Noblesse Oblige

Noblesse Oblige

By Henry Hilliard With Pete Bruno

Forward

Welcome, gentle reader, to the world of Edwardian England, an era soon to be, like the great country houses themselves, swept away by the Great War. Lord Martin Poole and his boyhood friend from the village, Stephen Knight, provide the romance and adventure in a world where language, customs and technology may differ from our own but when love, sex and the human condition are easily recognizable. Henry Hilliard grew up in the ruins of Edwardian England before being exiled to one of King Edward's more distant dominions beyond the sea. He has been the driving force behind recording this wonderful story. We both hope you will enjoy the adventure.

P.B.

Book 1

Twilight of the Gods Chapter 1

"What's past is prologue" The Tempest, William Shakespeare

Martin was disquieted as he paced his room, unable to settle his mind. He decided to go for a walk. His father had seemed very upset at breakfast and his older brother, William, had not come down at all. When he asked Chilvers, he was told that his lordship had taken a turn for the worse during the night and was expected to be going up to London the following day to see his doctors again if he were well enough to undertake the journey.

William, Earl of Holdenhurst, was heir to Croome and his father's title. His father, Martin realised that morning as he watched him unenthusiastically toying with his kippers, was aging; a stern product of Queen Victoria's reign and not one to cope well with changing times; of electricity and the New Woman and Mr Lloyd George. The death of his wife, the boys' mother, had left the Marquess of Branksome a lonely man and his eldest son's illness seemed only to intensify his grief. Above all this hung the question of succession. William at twenty-five had not found a wife. Martin, at thirteen, was the only close male relative, aside from a bachelor uncle who administered an Indian province and made but infrequent and disinterested appearances in England and even fewer at Croome.

The fresh air worked its magic and Martin began to think of other things. He was to return to school the day after next. He was doing well at cricket and hoped to try out for lacrosse- an exciting new sport introduced to his school by a Canadian master. The almost unimaginable thought of one day being part of his School's team, with all those six-formers he looked up to almost as much as he looked up to William- thrilled him pleasantly. Martin took every opportunity (and they were not lacking) to steal glances at their muscular bodies and the older boys, in the spirit and traditions of Martin's venerable and ancient school, were reciprocal in their interest. These stolen glances and, quite often, more physical blandishments, invariably provided him with jolts of pleasure between his legs.

Martin and Job the retriever had walked for nearly an hour on this warm autumn day. Job was having a good outing as he dashed, unsuccessfully, after rabbits and was rewarded with several pats by villagers as they passed through Branksome-le-Bourne, one of the three villages on the estate. Martin followed the rivulet into a wood, glad of some noontide shade. The sound of an axe grew louder and presently the pair came upon a pool in the river, an old rope, obviously for play, dangled into the soft brown water from the limb of an overhanging beech. Standing on a log that had fallen into the stream and deftly wielding the axe was a boy about his own age. He was shirtless and his muscles glistened with sweat, causing Martin to experience the same delight he felt when in the presence of the older boys at school. A lock of unruly, black hair had made its way over his forehead and was now plastered over one eye, making it difficult for the axeman to observe Martin's noiseless approach on the carpet of russet leaves.

The flash of the axe, the operation of magnificent muscles in his back and shoulders, and the ferocious look of determination upon the countenance of the boy caused Martin to stare transfixed for some minutes. Then Job leapt forward and let out a joyous bark. The boy straightened up and, stilling his blade, bestowed upon the dog a radiant smile- the most beautiful smile that Martin thought he'd ever seen. The boy was just about to say something to the dog when he noticed Martin on the bank. He went to lift his cap when he realised it was with the rest of his clothes at the base of a giant tree on the shore.

"Hullo, your lordship, I didn't see you standing there," he said with a trace of the friendly, soft burr of the district.

"Hullo," replied Martin, still a little too stunned to think clearly, "what are you doing?"

"Trying to clear this, 'ere fallen tree, sir. It's blocking my swimming place."

"You swim here?"

"Yes, sir, every day that I can, 'cepting when it's froze solid," replied the boy, now roughly patting the adoring Job.

"Don't you go to school?" Martin asked and then realised it sounded rude. "I mean it must be marvellous not to have to go to school and spend all day swimming and having fun," he added awkwardly, indicating the rope.

"Yes, your lordship, I do go to school," he replied with a trace of annoyance. He straightened up and with a deft movement swept the lock of fallen hair from his eye exposing a flash of dark hair in a muscular armpit, causing Martin to shiver at the sight. "I'm nearly 15 and I'm in the eighth grade at the village school. And I'm captain of our cricket team," he added to round out his resume. "Your family watched us play last August when we beat Holes by an innings and 11 runs."

"What's your name?"

"Stephen, your lordship, Stephen Knight, my stepfather is Titus Knight who works for your father."

Martin took in his intense blue eyes that shone from beneath the raven hair and the look of expectancy on his face with its square jaw attractively divided by a cleft.

"Well, Knight, let's get this log moved so we can go swimming."

"Your lordship, I don't reckon that would be a good idea. You will get dirty and you might hurt yourself and?"

"Don't give me any of that," interrupted Martin a trifle petulantly. "I'm not a weakling just because I'm younger than you- I play cricket too and I'm trying out for lacrosse at school," he lied, "and what else?"

"Well, I don't have a costume, your lordship, neither does you," he replied, carefully examining the young aristocrat and noting with approval his developing chest and legs and especially his well-shaped buttocks. Stephen continued to stare boldly, expecting the younger lad to give way, but Martin's full, red lips broke into a smile as a look passed between the boys.

"Haven't you ever seen another chap without clothes?" Martin asked provocatively as he removed his shirt and hung it on a low branch. Now shirtless as his companion, Martin moved closer and he could smell the boy's sweat; it intoxicated him, but he recovered quickly he asked what he could do to help. Stephen gave him a few quick instructions and for the next half hour they worked together like old friends, laughing and joking, forgetting their differing stations, with Job lying not too far away watching the proceedings.

When they cleared the log they were both drenched. Martin looked at his new friend and broke into a smile; he had never been so happy in his short life he suddenly realised with a flash of self-perception-perhaps his first- and was almost alarmed at the simplicity of it all. With Stephen he felt suddenly free, free to be whom he truly was.

He stood tall and began to unbutton his trousers while Stephen looked on wide-eyed but not overawed. "Well, I thought we were going to swim?" Martin said as he removed his trousers. Stephen shook himself back to reality and began to strip as well and then the two boys were standing facing each other, naked for the first time, each studying the body of the other.

Martin found it hard to believe that Stephen was little more than a year older than himself. He had the body of a young man, not a boy, in terms of his height and musculature and he carried himself with the confidence of the sixth-formers at his school. Stephen's legs were dusted with dark hair and Martin's eyes travelled up to his groin where, surrounded by more adult hair hung a big cock- a very big cock- to use the schoolboy vernacular- and one that would easily have shamed the boys in the lacrosse team. The long, brown foreskin blunting the end fascinated the staring Martin who was busying making envious comparisons to his own body; he had never seen one like this at close hand since almost all the boys he knew at school were circumcised. And never had he one of this impressive size, for it was hanging softly a good several inches over an equally impressive low hanging scrotum that surely contained two quail eggs. Martin wondered how he tucked it all into a box when he went in to bat. All this glory was nestled in a patch of the same silky, raven hair that formed the shaggy mop of loose curls on his head and reoccurred as an attractively masculine triangle on his chest. When he turned, Martin saw the same light dusting covered his ample, muscular buttocks.

Stephen was equally fascinated with Martin's circumcised cock and by the beauty of the young aristocrat, with his head of bright gold hair (a Nordic heritage from his maternal grandmother) that lapped in a wave on his forehead above a pair of soft blue eyes. He had neat tufts of blonde hair peeking out from under his armpits and a few wisps around his nipples that complimented his porcelain-white skin and he was just starting to grow, if one inspected closely, a thin line from his navel to a splendid adolescent cock that sat in a developing patch of gold. Martin's white cock wasn't nearly as long as his own, he happily conceded to himself, but it appeared good and thick, resting on a pair of plump hairless balls. Stephen recalled his encounters with both girls and boys in the village, but before this moment he had never felt the full-blown desire for another boy until today. He was totally enthralled by his new friend and, at this moment, wanted nothing more than to hold him and kiss those full lips.

Unconsciously they moved toward each other and, as they did, Stephen's cock began to lengthen, his thick foreskin pulling back showing the large, shiny red head. "Another log to clear," said Martin cheekily, looking at Stephens's uncontrollable erection. Stephen blushed but did nothing practical to alter the situation.

"I'm sorry, your lordship, it seems to have a mind of its own," he said, looking down at the ground for a moment in a not very convincing show of contrition.

"Please, it's Martin, if I may call you Stephen." Martin said with a smile, looking up into his eyes and giving Stephen's impudent erection a playful slap before trying to encircle it with his hand.

"Very well, your lordsh?" Stephen gasped in surprise as Martin's actions- pulling the skin back and rubbing his thumb over the sensitive head- found sudden favour. "I mean sorry, Martin," he panted as he reached for Martin's equally hard member. The two boys stood shaking with delight as they pleasured each other until they were spent, Stephen coming off in a great rush into Martin's hand. Martin was so overcome by lust that he completely forgot himself and stretched up and kissed Stephen passionately. Halfway through the endearment he panicked until he felt Stephen taking control, wrapping his arms about his skull and pushing his tongue down into his mouth- Stephen hadn't been offended; he'd desired it too. When they broke the kiss the two boys looked at each other with broad grins and just a trace of guilt as they caught their breath. Then they both started to laugh and ran for the water.

As arranged, the boys met at the swimming place the following afternoon. Martin was there first, cycling from the house, and he had brought a towel but had 'forgotten' his costume again. He was almost sick with anticipation and working out angry scenarios should Stephen fail to appear. However, these were quickly made redundant as cracking noises announced that Stephen was approaching the secret place, shouldering aside the branches of Portuguese laurel that formed its enclosing walls.

He was dressed in tight trousers, perhaps a little too short for his tall frame, with a jacket and a collarless shirt. When he tossed his cap aside, a wild, lust-filled look in his blue eyes thrilled and frightened Martin. Without any preliminaries he kissed Martin full on the lips, panting, "I couldn't sleep last night thinking about meeting you today."

"Neither could I," Martin managed to gasp; dazzled by the knowledge that he was the object of these emotions aroused in such a lusty lad as Stephen. They quickly undressed and Martin noted with approval that Stephen wore no underwear while he was confined in clumsy 'combinations'. Both boys were hard as rocks before they were finished undressing. Stephen pulled Martin in for another passionate kiss. While they were fighting to gain control of each other's mouths, Martin managed to get Stephen's large erection under his balls and then squeezed his thighs together tightly. Stephen groaned into his mouth and instinctively began to stimulate his member in these intimate and convenient confines, his cock leaking a steady stream of his young seed that acted as a lubricant and further fuelled his passion.

As with all lads, it didn't take long before Stephen loosed what seemed like buckets of his manly seed between his lover's legs. The feeling of Stephen's release between his thighs made Martin's cock, which had been trapped between their stomachs, erupt as well. They gasped and pulled apart to take stock of what their actions, if not their emotions, had wrought, then, laughing from both their relief at the consummation of their passion and the joy of its freshness, the boys ran into the water and romped about for more than an hour.

After bathing, they both lay exhausted and dripping on the bank. Martin announced that he was starving and Stephen said, "Come back to the cottage for tea. I want you to meet my step-father, that is if you'd like to."

"I'd like that very much," Martin replied with sincerity and indeed he was at that moment unable to think of any invitation he would prefer.

Stephen took the towel and carefully dried Martin. When Martin went to return the favour, Stephen just waved him away saying he was practically dry already, pulling on his trousers over his naked legs and buttocks, the damp shirt clinging to his muscles.

Stephen peddled the bicycle while Martin sat on the bar, his back pressed into Stephen's comforting chest. The intimacy of the simple act made Martin's cock stir in trousers once again.

When the kitchen door was unlatched there was an excited barking from three border collies as they greeted their master. Knight, a little shocked by his son's unexpected visitor, stood up and greeted Martin and then, taking his cue from his son, fell into a relaxed conversation as tea and buttered toast were produced. The boys ate ravenously, their hunger fuelled by their afternoon's activities.

Knight talked about Croome and the land he so obviously loved-his voice as soft and warm as the fire crackling in the kitchen stove. He recalled visits to this very kitchen from Martin's mother and grandmother, treading with some delicacy on the former topic for fear that he may upset the boy. When the conversation turned to school and sport, the old man shone with pride as he enumerated Stephen's successes and even ventured as far as to say that he was the village hero. At this, Stephen had the decency to blush, but he did not deny it, clearly happy to be able to impress his aristocratic friend. Martin found himself wishing he had a parent or some relative, who felt like this about him, but such successes were considered impolite topics in families such as his own and he could only recall his mother visiting his prep school twice and his father never. The sudden thought of returning to school and leaving Stephen made him feel sick.

Presently Knight stood up and announced that he had to go out for an hour or so to set traps before it was dark. Martin stood and held out his hand, which Knight shook firmly. He thanked 'Mr Knight' for the tea and made a polite speech about visiting again with a view to seeing that badger sett in a particular spinney that had been referred to earlier.

When his father was beyond the gate, Stephen shyly asked if Martin would like to see his books. With no thought to the fact that Croome had one of the best libraries in this part of England, and indeed at this very moment a full-time librarian was busy cataloguing medieval manuscripts, Martin replied, thickly, that he would indeed.

Stephen led him up the narrow staircase, at one point grabbing his hand to pull him down so as to avoid a twisted oaken beam that must have surely been placed there solely to stun the unwary. Martin noted the electric thrill of his touch.

Stephen's bedroom was a tiny, twisted, whitewashed space beneath the thatch. Nevertheless it was a clean and attractive room in the afternoon sunlight reflected through a dormer. Martin went to the window and looked out over the village. There stood the church with its square tower. There was the brook that was the same one they swam in and probably the same one that fed the ornamental lake in the garden of his house. The house itself was invisible on the other side of the park, a fact which Martin felt glad of, but he was conscious how everything else he could see belonged to his father: gamekeeper, village, park, stream, church-and possibly God himself. His family owned it all, yet in this bedroom he was the one who ached to belong to another.

The collection of books was the usual fare: boys' adventure novels and popular school stories, but there were a few by H.G. Wells and some by other current authors. This impressed Martin. On the wall was a newspaper cutting outlining Stephen's success at cricket. Stephen smiled proudly and then, clouded by sudden doubt, said, "I know it's nothing compared to your bedroom at Croome I suppose-I don't know why I brought you here." And at that moment he spied a pair of hose on the floor and deftly kicked them under the little bed. Then he blushed at the remembrance of what he had just said.

"Rooms, actually-a bedroom, sitting room and a dressing room; but yours is far nicer because it is yours, not like the museum I live in where nothing is mine. And it's cosy."

"We're above the kitchen range, that's why it's warm. And I suppose you have silver brushes and silk pyjamas and everything," he continued cheekily.

"No, not silver, ivory with my initials in gold and just plain cotton, not silk. I'd buy you silk ones if you want, you'd look wonderful in them," he added boldly, not to be outdone.

"Do you think so?" ventured Stephen with a sly smile, "I don't wear anything and some might think I look even nicer."

At that Stephen dropped his trousers to the floor and held Martin to him. Martin ran his palm up under his shirt, feeling the small patch of hair in the valley of his chest and breathed in his smell. Stephen gently brushed Martin's lips with his index finger, holding his head slightly back so as to focus on him. Then, in a more forceful movement, he pulled Martin close, his hands sliding down Martin's back to rest firmly on his buttocks, and initiated a passionate kiss.

The two new lovers continued to kiss as they hurried to undress. After their shirts were off, they both kicked their trousers aside and Martin surprised Stephen by pushing him back onto the bed and kneeling between his muscular legs. He grabbed Stephen's large and very hard cock and began to lick the head as he squeezed up from the base, causing droplets of juice to collect in the slit. And then, in one deft movement, he drew it into his mouth, skilfully getting Stephen's manhood a good way into the back of his throat, reflecting for an instant on his coming from one of England's great families with a long tradition of service. He began to move up and down while lathing the sensitive head with his tongue, idly observing to himself that Stephen's uncircumcised cock felt very different to that of the sixth-former at School whom he dutifully pleasured.

After a few minutes of intense sucking, he pulled off and dived between Stephen's legs and began to lick and suck on his balls whilst he stroked Stephen's cock with one hand and his own with the other. All too soon Stephen announced that he was going to spill, so Martin moved back up and took the slimy cock back into his mouth and began to use his tongue to cause, what he confidently knew, would be the maximum of pleasure. Soon his efforts were rewarded by a stunningly volley of forceful blasts of hot seed from Stephen which he swallowed from more than duty. He spilled into his own hand, which he brought up to his mouth and licked clean.

"Where did you learn to suck like that-I mean have you ever done this with other boys?" asked Stephen as he lay panting on the bed with Martin's head resting on his thigh.

"Only one other," Martin replied, thoughtfully. "I'm his fag at school."

"What does that mean?" asked Stephen, now sitting up on his elbow and looking straight at Martin, the bulging muscle in his arm flexed impressively.

"Well?" Martin began and he launched into the duties and obligations of a first former to a senior.

"And does he beat you?"

"Oh no, he even helps me with prep- I think I can get him to do anything for me; he's quite spoony really, considering he's captain of the First XI and down for Oxford next term."

"And do you like doing it with him?" enquired Stephen, feeling a little jealous.

"Oh he's all right, I suppose, he's not a bit good looking like you are. I don't think anything of it really. It's just something that I have to do. Besides?" he added, wiggling his little finger to complete the sentence. Stephen's pride was assuaged and he burst out laughing. "And what about you? With your looks and big-you know-you must have plenty of girls and boys after you," Martin asked, stroking his friend's ego.

"Oh I've had a few," said Stephen with more of an air of a man of the world than he felt justified. "Some girls sucked me and one or two let me fuck them-girls from the village-but I'm not telling who."

"And boys"

"Oh two or three- one was a man staying at The Feathers and he wanted me to fuck him." Martin flinched at the word but looked to Stephen for more information. "So I did-or tried to-and he yelled so much I thought the landlord would hear. He wanted to give me money afterwards but I wouldn't take it. I just wanted to see what it was like."

Martin asked no more questions and began to digest all this information. At school with his sixth-former he was weighing up whether he was performing the acts out of duty or because he enjoyed them. He had been reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he would like doing it to other boys but now, with Stephen, it seemed to have a grander purpose that he could deny no longer. It was central to his being.

Martin left as darkness fell, riding his bicycle furiously so as to be in time for a bath before dressing for dinner.

There were ten for dinner, but his brother was not among them. His father was morose and so it fell to Martin to keep up the conversation with the adults who were guests for the weekend, even though all he could think about was how he had cried in the bath as the suds washed away the smell of his lover and how he thought he would die without Stephen until Michaelmas half.

Martin left for school without seeing his father or his brother who had departed for London by an early train. The trap containing Martin and his box trundled towards the station through the village of Branksome-le-Bourne and Martin scanned the scene eagerly that he might catch a glimpse of Stephen, but he was likely already in the village school or about some other business. He did spy Knight mending a hedge and who called out "Good luck, your lordship!" in a cheery fashion which did nothing to lift Martin's gloom and despair.

As term proceeded, winter drawing on, Martin's spirits were lifted by occasional letters from Stephen which he read and reread as if to squeeze out some hidden meaning and then afterwards furiously pleasuring himself at the memory of what had gone before. These letters were written in a firm hand and evinced better spelling than his own. They contained no words of endearment but spoke neutrally about village life: Stephen had successfully mended a broken bone suffered by one of his dogs; he'd acted as a beater for a shooting party where the Marquess' guests had bagged a record haul; he'd won a prize for Latin; he'd had taken up boxing in the village hall where the Vicar, who was also the scoutmaster, had installed a punching bag, barbells and other equipment... Martin fantasised about Stephen boxing, stripped to the waist as he'd first seen him, his sweat-soaked hair giving off a spray as it flicked with each turn of his head. In fact Martin invoked this image and that of kissing Stephen as his cock slid between his clenched thighs quite often as he performed his nightly duty on his sixth-former and the fool encouraged Martin to pleasure himself in the ignorant belief that the stimulation were somehow due to himself.

Stephen's letters encouraged Martin to try harder at lacrosse and in athletics and for his sake Martin did indeed try all the harder and was met with some success. The lacrosse captain said he would be considered in the Lent half if he kept up his fitness. Then a letter arrived which shook Martin. After reading about how Stephen had assisted with a difficult foaling he referred casually to the fact that the young Earl, Martin's brother, was now in a private sanatorium in Bournemouth. Martin was astounded. Not a word of the situation had come from his father.

He decided to ask his housemaster if he might make a telephone call to Croome, his father having reluctantly installed the mechanism a few years previously. This request was weighed in light of the boy's obvious distress and it was acceded to. His father was eventually brought to the telephone and initially sounded annoyed. However he soon softened and explained to Martin that William had gone there for the best treatment (treatment for what?) and that he had not wanted to alarm Martin, especially as it was exam time. Besides, his father assured him, William would be home for Christmas, which was only a month away.

Martin arrived at Croome two days before Christmas. There was to be a large party as usual. After greeting his father Martin rushed to William's room and threw himself into his big brother's arms. William was bright and cheerful, dutifully asking about all Martins' triumphs at school. But when Martin looked at him he could see it was all a mask. William's complexion looked awful and his nose seemed misshapen, as if the bridge had been eaten away. Martin, however, echoed his brother's good cheer, feeling this was what he wanted. William asked him about the captain of the First XI and facetiously expressed the hope that his brother was not getting rheumatism in his hand.

"No, lockjaw!" said Martin with a giggle, and his brother pretended to be shocked, although it was he who had taught him how he might pleasure himself some years before and had helpfully enlightened him about the peculiar practices of the school he was to attend. They both laughed and William pretended to press him for the sordid details but Martin blushed and said nothing.

Suddenly William looked very tired and complained of a headache so Martin left him.

Christmas Eve consisted of the usual family traditions and the entertaining of the guests. Martin was alarmed to learn that there was to be no hunt on New Year's Day, the first time ever he could remember such a thing. The family paraded at church on Christmas Eve and Martin complimented the Vicar on the boxing equipment, which he said he hoped to see. He caught sight of Stephen and his stepfather outside the church but it was impossible to say anything. When presents were opened at midnight (a German custom from his mother's side of the family) there was a pair of boxing gloves and a new bicycle. Martin had no idea how his father knew about the boxing. His old bicycle, which was still like new, he was determined to give to Stephen.

As they were enjoying their lavish dinner the next day, a distressing incident occurred. For no apparent reason William began to shout and dashed a decanter to the floor, wine mingling with blood from the cut on his wrist which he drew agonisingly slowly across the snowy whiteness of his shirtfront, leaving a bloody trail. Paul and Michael, the two footmen closest, helped William leave the room while the rest of the party tried to resume their previous conversations, but too little effect, and the occasion was ruined.

"I'm sorry, my boy, your brother is not quite mended after all and will have to return to Bournemouth tomorrow."

Martin started to cry and his father, in a rare gesture, hugged his younger son and murmured, "I know, I know." They stood there for a minute in the library before his father said, "Now we must carry on, we have guests and I need your help now that your mother isn't here."

The next day, Boxing Day, passed in a series of horrors. William was sent off in the motor but not before Martin was able to hug and kiss him. William managed a weak smile. After a dismal lunch, the guests departed over the slippery roads for the station in a convoy of traps. Martin followed on his new bicycle and turned in the direction of the Knights' cottage. He found the two of them at home in front of the kitchen fire, bright horse brasses and copper pots winking on the old beams. Warm greetings were exchanged and Martin produced a present for each of them: a folding silver knife with which to clean out his pipe for Knight and a copy of Heart of Darkness for Stephen. They looked pleased with their presents, Knight fastening his to his watch chain and Stephen running an eye over the first page of his own.

After tea, Stephen suggested that the dogs might like a walk before bed. The stars were already in the black sky when the two boys and the three canines left the cottage. As soon as they were out of sight, Martin grabbed Stephen and kissed him. He couldn't help but run his hand over the bulge in the older boy's well-filled trousers. "I can't stand being away from you."

"Nor I you. I pleasure myself in bed every night-and just about every morning as well- thinking of you and those damned soft lips," said Stephen. Martin blushed in the darkness.

Stephen directed their steps towards the church and, just as they reached the Women's Institute Hall, produced a large key from his pocket. "The Vicar gave it to me; it's for the gymnasium."

Stephen tied the dogs to the lych gate and quietly opened the door to the darkened hall. "This is where we set up the ring," he explained and then, passing through a door to a smaller room, showed the assortment of equipment to Martin in the dim, hard starlight.

"I want to exercise with you. I want muscles like yours," Martin said, picking up an Indian club.

"That would be ripping, but you look fine just as you are," Stephen opined, drawing the younger boy to his lips. Martin accepted his lover's tongue greedily while he hung on to Stephen and then began to work his trousers open. Dropping to his knees, he began to suck Stephen's cock as skilfully as he could, using his tongue to move under the skin causing Stephan to groan and buck into his mouth. All too quickly Martin received his long awaited reward: the taste of Stephan's hot, sweet essence, which filled his mouth. He spilled his own into his hand. When he stood, he was about to wipe his hand when Stephan surprised him by pulling it to his own mouth and sensually tonguing it clean. Martin was both stunned and aroused by the intimate act, so much so that his cock began to climb again. Stephan noticed and laughed.

"No time for another round to my randy Lord," he said and gave Martin a quick kiss.

As they dressed Martin explained about his old bicycle. Stephen said it wouldn't look right if he took it but said he'd think about it after Martin protested vigorously. Martin then launched into the news about his brother and the incident, quietly crying as he described his brother being bundled up in the motor. "I feel as if I saw him for the last time." Stephen pulled him to his chest and kissed the top of his head, golden even in the starlight. They parted at the cottage gate and Martin rode his bicycle carefully home in the dark, the very tears seeming to freeze on his face.

The day after the next, Martin's father made a startling announcement at breakfast. Including Chilvers in his audience, he declared that he was going to Cannes for a month on his doctor's orders. Martin's jaw dropped. "What about me? What about William? What about Croome?"

"William is receiving the best of care and I'll receive regular reports in France," replied his father. "It is only a day-and-a-half travel if I must come back-which the doctors are not expecting. "Croome will be in the hands of Blake" he added, naming the man who had for some years managed the estate well and profitably, for unlike the Marquess of Branksome he was all for modernisation beyond the house. "And you are old enough to have a say in what happens. You're nearly sixteen."

"Nearly fourteen, Papa"

"Yes, quite, nearly fourteen and you're welcome to accompany me to Cannes if you like."

"No thank you, Father, I'll stay here."

"Very well. Now, have you a friend from School you'd like to invite down for the next month or until you go back? I don't want you to be bored or feel neglected in the slightest. You know you could take them up to London and stay with your Aunt in Lowndes Square or we could open up Branksome House."

"I do have a friend."

"Good!" said his father, cutting him short, "write to him-or use the telephone if that's what you young people do these days."

"He lives here in the village: Stephen Knight"

"Old Knight's step-son? Captain of the cricket team? The one I presented with a prize for Latin?"

"Yes, all of them," said Martin good-humouredly. "I want him to stay at the house as my friend, our guest. He's teaching me to box."

"Well, this is highly unusual, but I don't see why it couldn't be arranged. Fine manly fellow. Do you see any problems with the servants, Chilvers?" Lord Branksome asked, referring to the possibility of social awkwardness.

"I don't think so sir, if this arrangement is what you want. Mrs Capstick is particularly fond of the young man, I believe, and he is an excellent spin bowler."

"Good, Chilvers," said Martin, with a final push, "he can sleep in my dressing room, that is if I can persuade him to accept,"

Later that morning he cycled to Stephens's cottage and presented his plan. It took some persuasion, but with a push from Martin in Stephen's direction he again got his way. Stephen questioned him about his position: "Am I to sleep with the servants?"

"No silly, you're to sleep with me," he said blushing. "That is in the bedroom adjoining mine. You're a house guest."

"But what will I wear? What will the servants think? What will I call them, what will I call you?"

"Just wear your usual clothes. I will be. And there's no one there," he added, conveniently forgetting the thirty-seven indoor staff who maintained Croome. "That is unless we go up to London- my Aunt has invited us- and you'll just have to work out what to call the servants. Mrs Capstick adores you and I had to listen to her sing your praises for fifteen minutes this morning. And remember, in private we use our Christian names, but not in front of the servants."

"London! I've never been to London. Taunton is about as far as I've ever got, but I've read all about it in Mr E.V. Lucas' books and in Charles Dickens, of course."

Martin smiled; he had put Stephen at a disadvantage for the first time in their friendship and Stephen's enthusiasm for all the things Martin took for granted was contagious.

The rest of the day belonged to Stephen, however. Boxing in the Women's Institute Hall only served to prove that Stephen excelled in all physical activities. They vowed to come here for two hours exercise every day they were at Croome. Stephen took Martin to the stables to look at the foal he had delivered, the stable master singing his praises from the same hymn sheet that Mrs Capstick evidently had, Martin rolling his eyes. Stephen carefully showed Martin a box containing a swarm of bees. The bees had been dead- killed by the cold snap- but Stephen had scooped them up and placed the box against the back of the chimney where the heat had restored the creatures, it seemed, to life.

Back in Stephen's little room they made love while Knight was having his pint in The Feathers. Afterwards Martin helped Stephen pack a few things into a handbag. Martin felt a thrill as he handled Stephen's clothes, running his finger along the flies of his Sunday best trousers, the ones that had showed off his prodigious endowment all those months ago at the pool.

The next morning, only an hour after Lord Branksome had departed the house from the front door for the Continent, Stephen arrived, as instructed, at the same doorway and was met by Chilvers.

"Good morning, sir," he said, "I hope your father is well, Stephen." This fine judgement suggested to Stephen that his stay might work out after all. At that moment Martin bounded into the hall and wrung Stephen's hand, taking the handbag and passing it off to Michael the footman, daring him with his eyes to look the least bit sniffy at the object he now held disdainfully in his white-gloved hand.

"Come and inspect your digs," he cried leading Stephen across the inner hall and then the Great Hall to an impossibly grand staircase. One flight of stairs and a left and then a right brought them to Martin's rooms. Stephen felt he could just remember the way back.

Martin's room was rather impersonal but very grand, with a large bed with hangings and much furniture. One door led to a small sitting room that contained, among other things, a desk with Martin's homework on it and a breakfast table. "We can have breakfast laid here and we won't have to go that awful mausoleum of a dining room. "Here," he said flinging wide another door, "is your room and that door leads to our bathroom- mother had it installed when this was the nursery. It's the best bathroom in the house- even father has to use one down the passage.

Stephen turned his attention to his own room just as there was a polite knock on the door and Michael brought in the handbag and set it down."

"Would sir like me to unpack?" he enquired icily.

Stephen looked at Martin. "No, I'll do it myself, as you can see there are only a few things." At that the footman silently withdrew.

"Don't worry about him," said Martin brightly. "You're my friend and we can be quite alone up here if we want to be."

Stephen looked at his single bed. "It's a lot bigger than mine at home."

"Yours is the best bed in the whole world," said Martin, "at least when you're in it. Mine's enormous and it can get cold and lonely at night" he said with a wink as Stephen turned to again look at the monstrous draped barge.

"That 'ere could hold all t' Branksome First Uleven," said Stephen, putting on a West Country drawl.

"Ooh! There's a thought!" giggled Martin.

Martin touched the bell and presently Chilvers appeared. "Chilvers, we'll take all our meals up here in my sitting room and we'll serve ourselves, if that's all right with the servants."

"As your lordship pleases. They would appreciate not having to staff the dining room. Will you be desiring wine with dinner?"

"Beer, I think," replied Martin looking at Stephen who nodded. "I'll now show Mr Knight something of the house."

"Very good, sir, but begging your pardon, Mrs Capstick would dearly love to have you both take tea in her room after your tour."

"Tell her we'd be delighted," Martin replied.

"Both of us?" Stephen asked with surprise.

"Yes sir, both the young gentlemen she said."

Stephen beamed at the compliment.

The tour of the enormous pile was bewildering. Room upon room was encountered, some, even according to Martin, having no discernible use at all. In the great library they came upon the mouse-like archivist hunched over a dusty parchment. In the dining room, scene of the distressing Christmas, Stephen took stock of the furnishing in the stygian gloom. The table, made of some rare tropical wood, must have seated forty in chairs that looked as if they required two footmen to move in and out. On the sideboard, as big as a shopfront in the village, stood dully-impressive plate while on an ugly object called a dumb waiter reposed a rich Wooster dessert service. He looked at Martin who said, "Yes, it's fucking hideous!" then giggled.

Stephen became even more lost as Martin took him through the baize door into the world of the servants. Stephen had been in the kitchen many times as a small boy, but was still in awe. When they entered the servants' hall several maids and the four footmen all rose.

"Do sit down, please," said Martin, "Mrs Capstick asked Mr Knight and me to join her for tea. Would you please tell her we're here, Daisy," he said to a pretty young girl who was blushing furiously in the presence of the two handsome boys.

As expected the housekeeper, Mrs Capstick, fussed over the boys and had produced a smashing tea. She enquired after Stephen's father and then began the reiteration of how wonderful Stephen was. Martin was secretly proud of his friend but pretended for good form to be bored with this and rolled his eyes when Mrs Capstick couldn't see. Just as they were leaving her little cubby, she clutched at Stephen's hand, "I'm so glad you've come to stay. Make his young lordship happy. He may need a good friend, I fear. You're a fine young man, Stephen."

Back in their rooms Martin announced he wanted a bath and rang for the footman who arrived just to turn on the taps and set out the fluffy towels. Stephen couldn't help but wonder why Martin could not perform these tasks himself, rather than having this young man walk up two flights of stairs and along two miles of passageway. When Paul had left, Martin tugged at Stephen's clothes and said, "You're getting in with me, but you have to have the tap end because I'm a lord and you're a dirty rascal."

"Yes, but I've got an enormous peerage that I just might let you pay homage to. Besides I'm well on the way to becoming a saint if Mrs Capstick has her way."

The next morning Stephen made a show of appearing to come from his own bed in one of Martin's dressing gowns as the breakfast trays were brought in by Daisy. Martin got out of bed, still naked, and stood before the fire which Daisy had lit after she had set down the trays. "We must go down to the Women's Institute and begin my training," Martin announced.

He was about to ring when Stephen stopped him and laid out his clothes himself: a pair of short trousers, a vest, underwear, sandshoes and a cricket jumper. "These are what you'll need," he said. Then he subtracted the underwear. "I want to see you move under your trousers; no drawers."

"Alright, but none for you either," said Martin as he walked over and slid Stephen's dressing gown off his shoulders to reveal his splendid body, still pink and rosy from the warmth of bed. He grasped Stephen's half erect penis and stroked it. It rose in his hand. Martin kissed him deeply and then dashed to the table leaving Stephen stood naked and erect.

"I say, that's not fair!" Stephen whined.

"Sorry, but we mustn't let our breakfast get cold," Martin said with a grin.

Stephen put his dressing gown back on and crossed to Martin. He lent down and kissed his cheek, "You are a very bad boy, milord. I may just have to take you over my knee."

Later that morning they rode their bikes down the frosty road to the village and were soon lifting barbells and doing sit ups, Stephen giving instructions. Every now and then Martin would pause, gazing at Stephen as he sweated and strained, reminding himself of their first meeting at the pool. This is how he would always remember him.

At the end of nearly two hours Stephen called a halt. Martin walked over to the older boy and lifted his arms behind his head. He then buried his face into the filthy armpits, sucking the sweat from the hair, pausing occasionally to gently bite the swollen bicep that Stephen obligingly flexed. Stephen then slid Martin's trousers down and, prizing his firm buttock cheeks apart, ran his tongue down the fair hair of the cleavage, inhaling the musky, sweaty aroma of the young lord, before spreading the muscular cheeks and placing his tongue deep between them.

"Oh my God!" moaned Martin, "Where did you learn that?"

"Nowhere, I was just watching you and I felt I wanted to do it. I invented it, Mala! I shall call you 'Mala'," continued Stephen, "as you should know that is a Latin word for cheek, because you have the sweetest cheeks I've ever tasted, or ever will," Stephen said proud of his Latin, adding: "You're a little bit naughty and that is 'mala' too and I love that. Martin's heart swelled; this was the first time Stephen had ever alluded to the relationship being more than just friendship.

"Then I will call you Derby," said Martin lifting Stephen's arms above his head again; "The rich, black pits of Derbyshire," explained Martin, "Makes me hard as t'chapel pew durin' t'long sermon when I go down into thine pits," said Martin laughing at his attempt at an accent.

"Then if that's what you would like, that's the way it shall be," said Stephen as Martin buried his face the boy's chest and inhaled his scent, content to be held.

As the boys rode their bicycles back to Croome, Martin called over, "I say, Derby, I think we should share a bath when we get home."

"That would be lovely, Mala," Stephen said, smiling broadly at the use of their intimate nicknames as they cycled down the avenue of elms.

To be continued?