom everybody knew had been walking out with Elsie. She didn't move and so Stephen said, "Out for a walk?" "Yes," replied the 17 year-old girl, slightly moistening her lips. "I just wanted a stretch." Stephen knew full well that Elsie was likely alone as she was generally shunned by the village for being a `bad girl'. Her mother, Euphemia, was widely regarded as a shameless hussy who went from man-to-man, obviously taking money from them when she could, as her more official profession of seamstress was a dismally unsuccessful one-- none of the ladies of the village sullying their presses by her tainted work-- and she just managed to keep free of the police but not, unfortunately for her daughter, of the opprobrium of the populace at large. She was a blowsy woman and did not seem to care, but Stephen didn't mind her and always called her Missus Scant when no one else did, although the existence of Scant, even as a child, Stephen thought highly doubtful. Elsie was rather like her mother and had left school at an early age and had walked out with--and indeed become affianced with--a large number of men. She was attractive in a rather brazen sort of way and she liked Stephen and Stephen found her very easy to talk to and saw little harm in her, other than to herself. As there was no further conversation Stephen said, "Would you like some company?" Elsie smiled an affirmative and Stephen went to pick up his jacket, but Elsie told him to leave it there and felt Stephen's agreeable muscles through his shirtsleeves as they continued down the road toward the wood, Tobar and Teslo, Stephen's border collies, trotting behind in the role of chaperone. Despite an early departure from the village school--possibly her mother had been asked to withdraw her--Elsie's interest in education in general, and of young Stephen in particular, took a practical form and she asked him penetrating questions about his love life which Stephen felt he couldn't answer. "I don't know about spooning with a lass, Else," Stephen pleaded with just a trace of disingenuousness, "I mean I know all about horses and dogs..." here Tobar and Telso looked up at their master. "but lasses...and it's hard for a chap who has no mother..." In the privacy wood and without must further ado, Elsie very quickly had Stephen naked and, mindful of her good clothes, had unfastened her upper garments to free her full breasts and carefully raised and lowered her lower ones, as appropriate to their construction, so that Stephen might be made more familiar with her intimate topography. A pleasant hour passed, the rock wall all but forgotten, and Elsie instructed Stephen where to put his lips and fingers and how hard and how light should be the young man's ardent endeavours when acourting in such circumstances and, in particular, just how hard to bite without causing social offence. And Stephen was a quick learner and Elsie delighted in running her fingers through his hair and seeing how hard his cock remained throughout the tuition and Stephen delighted when he caused Elsie to buck and moan. Elsie then turned her attention to Stephen's manhood and her experience was evident. "He be the gurt largest one I've e'er seen, Stephen," she said admiringly, removing it from her mouth for in an instant, "but I think I can do 'ee justice." Stephen, at not quite fifteen, spilled quickly and in this case, due to Elsie's perception and dexterity, it was between her large breasts which she squeezed to intensify the pleasure for them both. "Stephen Knight, tha' were a lot o' gruel!" she said, but not unkindly. "I'm sorry, Else," said Stephen, catching his breath, "tha' were not very gentlemanly o' me." He surveyed the damage: Elsie's face and neck were covered in his seed and it was now seeping down her breasts and torso. Her clothing, however, had been spared. He found a sweat-stained handkerchief in his trouser pocket. "Don't you be daft, Stephen, tha' were lovely and you are a gen'leman. If Harris were half the man thou art then I wouldn't mind for new hats." "I say," said Stephen, sitting propped on one elbow and using the argot from the stories he had been reading, "you won't tell Harris about this will you?" "Of course not. He's talked about getting' me a job at t'Feathers and I hopes tha' he might pop the question one day soon." "You'll marry him?" "And why not? I be 18 soon and bein' t'wife o'publican some day won't be too bad. We be friends baint we, Stephen? But I best to think 'bout whirr my future lies." She rubbed her hands over his well-formed chest. "And what abou' thine future, Stephen? You're a growed man." "Me? I don't really know. Maybe I can get a job on a farm..." "Stephen Knight!" snapped the prospective fiancée and barmaid, "Giss on! You will do no such thing. You be made for better than farmin'. You be educated and must use those brains," she added, running her fingers firmly through the hair that covered them. "Don't let us down by sellin' thee'self short." "Let who down?" asked Stephen, surprised and forgetting the object. "Why, all of us; t'whole village! We all know how smart you are and you can make something o'yourself--you could be a doctor or an explorer or fly an aeroplane. There be plenty lads wot can be farmin' but thou is make o' diff'rent stuff, Stephen." There was a fierceness in her voice and eyes. "And don't waste it!" Stephen was stunned into silence and Elsie began to cast about for her garments. "Tis a pity thou spilled, Stephen, I would have liked it inside here," she said, indicating the location. "Well I could do it again, Else, but wouldn't that be dangerous?" "No, ma taught me well; I've still got five days left before there be much danger." "Mrs Scant is a wise woman, Else,...and so is her daughter," said Stephen who knew a little about such things from the behaviour of animals, but thought voicing such comparisons might be indelicate in the current situation. "Thank you, Stephen. She likes you--you be 'bout t'only person in this village who be civil to her. Even her gen'lemen friends treat her poor--the worse' o' them, me too." Stephen looked at her and she nodded slowly. Her mood brightened slightly. "You know, you might like to come home and do it will ma and me. She could teach you a few things and, like I sez, she likes thee." Stephen spluttered. "Else, I couldn't do that! Not with Mrs Scant! Besides, I'm only fourteen. Elsie was not one to doubt her own opinion, but let the suggestion drop. "Now I want you to put tha' big thing in me, Stephen and love me slowly. I think you've got the hang o' it already." And so Stephen did, and Elsie said that it was a stretch but it was more than satisfactory for practically his first time and certain manoeuvres of Stephen's own invention proved just how wasted Stephen would be as a mere farmer. The next lesson was scheduled for a fortnight hence, unless Stephen couldn't wait, when Harris would be visiting Lyme Regis. Stephen's life seemed full. There was school, of course, where Stephen was the top pupil of his year and was being entered for the Latin prize. Then there was cricket practice on the green that was conveniently adjacent to The Feathers where the players refreshed themselves and where Elsie had indeed secured a position behind the bar. Albert Goodwin had suggested that he stand down from the batting order until his form was regained and, in the meantime, he would coach the younger players in the finer points whist regaling them with tales from exciting contests of long ago. Stephen had been busy creating a new vegetable patch cut from the turf of Miss Tadrew's garden than ran down to the stream. He worked long hours in the twilight of the warm days, Miss Tadrew admiring the shirtless form of her young man as she sat and altered his school trousers, all the time wishing that Sarah Tapstowe could have lived to see him. Stephen had helped deliver a litter of puppies for Mrs Harkness and splinted the leg of Lord Branksome's English setter, fashioning a cardboard collar for the poor animal, and receiving two shillings from Mrs Capstick, Lord Braksome's housekeeper. He then assisted the head groom in filing the hooves of the mare that Lord Martin, the Marquess of Branksome's younger son, would ride when he returned from school--a school, Stephen thought to himself as he operated the rasp-- that would be certain to be like the one in Talbot Baines Reed's novel. Thus there was barely time for swimming after school so Stephen took to rising early, to the disappointment of the girls, who begged him to resume a more convenient hour, which, being a gentleman, he did. Stephen's education continued in another direction. There was a group of boys, of whom Stephen was one, who in idle moments, loitered down by the bourn and under certain hedges or gathered in deserted outbuildings. Here they would talk about disjointed subjects-- no doubt ones that preyed on their developing minds-- that all lads talked about when away from the eyes and ears of adults. A favourite topic was how big Stephen was and what sexual adventures he must have had. Stephen's good character shone through, even at moments when all were eagerly inspecting his inflating cock, for he never told and thus the boys supplied the void with products of their own excited imaginations. The regular group included Jimmy, a boy from Stephen's own class who was quite immature in body, but was in awe of Stephen and terribly interested in the mysteries of sex, Victor, one of the younger cricketers in the team who was handy with a bat, and two older brothers, Douglas and Reuben Owens, the sons of the village chair bodger. These last two were closest to Stephen, despite their having left school two years previously and securing work at the flour mill while still attending to their father's piggery. Quite often the boys would masturbate together, comparing notes, and holding competitions, which of course, Stephen won every time. Increasingly Stephen was alone with just the Owens boys, whom he liked very much, and on one occasion Stephen had returned with them to their cottage on an occasion when their widower father was absent in Lychett Maltravers selling his chairs and purchasing a new boar. The boys refreshed themselves with some homemade cider-- known as scrumpy--from a stone jug in the kitchen and repaired to the bedroom the boys shared above the `pigcrow'--as they called the sties in these parts. The nauseous effluvia and the grunts and squeals that percolated through the window did not seem to bother Reuben and Douglas, who had great affection for pigs of all kinds and greatly admired their intelligence and character, frequently giving testimonials that effect. Douglas drew the blind and darkened the room. He and his brother proceeded to strip Stephen of his rudimentary garments and then felt him all over with their rough agricultural paws. "Did'st thou ever see a gurt pair o'bolocks like these?" said Reuben, hefting Stephen's low-hanging orbs. "Titus said they're like Pharaoh's," laughed Stephen. They were stroked and tugged and twisted, making Stephen moan and his hard cock ooze. "Get yours out, lads," said Stephen when he felt it was all getting too much. They did and comparisons were made as to their workings and how they should be properly pleasured. Douglas was a big slab of a lad of 18, with frankly, an unattractive countenance. He said little, but his knowledge of human and animal behaviour was very deep, for like Stephen he was steeped in the ways of country life. Reuben, at 16, was younger and, perhaps, slightly more attractive and outgoing, joining in the conversation when he felt that his brother was wrong. "No t'ain't quantity, tis the potency tha' be important. Look at the brown boar wurt gives up jus' a trifle but sow be with piglets every time; white Berkshire spills more, but sow ain't furrowed yet." Douglas paused in masturbating Stephen to ponder this. Douglas knew about women too and the mysteries of their cycles and their hidden desires and the phases of the moon. "And if zer do 'er standin upright," and here he demonstrated with his brother, "there's prac'ly no way thou'll ever get her gone, Stephen." "There's t'other way too, Doug," added Reuben. "Aye, but some lasses don't like thart way, Stephen, and per'aps thou better stick to up t'cunt, me luvver," said Douglas, using the quaint vernacular term and hefting Stephen's meaty member. Sometimes in his discourse he would say banowes--the local word for sow--when he meant girls, but this was just a slip and not meant unkindly. Occasionally his wisdom would contradict what Elsie had told him and Stephen was left to puzzle. But his real talent was understanding boys' bodies and Stephen was poked a prodded all over with very with many enquires about how often he did it and where, and then how some particular ministration being performed on him by the boys `went with him'--Stephen often only able to groan in reply. The three boys lay on the old brass bed in the darkened chamber and pleasured themselves as the grunts and squeals from beyond told of the pigs' own pleasures. They spent and there was a post mortem, with much marvelling at the volume and velocity of Stephen's contribution. They continued to lie there, making desultory conversation, about sports, especially about boxing on which the brothers were keen, feeling drained and sleepy. Stephen suddenly thought what it would be like to have brothers and decided that might be very nice and he put his arms around the shoulders of his two companions. He must have drifted off because when he awoke it was dark outside--dimpsy as they said in this area. "Will ye hark at tha'", said Reuben. "Imagine waking up to tha' in t'morning, Doug." Stephen's erection was huge and halfway up his chest. "I was excited, boys," grinned Stephen and looking down. "Put it in thine mouth, Stephen," urged Douglas. Stephen craned his neck downwards and lifted his hips and was able to do so and the two boys marvelled at the sight, perhaps wondering what it would be like to have Stephen as a younger brother. Douglas wanted to bring Stephen off again and so instructed his younger brother hold Stephen's arms safely behind his head. Douglas began to work gently, but persistently, on just the underside of Stephen's penis with only a fingertip or sometimes his knuckle. "Lad's is very sensitive just here," he told them informatively, "and even t'most reluctant ones can be brought off by doin' this." He went on to explain that otters and pigs also had such vital spots and that he was one of the few who had witnessed the mating of badgers and how the sow badger bites the bull to stimulate the production of his seed. Stephen opened his eyes and looked up in alarm, but saw no signs that Douglas, whose own cock was hard and glistening in the gloom, was about to bite him, so relaxed again. This went on for a long time, but eventually Stephen fetched in five great spurts-- the first one flying over his head to catch Reuben who had not been expecting it. Douglas's cock erupted at the same time, without it even being touched, and he coated Stephen's balls and a good portion of the bed coverings with his seed. Stephen was left panting and laughing. He went to wipe himself down with his shirt, but he caught a look from Douglas. Reuben spoke: "Doug will clean thee, Stephen." Douglas Owens extended a long and pointy tongue from his doughy face and bent down to Stephen's torso and began licking him like a cat. "Do you like that, Doug?" enquired Stephen rather needlessly and Reuben replied on his behalf that he did and always cleaned him up. Reuben then joined his hard-working brother and Stephen was licked clean by two rough tongues, even scouring places where there wasn't any-- nor could there reasonably be expected to be any--of his manly seed. Stephen remained hard. They brought Stephen off twice more and then Stephen said that he was tired and his balls ached. "They calls thart `lover's balls', Stephen," Reuben informed him. It was late, but Stephen was persuaded to stay the night, determining to regain his own house at first light before his stepfather had risen. The three naked youths settled under the warmth of the covers and, apart from Reuben bringing Stephen off once sometime during the night and Douglas doing the same in the morning before he took the bran mix to the pigs, it was a peaceful night and when Stephen pulled on his trousers, which painfully grazed his hard-worked cock, and left the next day with lover's balls and a considerably wider understanding of a great many things that were not taught in school. *** Stephen was just returning from Boit's farm where one of the horses had caused Mr Boit alarm. Several horses on neighbouring farms had developed a disease known in this part of England as `the strangles' and some had been put down. Boit was anxious that the disease not spread through his stable of working animals. Stephen and Titus had discussed this with a distressed Boit who had come to the cottage, but Titus sent Stephen alone to the farm to make the diagnosis himself. To Boits' relief, Stephen could find no discharges from the ugly swellings on the horse's neck and they were not in he places where the glands usually swelled. Stephen therefore suggested that they were relatively harmless fly bites and recommended poultices made of certain herbs and further suggested that the animal had been standing in too wet a field. Boit was visibly relieved and Stephen earned five shillings for his efforts, which jingled in his pocket, and which he intended to pass on to Titus, with other such earnings, to help with family finances. A man was standing in the station yard. Bunge's usual cart was not to be seen and the man, clearly a commercial traveller, had set three suitcases down on the road. He hailed Stephen. "Excuse me, where is The Feathers public house?" "Not far," said Stephen pointing. "You can walk and the station master will send your things on." "No, I don't want to leave these samples. I'll wait for the cart." "I'll help you, sir," said Stephen and the man murmured his thanks. The cases were heavy and Stephen swung one up on his shoulder and hefted the other in his left hand. The man took up the smaller one and followed Stephen down the road. "You handle those with ease," said the man walking behind Stephen and watching the operation of his fine muscles. Stephen said nothing. "Do you want to know what's in them?" "What?" "Important medical supplies" "Oh." Not encouraged, the man fell silent and soon they were at the pub. The landlord's wife greeted them and directed the man to an upstairs room and was about to call for the boy, but the man spoke and said, "This young fellow will take them up." Stephen hefted the two larger cases up the stairs and returned for the smaller one, which clinked softly, it evidently containing glass bottles. "Put that on the table over there, Stephen--isn't it? That's what she called you. You drink here?" "Yes," said Stephen truthfully, casting his mind back to the cricket match. "I'm Quiggin," said the man as he turned his back and opened the smaller case, which seemed to contain a wide variety of coloured bottles, evidently medicines. He was of middle age and height, thought Stephen, and noticed that his suit trousers were rather shiny on the seat. He wore a ring. "Are you a doctor?" asked Stephen, looking at the bottles that were now being arrayed on the table. "I could say that, Stephen, but I won't; let's just say I have had a great deal of medical and scientific training in my life. Would you please put this case on top of the wardrobe? And many interesting experiences around the world." Stephen lifted the empty suitcase and stretched in his task. He could feel Quiggin looking at him. Then Quiggin got him to lift the other cases up and then, changing his mind, move them back again and he even had him shift the furniture needlessly about until it became obvious it was some sort of game. "What fine muscles you have, Stephen." Stephen said nothing, but stood there in his shirtsleeves not denying Quiggin a further view. Suddenly Quiggin became aware of what was hanging impressively down the left leg of Stephen's old trousers and shifted so attractively when Stephen was asked to reach up and remove a cobweb. There was nothing much left to move around, except the bed itself, so Stephen made to leave. "Do you know what's in these bottles?" Quiggin suddenly asked. Stephen did not reply. "It is something that every young man--every healthy young man--needs to know about if he is to retain his vigour and not fall prey to certain diseases." "What diseases?" asked Stephen as he rolled down his shirt sleaves and tucked in his shirttail. "Well, have you ever had nervous debility?" "I don't think so." "You can't be sure, Stephen, because it can manifest itself in headaches and sleeplessness; many young men feel less vital and manly--a general enervation or weakness from an overtaxed nervous system. It affects the mind and body of young men, especially in the sexual organs." "You just said I was pretty strong and I don't get headaches and I sleep alright. I did have a bad cold in the head once..." "There you are!" "...but that was two years ago and I had been swimming when it was icy. I swim almost every day." "Well, clearly there are no signs of nervous debility in you yet, Stephen, but it may be lurking here. Are you a married man?" Quiggin clearly thought Stephen was older than he was. "No." "Well, do you feel that you are wasting your vital force?" "I don't know. What is vital force?" "It is that essence of a healthy and virile male life, that concentration of manly fluids that..." "Oh," said Stephen. "You mean when I fetch?" "Yes, exactly. Every time a young man `fetches' as you say, his vitality is ebbing. Haven't you ever felt that? A sort of lassitude and lack of manly vigour--even weakness? That can affect a man's muscles, his internal organs and even his sanity when the vital fluids are not replenished. There have been many pitiable cases, especially among young men like yourself, Stephen, who were once quite manly chaps." "I find it replenishes itself, although I do feel a bit exhausted if I do it more than five times and I suppose it could be doing me harm..." "Five times!" cried Quiggin. "With a bit of a rest after three, and I do spend a lot. Maybe I should take something. What's in this one?" he asked looking at a bottle with a label that depicted a man with a luxuriant pair of moustaches holding aloft his infant son. "That one is especially good for men who find it hard to...well, to manage to...when in the married state to..." "To become hard?" "Exactly; you're a smart fellow." "Well, I don't have that trouble. My stepfather says I can become hard if t'wind blows." "Your stepfather has seen you in a state of arousal?" "Yes, sometimes, if I'm doing it and I forget to close the door." Stephen thought for a moment how he now never closed the door and Titus would merely pause and say it was a grand sight, with the faintest trace of the habitual. "Doesn't he try to make you stop?" Stephen didn't reply. "He should chastise you for wasting your vital force," persisted Quiggin, thinking he might like to see Stephen's manly buttocks glowing under chastisement, perhaps eliciting a tear. "No, he's never beaten me. He just says not to let Miss Tadrew see me as ladies don't understand the ways of men." "That's actually very true and it is why you and I can talk like this." "And this one?" asked Stephen taking a yellow bottle from the table whose label depicted a weightlifter in a circus. "That's for men who find that their masculine effluvia is lacking in vital..." "Essence?" "Yes, essence, and the production of it is ..err...falling short." Stephen unscrewed the cap and sniffed. "Rubbing alcohol and cinnamon?" "Mace...and yellow dye," said Quiggin, feeling slightly deflated. "And these?" asked Stephen picking up a box of pills that showed a man (possibly the same one with the moustaches) with little lightening bolts emanating from his middle. "Glycerine and chalk" said Quigin in a flat voice. Then brightening: "I have got something here that might interest you. Take off your shirt. Stephen did and stood there, impressively. Quiggin took a solution from a green bottle and moistened his fingertip. He turned to Stephen and rubbed it in a circular motion on Stephen's beautiful nipples. It was warm--burning even--and Stephen winced at first before he grew used to the tingling sensation. "Does this restore vital essences?" asked Stephen. "Not exactly, but it is damn good for a big lad's nipples, isn't it?" he said with a leer. Stephen had to agree and he squirmed under the exquisite pain. "It's petroleum jelly and green chillies--they're an exotic vegetable from South America," he added when he saw Stephen looked puzzled. "Very hot, they are." Stephen's nipples looked red and swollen. "I think these had better come off," said Quiggin in a low voice, looking at Stephen's obscenely inflated trousers after several minutes of intense rubbing. Stephen realised he had no pressing engagements, and indeed was feeling particularly vital, so he removed his boots and allowed Quiggin to undo his trousers which fell to the floor. "My God!" cried Quiggin. "You're magnificent!" "Thanks," said Stephen, then adding, "It's always been big, my stepfather is always telling me, but it grew a terrible lot after I was eleven." He looked down just to make sure. "Still is, I reckon." Quiggin felt him all over, at one point wondering aloud if he could bottle the vital essence contained in Stephen's large, youthful balls. He rubbed his lips admiringly over Stephen's smooth, white skin. "You haven't got a lot of hair," he said, "but this tuft is very manly," he said with his nose right in the dense black locks above Stephen's hardening cock. "And you've got just a little hair in the middle of your chest. You don't shave it, do you?" Stephen said that he didn't. "A young man's skin is the most beautiful thing," he breathed, "Did you know that?" Stephen didn't reply. He then he proceeded to apply various potions from the coloured bottles to various bits of Stephen. Stephen demurred when it came to the radium suppositories, even though the box featured images of young men energetically engaged in various sports, all with an oddly a greenish glow about them. Quiggin was getting a bit worked up and short of breath so Stephen had him stop and sit on the bed, his trousers having mysteriously fallen to his ankles while he had been feeling up Stephen so intently. Stephen was quizzed some more about his vitality, which was now undoubted, and about how frequently it was tested, and in what manner, and of his curious absence of undergarments and, indeed now, those for sleeping. Stephen was asked to flex his muscles just so Quiggin could make sure there were no destructive signs of neurasthenia. Quiggin had one more scientific marvel that he suggested Stephen might care to try. Stephen was told to retrieve the largest suitcase from the top of the wardrobe--enjoined to do so slowly and to stretch his naked body to the maximum. Stephen then stood with his hands on his hips and bent to see what was revealed when it was opened, his dangling cock grazing the leather and leaving a moist trail. "These offer the latest advances from America and Germany, Stephen, and use the great magnetic power of electricity to vitiate the..." "Essential fluids?" "Yes." "Well, we don't have electricity here, but Miss Tadrew has seen the electric lights in Lyme Regis." "No, a supply isn't necessary. See?" In the case were the most unusual garments. They were rather like old Mr Rusk's truss, he thought, and indeed some of them were trusses, but the ones that were indicated were curiously embroidered with fine wires and studded with copper and zinc plates. "You wear this," explained Quiggin holding aloft a British Galvanic Pulvermacher Belt, "and a gentle magnetic current pulsates on the skin which stimulates the subcutaneous glands which may have become torpid due to the excessive expenditure of the vital fluids. One merely has to moisten these galvanic plates with vinegar to create the invigorating alternating current--although some devotees prefer the revitalising throb of direct current-- and the electricity enters the body at precisely the correct points." "Does it hurt?" "Not at all. One only has to wear it for a few hours each day to achieve remarkable results." Here he disclosed a page of glowing testimonials, which Stephen scanned. "Try this one on." As Stephen was already naked, it was a simple matter, although he was a big boy and the garments were not well sized. The plates were moistened with the juice of a lemon and Stephen stood there, his cock drooping into a shape that might be imagined as a question mark. "Can you feel anything?" "No --perhaps a slight tingling in the buttocks." "Give it time to warm up." Some minutes elapsed and Stephen reluctantly declared that it was not working for him. "Try this one, it has a patented suspensory devise that might suit you better and it's powered by American dry cell batteries--the batteries are not included, but I have some here." This truss was more elaborate and featured and noose-like loop of coiled wire that Stephen found difficult to thread his large penis through. "Here let me help you," said Quiggin, his hands shaking "Does President Roosevelt really wear one of these while hunting big game?" asked Stephen, reading the box "Our customers like to think so. I'm on my way to Bournemouth, which, as you would know, has a large population of elderly gentlemen who long to regain their `big sticks' and cry `bully!'--and are willing to pay for it, let me tell you. I'll fit the batteries." Stephen felt a pleasant frisson, but looking down saw that his cock was not hard. "I can switch the current to `strong'," said Quiggin and fiddled with it. "Those sparks from nature's storehouse will be boosting your vitality," he proclaimed hopefully, looking at Stephen's cock and balls for any sign. "You know, Stephen," he said with a slight weariness when the experiment was at last declared a failure and Stephen was stepping out of Dr Sanden's Electric Belt, "the success of these products is often in how they are sold." "You mean they work if the customers believe that they work?" "Yes, that is so; you've got it in one. I do believe that feelings of sexual vitality comes from up here," he said, tapping his temple. "My job is to make customers think they are more vital" "After making them think that there is something wrong with them first?" "Well, I suppose that's true too," Quiggin conceded sheepishly, "but many come to me already convinced they have debilitating weaknesses and feel guilty about their self abuse. Clearly you are not among them." He wiped a spot of Stephen's vital essence off the silk pouch of the belt and folded it back into the cardboard box. "You know, Stephen, I'm sure you would be a great aid in my selling these products. Would you like a job? I could only offer you £1 a week, but you'd earn a ten percent commission on all that we sold and if we did private demonstrations I think I could offer you an extra five bob every time you...er...demonstrated how effective they work." "You mean, I would have to bring myself off and spill and I'd get five shillings? "Up to a quid's worth," added Quiggin hastily, remembering how many times Stephen said he could perform. "We would travel together and do the south coast towns, from Torquay to Brighton. We'd set up in hotel rooms like this one." "I could use the money," mused Stephen. "Would we have to share a bed?" he said bluntly. "I'm afraid I would insist on it--if only to make sure that you did not waste those vital essences in the night." Stephen saw that he wasn't serious. "I don't think so. I want to stay at school." "You're at school?" said Quiggin, astounded. "Yes" Quiggin looked greatly disappointed, for he had quickly and fully developed the whole scenario in his own mind. "I'll give you a private demonstration, if you like," said Stephen with a grin. Quiggin cheered visibly. He swung his legs up onto the bed and began by rubbing his palm across his chest. His nipples still stood proud thanks to the lingering effects of the green `Dr Montezuma's Astringent Rub'. He then pulled back his foreskin and, in a few tugs, quickly became hard. Quiggin had him pause so he could take measurements and then applied some drops of `The Young Man's Homeopathic Tincture for Perverted Secretions'. "It does prevent chafing and it's only made of glycerine and wallpaper paste, Stephen." Even without this pharmacological stimulant, Stephen shot an impressive load, curling his handsome toes and catching a goodly amount on his tongue. Quiggin would have applauded if both hands had been free but, as he had also been stimulated, he spilt his own seed on Stephen's manly chest. He scooped up the effluvia and fed it to the panting Stephen, saying, "This is a way to replenish your vital essence, Stephen." Stephen looked at him and they both laughed at the absurdity of it. "There's also another way, Stephen, and I think you might be up for it," he continued, slyly. Stephen sat up on one elbow and scratched his delta-shaped pubic pelt. "Have you ever fucked a man, Stephen?" Stephen hadn't, but didn't reply. "I think you may like it, if you did, and it is different to taking a woman--I'm sure you've had plenty of experience in that direction--a vigorous young man like yourself. For me, I would hope that I receive a goodly dose of your vitiating essences, which I'm sure will do me the power of good." Stephen didn't look convinced. He had warmed to Quiggin a little, but did not find him attractive in the least. It was one thing to bring himself off on the bed, but this was something altogether more intimate... "I'll give you a shilling." "Very well," replied Stephen, rising from the bed, his deflating cock leaking messily. Quiggin lowered his trousers and drawers, but did not remove them. He positioned himself unattractively on all fours and gave Stephen some rudimentary instructions. Not knowing otherwise, Stephen positioned his blunt-ended member at Quiggin's entrance. "Push in, Stephen." Stephen inhaled and pushed. Nothing happened. "Push it in Stephen, make me feel it!" Stephen grunted and pressed. "You're not trying. Get it up me, stud!" cried Quiggin in distress. Stephen pushed again, grasping Quiggin by the hips for leverage. His slippery head began to penetrate the tight muscles. Quiggin emitted a blood-curdling howl that alarmed Stephen, for they were in a bedroom in a public house. Still, he did not like to be defeated and he was nothing if not strong, so he pushed a little further and Quiggin screamed again. "Oh you're too big, Stephen!" "Do you want me to pull out?" "God, yes, I think you've ruptured me," he sobbed. "No, I don't think I can," said Stephen flatly. Quiggin reached for the powerful Heidelberg Electric Belt, that had been laid aside, and in one movement thrust the electrode on that greater portion of Stephen's cock that remained exposed. There was a terrific jolt and Stephen was thrown backwards and at the same time Quiggin was thrown forward, banging his skull on the headboard. Stephen rubbed his cock. "I think there's a scorch mark," he said looking down. He looked up at Quiggin who was sobbing. He was confused. "I'm sorry," he said, picking up his trousers. "It just wasn't going to work and I was hurting you." "But I wanted you to," sniffed Quiggin. "I wanted you inside me. It would make me young again." "Here's your shilling back," said Stephen after a pause. Quiggin wouldn't look at him, so Stephen just left the room. Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Pete and I would love to hear from you. Just send them to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.