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Noblesse Oblige
By Henry Hilliard With Pete Bruno
Book One Twilight of the Gods Chapter 5
The Plunger hastened to catch up with Martin who was strolling towards the school gates. "I say, Poole, wait up!" he called as his normally imperturbable gait broke into a less stately dash. "Are you going to Polger's?" he called, naming a teashop in the town.
"I was just going for a walk as it is such a topping day, but we'll go to Polger's if you like. Let's go by way of Long Bottom," he said, keen to see if the bluebells and the other conformational signs of spring were in evidence.
The tall boy caught up with him and took his arm. He was a remarkable sight: Archibald Craigth was just over six foot, slightly taller than even Stephen, but was thin and ropey with it. At fifteen his legs as yet remained to develop the girth that their musculature promised, and his long arms, fingers and aquiline nose all served to reinforce the impression of attenuation. However Martin could feel the muscles in his right arm, which were well developed from long hours of practice on the tennis court and from other activities. His long legs spoke of his prowess at athletics, where he was a distinguished distance runner and elegant hurdler and he boxed in the manner of Lord Byron, whom he greatly admired, keeping a bust of the great poet in his room.
In fact 'elegant' and 'aristocratic' were the adjectives most often applied to the boy and they were the ones he was most desperate to cultivate. Even on the sporting field his appearance was always immaculate and his manner, effortless and slightly disdainful, and even here, in a country lane, in contrast to Martin who was dressed in 'half change'-a rough tweed jacket with the collar turned up and a cap- The Plunger was turned out in the most refined version of school wear- top hat, tails, white collar and tie and he carried a rolled umbrella, although this was supposedly alone the prerogative of the sixth form.
"You were reading a letter when I came up?" he said. "All well at home?"
"Yes," said Martin hesitantly.
"The letter wouldn't be from your pal, Knight by any chance?" ventured The Plunger. Martin looked up at him in some alarm. The Plunger screwed an absurd monocle into his eye, managing to cock an eyebrow at Martin at the same time.
"How do you know about Stephen?" he said.
"Custard, told me."
They walked on in silence for several minutes. Then, emboldened, The Plunger continued, "He hinted that you and he seemed bally chummy and that he seemed to have quite a pet for you." He paused then said: "You know I've got quite a pet for you myself, Poole." At this declaration, the boy taking advantage of Martin's captive arm lent down and softly kissed him on the lips, his umbrella hand managing to slide over the succulent backside under Martin's school trousers informing him, had he been Stephen, that it was indeed Sunday.
Martin let him kiss him, but then pulled away and laughed. "I know you do, Plunger, it's blindingly obvious. I like you too, but?." and here he trailed off.
The Plunger was not too downhearted. Armed with his own keen and suspicious mind and reinforced by hints dropped by the loathsome Custard, he could smell something bogus about this business of Martin's Knight.
Archibald Craigth (The Plunger) was ever so slightly bogus himself. His father was from a line of Scottish brewers and had obtained a baronetage under Gladstone. As a result of this lucrative but slightly distasteful lineage, Archie never touched beer and loudly proclaimed that a gentleman drinks only champagne. His mother was an American from an old family, the Cunninghams of Philadelphia. Their fortune, from some obscure source, had maintained them in some style and their house in Rittenhouse Square came to ape the fashion for all things 'British' and both mother and daughter had been anxious to consummate this love affair with a successful union with a titled Englishman. Perhaps as a result of too much enthusiasm and too little diligence, the marriage to a Scotsman who was titled but not a peer might have been viewed as a less than successful outcome. However, the enterprising qualities of her American ancestry came to the fore and the former Miss Cunninghame (the e having been a recent embellishment) of Rittenhouse Square and Edgewater Park, held out hope for her husband's eventual elevation to the Lords (he was still a comparatively young man) in rightful recognition of his service to a grateful nation (which, apart from the never mentioned brewed beverage, took the form of large donations to the Liberal Party). And besides, she was grown fond of Craigth and their son upon whom she doted.
Archie had inherited the Cunningham's sporting ability and height, while his colouring was Scotch. Archie's hair was light red, almost blonde in some lights, and straight, with skin, while fair, not particularly freckled (except for an attractive constellation across his shoulder blades) nor was he was disfigured by 'spots' like young Lord Plinthe or the loathsome Custard.
Craigth's curious nickname was the result of the cruelty of schoolboys. So magnificent and English a figure did Archie affect, and so imperious were his arbitrations on what was 'correct form' in matters of taste and behaviour, that he became the object of much good humoured ridicule from boys whose own backgrounds- decaying castles in remote counties, dogs, manure and savage rural pursuits- were far more ancient, if less elegant. The name was chosen because it was precisely the opposite of what the boy presented himself to be; a rather ugly and common, although useful, device used by certain tradesmen to unstop drains and lavatories.
The name had a second origin. The Plunger was also admired for his effortless athleticism in those fields mentioned. He was not as strong in the shoulders as Martin and lacked his toughness for lacrosse, but he cut a fine figure in the baths and showers after games (the former Miss Cunninghame having donated the funds for American shower baths- the first in an English school) and, excitingly, below the red hair on his aristocratic head, below the tufts of titian hair peeking from his armpits, below the russet wisps on his young chest and below the ruby trail that ran from his navel down to an impressive ginger bush, hung a fine long cock whose head greatly resembled the aforementioned well-known plumber's instrument.
Martin had seen The Plunger's cock many times and The Plunger usually tried to give Martin a special show if they were not too well observed in the showers, tugging at its soapy length and smiling across at Martin who would get hard. Thus the two boys had become friends in the two terms that The Plunger had been at school.
The Plunger's recent and unexpected humiliation had also drawn them together. Many boys had admired him for his athleticism and some for his dandyish dress. Quite a few admired him for his undress. He was also an excellent scholar, especially in Latin and French where he outshone even Aunt Maud. With the glamour of having lived in Europe for three years and with the reputation of fagging for a popular senior boy who it was known developed an insatiable taste for The Plunger's cock while Archie, in return, disdainfully failed to service the six-former, The Plunger was held in quite high esteem.
It was The Plunger's hasty pronouncement that only cads wore wristlet watches (this coming so soon after his successful decree that a gentleman should tuck his handkerchief into his sleeve, not into his trouser pocket) that caused his downfall; the head prefect who had been ragged for having such a modern timepiece (a present from an uncle in the Blues) had spotted Archie crossing the Quad with his kish- the local name for the cushion-shaped bag that contained one's books- being held off-centre- a privilege not granted to the lower forms, and had him caned. This caused the distressed Scottish-American to seek out the attractive and Stirling Lord Martin Poole for whom he also held the deep affection that he had just declared.
They had their tea at Polger's and now lay under a hedge in a sunny field. The Plunger, making sure they were unobserved by any master, was smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder. "So what school does this fellow Knight go to?" he asked, following up on his earlier train of thought.
Martin thought for a moment. He admired Stephen greatly for his manly honesty so he said: "He doesn't go to school- or rather he is at the village school at Croome. He's doing spiffingly well at his studies too and he's a champion cricketer and boxer and he swims and he can vet horses and dogs?" and so he continued for some minutes.
"He's from the village?" said the puzzled Archie, "But Custard said that he was from Western Australia and looked about eighteen and was with you at a ball in London."
"Well he's never been to Australia and he is fifteen and he is from the village. I took him to London because he is my friend. He is the stepson of Knight, a man on the estate," spilled Martin, hotly.
"He's a common boy?"
At that Martin drew back his hand and struck The Plunger a stinging slap across his face, the cigarette, its holder and the monocle sent flying. He was just about to lay into The Plunger properly when The Plunger recovered sufficiently to pin Martin's arms down, holding him until his breathing and anger subsided sufficiently for him to say, "You're a bounder, Plunger, he's the most wonderful fellow in the whole world. He's a man, not a boy and if you knew him you would?.if he knew what you said just now he would?" and Martin couldn't finish because of the hot tears filling his eyes.
"I'm awfully sorry, old chap, I didn't mean it like that; it was just that it surprised me- after what Custard said. I really am sorry. Please forgive me."
Martin calmed down. The Plunger then dared to wipe away the boy's tears with a handkerchief he produced (like a gent) from his sleeve. He then stroked Martin's golden hair with one hand while feeling his own burning face with the other, letting Martin know that it was an impressive blow. Martin gave a rueful smile.
"Tell me about him," said The Plunger and Martin, already knowing he had betrayed the nature of their relationship, began to give the boy an outline of their history.
"Here, read his letter, I don't mind," said Martin, handing over the document with its blank and curiously marked last page of which The Plunger said nothing. He scanned the missive.
"Yes, he writes well, as you said; better than half the boys in our house. What are all these numbers down the side here?"
"Oh," said Martin blushing, "they're his cricket scores."
"But I thought you said he was the captain of the local side. He can't be much of a batsman: 2, 3, 3, 4, 2, 2, 3 and so on. His biggest score was only a five! And one here said 3 1/2"
"They're wickets he's taken," invented Martin hurriedly. "The half must have been dropped."
"And this Owens must be damned good too: '4 with Owens'."
They arose from their position behind the hedge, Martin removing The Plunger's hand from his groin, which he'd been massaging while seemingly more intent on his correspondence and turned in the direction of the school.
"And do you do 'things' with your Stephen?"
"Uh huh," replied Martin, tightly.
"Have you ever?"
"Uh huh," replied Martin, cutting him off.
"Good Lord!" ejaculated The Plunger, utterly enthralled.
In Martin's dormitory he showed The Plunger the Tsindos, which he withdrew from between the covers of a volume of Fordyce's Sermons that the vicar had given him and for which, at last, he had found a use. The Plunger stared at the singular portrait of Stephen and brushed his own long cock through his immaculate trousers. "I'd love to meet him."
"Maybe you can. I'll see."
"I can't these hols, the Mater is taking me to Deauville. Could I come to you in the summer?"
Martin left the question dangling as he returned the picture to its hiding place and ushered The Plunger out as "absence" was to be called before evensong.
It was on that same Sunday that Stephen was hauling himself, naked, from the swimming place. He lay on a towel he had brought with him on his new cycle. His dripping shoulders and broad chest heaved from the exertion; he had been swimming powerful laps for the last half hour. Stephen lay flat on his back and swept the wet, black locks back from his eyes so he could gaze upwards into the vault of beech trees. He thought of Martin at school and felt an aching emptiness in his heart. He thought of his own life and his almost bewildering experience of new emotions and new sensations that had been his since the fateful meeting in this place only a few months before. What would become of him? He was already fifteen, an age when most other boys in the village were already working as grown men- boys like the Owens brothers. He ran has hands over his chest and felt the muscles in his own arms. His great cock stirred ominously.
Suddenly standing, he walked across the leaves to his bicycle, his cock and balls rhythmically swinging in counterpoint to his stride. He removed an object from the pannier and carried it back to the towel. From inside the Soho box he produced the bottle of olive oil and spread his thighs to expose his hole. He slathered his hole and crack with the unction and then applied some to his cock, working it under the long foreskin that completely covered the head and which he recalled, at that moment, so delighted Martin to gently chew on. He stroked his erection for several minutes, cupping his balls and pinching his nipples at intervals to increase his pleasure. He then reached into the box and drew out the smallest of the instruments- the thin, tapering, glass dildo, which he also drenched in the oil. With a slicked middle finger he attempted to enter his own hole, by drawing his knees up to his chest. It was awkward, but after few minutes he pierced the opening. It hurt. He persisted and thought of it as a tribute to Martin who had also allowed himself to be hurt. He changed positions- on his side for a bit -and pushed his finger in through the tight muscles and up to the first knuckle. After a time he withdrew his finger and suffered the burning pain that comes from withdrawing too quickly. He'd remember that.
Stephen replaced his finger with the dido and pushed it in. It didn't feel particularly good bit he persisted. He lay on his back again and experimented with different angles and actions. Suddenly it did start to feel good and he let out an involuntary moan. He managed to piston the glass rod with one hand and stroked his own cock with the other (he usually used both hands) and that felt even better. Sometimes he pushed the dildo in quite a long way just to see when it hurt.
He let go of his own cock, letting it bounce freely on his flat stomach and used the free hand to brace one of his aching legs as he rolled further up onto his shoulder blades. Suddenly he erupted, a giant stream of his man-seed, splashing across his forehead and into his hair, with several smaller projections coming to rest on his chin and torso.
Out of breath and aching, he slowly withdrew the instrument and fell back on the towel and let out a laugh. He used a finger to sample his seed- still good- and, after a short rest, returned to the pond where he washed his hair and chest before dressing (still damp) and carefully mounted his bicycle for the short ride back to the cottage.
Stephen was re-reading Martin's latest letter as he tied the drawstring of his new training shorts, the old ones, replete with the most disgusting and variegated stains from his sweat, piss and worse, having been dispatched to Martin's school as per instructions. There were increasing mentions of a new boy, Archie: Martin having gone to the town on his half-day with Archie; Martin doing well at lacrosse with help of Archie and then, mysteriously, Archie being punished for carrying his kish held in the middle. What on earth did this mean?
He was still thinking apprehensively of this cloud no bigger than a man's hand when he arrived at the Women's Institute Hall by the church. The Owens brothers were there on their half-day off from the flourmill where they laboured. They were, as usual, the only regulars at this time of day at the Vicar's improvised gymnasium.
Douglas began by congratulating Stephen on his three wickets and respectable half- century of the previous Saturday although, as usual, his doughy face lacked any real animation. Reuben shyly inquired after 'his lordship' and Stephen sketched a suitable reply, omitting any reference to 'kishes'.
They set to work. First there were sit-ups and press-ups, followed by barbell exercises and the chest expander; one of these last Stephen now had in his own bedroom, Martin having ordered it from a London shop. After about half an hour they started on boxing practice, Douglas holding the bag while Stephen slogged at it, and then Reuben and Stephen took turns on the speedball.
It was quite dark when they finished and, in the smaller room with the door securely locked against any unexpected intrusion from the Vicar or any stray 'wimmin' from the Institute, Douglas slid down his short trousers and drawers and bent over, presenting his arse to Stephen, without any of the usual formalities such as those he so recently observed that were considered to be vital preliminaries in polite London society. Stephen accepted this silent and clearly sincere invitation and fell to his knees and licked all down the dank and sweaty crack of the boxer. He loved the taste and smell-wet straw?- wet spaniel? -and was soon assisted by Reuben who straddled his brother to face Stephen and helped part his cheeks. The additional contribution from Reuben, both manually and buccally (his hard cock and sweat-soaked ball sack being also in reach of swipes from Stephen's tongue) only added to Stephen's mounting pleasure. And this was only the beginning.
Both boys got up and pulled Stephen from his knees. They each took turns in removing what little clothing covered Stephen's nakedness and Reuben dropped to his knees while his brother occupied a position behind Stephen similar to that which he himself had so recently adopted.
Reuben began to suck Steven's equine appendage, which was leaking clear fluid as the result of Douglas' merciless tonguing of Stephen's hole and buttocks. Douglas was ardent and skilful at his work and Stephen was just thinking how he might plagiarise some of these skills when he next dined with- or rather on- his young lordship, when Douglas suddenly succeeded in penetrating his sphincter and the tip of his long tongue was now inside him. This development caused Stephen to stagger forward inadvertently and thrust his cock further down Reuben's throat, causing him to gag. The poor lad pulled off with tears in his eyes and said, looking up, "There be no need fur thart Stephen, I bin had my dinner already."
"Aye, bin weren't no prize stud-boy cock, like Stephen's here." said Douglas, pausing for a moment from his ministrations to Stephen's rear.
"Aye, that be true, Doug, 'twere only bread 'nt cheese n't a pint and a pickled honion," confessed Reuben as he replaced the village hero's cock between his lips once more.
After several minutes more, with Stephen just wondering what expression, if any, was on Douglas's face right now, when one of the constituents of Reuben's dinner evidently caused Reuben to belch and Stephen took this opportunity to push his cock right down Reuben's throat just at the time he spilt his seed. This happy conjunction of events was aided by Douglas, who reached around and securely fastened his brother's head to the spewing cock, ensuring that Reuben's day went not without its pudding. For Douglas there was the more subtle pleasure of feeling Stephen's muscles spasm pleasantly around the tip of his tongue.
When Stephen was quite finished he made the Owens boys stand together and pleasure each other's cocks. His contribution was to move around them licking their muscular rural frames and, at one point, getting down on the floor on his back and raising his head to lick and suck the brothers' low-slung balls. The brothers spent their seed on each other at about the same time and Stephen pressed their bodies together grinding the mixture of sweat, semen and the residue of the day's work in the flourmill into a sort of paste, which he sampled.
Reuben said, "Steady on, Stephen, hark at t'mess and baint bath night til Saturdee" -a factor Stephen was perversely grateful for. There was no kissing: "We baint Nancys, Stephen."
Stephen led the lads to The Feathers, beer being available to the heroes of the pitch and the ring if not made too obvious before the local constable, when Douglas volunteered: "We bin practicing like, 'exercising', wi' 'teach other in't our room and behind 't pigs. How t'wer it Stephen? Were it good?"
"Oh yes, Doug, very good and let me shout you both a pint- and a pickled onion for you Reuben."
"I'll just a half, please Stephen," said Reuben. They both stared at him before he continued. "I've already had t'other half pint!" They chortled as they stepped through the taproom door, Stephen wondering how he could ever describe this to Martin.
To be continued?
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