Date: Fri, 18 Dec 2015 19:57:04 -0500
From: Pete Bruno <farmboy7456@gmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Chapter 7

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.  How about
sending them $5 Bucks, just think of it as buying a hot magazine!

Noblesse Oblige

By Henry Hilliard
With Pete Bruno

Book One

Twilight of the Gods
Chapter 7


The Daimler groaned its way along the deep, narrow lanes of Dorset, the
rain still falling.  The boys sat in the back seat trying to keep
themselves dry along with the luggage, which had been brought inside from
the elements on one of the occasions that Jackman had stopped the vehicle
in order to ask for directions to Bournemouth.  In the pile were some
mysterious and heavy boxes whose contents Martin refused to disclose.

At last they saw the sea, grey and choppy, over the crest of a hill and
soon they were settling into their rooms at Stewart's Hotel, with Jackman
dispatched for home again.  When the hotel servants had unpacked for them
and had tidied things away, Martin locked the door and took Stephen into
the bathroom.  They enjoyed the warm water, made fragrant by scented soap,
as they washed each other in the large tub amid the tiled and steam-heated
accoutrements of modernity.  Martin paid special attention to washing
Stephen's magnificent hair, lathering the loose curls with shampoo and
rinsing it repeatedly with the soft Dorset water that came abundantly from
the impressive nickel taps.  Both boys had aching cocks and balls, Martin
thinking Stephen would die, but they agreed to save themselves for the
visit to William in the late afternoon.

While they were dressing Martin produced a flat box from his case.

"Happy birthday, Stephen!" he said, handing it over.

Stephen took the box and, thanking Martin but remarking that his birthday
was not until the day after tomorrow, opened it to reveal a handsome silver
frame in the Cymric style and made by Liberty.

"It's beautiful!" said Stephen, "but what shall I put in it?"

"This is only half your present.  Come with me."

Martin led the soon-to-be sixteen year-old from the hotel and through the
wet streets to a shop that declared that it was the Studland Bay Art
Photographic Studio.  "You're having your portrait taken," he declared
simply.

The proprietor was a fussy little man of about thirty-five who was busy
combining deference to his lordship' for his patronage, repeatedly assuring
his lordship that he had indeed come to the right place, and complimenting
his lordship on his artistic acumen, all the time sizing up Stephen as he
paced about him, finger and thumb on his chin beneath pursed lips, tilting
his head the better to capture some artistic perspective of the beefy lad.

They were taken through to the studio behind the shop where, according to
Martin's elaborate instructions, a remarkable transformation in the usually
predictable furnishings had been affected.  In the corner, a canvas had
been stretched tightly over the floor and a turnbuckle and ropes, as for a
boxing ring, had been mocked up, the illusion only requiring a small
portion of the real thing.  On the wall was a painted backdrop showing a
crowd of cheering and energised spectators, men with cigars and women in
feathered hats, all intent on the spectacle before them.  Stephen was
amazed.

He was led behind a screen to get into costume, the little man putting his
head around the corner to unnecessarily inspect Stephen's progress on
several occasions, and presently Stephen emerged, stripped to the waist in
a pair of silken boxer's trunks and laced boots and holding a pair of
gloves which the two tied on.  Stephen was a magnificent sight for a lad
his age.  The illusion was furthered when an oily mixture was applied to
Stephen's skin to simulate sweat (both client and proprietor taking great
pains in its application) and water sprayed on Stephen's shiny mop of hair
to flatten it, with his lordship himself making several attempts to arrange
the errant lock of loose raven curls correctly over Stephen's left eye.

Next Stephen was manipulated like an artist's lay figure into various
poses.  The one universally preferred was where Stephen stood leaning
slightly backwards into the turnbuckle, as if in fatigue, with his legs
wide apart and with his elbows resting on the top ropes, his gloved fists
momentarily poised over his chest, but not touching, as if in readiness for
the fray.  Fine adjustments were made so that the flex in his biceps was
shown off effectively in the electric light and that at least one nipple
was visible as a 'point of focus' on Stephen's chest, as the photographer
explained.  Lastly, the artist, with the approval of his patron, personally
improved the arrangement of Stephen's half-hard cock trough the silken
drawers in order that it too should be a point of focus in the composition
and this appeared to meet with the mute approval by the mob of painted
faces on the backdrop.

Several exposures were taken before, at last, sadly, the boxing champion
was allowed to dress and the customers were ushered out with a promise that
the proofs would be ready on the morrow, a point of artistic focus being
clearly visible, along with a damp spot, on the trousers of the artist.



An afternoon visit to Braemar was made and they were met in the hall by Dr
Alexander who exchanged pleasantries, enquired after Martin's father and
confirmed that the mysterious boxes had been delivered to the Earl's room
as instructed.

Upstairs, Martin rushed across the room to kiss his smiling brother who was
seated, as usual, on the chaise before the gothic window.  Stephen made a
more formal greeting to his lordship until Dr Alexander was gone and then
kissed William too, not being put off by his blackened teeth and decayed
features.  William had explained that whilst debilitated, at this stage of
his illness he was not infectious, which was a great irony, he had added
bitterly.

William, this day however, seemed improved and was helped to his feet so
that he might show them his latest paintings and move to the table where
the boxes had been placed.  Leaning on the table for support, he watched
with interest as the larger box was opened by Martin to revel its contents:
a talking machine made by the Edison Phonograph Company in a remote place
called Orange, New Jersey.  The smaller box contained a selection of wax
cylinders for the machine to play, the whole object being to give amusement
to William in his enforced seclusion.  William had to be returned to his
seat, but was able to view how the horn was attached and how the mechanism
was wound and the cylinders fitted.  The first one, chosen at random, was a
music hall favourite, After the Ball, and the three swayed their bodies in
time to the tune and declared it miraculous.  A second recording: Miss
Clara Butt throatily intoning Land of Hope and Glory, was also appreciated,
although none wanted it repeated.

They rang for tea and the servants too were delighted at the music the
machine produced and ventured that it would help Lord Holdenhurst pass the
hours and be a stimulus to his brush.  When the things were being removed,
the Earl declared that they had some important family business to discuss
and they weren't to be disturbed.

Martin suggested that William might like to conduct the business in his
adjoining bedchamber, in view of the absence of locks and the presence of
such a large window looking out over the front.  However, William would not
hear of it, although he did allow the screen to be stood before the doors
once again.

He motioned the boys to stand before him, which they did, and he
reacquainted himself with the dimensions of their youthful muscles, cocks
and balls.  It took little to have both boys straining at their trousers,
but William still commanded them to kiss first, assisting in this endeavour
by pushing their bodies together.  "Take your clothes off, Martin, and then
undress your lover," said the Earl.  When Martin was naked, William gazed
over his brother's blondness and said to no one in particular, "My brother
is well hung."  And Martin, had he been paying attention, would have been
pleased and proud.

When Stephen was naked he stood directly before the seated William, hairy
legs akimbo and hands defiantly on his hips.  His cock was obscenely arched
out ahead of him as he leaned his marble shoulders back and it was dripping
a steady stream of clear liquid onto the dressing gown of the heir to
Croome.  Martin knelt down and took the head in his mouth and ran his
tongue under the long, brown foreskin to sample the sweetness therein.  He
then pulled the foreskin right back to expose the pink head which he
tongued to gather the clear liquid before it was wasted.  William craned
his neck so he could better see the cock going in and out of his brother's
full lips.  He leaned forward and took the back of Martin's skull in both
hands so that Stephen could fuck it, occasionally assisting in this by
pressing his brother's head forward until the sick aristocrat's arms became
too tired and he leaned back on the settee once more, liberating Martin's
blond head.  William could almost taste the tang of this working class boy,
whom he decided, was far from common but best put to work straight away.
"I want you to fuck my brother," he declared.

To affect this, Stephen knelt behind Martin while Martin leaned over,
supporting himself by planting one arm either side of William on the
settee.  Stephen began to lick Martin's blonde crack and hole, painfully
pulling his sweet cheeks apart and working his tongue inside with some of
the movements he had learnt in the Women's Institute Hall.  Thus disposed,
Martin was panting just inches from his brother's face.  "Get right in
there!" encouraged the Earl.

For want of something better, a bottle of hair oil was retrieved from the
bedroom to be used as a lubricant and this pomade was worked into Martin's
hole and slathered on Stephen's cock.  The boys arose from their postures
so that William might inspect these and then they took up their positions
again.  Reaching around for a quick kiss as if to wish each other luck, the
fucking began.  Stephen slowly entered Martin's hole after his oily fingers
were finally removed and Martin let out a howl.  However he bravely
accepted the intrusion with just moans and groans until the stretching
became just too painful and he began to cry out.  Stephen slowed his
assault until Martin became used to his girth, despite William's urging to
keep pushing.  When at last Stephen was all the way in and his silky, back
public curls were silhouetted against the fair flesh of Martin's buttocks,
both boys lost their looks of deep concentration and managed a smile.  Thus
joined they shuffled a little sideways so that William might enjoy the
sight of Martin taking all of Stephen's big cock.  William slid his fingers
through Stephen's bush and touched the base of his cock that was hard
against his brother's buttocks.  With his brother satisfied that it was no
conjuring trick, Martin placed his hands either side of William on the
settee once again and lowered his face to in the deep silk folds of his
dressing gown.

Stephen began to move in and out slowly and then with increasing speed when
he felt that Martin could take it.  He tried to vary the angle of attack to
further increase the pleasure.  He began to grunt and perspire profusely,
sweat plastering his dark hair over his forehead, running down his face and
through the cleft in his chin to meet the moisture glistening on his chest
and abdominal muscles.

Martin's moans and sobs were muffled in William's lap and all the while his
brother affectionately stroked his golden hair and soothingly whispering
comforting words, but far from desiring the assault to cease, and William
began to marvel at how his younger brother maintained such an erection
through this ordeal.  Martin now stood high in his estimation.  There had
been, he reflected as he felt himself through his trousers, Pooles at
Agincourt, at Bosworth Field and Edge Hill (on both sides) and his father's
brother had seen action up the Khyber Pass (here he almost giggled), but
none was so brave, he thought at this moment, as his fourteen year-old
brother who was taking it up the arse like a real man.

Stephen's lovemaking increased in its terrible violence and Martin was
crying out in an alarming fashion and moaning like a calf.  Fearing that Dr
Alexander would burst through the doors at any second, William picked up
his stick and struck the talking machine on the table.  It sprang at once
into voice and through the trumpet blared the well-known prelude to the
third act of Richard Wagner's Die Walkure as performed by an enthusiastic
brass band from a northern colliery in the Albert Hall.  Stephen seemed to
fall in with the rhythm of the composer as his assault redoubled.

Suddenly, just as the gates of Valhalla were in sight, Stephen decided to
pull out, leaving Martin suddenly empty, but Martin quickly understood the
choreography and rose to stand beside Stephen.  With their spare hands
locked around each other's waists, they stroked their slimy erections with
increasing frenzy in the direction of the Earl.  Stephen released Martin's
waist so that he might pleasure himself with both hands, as he was wont to
do.  William was lost in wonder at their facial expressions and he noted
with pleasure Martin's blond balls starting to rise.  All of sudden Martin
erupted all over his brother, drenching his face and shirt with his seed.
The last rope had just landed when Stephen's pent up balls exploded with
considerable force, the first volley hitting the window behind the settee
and the second shot stinging the Earl's right eye, while another hung
lewdly from his nose like an icicle as the needle idled at the end of the
recording and the spring wound down.

Stephen started to laugh as he stood panting, then Martin joined in and
finally the Earl.  Martin went to the bedroom to retrieve a damp cloth with
which to clean up his brother, but his hand was stayed until William could
lick up as much of the boys' seed as his tongue could reach.  A towel was
produced and the boys wiped each other down.  William watched them.  They
dropped the towel and embraced each other for a kiss, Stephen with his
strong arms around Martin in a bear hug and Martin with his golden arms
around Stephen's neck.  It was a beautiful kiss, thought William, not just
a kiss of lust but one of pure and incorruptible love, such love as had
eluded in him in his truncated life and perhaps was only to be found but
rarely.  And here it was, as clear and naked as the boys themselves in this
Bournemouth sitting room.  William began to weep.

The boys, now dressed, made their adieus, promising to return the next
afternoon.  In the hall they encountered Dr Alexander who said: "I'm a
great admirer of Wagner, myself and have had the privilege of having been
to Bayreuth twice, however the machine seemed to be making some odd sounds,
if I may say so.  If your lordship would like me to take it to be repaired
I would only be too glad to for his lordship."

"On the contrary, Dr Alexander, I have never heard The Ring so well played
as right here in Bournemouth and the machine is fine," said Martin.  "Good
afternoon."

The next morning found a distressing note delivered to Martin.  Dr
Alexander wrote that the Earl of Holdenhurst had taken a turn for the worse
and, while being cared for, must have no visitors.

Martin was inconsolable.  It was a terrible blow after such a promising
improvement in recent times.  A bitter blow.  He wrote to William
expressing his sorrow in not being able to say goodbye, but held out the
hope that he would recover soon and that he would return.  Stephen enclosed
his love too.  He also wrote to his father in Cannes.

Stephen did what he could and let Martin cry when he felt like it.  In an
effort to cheer him up, they returned to the photographer for the proofs.
Stephen was especially pleased at the result.  The photographer asked if he
might place a copy in his own window by way of a sample of his art.  Martin
said no, wanting this to be a personal thing between them, but when he saw
Stephen's look of disappointment he relented.  Stephen felt it only natural
that others would want to look at him too-and, after all, it was his
birthday present.  They decided to have a copy made for each other and one
for William.  Martin feared that if too many were produced Stephen would be
presenting them to Elsie at The Feathers and his other admirers.

"May I show it to The Plunger at school?" he asked Stephen.

Stephen was thoughtful for a moment.  "I don't see why not.  Yes, let him
have a look at me."



When they arrived back at Croome, Stephen returned to spend the night with
his father who had come home in a brake from Corfe Mullen and Martin
relocated to the house.  It was lonely there.  He rang for Chilvers who
sent a footman to help him unpack.  When Michael had left the room, Martin
had Chilvers remain.

"I want to buy Mr Knight some clothes so that he won't be placed at a
disadvantage when he comes to dine at the house, Chilvers.  What do you
think?"

"Mr Knight would hardly be at a disadvantage in any gentleman's home in
England, your lordship, but I take your point."

Martin was pleased at Chilvers' gracious compliment to his friend and the
two fell to pleasant task of planning a wardrobe.  In addition to the
London clothes, including the evening dress which was purchased after all,
they decided Stephen needed some tweeds and some suits of a less splendid
cut than Mr Gibbons' but more suitable for daily life in the house or for
assisting Blake, for example.  A list was drawn up.  Some things could be
purchased in the village while others required Stephen's measurements and
must come from a nearby town.  At the end of this, Chilvers' cleared his
throat.  "Milord, your father may be absent for some time I gather."

"Yes, I suppose so, Chilvers"

"And Mr Knight might be staying at the house more often, especially when
you are home from school?"  This was a difficulty Martin had been wrestling
with and had yet to broach with Stephen who, after all, had his stepfather
to consider and may well want to leave school to seek employment on his own
account.  Martin looked at Chilvers squarely.

"I hope so, Chilvers, I very much hope so, but as you know he has his
stepfather and his own life to lead."

"Indeed sir.  I was just thinking that while he is staying here in your
dressing room that you might find it more convenient if I were to
personally attend you sir-bringing your tea, laying out your clothes and
making your beds and so on."

"But that's work for a valet and a maid, Chilvers; you have your other
responsibilities in the house."

"That is indeed true sir," said Chilvers' reflecting on his lofty position
at Croome and the godlike status of the butler below stairs, "but it would
only be during the holidays and I could have Michael or Paul or one of the
others take over some of my duties and without your father here there is
less to do- especially as the dining room is not in use.  I could manage
quite well and it would be a pleasure to serve my two young gentlemen and I
think you could rely on my being cognisant of yours and Mr Stephen's
domestic arrangements, sir," he concluded in a level voice.

"Thank you Chilvers, thank you very much.  I will discuss it with Mr Knight
tomorrow."



It was Stephen's sixteenth birthday and a small party had been arranged at
the cottage.  Knight had invited Miss Tadrew, the Owens, Elsie from the pub
and two boys from the cricket team and the sweetheart of one of these
cricketers.  Martin had sent over some sherry for Miss Tadrew and Knight
had supplied some bottles of ale and sausage rolls. Mrs Capstick sent over
a big hamper, which contained, among other things, a splendid birthday
cake.

When Martin arrived on his bicycle he could see Stephen was excited.  The
men and Elsie all stood when Martin entered the cottage and he told them
quickly to sit down.  He took the hands of Miss Tadrew and Elsie (who
bobbed) and shook the hands of the others, Stephen's being heartily wrung.
After the spread of victuals, crowned by Mrs Capstick's cake, had been duly
admired, Martin sat by Miss Tadrew and the others fell into quiet
conversation in small knots.

Miss Tadrew was a small, thin gentlewoman with grey hair that must have
once been blond.  She was of an age somewhere about 45, Martin supposed.
She was one of those brave women, seen in every community, who battle to
keep up appearances on a fixed or diminishing income: making do, mending
clothes, putting a new feather in her old hat rather than buying a new one.
In her tiny cottage she cooked and cleaned her own few possessions with
just the help of a char as the parlour maid had been let go some years
before.

One of her chief attributes in Martin's eyes was that she loved Stephen as
her own son.  She and Miss Tapstowe, Martin learned, had practically
brought Stephen up and even today, since Sarah Tapstowe had died leaving
Miss Tadrew sadly alone in her cottage, she still fussed around the boy,
checking he was doing his school work, mending his clothes, minding
Stephen's dogs and brushing his unruly hair from his eyes before she
permitted him to kiss her.  Stephen, on his part, kept her cottage in
repair, dug her garden and was invaluable in lifting down heavy things from
high shelves and moving furniture about which are the frequent wants of
ladies who live alone.

Martin was just about to ask about Stephen's mother when he saw Elsie
approaching.  Martin was nervous about seeing this girl since Stephen had
related their history, but he kept his nerve.  Elsie was a buxom lass with
chestnut hair worn up.  She had a good figure, fine skin and a sly smile.
She was, thankfully, not raucous or vulgar.  Martin couldn't help but try
to imagine what she and Stephen looked like fucking and was suddenly amazed
at the thought that Elsie, of all the people in the room, had the most in
common with himself-at least in this one important aspect.  Elsie, however,
came over merely to suggest that after the party, his lordship might like
to join the others over at The Feathers.

The party started to go more with a swing when the beer started flowing and
even Miss Tadrew had a second glass of sherry, served to her in a tumbler.
Martin could hear Stephen talking about cricket to the others who
occasionally broke into peals of laughter at some funny incident Stephen
was relating.  Martin suspected it was at the expense of his own dignity
and injured toe and this was confirmed when he saw Stephen hopping about on
one leg in imitation of his own recent agony.  All eyes were on Stephen who
held court, however Martin noticed two pairs of eyes were more intent on
Stephen's full trousers: There was Elsie, whose eyes drifted in that
direction while still engaged in conversation with Miss Tadrew and there
was Douglas Owens who licked his lips, ostensibly to remove the beer froth.
No, there was another pair too: Smike the cricketer-the one who had brought
his sweetheart-was definitely fielding at deep fine leg and surreptitiously
massaging his own popping crease.  Well, well thought Martin, I'm becoming
good at detecting inverts.

Soon the party broke up, but not before the Mr Destrombe and Mrs Capstick
and one or two other villagers had popped in to congratulate Stephen.  Miss
Tadrew returned home and the younger ones repaired to The Feathers.  The
inn was a democratic institution and, although Martin was respectfully
greeted, no one stood, of which he was glad, as this was Stephen's night.

Stephen was quite drunk when they headed for home.  Martin was determined
that Stephen should sleep with him at the house and so he began the long
walk up to Croome, somehow pushing his bicycle and holding Stephen up at
the same time.  Chilvers was woken and assisted in getting Mr Stephen up
the stairs and into the bedroom.  Making no comment at all, Chilvers began
to remove Stephen's boots, tie and shirt, as Stephen lay beached on
Martin's bed.  When it came to the trousers Chilvers took a glance a Martin
who gave a slight nod, holding his breath.  The trousers were skinned and
Stephen's more than half-hard cock sprang free.  Chilvers said nothing and
simply swung Stephen's heavy legs into the bed while Martin, kneeling on
it, tried to drag his shoulders to the pillow.

"Thank you, Chilvers, you were a great help"

"A pleasure, your lordship," he said with a glint in his eye, "Goodnight."

In the morning there was a soft knock at the door and Chilvers appeared
behind a trolley that held two breakfast trays.  The curtains were opened
and Chilvers said, "I thought you would like to sleep late, your lordship."
Martin felt a bit groggy, but reached over and shook the snoring Stephen
who spluttered, looked up and said brightly, "Good morning, Mr Chilvers,"
apparently and irritatingly unaffected by last night's libations.

Chilvers silently set one tray across Martin's lap and added the morning's
post to it.  The second tray he attempted to lower over Stephen who was now
also sitting up but found that he couldn't make it balance because
Stephen's large erection was tenting the bedclothes.  Chilvers kept trying
to position the tray but it could not settle.  All the while Stephen just
sat there grinning stupidly as the butler struggled with his hopeless task.
At last Martin looked up from his post (which bore no news of William) and
saw what was going on.  "Stephen!" he said in disgust and, moving his hand
under the blankets, managed to leaver aside the impediment.

"I'm sorry Mr Chilvers," said Stephen, not sorry at all.

"That's quite alright sir.  It happens to all young gentlemen, sir, and I
was young once myself."  And with that he was gone.

Martin and Stephen looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Stephen returned to the cottage and Martin set out to visit some of the
villagers, including those in the infirmary.  When Martin appeared alone,
the deserving were invariably ungrateful because he hadn't brought Stephen
with him.  After the third visit where old Oakapple had said "Ar, where be
the young lad wot plays cricket, your lordship?" Martin admitted defeat and
cycled back to collect Stephen who was helping his stepfather with a rabbit
hutch.

The remaining visits were more successful and Stephen then suggested that
they might like to exercise at the Women's Institute Hall as it was the
Owens' half-day from the flour mill.  The brothers were already sparring
when they arrived and the success of last night's party was raked over.
The weights, barbells and the rowing machine were all employed.  The three
boxers then used skipping ropes, amazing Martin with their speed.  All the
three had their stiff pricks stimulated by the by the action against their
trousers, Stephen's tenting terribly.

Without any preliminaries the jumpers removed their clothes and Martin did
too.  Douglas declared he wanted to "taste thine arse, Stephen" and the
latter bent over, leaning on the vaulting horse, in eager anticipation.
Reuben wanted to kiss Martin, for whose soft, full lips he had such a
sentimental weakness.  Martin allowed this, although was not so keen.  The
obscene sounds of Douglas' slurping and Stephen's moans were getting Martin
terribly excited.  He asked Reuben if he would like to feel his lips on his
cock. Reuben made some agricultural sign of assent and Martin saw action
between the lad's hairy, sweaty legs.  He had a good thick cock and nice
balls in a sack that was high and tight.  Martin was able to lick the
underside of Reuben's cock and mouth his ball sack in convenient
conjunction.

Martin looked over at Stephen who was in ecstasy from the ministrations of
Douglas' long tongue.  "Would thee like to try sum tha' your lordship?"
suggested Reuben looking over as well. "I bin have a tongue just as good as
Doug, baint I just don't get t'practice as orfen as Doug's bin getting on
your Stephen."  Martin thought this was an excellent suggestion and the two
pairs were lined up so that Martin and Stephen (who was nearly unconscious)
could kiss and the two brothers could compare samples of musky arse through
endearments of their own as they knelt on the floor of the Women's
Institute Hall.

Reuben was indeed as good as his brother but was very concerned that
Martin's hole was red and inflamed. He tried to sooth it with his
tongue. "You bin be more careful bint his lo'ship, Stephen," he called out
"'tis like a baboon's backside down here," he admonished.  It was meant
kindly and Martin chuckled.  To repay Reuben's kindness he had Reuben sit
crossways on the horse and pleasured him with his hand and occasionally
moistened matters with his mouth and tongue.  With a shudder, Reuben
finally spilt, the offering shellacking Martin's chest.

Douglas finally spoke: "Your lordship, Stephen needs sommat in't mouth an'
I baint had my fill o' his rump.  I got a real passion fores it t'day, t'be
sure."  So Martin sat himself longways on the horse with Stephen's hands
either side of his body and, by lifting himself up slightly, was able to
shove his cock into Stephen's mouth, which was lolling idle.  Stephen
sucked furiously; Douglas had been right.  Martin grabbed two hunks of
Stephen's hair and pulled his head downwards until he took him
deeper. Reuben meanwhile lay on the floor on his back under his brother and
took his cock into his mouth where his sucked furiously.

First, before he even realised it, Martin had spilled into Stephen's mouth
and he saw him smile around his cock.  Some minutes later Douglas spilled
his seed down Reuben's throat, Reuben explaining that his brother's tasty
load was small on account 'of being behind t'pigs practicing this morning'.
Stephen was still unspent despite Douglas' unremitting labours.  A plan was
hastily improvised and thought appropriate in view of Stephen's sixteenth
birthday: Stephen was straightened up, though Douglas still kept is eye on
his buttocks, on one occasion actually sinking is teeth in to the muscle,
and Reuben and Martin knelt themselves either side of Stephen.  Doug
returned to his labours, inserting his pointed tongue well up inside
Stephen, while Stephen's own double handed stroking was assisted by Martin
and Reuben who relieved him at times when is arms ached and, more
particularly, aided by licking his low-hanging balls and nipping on the
delicate flesh down there.

Stephen's pace continued to increase and Martin now stood to pull at
Stephen's left nipple and draw the soft black locks that curled about it
through his teeth.  With a cry the over stimulated village stud suddenly
erupted, his seed flying across the room and landing with soft splats on
the barbells, vaulting horse, the Indian clubs and sundry other equipment
in the way, and with lesser emissions falling on the floor or into Reuben's
grateful upturned face.

Stephen was stunned.  The other three were stunned.  Stephen's mouth was
open and his eyes were wide and shining.  "I can't believe it!" he cried,
looking wildly around at the mess.  He pulled Douglas to his feet and
planted a kiss on the surprised boy's lips an then, as if hit by a sudden
idea, converted the kiss into something more passionate, wrapping his arms
about Douglas' head and mashing into his face, pushing his own tongue in to
taste that which just before had been pushed into his own person.

Douglas pulled of and said, with less conviction that he would have a hour
ago: "Now don't ago akissing me like thart, Stephen, I baint no Nancy, I
tole you."

"But you should!" said Stephen in elation, "You're a good kisser," and
turning to Reuben said, "Practice thine kissing behind t'pigs."  Reuben
looked less than convinced, but perhaps Douglas could show him something,
he reflected.

The triumphant Stephen would not let them clean up and they dressed and
departed hoping to meet again for exercise before Martin returned to school
for summer half.



That night, as the boys sat quietly by the fire in Martin's sitting room.
Stephen put down Kipps.  "Can I show you something?" he said to Martin who
was reading an Ethel M. Dell.  Martin opened a cardboard portfolio that
Stephen placed before him on the table.  Inside were drawings-architect's
sketches-annotated with measurements and costings.  There were some
perspectives of what looked like small pavilions for shelter in municipal
parks.

"What's all this?" said Martin, looking up at him.

"These are my ideas for bathrooms for the cottages on the estate."

"Bathroom's in cottages!" said Martin with some incredulity (Mr Plainsong
having been returned).

"Aye," said Stephen firmly (the Liberals having caused a considerable
erosion of Mr Plainsong's majority)

And not wanting another row, Martin listened while Stephen explained the
sketches he had carefully made.

The plans were 'standardised'-Stephen explaining this word-and could be
adapted and reversed easily so that bathrooms could be added on behind most
cottages, behind the kitchens where the woodsheds routinely stood.  They
were actually pairs of bathrooms to suit the paired cottages.  There were
certain economies of construction such as the adoption of only one type of
window and in the use of breezeblocks which could be lime rendered by
unskilled labour to resemble the cob from which most cottages in the
district were made.  The small pavilions actually stood a few feet apart
from the houses and to whose kitchen doors they were connected via porches
whose walls and doors were extensively glazed.

"Glass doors in a cottage! I like traditional ledged doors," protested
Martin, but Stephen continued.

The glass, although more costly, would allow light back into the kitchens
and would provide dry places for boots and coats.  With the addition of a
little more glass in the flat roof, each porch could be a miniature hot
house for tender plants and Stephen went on to explain the slight
adjustments required for cottages of differing aspects.

The bathrooms themselves were properly two rooms, the farther one being a
washhouse with a boiler and cement trough.  "How will you get the fuel
inside to light the fire to do the washing, will you have to bring it
through the bathroom?" questioned Martin.

"No, see here is a hatch from the new wood bin and another for the ashes,
but one day there may be gas coppers or even electric ones."  Martin
doubted these would ever find their way Croome and thought Steven had been
reading Mr Wells.  He was also doubtful that villagers would take to
flushing toilets connected to a septic system, which Stephen explained
would be largely dug by the villagers themselves.

"But you'll have to carry the wash out into the yard through the bathroom,"
observed Martin.  Stephen admitted that this was true but went on to talk
about the clever arrangement by which water heated on the kitchen range
(most cottages would require a new range) could pass through short sections
of pipe to the bathroom and laundry, additionally passing close to where a
clothes airer could be raised to the warm ceiling.  Under the pyramidal
roof was a water tank that supplied the kitchen and bathroom. This had to
be filled every night by a few minutes operation of a hand pump but would
be of great convenience.  The final flourishes were sketches of alternative
ideas for the roofs in thatch, tin and tile, and of finials in various
ornamental designs such as found on weather vanes.

"I haven't quite worked out the cheapest roof; we have plenty of thatch on
the estate but it's more costly to put up.  Maybe the other two will be
cheaper.  What I like best is that it doesn't spoil the look of the
cottages from the front and I think actually improves the backs," said
Stephen.

"How much will they cost?"

"Oh, about ?120 per pair, which includes a new range but not the septic,
but less if we order the materials in bulk and get some of the villagers to
do the labour.  Some cottages have a range that heats water already.  I
thought we could start off with just one pair to get it right and then
maybe do ten pairs per year.  In less than a dozen years all the cottages
on the estate would be done."

Martin loved Stephen's enthusiasm and admired his skill.  He had thought of
everything and the drawings were quite beautiful.  Most of all, he loved
how he just naturally fell into using the word 'we'.

"Father will never agree to it."

"Yes, I know," said Stephen and sadly slid the drawings away.  "It's been a
wonderful Easter-apart from William's relapse hasn't it?" he said, changing
the subject.  "We went to church an awful lot.  I won't have to go for six
months."

"Oh yes you will, you'll have to represent me," said Martin.

"Do you know the part of Easter I liked best?" said Stephen suddenly, "the
story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet.  I want to wash your feet," he
declared simply as he brushed Martin's golden hair with his lips.

When Chilvers came in at around 11:00 to turn down the bed, he found the
lamps had been lowered and in the dim light the black-haired village boy
was naked and kneeling before the equally naked fair-haired lord and whose
soles he was gently soaping and massaging with his strong hands as he sat
in a chair, his feet in a the deep china dish from the washstand.  Such was
the love that shone in their eyes as they stared intently at each other
that they didn't even hear Chilvers leave or the slight sniff from the
family retainer who had to fight back a tear.

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.