Date: Sun, 29 Nov 2015 08:05:45 -0500
From: Pete Bruno <farmboy7456@gmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book One Chapter 4

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reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement
at the beginning of Chapter One.)

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Noblesse Oblige

By Henry Hilliard
With Pete Bruno

Book One
Twilight of the Gods
Chapter 4


The ball at Lady Fanning's house in Brook Street was somewhat grander than
Aunt Maude had led the boys to expect.  Martin, at fourteen, had never been
in a London ballroom, although there used to many receptions at Branksome
House in the old days, when Nanny would allow him to watch the spectacle of
the arriving guests between the balusters on the staircase.  However he had
a good general idea of the proceedings and had given Stephen some coaching
in the privacy of his room.

Sophia, Stephen and Martin in his outfit from Moss Bros and in equally
doubtful role as chaperone, drew up to Fanning House in a taxi at half-past
eleven.  It seemed to take forever to cross the hall and ascend the stairs.
He watched carefully as the host and hostess and the fortunately engaged
daughters greeted the guests in turn and then presented each to some minor
Royal who required a stiff bow in place of a handshake.

"Who is he?" hissed Stephen to Martin who merely shrugged.  If this was
Lady Fanning's idea of a small gathering, thought Stephen, what would she
make of tea and crumpets by the kitchen fire at home?

Stephen watched in some envy, as Martin seemed to move about the crowded
room with the air of one born to the purple.  He felt slightly sick with
humiliation when he was introduced to two older boys from Martin's school
and who immediately lapsed into the mysterious argot of such places,
recalling hilarious incidents of which Stephen knew nothing and referring
to others by perplexing nicknames.  Stephen's presence there was explained
with the Western Australian ruse, which Stephen had now come to hate.  He
turned his attention to Sophia who seemed far less remote at this minute
and perhaps sensed something of his awkwardness.

Martin, on the other hand, was delighted to show off his striking 'Western
Australian' friend to the boys in the Upper Fourth.  Martin was extolling
Stephen's prowess at cricket and boxing and found himself inventing all
sorts of other little embellishments to add to Stephen's biography.  Biffo
Bewley-Vance-Bewley noted with envy how Stephen effortlessly held the
attention of the pretty Miss Vane-Gillingham while Custard Featherstonhaugh
licked his lips when he noted the bulge in Stephen's evening trousers.

Presently the dancing commenced and Stephen had the first two waltzes with
Sophia before she directed him to ask other girls for a dance, noting which
numbers were waltzes or similar steps she thought he could manage.  Oddly,
Stephen did not meet with a refusal and he started to enjoy himself.
Martin watched him dance and noted that he was quite graceful for a big boy
and held a line nearly as attractive as the one he unconsciously described
that day on the log.  Martin himself also found plenty of partners, his
fair hair, bright eyes and adorable lips causing a flutter in more than one
heart.  Stephen noticed this too.  He was just sitting out a difficult 'one
step' and the two ladies whom he had been only recently entertaining with
exciting stories of the cane fields of Western Australia and the wide
variety of deadly animals to be found therein, had fallen to talking
between themselves.

"Who is that beautiful young man dancing with Pamela Hicks-Ormsby?" he
heard a women next to him ask as he subconsciously thought, Good God,
doesn't anyone have just one name in London?

"Oh that's young Lord Martin Poole.  He is the second son of the Marquess
of Branksome.  You know his elder brother, the Earl, is said to be dying.
So tragic."

"Yes, the young one is a very fine looking fellow," concluded the other.

Stephen looked across at the young lord.  Yes, he was truly beautiful.  He
had fine shoulders under his cutaway and the tails only served to emphasise
the rounded firmness of his buttocks, which he knew from close experience,
were covered in a golden down every bit as beautiful as his yellow hair
shining under the light of the chandeliers.  I wonder if he's wearing
underwear tonight, mused Stephen.

At this point the dancing stopped for supper.  When the various ladies were
fussed over and supplied with victuals, Stephen found Martin and said, "Do
you want to come outside for a cigarette?"  As neither of them smoked,
Martin followed, intrigued.

Fanning House stood in a surprisingly large garden for a London residence,
in which, detached, stood a conservatory reached by a flagged path from the
terrace.  There was a light rain falling so only a handful of guests were
even on the terrace, which at least had an awning, and none were in the
dark garden.  Stephen all but dragged Martin into the glasshouse and
roughly shoved him behind some Kentia palms in Chinese pots. Thus concealed
in this unlikely outpost of the tropics, Stephen kissed Martin roughly,
seriously bruising his lip.

Martin prepared to kneel when Stephen said, "Stop," and knelt down, almost
tearing at the flies of Martin's suit, which was rightfully the property of
Messrs Moss Bros. Stephen almost wept with joy when he discovered that
Martin was indeed naked under his trousers and, with trembling hands,
fished out his cock and balls and proceeded to ravish both with his tongue
and lips, occasionally eliciting a slight yelp when he grazed a sensitive
spot with his teeth.  It was as ugly as it was beautiful.  The frantic
pleasuring went on for several minutes, Stephen giving no thought to his
own cock for once, and all was augmented, when Martin's trousers had been
forced down around his ankles, by Stephen's index finger being inserted in
Martin's still tender rectum.  In a trice it was all over, Stephen
swallowing all Martin's offering, saving none to share for the passionate
kiss that followed, Stephen asserting his control of Martin's head by
clasping a fistful of golden hair on the back of his scalp. "God I damn
well love you," he declared.

"I love you too," replied Martin, sincerely, although with not the same
terrible tremble in his voice.

They adjusted their costume as best they could in the dark and returned to
the ballroom, unobserved, save for Custard who had followed them at a
distance and, nosed pressed to the dripping glass, thought he saw something
and indeed would have seen more had not a particularly vigorous
Bougainvillea been unusually lengthy in its flowering season in the
conservatory of Fanning House that year.

The boys slept late in their respective rooms.  There was to be some last
minute sightseeing and lunch with Martin's godfather, Viscount Delvees-
Custard's grandfather-whom he had bumped into the previous night, just
after returning from having a 'cigarette' in the conservatory.

Stephen was, as usual, an enthusiastic tourist.  They saw Buckingham Palace
(the King was at Windsor), the Horse Guards and the Houses of Parliament.
Viscount Delvees, who sat on the woolsack, met them for lunch on the
terrace overlooking the Thames.  He was a nice old man and asked after
their schooling, not dreaming that the well-dressed young man (his blue
suit that day with its peacock blue lining and facings to the lapels of the
waistcoat) and with the mop of wavy hair and with the interest in cricket,
actually attended a humble village school.  Martin confided his fears as to
the health of his brother and of his father's suddenly odd behaviour and
the Viscount listened sympathetically and offered help should it ever be
needed, which relieved Martin considerably.  During the second half of the
meal, Martin became very quiet and then fidgety.  The burden of the
conversation fell more on Stephen's broad shoulders and some remarks about
both cricket and popular authors impressed the Viscount and the boy grew in
his estimation.

At last Martin excused them, saying that they had to catch the train for
Bournemouth.

In Whitehall Stephen said, "But we're catching an evening train and I
thought we were going to look at the Albert Hall?"

"Bugger the Albert Hall!" said Martin crossly and made for a bus that
seemed to be going in the direction of Lowndes Square.  On the bus Martin
seemed even more unsettled and, as they bumped along Victoria Street,
Stephen observed tears in his eyes.

"It's you dear brother isn't, Martin?"

"No, it's that damned thing.  That stopper; I've had it in my arse all day
and its killing me!" Stephen looked truly shocked and then laughed.  "I
really want you to fuck me," he continued quietly.  "I love you, Stephen."

Stephen ceased to laugh and, at the risk of the passengers in the front
seats turning around, kissed him and grabbed his throbbing cock.

At home they prepared to depart.  Stephen eagerly wanted to see the work of
the Chineses plug and it was he who ever so gently eased it from the rectum
of his friend.

"How does it look?" enquired Martin.

"Like the Bakerloo line.  We should show the Senator."  He bent down and,
parting Martin's cheeks, gently lapped at the red and swollen opening in an
effort to bring some relief.

As they said goodbye to Aunt Maude she asked Martin to convey her love to
his brother.  She turned to Stephen and, taking his hand, said, "Do
remember me to your father."  Stephen look stunned; she however was
nonplussed and continued, "My sister and I were brought up at Croome, I
know the accent and I have always kept abreast of the village news,
including the cricket."  With that she kissed him on the cheek.

They dined on the train and discussed the events of the last few days, not
the least of which were the parting words of Aunt Maude.  Martin declared
that not a boy in his whole school could have had a time like they had had
over the last three weeks.  Stephen reflected that he could not even find
anything to frame what he had experienced should he try to explain events
to his father.  Suddenly he said: "Martin, how much of the ?50 do we have
left?"

"None," Martin laughed, "we've spent ?97 and that doesn't include
Bournemouth."  Stephen was flabbergasted and at last said, in the accent of
his village, "Lundun is t'right s'pensive plaice, bin't it!"

Stewart's hotel trailed its pink meringue of a fa?ade across the seafront.
It was very grand and luxurious, but after London, Stephen felt less
intimidated.  They had adjoining rooms and Stephen said: "Why can't we just
get one room; what can they say to a lord?"

"It would be cheaper too, but you know we must be mindful of appearances."

They locked the door and lay on Stephen's bed in each other's arms, the
room being warmed by modern hot water radiators.  "How will I stand it when
you're back at school?" said Stephen.

"It will be Easter soon.  Do you know what I'd like?  To sleep in your
little bed in the attic; do you think you can send your father somewhere at
Easter so we can have the cottage to ourselves?  You know you could always
have the Owens boys for company."

"Do you mean that?" said Stephen looking at him with surprise.

"Yes, I'm not jealous of them.  It will keep you in practice.  I do fear
that you might burst if you have to wait weeks!"

"You'll be pleasuring your six-former every night."

"No I won't.  He'll be at Oxford; I'm no longer anybody's fag."

They made plans for the future.  The Soho box they decided should be hidden
at the cottage away from prying schoolboys and servants.  "May I try the
devices?" asked Stephen and Martin agreed, with some surprise at being
asked.

Most importantly, Stephen ruled that Martin was not to wear any underwear
on Mondays Wednesday and Thursdays; he just wanted to know when he was
naked under his uniform.  "I can't Wednesdays because that's sport and I
have to change in front of the other boys, it will be hard enough in my
room," complained Martin.  A compromise was reached which involved Sundays
too, but it was too complicated to relate.

Next Martin was not to do anything with other boys without Stephen's
permission. And he had to keep up his practice in both cricket (in the
season) and in lacrosse, the new sport from Canada that Stephen had only
read about in school stories.  He had to try harder in Latin and Maths too.

Martin did not have to exact such promises from Stephen who excelled at
school, however he did have to write regularly to Martin and, if possible,
enclose an extra page upon which he had spilled.  A secret code also was
devised so they could tell each other how many times per day they'd
pleasured themselves.  Stephen was also to send in the post, the pair of
stained and worn shorts he wore when he boxed in the hall.  "I want to
sniff them and smell you when I go to bed," he explained simply. Then he
produced a pair of nail scissors from his case and told Stephen to get
undressed.  Stephen became alarmed as the sharp instrument headed for his
manhood. However Martin explained that he only wanted to trim Stephen's
unruly bush of hair so that he might suck him better.  Thus assuaged,
Steven submitted to the trim and what remained was formed into a neat
triangle of half-inch locks that extended beautifully in a dark line to his
navel. Martin licked this avenue when he'd finished and laid his cheek on
Stephen's warm, flaccid cock, which was flung carelessly over his left
thigh.  Finally, he took a twist of the harvested growth and placed it in
the back of his gold pocket watch, "Like Lord Byron," he giggled.

He too removed his clothes and looked into Steven's blue eyes that were
partly screened by his floppy hair and said, "And now I want you to fuck
me!"

A warm washcloth from the adjoining bathroom (this was a modern hotel) was
used to clean the boy and, again, Stephen made sure the action was
completed properly with the application of his tongue.  He was very gentle.

Martin then sucked Stephen's monstrous cock until it was hard and what he
couldn't take into his mouth he made sure was slick with drool.  "Huskison
major has a book on sword swallowing.  That's another thing I can
practice," he laughed while catching his breath.

Stephen reapplied his skilful tongue, wetting Martin's crack and relaxing
his muscles until he was actually able to probe the opening.  He now
applied the olive oil and his slicked finger enlarged the opening, causing
Martin to moan and writhe.  "Am I hurting you?" he enquired.

"No, it feels marvellous this time; not nearly so much pain.  Keep doing
that."

So he did for the next ten minutes, sliding gently in and out and sometimes
inserting two fingers, looking for Martin's reaction to anything untoward.
Feeling himself inside Martin and having the boy under his power thrilled
Stephen.  He became more and more excited until he cried, "Please Martin,
let me stick it in!"  Martin nodded and Stephen applied a lot more oil to
Martin's gaping hole and down the shaft of his own cock.  He placed a
pillow under Martin's buttocks, giving the left cheek a resounding smack.
Stephen then lined up his cock and pressed forward.  Martin let out a
scream before Stephen could cover his mouth with his hand.  He stopped
thrusting and quickly replaced his hand with his own mouth.  He stood
frozen like this for a minute until he felt Martin relax and he pressed in
some more.  Again Martin tensed up and let out a stifled scream.  Stephen
stopped again.  When Martin relaxed once more he said, "Do you want me to
take it out?"

"Would you?" asked Martin.

"No," replied Stephen.

"Then you better keep going, but just one cock at a time, for pity's sake."

Stephen applied some more of the olive oil and then tried a new technique:
he withdrew a little way and pushed in again, each time increasing the
penetration and he felt Martin relax slightly.  He also held Martin by
ankles and spread his legs wide and high, using them as leverage for each
thrust.  As the thickest part of his cock entered his lover's hole,
Martin's distress increased and he muffled his cries with a pillow as tears
flooded from his eyes, and his nose leaked.  He thrashed his arms about,
pulling at the counterpane and, at one point, clutched at the bell cord,
giving it an emphatic pull.

The pair froze with a look of terror on their faces.  When Stephen
suggested he pull out Martin shook his head desperately.  They were locked
together, Stephen with his penis in Lord Martin's rectum and his hands
clasping his ankles held high in the air. There was no (other) possible
explanation should they be discovered and no way to cover their nakedness.
Presently they started to giggle and then there was a soft knock at the
door.

"Sir?"

"It's alright, porter, I thought I'd lost my?"

"Virginity?" whispered Martin.

"? dressing case," he lit upon, as he spied Martin's luxurious crocodile
article from which he had so lately taken the nail scissors.

"Very good, sir," and with that he was gone.

The boys looked at each other and laughed.  "Are you all the way in yet?"
panted the tear-stained boy.

"No. I am now!" said Stephen, giving a final brutal thrust, which caused
Martin to let out a yelp that threatened to bring the porter again.  "How
does it feel?"

"It's actually starting to feel marvellous.  The person I love most in all
the world is actually inside me."  He reached down to feel Stephen's balls
and newly groomed bush.  He smiled.  "Make me feel good."

Stephen set about this task with alacrity.  He thrust in and out with
increasing speed and, when in at his deepest, ground his hips in a circular
motion, which made Martin's eyes roll back in his skull.  His penis, which
had been shrivelled by the pain, was now hard and, once again, he spilled
without touching it.  Stephen felt pleased he was the instrument of all
this and noted with approval that the boy yet remained hard.

Stephen's chest and mighty shoulders was slick with sweat and his hair was
drenched as well; when he flicked his head, a cascade of sweat lashed
Martin's face just as he had imagined it would when he pictured Stephen in
the boxing ring.  Stephen released Martin's legs, withdrew his penis and
applied more oil, taking the opportunity to hook the bell cord safely over
a painting of an Alpine scene.  His cock slid back in easily.  Before he
resumed his pounding, Martin pulled him down for a kiss, scratching his
sweaty back in the process.

Martin spilled again on his chest and Stephen cried that he too was about
to spill.  He made to withdraw when a panicked Martin gasped out, "No!
Inside; I want it inside for God's sake!" And thus instructed, he spilled
somewhere in the deep recesses of his friend.

Martin sobbed at the feeling of emptiness when Stephen finally withdrew his
cock. Stephen inspected the ravished hole, which was swollen and already
leaking Stephen's seed onto the sheets.  There was some blood.  "I'm sorry,
I must have really hurt you," said Stephen in some distress.

"I'll be alright.  That was the best experience of my life.  But let's not
do it again until Easter; I'll be recovered by then.  And we're travelling
first class tomorrow; I'll need a soft seat," he added with a weak smile.

"Right," confirmed Stephen, "we won't do anything until Easter."

"I didn't say that.  Come here I want to suck you.  Do you think you have
another one in you?"

Stephen grinned and stood impressively with his hairy legs spread and his
hands on his hips as Martin, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed,
worked over the slicked monster.


* * *


The sanatorium proved to be a commodious Victorian townhouse in the gothic
style of fifty years before, but without the usual gloom that accompanied
this class of dwelling, thus making them so suitable for their conversion
to institutions for inmates who were insensible to their surroundings or
powerless to alter them.  No, this was a sunny and airy seaside folly built
by some homesick industrialist from the highlands, presumably, as it now
bore the title 'Braemar', noted Martin, and stood some considerable
distance from Scotland.

They were greeted in the hall by the proprietor, a Dr Alexander, who said
that his lordship was expecting them and ushered them up a wide stair to
the floor above and, giving a little bow, directed them to a pair of
polished mahogany doors.  Stephen put his hand on Martin's arm.  "No, you
see him; I'll wait downstairs."

"No, I want?Yes, I'll go in first," he said, screwing up his courage, "and
I'll see how things are and then send for you."  There was a terrible look
fear in his red-rimmed eyes.  His lips, so usually rosy, were pale.  As Dr
Alexander had trod noiselessly away on the thick Turkey carpet, Stephen
bent to his friend and kissed him reassuringly on those lips, while at the
same time patting him on the buttocks from more equivocal motives.

Martin knocked and entered in the one movement, shutting his eyes from
fear.  When he opened them he saw his brother, a dressing gown over his
clothes, seated on a chaise before a large gothic window that framed a view
over the bay.  He was in silhouette and it was not until he drew closer
that he could fully gauge William's appearance: he was much the same as
when he'd seen him at Christmas and that came as a relief.  His thin hair
barely disguised ugly swellings on his scalp and there were lesions on the
backs of his hands and neck.  His colour was not good and he explained that
his liver was bad and weakness prevented him from rising.  Nevertheless he
appeared clean and well-groomed and he had never been fat, although his
body under the dressing gown suggested more a man of seventy than one of
twenty-five.

Martin threw his arms around him and kissed him, noting with horror when he
pulled back, that William's teeth were ugly and grey.  "It's the mercury
treatment, Martin," began William when he noticed his young brother's
involuntary action, "It is doing some good the doctors say, although also
its drawbacks."

"I'm?glad...that..." he responded before being cut short.

"It's syphilis, you know that don't you?" Martin didn't know, but now
digested the full horror.  "I'm dying, my dear chap, it's all through me,
and now only a matter of time."

Martin threw himself on his brother's chest, once so strong, and wept like
the child he felt he was still, although children were usually protected
from the world's cruel realties such as this.

The sick man comforted his younger brother and then said, "Now we must buck
up. I'm having a good week and I've being getting a lot done."

By way of explanation William gestured to the easel and canvases that lay
around the room.  They were mostly seascapes, obviously painted from the
widows of Braemar and some portraits of what must have been the staff here.
There was a touching one of Croome with the sweep of lawn going down to the
lake.  William had caught the light and the colours of the stone and the
trees in high summer very well.  Behind this lay some more pictures.  When
Martin turned them over they made no sense; they were not exactly childish,
but dark, wild and confused; shapes without recognisable form.

"They're ones I do when I'm having a bad week, explained William lightly; I
put them to the wall so as not to remind me in the good ones.  Tsindis says
they're my best, but I can't see it myself."

"I met him in London just a few days ago and he said to say hullo."

"Ah Tsindis," reflected William, "he comes sometimes.  We were?lovers?at
one point.  You know that?"  This was another shock to Martin.  William
went on, feeling that he had to explain.  "You know those things you said
you did with your fag-master and those things we did together years ago
when I showed you how to (here he made a motion with his hand) well? I kept
doing them at Cambridge and in London.  There were plenty of fellows who
liked to do that sort of thing.  I enjoyed it!" he said proudly.  "Never
cared much for women.  I'm afraid your brother the Earl is what our father
calls an 'invert' and won't be continuing the line, even if I didn't have
the syph.  I hope you don't hate me but I can't expect you to understand at
fourteen- happy birthday for the other day, by the way.  Forget the date
here."  He was quite emotional at the end of this long speech.

Martin was silent for a while.  He looked up and said. "You know, when I
met Tsindis I was at the Caf? Royal."

"You're a bit young for that place," said William brightening.

"I was with a friend, slightly older."

"You mean a school chum?" offered William, not helping.

"No."

"You mean a girl?  A tart?  Never a sweetheart?"

Martin did not respond to this and said: "Tsindis did a sketch of my friend
there, at the Caf? Royal."  He fished the card out from the large outside
pocket of his topcoat and passed it over to William, "In fact he's waiting
for me downstairs."

William's eyes widened when he looked at the Tsindis portrait and then he
looked at Martin.  He looked back at the portrait, now his turn to digest
new information.  "He went to the Caf? Royal with you?"  William continued,
still surprised.

"Although he was dressed at the time- artistic license- and is fully
clothed downstairs now," although, at this last, Martin allowed a particle
of doubt to cloud his mind for just an instant.  "We stayed with Aunt
Maude."  And Martin, with some of the same artistic skill as his brother,
sketched a few scenes of their time in London.  "You see, William, I'm an
invert too!"  He smiled weakly as his brother's ill, but adoring, eyes were
fixed upon him.  "And I love him!"  This last came out as a terrible
ragged, choking exhalation.  And Martin found himself once more in his
brother's embrace upon the chaise.

When Martin had recovered from his sobs and had dried his eyes with a
corner of William's dressing gown, William said: "Ring for him to be
brought up.  We can't have this important personage left dangling in the
hall."  So Martin did and the doors stood wide open when Stephen's ample
frame filled them a few minutes later.

Stephen was nervous when he was introduced and called William, 'My lord.'
Then he was emboldened to say, "But we've met before, sir."

"Not at the Caf? Royal?" said William.

"No sir, I took your wicket three years ago.  It was my first season with
the village team."

William's jaw dropped and Martin hoped that shock would not be the cause of
a relapse.

"You're never Knight's boy! He was a skinny boy of thirteen- had the
makings of a fine all-rounder," he added as a reflection.

"I'm almost sixteen now, sir, and, well, I guess I grewed," he said with a
grin, adopting the local dialect.

"But," said William still astounded, taking in Stephen's fine clothes, some
of them oddly familiar, "you're a gentleman!"

Stephen was slightly annoyed at this and, glancing over at the Tsindis
which lay beside the Earl on the chaise replied, "I don't know about that,
your lordship, but I am a man."

"That you are, sir," said William, catching his meaning and recognising the
moment of his own defeat.

He was invited to sit down and the three fell to talking about Croome and
cricket (William was astounded that the young bowler who had had a 'lucky'
wicket all those years ago was now the side's young captain) and finally
something of London and the Caf? Royal.  At Martin's un-gentlemanly
insistence, Stephen was persuaded to retell the story of the nocturnal
perambulations of Miss Orchard-Baird (soon to be Mrs Buckwheet) which
Stephen told with gusto and appropriate actions.  All three were roaring
with laughter.  Stephen was most amused to hear William exclaim "No!" in
exactly the same way as his brother and, in lighter moments, beneath the
mask of illness, the dying earl did indeed resemble his brother.

William could see how much the two boys meant to each other; the quick
glances, a reassuring nod, the looks of adoration.  They even finished each
other's sentence like married couples are wont to do.  William even took
some stolen glances himself; at how handsomely Stephen filled out his
trousers and how tight was his coat across his shoulders and how mass if
muscle beneath shifted.  William was glad to see his brother so happy and
he too felt the relief of his earlier confession.

Presently William said, "They won't allow me to smoke in here, but Bates
usually smuggles me some.  My case is empty.  Mr Knight, would you mind
going to the tobacconists on the next corner and buying me some Turkish
cigarettes?  I don't want the staff to know.  Tell them who it's for and
they'll put it on my account.  My brother and I can discuss a few tedious
estate matters until your return.

Thus dismissed, Stephen did his errand, wondering if the estate matters
included his suggestion for the drainage scheme, of which he was
inordinately proud.

When he returned, he was met by Martin in the corridor.  He had a strange
expression on his face.  "Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Fine.  The visit is a splendid success.  He likes you- very much.  You
know he cannot leave this place?" said Martin and went on to explain
another small favour Lord Holdenhurst begged.

Martin went down the passageway to tell the staff that tea would not be
required that day as the party was discussing personal affairs and wasn't
to be disturbed.  He returned to the room and found Stephen rearranging a
screen in front of the doors that had no locks and moving an armchair
across the room.

Then Stephen stood before William and the still seated aristocrat reached
out and explored the village lad's crotch, hefting the weight of his balls
and exploring that length that ran down his left leg somewhere in the
direction of his knee.  This kneading went on for some minutes.

Stephen stepped back with his eyes shining brightly and fixedly upon the
ill man and removed his trousers.  To Martin's surprise he was wearing the
expensive lemon-silk underwear, but this addition was more than balanced by
the absence of any vest when his shirt was unbuttoned and pulled over his
head.  Martin and his brother were very excited by this.

When naked, Stephen sat in the armchair, his buttocks on the edge and his
shoulders slumped back.  He spread his muscular legs wide. These mighty,
meaty limbs were hirsute for a boy of not quite sixteen and the down was
black and curly like that on his crown, which had fallen, once again, over
one of his blue eyes.

Stephen began to pleasure his cock, which quickly reached full hardness
(Was it ever soft? both brothers wondered in curious unison) and everything
was fully on display between the Rhodean Colossus of his spread thighs,
including his balls, which hung beyond the edge of the chair.

Stephen's impressive action continued for many minutes.  He kept his eyes
on William and he kept his rhythm steady (something that would suit a
'gallop,' thought Martin, thinking of the metronome of Mr Piers his piano
teacher, as he tried to keep pace through the material of his own trousers)
and Stephen occasionally changed hands, displaying equal dexterity (the
secret of an all-rounder, thought William, as he reflected, for just a
moment in his mind's eye, on the village green at home).  With his free
hand he would rub the small triangle of hair (Martin's favourite sleeping
place) or the newly groomed triangle down lower.  Sometimes he would cup
his balls for stimulation.

Stephen then stood from the chair, without missing a beat, and pleasured
himself whilst standing, his legs still spread wide.  He increased the
pace.

Suddenly Martin could stand it no longer. He leapt from his chair, his
trousers now around his ankles, and dived upon the cock, swallowing a
considerable portion, while Stephen clutched his skull and fucked his
mouth, all tenderness between the lovers temporarily evaporated.

As his brother's golden head was being savagely abused, William noted with
admiration another sign of abuse: Martin's red and swollen hole, which was
now on display.  How did my young brother accommodate this lusty village
stud?

The show continued to its climax.  At one point the Earl, hitherto a
largely a silent participant, cried out "Pull on his balls!  Pull on them!
Hard!" Which Martin did with his one free hand.  Stephen let out a yell and
then spilt in Martin's mouth, although a considerable amount went on his
face and possibly also on other objects in the expensively furnished room.

When the boys had regained their breath, William made a sign at which
Martin scooped up a particularly delightful sample of Stephen's seed from
under his long, brown foreskin with his finger and crawled over on his
knees and fed it to his brother.

The appreciative aristocrat motioned Stephen to come over.  He again felt
Stephen's cock and balls and marvelled at how he was still quite hard.
Stephen felt like it was the inspection of some prize animal in the Croome
Agricultural Show, which he supposed was not entirely inaccurate.  "I would
have liked to have seen how far you could shoot, had not my brother got in
the way.  You must shoot a long way."

"I don't know your lordship, I've never measured," replied Stephen not
quite honestly.

"You should.  Martin, take measurements and report them to me.  And it best
be 'William' when we're in private, don't you think?"

Stephen smiled.

As they were dressing William said: "I usually have the gardener's boy come
and do me on Monday afternoons.  He likes to come before Scouts.  He's a
Scout.  Small boy for seventeen and only does- at this he made the hand
motion again instead supplying a noun or verb. "I give him five shillings.
If I succeeded I suppose I'd have to give him a pound.  I won't need him
today, however, but I still better give him his five bob, I suppose.
Noblesse oblige.  You will come again- both of you- won't you?" he said
pathetically.

Both boys, now dressed, looked at each other then at Lord Holdenhurst and
nodded, Martin saying, "It's not long till the Easter hols.  We will call
then.  I'll write too."

Martin kissed his brother and Stephen was invited to kiss William too, glad
he was not offered the five bob for a show that he immodestly thought would
easily fill the Empire Leicester Square at twice that per seat,

Martin rang for a servant who, surprised at the rearrangement of the
furniture, showed them out, William calling, "Goodbye Martin, Mr Knight.
Excuse me if I don't get up!"- this last with an edge.

"Goodbye, William!" they chimed in unison.

To be continued?


Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I
would love to hear from you.  Just send them to farmboy5674@gmail.com and
please put NOB in the subject line.