Sailors Tale

A Sailor's Tale is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

As this chapter contains graphic descriptions of sex between consenting male adults it might be disturbing to certain readers. Discretion is advised.

I am compelled to remind you that stories of this genre are forbidden by law in certain areas to be read or downloaded unless you are legal age (18/21).

The sexual acts depicted in this chapter are graphic and safe sex was not practiced. Always practice safe sex.

Copyright 2008 by John R. Ellison

A Sailor's Tale

Chapter Eight

After being paid off from HMCS St Laurent, I was posted back to Stadacona for an Advanced Gunnery Course, necessary due to the technological advances in weaponry. The course was intensive and every night I seemed to drag myself home, too tired to talk and faced with a mountain of "homework".

Home for the 18 months the course lasted was a room in Harry Oppenheim's house. He and his wife, Rachel, had been gifted a fine house in Armdale as a wedding present and welcomed me with open arms. Harry was happily married - even more so when their first child, a boy they named Isaac, was born ten months to the day that Harry had crushed a napkin-wrapped wine glass under the chupa. It was a pattern repeated at two year intervals - Harry was very potent and Rachel equally fertile!

I enjoyed their home, and the cooking. Rachel cooked kosher, and Saturday nights, when they returned from Temple, there was always a huge feast prepared and waiting. I think I gained ten pounds while I stayed with them.

Harry had embraced his religion with a vengeance. He was very active in the Jewish community, and at the time was a "shomerim". In the Jewish faith the dead are never left alone and a shomerim, or guard, sits with the body and recites prayers. Later Harry would become one of the "Chevra Kaddisha", the group of men (or women, depending of the sex of the deceased) who prepare the body for burial. He had a manual of sorts detailing how to do this, and studied it constantly.

Harry's career was on the fast track and he would be promoted early to Leading Seaman and appointed to the Stadacona parade staff, a great honour and usually reserved for the sharpest sailors.

If I needed a change of pace I would take the Dartmouth ferry across the harbour and visit with Don and Fettuccini. They had a small house on the outskirts of Dartmouth, somewhat isolated, for as Don said, he didn't need nosy neighbours mucking up his happy home by questioning two young sailors shacked up together.

Don had wangled a transfer to the Medical Branch, and was taking courses to become a nurse. Fettuccini was as happy as a clam, having been assigned the Padre (RC)'s driver. Being close to a priest did not change his life style one whit. He and Don were lusty lovers and the sounds that emanated from their bedroom at times frightened even me!

From time to time Don would throw a party and invariably introduce me to a young man. Don knew of my infatuation with "Winger" when we were recruits in Cornwallis and thought he was helping me find, as he put it, my "true path in life". He got very pouty when I tartly informed him that I didn't need to find any path, except the one that led to the heads, thank you very much.

For 18 months I avoided the pitfalls that Don placed in my way and remained buttressed behind my closet door. Little did I know that at the end of my course my life would change, dramatically, and swiftly.

Before the unification of the Canadian Armed Services, Canada had an exchange program with England. As part of that program young sailors went to England to be trained and to serve with the Royal Navy. I was sent to Whale Island to perfect my trade in the finest gunnery school in the world.

I was aware that not everyone was selected for an exchange course, and while I had heard Chief Edgar, back in Cornwallis, opine that I was "for Whale Island", I had completely forgotten all about it. What with my course load, 14 days on board HMCS Columbia for hands-on training, and my heavy involvement with sports (where I took out my frustrations over lusting after the Chief PTI, Chief Toner, by playing hard and rough), and fending off the advances of the sweet things Don continued to thrust at me, Whale Island was far from my mind. So it was that I was surprised when I was called to the Admin Office, handed a draft chit and a travel warrant, a packet of Joining Instructions and an airline schedule. I was for Whale Island, whether I liked it or not.

As the plane flew east toward Heathrow I discovered a small pamphlet had been included in my Joining Instructions. This detailed the history of HMS Excellent, the Holy of Holies for Naval gunners.

At one time, in the mid-19th Century, the Establishment had been in located in a ship, HMS Excellent, moored in the north-east corner of the Dockyard. The elderly warship was moored in such a way that her port broadside faced Fareham Creek, thereby allowing the firing of any guns then within the Navy's possession with little chance of injuring civilians. The School of Gunnery remained there until 1852 when a need for a land-based rifle range was recognized. The Navy turned its attention to two small mud flats in Portsmouth Harbour, shown on the charts as "Waley" and known locally as Big and Little Whale Island. The islands were purchased from the Corporation of the City of Portsmouth. Then, in typical Navy fashion, except for a wooden pontoon pier to facilitate landings on the islands, absolutely nothing was done for the next ten years.

By 1863 the advancements in small arms, particularly rifles, produced a need for marked ranges. The two mud flats had been expanded and levelled using landfill from expansion of the Dockyard, the labour provided by 1000 convicts. Other than the laying out of the rifle ranges, the only other improvement was the construction of a brick accommodation block. This was built by naval ratings and promptly dubbed (and is still known as) "The Excellent house that Jack built"! A railway viaduct was also built, connecting the island with the city, the better to facilitate the movement of earth from the Dockyard expansion for use by the convict work force as land fill.

Advances in weapons and the science of gunnery were such - the Long Course for Lieutenants included calculus and trigonometry - that it was soon recognized that the floating School of Gunnery needed to be dispensed with and the Establishment moved ashore. The gradual process of moving ashore began in 1886 with the construction of barracks blocks, magazines, parade squares, mess halls and a chapel dedicated to St. Barbara, the Patron Saint of gunners. The floating school was paid off in 1891 and while the construction and landfill continued until 1895 (when the railway viaduct was replaced by a causeway), the school of gunnery was firmly established ashore.

As the years progressed, HMS Excellent's reputation for excellence in drill, deportment, dress and quality of training grew to awesome proportions. It was a given that a gunner trained at Whale Island could, if required, devise a drill for any occasion (if it had not already been devised). This I could well believe because there was an old, old saw about the Gunnery Petty Officer who had been ordered to present his company of sailors to Sick Bay for Short Arm Inspection.

The Petty Officer was Whale Island trained. He believed that there was a proper way of doing anything and everything, including conducting the medical examination of Jolly Jack's upper deck fittings. That a drill for Short Arm Inspection did not exist (at least not to the Petty Officer's knowledge) was a challenge. However, the PO had been trained to use his initiative and undeterred he sailored on and came up with a "proper drill".

The men to be inspected were formed after Divisions. The Petty Officer glared at them (his normal morning greeting) and announced that thanks to their natural inclination towards immorality, infidelity and general lust, they were to have their members examined to ensure that they were free of any social disease. The Parade (as he grandly called the 50 or so men) would march to the Drill Shed, where the Surgeon was waiting, where they would execute the proper drill for presenting short arms. This would consist of a few simple movements, which the PO explained.

At the command "One", the jumper was to be turned upward and parallel to the waist of the trousers. At the command "Two" the flap at the front of the uniform would be unbuttoned and dropped - sharply. At the command "Three" the right hand would be inserted in the fly on one's pants and, after a regulation pause (a count of three) the digit to be examined was to be presented. This digit was to be held firmly and not, repeat not, allowed at any time to dangle loosely!

After allowing all this to sink in, the Petty Officer continued, "At the command `Four' the prepuce is to be drawn back - smartly and in one movement." He paused and then added, "And when you pulls them foreskins back I wants to 'ear 'em CLICK!"

Apocryphal, perhaps. A bad joke taking the mock of the Petty Officers, perhaps as well. Personally, after my own experiences at Whale Island I did not doubt the story for a minute. It was an example of what training could do. If I needed a more tangible example of what a sailor was capable of devising in an emergency I had only to walk to the centre of the Island and look at the Windsor Gun, sometimes called "The State Gun Carriage", the Crown Jewel in the Naval crown and an object of near veneration.

To the uninformed the Windsor Gun was just that, a gun and limber, painted black and varnished. It was much more than that, however, for it was this gun carriage that up until that time had carried three sovereigns and a Former Naval Person - Winston Churchill - on their last journeys. In 1976 it would be used at the funeral of Lord Louis Mountbatten.

The gun carriage was cared for by two officers, two Chief Petty Officers, and 150 hand-picked ratings and God help any mucky-fingered urchin or grubby stoker who came within a hundred yards of the gun carriage or the glass enclosure that contained it. It was never removed from the enclosure except for the funeral of a Sovereign - except as noted. It is normally never used in any other place but Windsor. Under normal circumstances a second gun carriage, known as the "London Gun" is used for the processions in London but exceptions were made for the two great Englishmen and the Windsor Gun used for their processions.

Americans would call the gun a caisson. This it is not. A caisson is a two-wheeled cart used to carry extra ammunition for the gun, and is attached to the gun limber. The Windsor Gun is a proper gun carriage consisting of a limber and a gun, a Model 1904 Ordnance Quick Firing (QF) 13 pdr field gun, first used for the funeral of King Edward VII. The gun carriage was given into the care of the Royal Navy by George V as a special mark of Royal favour. This is hardly surprising in that until 1892 the King, then known as the Duke of York, was "Spare" to the "Heir", Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence and Avondale - and a serving Naval officer. When "Prince Eddy" died unexpectedly, the Duke of York inherited not only his title (Prince of Wales), but also his fiancée, Princess Mary of Teck.

Unlike its American counterpart, the Windsor Gun is not swathed in black crepe or hung with tassels. It is a field gun, with a coffin platform bolted to it. The platform, 6' 2" long, is of polished oak with brass fittings.

The Windsor gun carriage had come to Whale Island by a fortuitous act of nature, and the fact that the Army, in the persons of the Royal Horse Artillery, to put it bluntly, fucked up.

On the 22nd of January, 1901, Queen Victoria died at Osborne House, Isle of Wight. She had planned her own funeral, with the Army figuring prominently in all aspects. The Queen had been a meticulous and careful planner, and trusted the Army would do its homework, which it did not.

The winter of 1900/1901 was particularly harsh, with much snow and icy rain. The Army forgot that iron-shod horses do not interact well with icy hills.

As Commander-In-Chief, and Queen, Victoria had planned a State Funeral of monumental magnificence. From Osborne House to Ryde, everything went according to plan. The Queen's coffin was carried on a horse-drawn gun carriage to the docks where the coffin was loaded on board the royal yacht Alberta, and carried to Portsmouth. From Portsmouth a special railway funeral coach carried the coffin to London's Victoria Station. >From the station another horse-drawn gun carriage carried the late Queen through the streets of London to Paddington Station for the rail trip to Windsor Castle and the funeral service. As the weather remained foul the streets the procession followed in London had been sanded. Once again the horses had no problem.

Things went awry in Windsor. No one in the bloody Army remembered that horses do not fare well on ice, particularly when pulling uphill. Windsor Castle is built on a high mound and the road leading from the town to the castle is sloped steeply.

Horses also become unsettled in cold weather and inactivity and as it happened, the train from London was over an hour and a half late. The horses of "S" Battery, RHA drawing the waiting gun carriage could not be exercised, and were cold, stiff, and grumpy (if horses can be called grumpy) and were decidedly out of sorts by the time the funeral train arrived. To make a long story short, once the coffin had been loaded onto the gun carriage and the riders urged them forward, one of the beasts slipped on the icy pavement, which upset the others, which broke their traces.

As the gunners ran around trying to bring their horses under control, the new King, Edward VII, a stickler for proper form, almost had apoplexy. It was bad enough that the horses showed bad form, but arrayed around the platform were kings and princes (and the American representatives, who were as grumpy as the horses as they were compelled to observe Court protocol and dress in white tie and tails, having refused to wear Court Dress), the crowned heads of Europe, or their heirs, most of whom were relatives, and they were all muttering like a Greek Chorus, bitching about how much better things were done when Aunt So-and-So was laid to rest back home in Germany, or Belgium or Spain!

While the horses struggled and refused to obey commands, the King grew redder and redder in the face and then his eye fell on the blue jackets and straw hats of the Naval Guard of Honour. Some maintain that it was the eyes of Kaiser Wilhelm II, but no matter. What does matter is that refractory horses gave birth to a cherished Naval TRADITION.

Until that moment in time the Navy had very little do with the Queen's obsequies, other to provide Guards of Honour placed appropriately, either along the processional routes, or at Windsor - the choice duties (Bearer Party, Escort, and so on) being pre-empted by the Household Brigade and the Horse Guards. I must admit candidly that up until Windsor the Navy effort was less than perfect. From the grainy newsreels and photographs it would seem that the lads did little but stand around scratching themselves and ogling the dollies. There were no eyes to the front, or sucked in gut about them at all, and even as they hauled the gun carriage uphill to the castle they looked about, and ogled the dollies.

In the event, with chaos about to break loose, the King commanded that something be done. After all, it was his mother's coffin that was parked in the middle of a station platform and obviously going nowhere fast. I suspect that the Naval Guard, 104 ratings and officers formed in two half-companies, all from HMS Excellent, under command of Lieutenant the Honourable Algernon Boyle, RN, the First Gunnery Officer, viewed the contretemps with amused disdain. They had already one-upped the Army by leaving off their greatcoats (which gave rise to yet another TRADITION - the Guard, no matter what the weather, never wears a great coat or slicker).

Once again, some confusion reigns over who initiated the action that followed. It is popularly thought that Captain the Prince Louis of Battenberg, RN, whispered to Lieutenant Boyle, who had his men ground arms and scour the station for rope. This they formed into makeshift drag ropes, bent them to the gun carriage, formed into fours at the head of the cortege (the horses having been led away) and marched smartly up the hill to St. George's Chapel, Windsor Castle, for the service, after which she was finally laid to rest in Frogmore Mausoleum beside her beloved Albert.

Nine years later, in May of 1910, King Edward died and word came down from Buckingham Palace that under no circumstances were the bloody horses to be used at Windsor! The Navy did not mind at all; it had regained its status as "The Senior Service" and made the Army look foolish - not a difficult thing to do even at the worst of times. The Navy's position as the Service of Honour was furthered with the funeral of George V. Known as "The Sailor King" he was borne from the Lying in State in Westminster Hall by the "Windsor Gun Carriage" to Paddington for the railway trip to Windsor. The same routine was followed when George VI died, and thus another Tradition was established.

Amazingly, in a service where it was claimed it had not had an original thought in 200 years, the Navy took things one step further. It was pointed out that it was all well and good to be the Senior Service and have pride of place in Royal Funerals, it was quite another to be in two places, London and Windsor at once in the event of two Royal deaths at the same time, or if something happened to the Windsor gun carriage. The problem was solved by the procurement of an additional gun carriage. This is a rather plain, quite ordinary gun carriage, painted black except for the wheels and coffin platform, which are polished and varnished in their natural wood. It is called the "London" Gun and kept at HMS Collingwood. To date this gun has never carried a Royal to Windsor Castle, or anywhere else.

Manpower has never been a problem. HMS Excellent trained Gun Carriages Crews constantly so that in the unlikely event that a member of the Royal Family should peg out (they are all as healthy as horses and live to great ages) there is always a 150 man crew available. This number of men is a necessary component. The gun carriage weighs three tons. Add on the weight of a solid oak, lead-lined coffin (requiring eight bearers) and one is talking a heavy load. The crew is divided into two parts, 104 men arrayed in ranks of eight pulling the gun carriage, and 40 men arrayed in ranks of eight behind to act as the brake when going downhill. There are also four Chiefs and Petty Officers, and two officers.

Everything connected with the "State Gun Carriage" is first rate and first class, from the glittering brass accents to the braided and decorated drag ropes. Men assigned to the crews are chosen with care, and each is given two tailor-made blue uniforms. These, together with a pair of "Number One" boots, spit-shined and hobnailed to make an impressive, dignified thump as the gun carriage crew march sombrely past, are kept in readiness. Each man is inspected daily, must be clean shaven, and once a week haircuts the norm. It might seem a pain in the ass, but the Brits are not known for their excellence in ceremonial drill without effort. And, let's face it, being a part of a Royal funeral is a memory that stays with one forever.

During my 18 months in Excellent nobody royal crossed the bar and no, I was not given the opportunity to execute "Drill for Short Arm Inspection"!

I was not surprised to be greeted as I stepped down from the London train by four Petty Officers, who ordered the draft (there were forty six of us, drawn from the Fleet, from Canada, and two from Pakistan) to form ranks, tallest on the left, shortest on the right. When the company was formed we then marched down the length of the platform, the Petty Officers snapping and snarling at our feet like sheepdogs, where we boarded a bus for the short ride to Whale Island.

Once on board the ship we went through the usual In Routine, visiting stores to make up deficient kit, Sick Bay to make certain that we had not imported any strange diseases into the Kingdom, the Ship's Office where we were assigned rooms, given meal cards, and issued Station Cards, and so on. THEN, just to make sure everybody knew where they were, we were put through an hour and a half of close order drill, where our various inadequacies were pointed out, usually accompanied by a yelled oath, the mildest being called "Fuckin' 'Orrible Little Men!"

Finally released to our own devices, we were then introduced to the delights of Royal Navy haute cuisine, which led us all to head for the Wet Canteen to wash away the taste of the bland, boiled food with warm beer.

The next morning, promptly at 0700 our course began with callisthenics on the Summer Parade Square. After we groaned through the sports drill, we had breakfast - don't ask, the memory of the breakfasts we were served gave me the pip and caused nightmares for weeks. Then we cleaned into the Rig of the Day and marched off to the first of a series of lectures designed to turn us into Whale Island Gunners.

The first thing my classmates and I were told was that we were to forget all the colonial codswollop we had been taught. We would be taught all over again, from scratch, how things were properly done. The second thing we were told was to get a haircut. Some things are the same in every Navy.

We was called names, we doubled again for the first time in years, and were pressed, polished and buffed into a prime example of a Whale Island trained Naval Gunner. When we weren't in class, drilling, or cleaning our weapons, we were polishing boots and pressing uniforms - we were inspected every morning and any deficiency was noted.

To be honest I also admit I was even more exhilarated I loved it. I felt as if I had come home at last. I was even more exhilarated when I discovered our Term Officer. I had a prime piece of Canadian manhood to drool over whenever I felt the need for it.

The students in the school were formed into "Terms", each named after a British Admiral - mine was Collingwood. Each term was in charge of a Lieutenant, RN who was, in theory, our guide and mentor, and someone to provide a shoulder to cry on when we needed one.

Our Term Lieutenant was a Canadian who, although he gloried in an ancien regime string of names that began with Edouard and continued on to include du something de something else, and ended with Lotbiniere, actually from Westmount, Quebec, had not a drop of French blood in him. His family had come over with Wolfe in 1759, and married into the English Canadian oligarchy. He was bi-lingual, as could be expected, but his French was perfect, Parisian-accented, and not the quaint patois of his native province. He in fact held native Quebeckers in total contempt - they were, as far as he was concerned, semi-literate peasants and not worth his notice. He considered himself, by birth and schooling, to be an English Aristocrat and did everything he could to enforce that appearance.

He affected a drawling English accent, kept a white linen hanky stuffed up the left sleeve of his uniform jacket, and wore a gold pinky ring incised with his family's crest. His uniforms were tailored by Gieves, his suits by Poole. He was so determinedly posh that his charges accepted as gospel the rumour that he slept on silk sheets and wore monogrammed underpants (also silk).

Yet, for all his faults, he was no effete dandy. He was tall, red-headed, and had a well-muscled body with a shapely, patrician face. In keeping with his education - Jesuit prep school and Dartmouth Royal Naval College - and the mores of his class, sports played a very large part in his life and, when not on duty, he led a huntin', fishin', shootin' existence.

Lieutenant Lotbiniere had class and style, and not what we called "side" at all. In the morning he could be found standing in front of the King's Company resplendent in starched shirt, well cut uniform, patent gaiters, polished boots and a sword with a gilt hilt. In the afternoon he could be found on the playing field, dressed in grubby shorts, singlet and football boots, wallowing in the muck and mire with the football First XI or, in greased-stained work dress and battered gun boots, grunting, straining and cursing with the Gun Run Team. If he made a mistake in his drill orders - which he did from time to time quite deliberately just to keep up the side - he bought the beer. He even had a reputation as a "risky fella", which is posh speak for a risqué kind of guy. He even had a nickname, which we all learned within minutes of meeting him and which none of us dared call him. At least to his face.

When Lotbiniere was in his final year at Dartmouth he succumbed to a totally out of character Canadian fit of pique when he was told to climb the College Mast for the umpteenth time for no apparent reason. This he did. At the mast top was a small platform on which he was supposed to come to attention, salute, and start back down. Instead, once up there, he stripped off all his laundry and, as naked as a jaybird, mooned and flashed all those who passed by down below, two of the passers by being the Captain's wife and teenage daughter.

There Cadet Lotbiniere stayed for three hours, too terrified of the Chief GI, who stood at the bottom of the mast hurling maledictions and threats at him, during which time a lashing rain storm blew up from the Solent. Driven, finally, from his perch, he descended, suffering what the Surgeon-Commander diagnosed as "a severe chilling of the fundamentals". His prank earned him a proper bollocking from the Chief GI, seven days Confined to Quarters from the Captain, and the nickname "Blue Balls" from his term mates.

Because he was considered a man's man, and because he was everything I thought a man should be, one fine evening I let him seduce me.

The road to my seduction began quite innocuously with a request from the Term Lieutenant that I accompany him to Scotland, where he had been invited to do some grouse shooting. He needed someone to "do" for him. Since he would be out on the grouse fields, or moors, or whatever the fuck they were called, he needed a valet to unpack his things, lay out his dinner clothes, and so on. This was not a new thing on the Lieutenant's part. With his connections he was usually invited somewhere every weekend, mostly up to London, but every so often to one of the great country houses that dot the English shires. In fact, only the month before he had been over to Broadlands, to visit with the Clan Chief of the Royal Navy, Lord Louis Mountbatten, and the guy who had "done" for him had had a hell of a time.

Most of these weekend parties put a great strain on the Staff working in the houses - twenty or so guests plus the family was not at all unusual. It was considered on form to bring one's own servant - valet or maid - who could help out around the place during this busy time. Anyone actually willing to work in one of these houses was handled with kid gloves. Their employers went to great lengths not to upset their Staff. An extra hand was always welcome and, if you played your cards right and helped out, you got a share of the tips - usually 20 pounds or so. If there was a willing maid, or footman, it was a bonus.

As Lieutenant Lotbiniere was the Company Commander of the most elite unit at the school - the King's Company (and yes, I had been seconded into the King's Company), he looked to them to supply his "man" when needed.

As far as I was concerned all it meant was a hell of a lot more work, but what the hell, it looked good on my Service Record - he always asked these men, in strict rotation. I guess my number had come up. Nobody made much of it. After all, the Lieutenant did it on a regular basis and he was only doing what we expected of a proper English gentleman. As nothing improper had ever been suggested about Lieutenant Lotbiniere I had no reason to expect that I would be asked to perform duties that the Queen would never approve of.

Since it isn't done to say "no" to your Company CO, I of course agreed to his request. Actually, it was a chance to get off of Whale Island, and out Portsmouth, and see some of the country. I was told to borrow a steward's jacket - no rank badges - and acquire a pair of straight-legged uniform trousers. I was also handed a BRN Training Manual for Stewards and told to swot up the chapters on serving at table.

The next morning I took a cab to the Term Lieutenant's house and helped the cabby load enough luggage to last the average man a month. When we had the cab loaded Lieutenant Lotbiniere strolled from his house and got into the back seat. Something told me that I had better sit up front with the cabby. I did.

Arrived at the train station, the cabby and I unloaded the luggage and stowed it in the van. The Lieutenant strolled down the platform, entered the First Class carriage, settled himself in his compartment and opened a book to help him while away the fatigue of first class British Rail travel. I went to the Second Class coach, and settled myself onto a lumpy seat, and opened the BRN, to help me while away the fatigue of second class British Rail travel.

As we traveled north I swotted up and read my manual. It was really quite interesting and I deliberately forgot to return it.

When we arrived at our destination - a small country station - we were met by a car and driver. While the driver and I unloaded the luggage from the van, and loaded it into the boot of the car, Lieutenant Lotbiniere nonchalantly got into the back seat of the car and read his bloody book. Once again I sat up front with the driver.

When we arrived at the big house there was a footman waiting. He was a big strapping man of about 50, and he helped me unload the car and hump everything up to the room assigned to the Term Lieutenant, who had sauntered into the house without a by-your-leave to visit with his host and hostess.

The footman, whose name was Tom, took pity on me and helped me unpack those fucking bags. When he told me that they didn't dress for dinner the first night I stared at him blankly. I hadn't a clue what he was taking about.

"First time, is it?" Tom asked.

I replied in the affirmative.

"Not to worry, I'll give you a hand," Tom said and showed me the proper way to stow clothing in the wardrobe press and dresser. He also gave a crash course in what the well-dressed gentleman wore for any given occasion and how I was to lay out the proper clothing.

When we were finished Tom took me down to the servants' wing, which was in the "New Wing" of the house and built in 1637. The "Old Wing" had been built in 1540 - that was the kind of house it was.

Tom showed me the tiny cubicle where I would sleep. When I asked where the bathroom was he pointed down the hall. He also showed me where I would take my meals - in the Seniors' Hall. I learned that as Lieutenant Lotbiniere's valet I ranked below the butler, but above the under-butler and Senior Footman. Protocol in the Seniors' Hall was strictly enforced by Mr. Paxton, the butler, and wine was served at lunch and dinner. There was a separate hall for Junior Staff, footmen and maids, and they made do with beer.

With the tour over, and my duty done in the heads, Tom asked me if I would help him with "the other gentlemen," and for the next hour I helped him lay out suits, blazers, and assorted jackets, and unpack cases and bags. Shortly after 5:00 we went down for our "tea".

"You'll be needed soon," Tom said, glancing at his watch. "The guns . . ." This was the term used for the male guests who had spent the day out on moors massacring the wildlife - ". . . will be back soon and will want their tea and your lad will want his things ready. Remember, blazer, tie, flannels and tie-up shoes for tea, black tie for dinner tonight."

I told him that I remembered. "What about me? What do I wear?" I asked.

"For tea? Not to worry. You won't be needed at tea. The ladies pour and the footmen have already laid the table." Then Tom asked, "Got a proper jacket?"

I assumed he meant the steward's coat. I told him yes, but I only had one and I didn't want to wear it if I didn't have to.

"Not to worry, cobber. We'll have it all nice and clean in time for dinner tomorrow." With that he tucked into his meal.

Finished eating, I hurried back to my room. I desperately wanted a good wash. I would have preferred a shower, but the bathroom held only a tub, sink, and toilet. No shower heads. I shaved, used a washcloth as best I could, changed into my waiter rig, and went upstairs.

I laid out the clothes Tom had told to me to prepare. For good measure I put out clean socks, and clean underpants, which were neither monogrammed nor silk (Egyptian cotton). I unpacked the Lieutenant's silver-backed brushes, and laid a fresh hanky on the dressing table. I had just finished when he walked into the room, wearing shooting togs. He surveyed my work and nodded approvingly. "You've been busy, I see." he said as he removed his jacket.

"Idle hands, sir," I replied, taking the jacket and putting it on a cloth-covered hanger. I turned and stowed the jacket in the wardrobe. When I turned around he was emptying his trouser pockets of change, and a key ring, which he held up.

He looked at the dinner jacket, boiled shirt and black, satin striped trousers I had laid out and said diffidently, "I shall need my mess kit for tomorrow night. Miniatures, and the gold links for the shirt. They're in the box in my case. This is the key." He placed the ring on the dressing table, undid his belt, took off his trousers, and handed them to me. I hung them up and once again turned around. I saw a perfect specimen of a naked male backside as he headed for the bathroom. He might have looked good with his clothes on, but, by Jesus, he looked better with them off. He had very shapely, muscled legs, covered from ankle to butt in short, dark red hair. His ass, very well formed, was hairless.

I heard him turn on the shower. I busied myself in finding his shoes and giving them a quick buffing with a cloth I found. He had left the door open and I could hear him humming as he showered. I couldn't see much for all the steam. Like all sailors, he liked his showers hot, and like all sailors his shower was short. You learn very quickly never to waste water, no matter where you are.

After about five minutes Lotbiniere came back into the room, towelling his hair dry, and not wearing a robe. One look and I popped a bone. Fortunately his head was covered by the towel.

Lieutenant Lotbiniere was a brother of the ring, not too big, but certainly not small. What surprised me was his penis. I had seen quite a few so far, but none to come near approaching his beauty. My heart quite literally skipped a beat as I saw . . .

His penis was perfectly proportioned to his firm body, perhaps four inches in length, and about an inch in diameter, so perfectly circumcised as to appear untouched, as if he had been born skin-free. There was a trimmed, respectable bush of deep red, gold flecked pubic hairs sprouted on his groin, surrounding the base of his penis, casting a deep shadow on his smooth and lightly tanned skin.

My eyes fell to his smooth, silky scrotum, noting the fullness of the sac, and the definition of the twin orbs it contained. I frankly stared hungrily at his succulent parts. His testicles were average, and hung quite low, thanks to the heat of his shower.

He had tiny nipples centered in light brown aureoles, surround by bright red, wispy curls of hair, which traveled across his chest and met in a narrow thicket over his breastbone.

"Pour me a drink, will you?" he asked as he finished drying his hair. "Whisky, just a little water."

I hurried to the drinks tray and poured his drink, taking the opportunity to make a quick adjustment. I thanked God my jacket covered the bulge in my pants.

If the Lieutenant noticed my state, he made no mention of it. Casually he said, "I shan't need you until 1800." He began brushing his hair (a gentleman never used a comb, it appeared). "You had better get on down to the dining room," he said over his shoulder. "They'll be looking for you."

"Aye, aye, Sir," I replied in my best Whale Island manner. "I've poured your drink."

With that I hurried from the room and went downstairs where I helped Tom and two junior footmen put the finishing touches to the dinner table. At 1800 I returned to the Lieutenant's room. He was partly dressed and all I had to do was put in his cuff buttons and help him on with his dinner jacket. When he was finished dressing he went downstairs to the drawing room, where pre-dinner drinks were being served. I went to my cubicle and put on my white jacket, in preparation for serving at dinner.

Since I had never served a dinner before I was relegated to pouring the wine that accompanied each course. I spent most of my time off to the side, decanter in hand, waiting to top up the glasses as needed, watching every move the more experienced footmen made.

When dinner was over the diners retired to the drawing room for music and games. I helped clear up the table, and with the washing up. We finished at about 2200. I joined the other footmen in a beer and a chat, and then, I suppose it was around 2300, took my leave, as I needed to lay out his nibs' clothing for the morning and I desperately needed a shower.

I nipped into my room, grabbed a clean pair of shorts, some socks, and a T-shirt. From past experience Tom had told me that the fun and games in the drawing room would go on until all hours, so I figured that I could grab a quick shower in the Term Lieutenant's bathroom, lay out his clothes and be in bed before midnight.

I laid out his tweeds, stout boots, and a thick shirt, which he would need for the morning shoot. I put three ties for him to choose from beside his shirt. I figured he could look after his own drawers and socks. Then I headed for the shower.

I stripped off, turned on the water and stepped in. It was heaven. The water pulsed and assaulted my body, washing away the fatigue and strain of the day. There was a bar of scented soap in the dish so I soaped up, scrubbing myself and, to tell the truth, doing a number on my balls and dick. I figured since I was already in the shower, I could take care of my other problem. I hadn't beat off in more than a week, and thought, "What the hell, I need it, so I'll do it."

I slowly stroked myself and my cock rose stiff and thick. The soap was a great lubricant and I was so wrapped up in beating off I was in another world when suddenly I felt two hands reach around and rub my hard nipples. I also felt something hard nestled in my butt crack. I felt someone nuzzling my neck.

"Fuck," I thought, "this feels great . . . GREAT? What the fuck . . ."

I realized I was not alone. I turned quickly, my dick shrinking. Standing in front of me, his dick stiff and bedewed with droplets of shower water . . . was my TERM LIEUTENANT. I fucking near fainted. My knees buckled and if he hadn't caught me, I would have fallen. He lifted me upright and reached down and fingered the knob of my soft dick.

"Heard the shower. Thought I'd join you. Hope you don't mind," he said. He was smiling, fingering my dick head with one hand, and stroking his not unimpressive hardon with the other.

"I . . . really don't . . . uh, mind." I stammered.

"Sir." he corrected, the officious dickhead! Proper form at all times, even when being fondled in the shower!

Lotbiniere's fingers circled my cock and it began to stiffen.

"Sir," I moaned and daringly kissed him.

I felt no reluctance, felt no shock at the sudden assault or the touch of his lips on mine. The little voice that normally shouted alarum in defence of my virginity, and voiced my fears, was silent. It was time. What the Lieutenant was doing to my body was something I desperately wanted, something I desperately needed. I knew instinctively that it was time for my closet door to burst open.

It is said that a boy always remembers his first time. It remains etched in his memory, and sometimes he measures his subsequent times against the first. Hopefully his first time is wonderful, an awaking of spirit that is never repeated. Hopefully his first time is glorious, which mine was and I do remember every detail.

Lotbiniere's lips opened and our tongues met. He moved as close as he could to me and our dicks rubbed together. I felt him reach around and finger my butt hole. His hand moved and my cheeks got a good rubbing. His touch on my body was electrifying. I held him close to me.

Finally we parted. He caressed my face and then knelt down. He took me into his mouth, sucking gently, working his way down the shaft. I jerked involuntarily at the feel of his warm, moist mouth massaging my erection, his raspy tongue savaging the swollen, oh so sensitive head.

I am not normally a groaner, but he made me groan. I knew that if he didn't stop he'd very soon get a week's worth of built up cum. Thankfully he released me and began kissing my balls, my groin, and then worked his way around my hips to my ass. He kissed and sucked my cheeks, then, after he had worked his way behind me, spread my cheeks and licked my puckered hole. I shuddered with pleasure and bent forward.

His tongue rimmed me with rapid movements, and then entered my hole. He tongue fucked me and his mouth sucked noisily. This alone nearly brought me over the edge. When he paused for breath I turned and presented my dick to him. He kissed the piss hole and licked the precum oozing from it.

As the hot water pummelled my back his tongue licked and washed the mushroomed head of my dick. He took everything I had in his mouth and my shaft disappeared down his throat. His head slowly bobbed up and down, and his lips and tongue found every nerve ending under my head and down my shaft.

The sensations I felt were so intense I moaned softly. His mouth left my dick and he began to lick and kiss my balls. He teased my large ovals with his tongue, and then took one, then the other in his mouth. I felt his hand move under my balls and up to my puckered hole. He moved his finger slowly over and around my aching hole. Then he slowly inserted his finger, slowly massaging me. I just about lost it as the combination of getting my balls sucked and my asshole finger-fucked sent an electric shock of pleasure surging through my body. He moved and wiggled his finger deep inside me, and I quivered with ecstasy.

He returned to my dick, sucking the top of my now extremely sensitive head. He sucked on the tenderest part of a circumcised male, the small bit of scar tissue just under the rising dome where it joined the shaft. He teased and rolled my balls in his hand as his mouth took the upper third of my dick fully. I could feel my balls tighten, and a feeling of intense pleasure began to fill by body. My dick was throbbing as he continued to suck, and I couldn't hold back.

". . . Cumming, I'm cumming," I warned him.

I could feel his hot breath on the lower part of my dick as he sucked faster. His finger moved in and out of my asshole, keeping pace with his sucking. All too soon, like a skyrocket exploding in the darkness of the night, orgasm coursed through my body and erupted. A flood of cum blasted from my dick and into his mouth. Blast after blast pulsed from my dick and he swallowed eagerly. He continued to suck on me even when I had no more to give. My dickhead was so sensitive from his mouth working on it I had to pull away. My knees buckled and I slid down and sat with my back against the wall, mouth open, gasping for breath, my eyes closed as I my slowly shrinking dick continued to tingle and spasm from the pleasure he had given me.

The water stopped running and I opened my eyes. Directly in front of me was his seven inches of rigid, magnificent meat, rising from the small thicket of gold-flecked, red, curly pubic hair, which curved and narrowed into a thin line ending just under his navel. His dick had thickened and turned a dark pinkish rose above the barely discernable ring line. His balls had tightened against his body. I reached out and my hand encircled him. I pulled him towards me and my lips encircled his dick head and my tongue moved slowly over the smooth, hot skin of it.

With my other hand I reached up and kneaded and stroked his sac, which was so tight his balls had all but disappeared into his crotch. I began to slowly pump and suck him and he began to throb in my mouth. His hands grasped my head and he tried to push his dick down my throat. I resisted and he backed off. I was sucking a wonderful tasting dick, and I wanted to savour all of it. I left his balls and, using the side of my hand I stroked and rubbed his asshole. He squatted slightly, to give me more room.

He was breathing heavily and a slow moan rose from his throat, rising in tone as his dick thickened, and lengthened slightly.

"Sweet Jesus." he exclaimed as his dick pulsed and a massive load of cum blasted into my mouth. "Sweet, sweet, Jesus!" he groaned loudly as another, then another load pulsed into my eager mouth.

I swallowed and swallowed, marvelling at the taste and texture of the ambrosial fluid his balls had produced. I sucked and licked him clean and let him go. He sat down so abruptly I thought he might have hurt himself. He hadn't. He shook his head vigorously, and looked at me, his eyes shining.

"I thought I gave good head." he breathed. "But you, my lad, have a gift." He reached down and held my semi-hard dick in his hand, and rubbed his thumb over the head.

I returned the favour.

"I like this." he said. "The most beautiful part of a man is a circumcised dick," he offered admiringly.

The thought of Piers Gaveston's purple-coloured cock flashed through my mind and I shuddered, at the memory of it.

I stroked the Lieutenant's now stiffened dick and wiped a small drop of precum from his piss hole. "Yours is beautiful, Sir," I moaned.

He smiled at my adoration of his body, took my hand, and led me out of the tub and into the bedroom. "You may call me Edouard," he said as he led me toward the bedroom. In retrospect I might have been more impressed if his tone suggested less of a King bestowing boon on an unworthy serf and more of a man who had just been given what he admitted was the best blow job of his life.

We lay on the bed, holding one another and kissing passionately. Our hips ground together, our dicks rubbing and scraping together. He took both our dicks in his hand and pumped them slowly. The feel of his cock and hand sent a thrill of overwhelming pleasure through me.

Edouard kissed my eyes, my mouth, my neck, and began licking his way down my body, pausing to suck my nipples and rim my navel. He snuffled down the thin line of hair from my navel to my thick bush of pubic hair, breathing deeply, moaning at my scent. He kissed my cock, then my balls, licking his way around and over me. He moved to the end of the bed and positioned himself between my legs. He reached down under my knees and pushed my legs back. I knew what was coming and without him having to ask I raised my hips as high as I could.

He bent his head and I felt the incredible sensation of his tongue probing and sliding into my asshole and setting the nerve endings just inside afire with incredible pleasure. His tongue slid in and out, and then around. My cock began pulsing and I was afraid I was going to blast all over myself when he withdrew. I heard him searching in his case, and then felt the cool, oily jelly as he applied it around and inside my fuck-hole with his finger.

Edouard positioned himself, his hand guiding his raging cock. I felt his smooth head against my puckered hole. "Your first time?" he asked gently.

I nodded.

Edouard smiled and began to guide me through the love act. "Just relax your muscles when I go in, then push down when I ease it in, okay?"

He pushed firmly, but very slowly, a little bit at a time. The pain was the worst I had ever experienced and I wanted to cry out for him to stop. I lay with my head back, breathing heavily.

When he was about halfway in he stopped. "Just relax and it will go away. I'm almost there."

I relaxed my ass muscles and the pain began to subside, a glowing, warm pleasure replacing it. He began to push slowly and I pushed back. The pleasure I felt as his thickened cock continued its course swirled and eddied through my body.

He stopped pushing and I opened my eyes. He was staring down at me, a look of ecstasy slightly contorting his face. He was breathing in short gasps. He was holding back with some effort.

"I'm all the way in. You okay?"

I nodded again. The pain had subsided as my channel became accustomed to his length and thickness. I tightened in pleasure, pressing and clamping on his engorged muscle. I swear I could feel the shape of him, from the smooth, well defined glans to the thick base. He groaned and I released him.

He leaned down and sucked on my neck and his wet tongue probed my ear.

Very slowly he moved his hips and slowly pulled his cock about half way out, then pushed forward. I felt the flame-coloured, thick bush of his pubic hair brush against the skin of my filled hole. He began pumping with long, slow strokes. I became overwhelmed with lust, totally mesmerized at the fusion of our bodies. I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist. He pulled out until only his round head was inside of me, and then pushed in again, totally filling me.

My dick pulsed and jerked as the soft hair and skin of his body brushed against the underside of it. He was moaning and groaning his lust and pleasure, and dripping sweat onto my chest. Several times he pulled all the way out until just the top of his mushroom rested against my hairless hole, then thrust back in. His voice came in a harsh whisper. "Oh, aah, fuck, fuck . . . Fuck . . . AAH . . . Sweet Je . . . SUS . . ."

He pumped his slippery dick faster and faster. I was getting close to the edge, his sweat-soaked stomach brushing back and forth against my dick had me close to a ball clanging orgasm.

I was overcome with delirious passion, pushing my mouth against his. Our tongues joined and probed each other. I was very close and tightened my arms and legs.

"It's . . . I'm cumming . . ." he moaned. His hips pumped quickly, then he thrust savagely forward and I felt his cock explode a torrent of hot cum deep into my body. He pumped and pumped, sending a huge stream into me. I couldn't hold back and I crashed over the edge, sending a thick stream onto my chest. He moaned and buried his head in my neck again. He continued to pump in short, quick strokes, each stroke shorter than the other, until his balls had emptied. He lay on me, breathing in heavy gasps, sucking and licking my neck.

I felt his dick shrinking and he pulled back, and I felt him leave me, and his soft dick rested against my hole. He lay on me for a few moments, catching his breath, then moved and silently knelt between my legs He reached over and used his finger to wipe the blob of cum off my chest. He raised his finger to his lips and sucked greedily. I looked at his now soft cock and saw that his bush of hair was bedewed with small drops of my cum. I pulled myself up, rolled to one side, and then sat on my knees. I leaned forward and snuffled and licked his pubic hair, cleaning him. His dick began to lengthen as I licked and kissed his rod clean. For a while he let me enjoy myself. He finally gently pulled me away, bent down, and kissed me.

"We have to stop now," Edouard said quietly. "Let's clean up, shall we."

"Will we . . ." I asked tentatively.

He nodded vigorously in reply. "As surely as the sun will rise tomorrow. Now go and shower."

The next morning Tom shook me awake at the crack of dawn. I had had barely two hours sleep and felt like shit. My dick was sore and my balls felt drained. Absent shower facilities, I settled for a stoker shower - I washed my face and chest, and then scrubbed my armpits and crotch. I put on fresh drawers and dug out a clean, starched, gunshirt. At least I looked presentable, although I felt grubby.

Last night had been wonderful. I suppose I was still aglow with the sex. I had received, and given, my first blow job. My ass was no longer cherry and I had been fucked for the first time. The sex was okay, and I could handle it. I realized, however, that I loved sucking his cock. I ran my tongue around my mouth, imagining that I could still taste him. While I was looking forward to future meetings with him I entered his room with trepidation, questions reeling through my mind, and wondering what Edouard's reaction would be.

Was I a one night stand? I wondered. Was it love, or lust that had led him to the shower? Would he ignore what had happened, or would he want to continue? Was I just a toy, to be played with once and tossed aside? Question after question needed answers.

I carried Edouard's morning tea tray up to his room, knocked lightly on the door and entered. I put the tray on the table and opened the curtains, filling the room with pale morning light.

Edouard was lying in bed, on his side, his back to me. He had pulled the covers half off of himself and his bare ass was exposed. I resisted the urge to stroke it and shook him gently by the shoulder.

"Time to get up, Sir. The guns will be off shortly."

He groaned, rolled over, wiped the sleep from his eyes and thanked me. He sat up and stretched. "I'll need you to help me dress before dinner. Until then you might want to help out around the place." He reached for the cup of coffee I had poured for him. He sipped it, and then went on instructing me as to his needs: a bath prepared for him when he came in from the shoot, a complete change for tea, and then his dinner clothes. He was quite matter of fact and made absolutely no mention of the night before. It was as if nothing had happened. Somehow I knew that last night was last night. Today was today and even though we had fucked each other silly, we both had a role to play. I was the Leading Seaman, he was the Lieutenant. This would be our pattern every morning after the night before.

Edouard's actions answered some of my questions, however. Nothing would ever be said about what happened between us. Later he would expand on our relationship. I could address him as "Edouard" when we were off duty, and having a private moment. That first morning we were "on duty" and he was Lieutenant Lotbiniere, or Sir. Later, much later, I would be allowed certain liberties, but only up to a point, and I was always brought up sharply if I dared to cross the line Edouard had drawn in the sand.

While Edouard was out on the moors I spent the rest of my day making myself useful. I polished shoes, pressed trousers, and helped Tom and Derek, the second footman, set the dining room table, a long, polished piece of wood that was eventually laden with flowers, crystal, silver and china. It was a long, tedious, and very meticulous process, and we had barely finished before I had to nip upstairs and run the bath Edouard would expect to be waiting when he returned.

At 4:00 the guns came in and went to their rooms to bathe and dress for tea. Edouard greeted me and chattered away about the bag while he undressed. He never mentioned the night before, though I think he lingered a bit. I was, admittedly, quite obvious in my admiration of his nakedness.

While he splashed away in the bath I cleared away Edouard's shooting clothes, and laid out fresh linen, clean socks, and the clothes he was to wear at tea. When I had done that I poured a drink for him.

When Edouard entered the bedroom he had a towel draped around his neck and a raging hardon. He was either very excited or had been practicing in the bath, for his ball sac was tight against his groin. He smiled invitingly. I knelt down, licked the underside of his rosy mushroomed head, and then took him in my mouth. Within two or three minutes he had a crashing orgasm. He pulled my head forward, and thrust his hips, forcing his dick to the back of my throat, pumping a stream of warm, sweet cum into me. With each jet of cum his body spasmed and he had to bite his lip to stifle his cum-cry.

I continued to suck after Edouard had finally finished and he pulled himself away, laughing quietly. "Enough," he commanded. "I have to dress." He moved away, and, still breathing heavily, he began to dress. The grin on his face told me that I had satisfied him.

He pulled his shorts on, and then reached over and stroked my face. "Run along, you have to get ready for dinner." He kissed me tenderly. "And I do believe I shall want you afterwards."

So, last night would be repeated. Relieved, I was happy to oblige Edouard whenever he wanted me.

After tea had been served Edouard returned to his bedroom where I was waiting for him. I had polished his Wellingtons to a mirror finish and was laying out his mess kit as he entered the room. He picked up one of the boots and looked at it. "Is there nothing you can't do well?" he asked with a grin.

"Not much," I said with a total lack of modesty.

He chuckled and undressed. For some reason I had no desire to repeat our pre-tea actions. I knew that he wanted to look great at dinner - formal, with the ladies wearing tiaras and their best jewels, and the gentlemen in white tie and tails, or mess kit. Strangely, I wanted the same thing.

As Edouard showered I found his case and brought out his studs and miniature medals. When he came out of the bathroom I was ready for him and handed him his shorts and a thick, plain, white T-shirt. After he had pulled on his undergarments, I handed him his double starched, plain front shirt and we began the lengthy process of dressing him.

A Naval mess kit is a beautiful thing, but complicated. Everything that isn't starched is pressed to knife edge crispness. The shirt is not fitted with a collar, so one is attached with gold studs. There are no buttons on the plain front shirt (no pleats - only Chief Stewards and American officers wear pleated shirts) so more studs, always plain gold, hold it together. The white piqué waistcoat also has no buttons. These are fitted with grommets and looped into the pre-sewn holes. The trousers are held up by suspenders, which are buttoned to the trousers, not clamped. Everything is stiff, and sometimes difficult to fit together. The whole process is less like dressing a man and more like working on a building site. The result, however, is worth it.

There is nothing that sets off a well-built male's body than a Naval Mess Kit, with its bum freezer jacket, tight, butt hugging gold-laced trousers, white, gold-buttoned waistcoat, black, hand-tied bow tie, and mirror polished boots. On the right body the effect is stunningly magnificent.

After pinning his miniature medals to the left lapel of Edouard's jacket, I wiped imaginary pieces of lint from the two gold rings and circle, the marks of his rank, on each of his jacket sleeves, and then stepped back to admire our handiwork. He looked glorious, with his still slightly damp, dark red hair, clean, "peaches and cream" complexion, flashing eyes and broad chest. I was almost overwhelmed with the sight of him. He was a stunning, magnificent man.

I grinned and nodded approvingly. He looked over his shoulder and contemplated the smooth, perfect curve of his butt under the tight fabric of his trousers.

"Not bad, what?" he asked.

I cocked my head and nodded my agreement. "Not bad at all." I reached down and patted his smooth, flat crotch.

Edouard gently pushed my hand away. "Behave, wanton." He cupped my chin and gently kissed me, smiled, and left the room.

It took all my self control to get through serving dinner. My jacket had been washed and starched and ironed to perfection. I had shaved and Derek had given me a quick trim, so all in all I looked pretty good. Knowing my limitations, Tom allowed me to serve the fish, pour the wine, and then serve the pudding.

I managed not to make a fool of myself, which became increasingly difficult. Every time I served the Term Lieutenant (both he and I were "On Duty" after all, and I could not think of him as "Edouard"), or poured him some wine, I could smell the sweet, clean, slightly starchy smell of him, and my dick quivered. I didn't dare think of the taste of his cock. Still, somehow I managed, and dinner finally ended.

After dinner Tom and Derek did duty in the drawing room, serving drinks and such. I was relegated to the kitchen to help with the washing up. Cook, and two helpers, both well endowed country girls hired for the night, decided to take the mickey out of me. When I took off my jacket Cook commented on my "manly chest". One of the girls opined that I had a very nice bum. As the Cook cackled merrily the other one wondered aloud what else I had that was very nice.

I knew that they were just having a bit of fun at my expense so I went along with the joke. I gave as good as I got, and I was actually having a hell of a good time when Tom came in, grumbling about some people not pulling their weight while others had to work. I took the hint, pulled on my jacket, goosed the Cook and took off running as she reached for a large cleaver.

It was a long night. I served drinks, emptied ashtrays, and generally made myself useful. Edouard was in his element. He was charming, urbane, and very sophisticated. I saw several of the ladies - and one of the men - cast admiring glances his way. His hostess, an old friend I later learned, conned him into playing the piano. He was very good, and played quite a few pieces - all classical.

At 0100 Derek wheeled in a large table on which were saucers and cups, a huge silver coffee urn, and several plates of small, sweet cakes. This I learned was the signal that the party was over. Derek poured and began passing the coffee. Tom picked up a plate of cakes and whispered to me to get off as I would no doubt be wanted shortly.

I went upstairs and into Edouard's room, took off my jacket, poured a drink and settled into the armchair, sipping and waiting for him to return. Before very long he entered the room. I stood up and went to him.

He smiled and kissed me and then began undressing. I helped him off with his jacket and waistcoat. He reached over and pulled my gunshirt from my pants and while I was taking the studs out of his shirt he reached under my shirt and massaged and tweaked my nipples. He pressed against me and I could feel his hard-on bulging under the fabric.

When I had his shirt and undershirt off he pulled my gun shirt over my head and began to kiss and suck me. I unbuttoned his pants and found his hard-on poking out of the slit in his shorts. I cupped and fondled his balls through the fabric and then thumbed his dickhead. He was slick with pre-cum and his shorts were wet from it. He unbuttoned me and my pants fell to the floor. My dick was throbbing under my boxers. He felt me and then put his hand down my shorts and pulled my dick up, so that just the head was poking over the waistband. He bent down and began to suck just my smooth, domed head. Then he stood up and pulled me tight against him.

Edouard wrapped his arms around me and our hard cocks touched and ground together. I felt his hot, hard flesh against mine. I reached down and fisted both our dicks. His lips touched mine and we tongued and sucked as I pumped our dicks. A low growling came from his throat as he massaged my back, up to my neck and then down to my ass. His hands began pushing my shorts down so I stepped back, pushed them all the way down and stepped out of the pile of clothes at my ankles, then reached over and did the same for him.

Naked, we moved to the bed and lay down. I moulded my body to his and we began sucking and fondling every part of each other's body. His tongue and hands found places on my body that I never knew existed and moaned and writhed with excruciating pleasure. Both our dicks were leaking precum, which I used to lubricate his throbbing meat, slowly stroking him.

He pulled away and began to kiss his way down my body. He took my left tit in his mouth, and I writhed and bucked as he sucked it, then the other. With his tongue he slowly worked his way down my chest to my stomach, then my bush, then my cock. He tongued the head of my dick, licking the pre-cum then ran his tongue along his lips, tasting it. He worked his way down my throbbing shaft to my balls, licking and kissing them. They tightened at the touch of his lips. He sucked one ball, then the other, then took both huge eggs into his mouth. I could feel his breath on the underside of my dick and I reached down and began to pump it. The head was slick with pre-cum and I slowly spread it down, until my shaft and head were slick with it. Waves of pleasure coursed through me as I slowly stroked my dick to a thick, pulsing, iron hard rod.

He loosed my balls and straddled my waist. He raised his hips and slowly lowered his brown, puckered hole to meet my mushroomed head. He reached around and guided me into him. I felt my domed head probe his hole, and then enter. I thrust slightly and every inch of me was in his tight, moist, warm fuck tunnel. My balls bounced as he began moving his well muscled legs, his hips moving up, then down, then up, drawing my dick almost out of his hole, then sliding it deliciously back in. His balls were resting on my stomach, his cock, stiff and leaking pre-cum, pointing at me like an arrow. I reached down and lubricated him. My fingers found his shaft, my thumb his mushroom. I wanked him in time with his movements and felt his balls tighten against my skin. His eyes were closed, his brow covered in sweat. He was breathing heavily through his nose. The tip of his tongue peeked out of his closed lips. He was moaning with the heft of my dick in him. He began to move faster and tensed his muscles, tightening on my dick. He groaned and his dick jerked in my hand. He was very close. I pumped him and he threw his head back. "Oh, yes," he groaned. "Oh yes, fuck . . . fuck me . . . fuck me . . ." I thrust my hips upward, very close to erupting. "Oh Jesus, YES . . . YES . . ."

His pulsed in my hand and a massive glob of creamy man juice blew out and spattered across my chest. I pumped faster and another load shot out, hitting me in the face. I felt the massive pain/pleasure of my orgasm rising in my balls and I let loose a small yelp as my dick thickened, jerked and shot load after load of my cum into his bowels. As he finished shooting he collapsed onto my chest, writhing with pleasure, spreading his warm cum across his chest and stomach. He sucked madly on my neck and shoulders. My dick softened and plopped out of his ass. He moved down until his dick and balls were resting on mine. He lay there, with his head on my chest, slowly licking his own cum off of me. His dick was warm, still aglow with our sex. He sighed heavily, got off me and went into the bathroom.

I heard the water running, and then he returned with a warm, wet towel in his hands. He slowly, with great tenderness, wiped me clean. I reached for the towel, wanting to do the same for him. He shook his head no, wiped away the evidence of our sex, and dropped the towel on the floor.

Edouard lay beside me, on his side, slowly stroking my face. "Do not fall in love with me, Young Canada. I'm not worth it." Another question answered. He did not love me, and never would.

As he slowly ran his finger along my lips Edouard expanded his comment about not loving him. "I'm much too much a bastard. I like my young men."

I turned my head and looked at him. He was quite calm, smiling gently. I decided to tell him the truth.

I told him that I admired him, that he had a great body, and that the sex was beyond belief. I didn't love him, and I had no intention of falling in love with him.

"I don't want any ties. When we're done, we're done." I continued honestly. I propped myself on my elbow and took his face in my hand. "You're a great lay. You're also an officer. I'm not and never will be." I shrugged. "Different worlds. You're an aristocrat. I'm not." I kissed him. "Too many differences. Besides there is someone . . ." Abruptly I told him about my experience in Cornwallis with Winger.

Edouard listened patiently. When I was finished he moved and assumed the classic position. He kissed the end of my soft dick. "Silly fucker doesn't know what's good for him." he said and took my dick in his mouth.

Thank Christ we could sleep late the next morning. Attendance at Church was optional, and anyway after lunch we were expected to be gone. I crawled out of my bed and groped for my shorts. "Fuck, I never sleep raw, and here I am balls to the breeze," I thought.

I sat down on the bed abruptly, the memory of the past night flooding back to me. I groaned, partly in pain, partly in pleasure. I was feeling pain in places where no Christian should ever feel pain.

I dressed and, after visiting the head, wandered into the kitchen for a cup of something. Cook was slamming around preparing the buffet the churchgoers would eat when they returned. She told me that the Term Lieutenant was off to Church and that the car was ordered for noon. I finished my coffee, stole two pieces of ham, and went upstairs, where I packed for Edouard, and then carried the bags down to the front door. I returned to my cubicle, changed into my traveling rig, packed my own bag and left.

I hung around the kitchen, cadging food and then, a little before noon, left the house and walked around to the front. The car was waiting. Within minutes the front door opened and Edouard walked out and into the car and climbed into the back. I assumed my proper seat beside the driver and off we went to the railroad station. We traveled back to Portsmouth as we had traveled from it. He was in First, I was in Second, and I expected nothing more.

Our relationship, such as it was, lurched along. I was immersed in my courses, and other duties, much of them ceremonial. I was a member of the gun carriage's crew, and detailed off to be a bearer, and learned how to properly carry a coffin, which is hard work! An English oak coffin is often lead lined. Add in the weight of the deceased (although we used sand bags and lengths of rail continually surfacing in the roadbed of the causeway) and you can understand why eight bearers are necessary.

I was also detailed off to participate in the ceremony of Manning the Yards. This is a carefully choreograph ceremony where the Manning Party climbs the shrouds and mans the three yards of a mast. It is a very beautiful and inspiring ceremony although sadly, it is no longer performed for safety reasons. We never wore a harness and depended, as the saying went, on one hand for the Queen, one hand for me.

A ceremony I managed to avoid was the Field Gun Run. It was for many years performed at tattoos and Open House days. Originally conceived to commemorate the Navy's part in the Boer War, specifically the relief of Ladysmith. To assist the Naval Brigade, a number of 4.7-inch guns were sent ashore and carriages made for them. Two of these guns, together with four 12 cwt 12 pounder guns were marched to Ladysmith. The terrain was rough and the wheel of one of the guns shattered. When the Brigade reached Ladysmith it was ordered to occupy the high ground and, rather than risk any other damage, the Bluejackets dismantled the guns and carried them two miles to the top of a hill and into action.

The ceremony begins with two teams marching onto the parade square pulling a gun and limber. The teams march past the field: two wooden walls separated by a 28-foot open "chasm". Once in place a bugle sounds and the action starts. The guns are dismantled and piece-meal, brought over the first wall. Lines are rigged to tall poles and the guns swung across. At the other end the guns are reassembled and one round loaded and fired. The team that gets its gun across in the fastest time wins.

It is all very exciting, and fraught with danger of accidents. The gun barrel alone weighs 300 pounds and a forgotten tackle or a mis-tied knot often resulted in broken arms and legs.

At one time every command in the Royal Navy participated in the Gun Run Tournament, which always ended with the two leading teams meeting at the Royal Tournament. In time the other commands dropped out and only three teams participated in the Royal Gun Run: Portsmouth (Whale Island), Devonport, and the Fleet Air Arm. The last Royal Navy Gun Run would be in August 1999.

I also played football with the Term Football Club, swam regularly, never managed to understand the intriquacies of Cricket!

Edouard had his other interests as well. As Term Lieutenant he was required to look to the administration aspects of the term. He taught several classes, and played with the football team. Our paths crossed, but always in the context that he was Lieutenant Lotbiniere and I was Gunnery Trainee Winslow. We were "On Duty" and no one suspected the true nature of our relationship, which was conducted ashore.

We met as often as we could, always away from the school. Mind, getting together was an exercise in itself. If Edouard was in the mood, which was often and wanted me to visit him, asking me was easy enough - hell we were together every day, in class, or on the Drill Field.

Getting off Whale Island was easy enough since my evenings were free and no one kept track of us. However, since he lived in a small villa set in a large garden in Southsea, and I didn't have a car, I had to take the bus. I had to travel in civvies, which meant keeping a locker in the railway station and changing in the gents. Then I had to catch the bus, which was usually loaded to the gunwales with dockyard mateys, housewives, and, that most obnoxious of creatures, working class English schoolchildren. When I got to the end of the line I had to walk half way to fucking Shangri-La before I finally got to his house. Mind, what happened after I got there made it all worthwhile. The illusion was sort of ruined though when he got all testy about paying my cab fare back into town.

Edouard had a car, but I was never in it. Every day at secure he would drive ashore in his second hand, battered, and often dirty Austin Mini. He drove this car for two reasons, even though he could afford the finest Rolls available and a driver. First, he could not show up his superiors in any way by flashing his money around (and he had a lot of that). Lieutenants were expected to drive a small, nondescript motorcar, so he did. The second reason was quite simple: Edouard was as tight as a frog's arsehole when it came to parting with a shilling. I suspected that the closest he would ever come to riding in a Rolls would be when the funeral coach from Kenyon's carried him to whatever cemetery he was destined to be buried in.

Edouard's nearness with money drove me mad! He'd shell out for his own pleasure quick enough - he spent more on clothes than I made in a year. Yet let me put the bite on him for ten bob to take a cab back to the Island and he carry on like a whore done out of her trick money. In the three months we carried on together he never laid out a penny more than he had to. He complained that I dressed like a navvy, yet never lashed out for so much as a hanky.

Another bone of contention was my taste in clothing as opposed to his. When we were in his house, and I spent just about every weekend with him, we usually wore nothing but our undershorts. This set him off on a lecture about my "shocking taste in undies." I usually wore issue white boxers. He wore the latest style in pants, quite often French. He blathered on and on so much I promptly went out and bought the loudest pairs I could find - all reds, and greens, yellows. They were terrible, but it shut him up and I resumed wearing my clean, but drab, white boxers.

Edouard was also a prat and a bigoted snob with firm ideas concerning the "lower class", people of colour, Roman Catholics (especially the Irish) and Jews.

At the time he managed to disgust me with his opinions at least once every weekend. I realize now, at this distance of time, that he was merely a product of his class and upbringing. He had been raised into certain beliefs and opinions and would never change. He was a racist, as were many of the English Aristocracy and the well-monied Canadian oligarchy. For him "all things bright and beautiful" meant white, and "all things wise and wonderful" meant Anglo Saxon. Blacks, if he thought of them at all, were relegated to category of "barely human" and of no consideration. Orientals, the Chinese in particular, had little purpose in life, except for the women "to cook and wash the floors" and the teenage boys "to service their white betters when needed". He was an anti-Semite of the first order believed that the Jews were determined to destroy the "white race". It did no good for me to point out, when he was in the middle of one of his Josef Goebbels routines that, as he was circumcised, in certain quarters he might be thought a Jew. He thundered that his ancestors had been "circumcising their male children a hundred years before the first Hebrew foreskin was separated from its rightful owner" and besides, I didn't know what I was talking about.

He also, every so often, took a swipe at me, bemoaning my lack of breeding and "family", reminding me that his ancestors "were building cathedrals" while mine were "prancing about the Black Forest wearing feathers and furs with nothing on their minds but rape". I might be sucking his dick but I was till a peasant and from time to time had to be put in my place. Since he was sucking my dick, and doing a damn good job of it, I put up with his nonsense.

For all his faults, I was fond of him. I didn't love him, but I enjoyed his company and in his own way he taught me quite a bit about living a gay life in a straight world. I knew that I must never talk about gays, not ever, to anyone. To the straight world, gays were outcasts and so long as no one mentioned the subject, they would continue in ignorance, thinking that we did not exist. I knew enough not to make the first move, ever.

Edouard also taught me that there had to be two of me - the man I was at night and the man I had to be in the morning. He was a prime example of this philosophy. At night, when we were together, he was a gay man having sex. In the morning he was a Naval Lieutenant. At night we were lovers. In the morning I was just another student, to be treated like any other student. Our intimacies could not and would not be mentioned outside of his house. I was not to expect, receive, or be given, preferential treatment just because we were lovers. I was never, by thought, word, or deed, to intimate that I was one of "them". Talking queer was acceptable because it was acceptable in a closed male society - in particular the military. Overly familiar gestures were not. It was better to let the straights pat your fanny or slap you with a towel - to them it was just good, clean, fun between guys. The key was to conform in every way to what the straight world thought its men should be. Follow the rules, and you just might survive.

Eventually my course ended and it was time for me to leave. The class picture was taken, all of us buffed and polished, staring manfully into the lens. The class party had been held. My bags were packed and ready. My flight home was booked. The only thing left to do was to say goodbye to Edouard.

I walked 'round to his office. He was sitting at his desk, signing some very official looking papers. He looked up when I knocked and walked in.

"Just come to say goodbye, sir." I said, putting out my hand, "and to say thanks for everything."

Edouard stood up and shook my hand. "Good luck to you, then," he said. He sat down and returned to his papers.

I turned to leave when his voice stopped me. I turned back to look at him. His face was expressionless. "Survive," he said.

And so my first gay affair ended. No names. No pack drill.