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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?
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