Date: Tue, 3 Sep 2019 05:32:25 +0000 (UTC)
From: Peter Brown <badboi666@btinternet.com>
Subject: Last of the Line

Last of the Line by badboi666

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If sex with boys isn't your thing, go away.  If, as is much more likely,
you've come to this site precisely to get your rocks off reading about sex
with 14-year-olds then make yourself comfortable - you're in the right
place.  Don't leave, however, without doing this:

Donate to Nifty - these buggers may do it for love but they still have to
eat.  http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

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Chapter 1

It's been a long day, but until now I've never had an 80th birthday, so
maybe 80th birthdays are always like this.  Maybe they should have 80th
birthdays when you're a bit younger, and better able to enjoy them.  Still,
that would rather miss the point.  I'm rambling - you must forgive an old
man.  I'll start at the beginning.

My name is Bertram d'Abernon Cunliffe, fifth Earl of Inchkeith.  Everyone -
parents, friends, lovers - has called me Dab throughout my life, so Dab I
shall be in this memoir.  I was born on 3 September 2019 - as my father
(the fourth Earl) never tired of reminding me, on the 80th anniversary of
the outbreak of the War.  It seems significant somehow that today I have
lived exactly half of the time since that long-forgotten day.  The First
Earl - my great-great-great-grandfather - was created by Edward VII for
keeping some scandal involving one of his brothers out of the public eye.
Since the scandal was of a sexual kind involving a boy brothel (so family
papers attest) you will understand that little has changed as the earldom
has passed down the generations.  You may wonder how the earldom passed at
all, but you must remember that in those distant times men whom we would
now call 'gay' took wives for breeding purposes, and members of the British
Peerage were no exceptions: indeed perhaps it was more important to keep
the line going as it was for folk less obsessed with Family.  As you will
learn, things have changed since Queen Victoria's time.

None of which is important.  Here I am, 80 and showing every mis-spent year
of it, sitting in my Office writing the story of my life.  I'm not quite
sure why - after all, it's very unlikely that anyone will be around to read
it.

I am named - forget the Dab part - for my great grandfather, who went
throughout his life as Bertie.  He died a few months short of his 100th
birthday exactly a week before I was born.  Quite why my parents chose to
honour his memory by naming me is a mystery I never solved, but - as you
shall learn - it was a most felicitous choice.  Bertie and I (and indeed
Bertie's father James, the second Earl) share a great deal.  I know all
about Bertie because when he knew my mother was pregnant, and that it was
to be a boy, he entrusted my father with a sealed document case - a biggish
briefcase, if you like - with instructions that it was to be given to me
unopened on my 16th birthday.  My father must have been the most incurious
man, and it can't have been difficult for him to have given the thing to
his Steward with instructions to hand it to me on that auspicious day 64
years ago, and then promptly banish the whole thing from his mind.  As my
father died when I was 13, and I inherited the earldom then, he went to his
grave spared the knowledge (which would have been as amusing to him as it
was delightful to me) that his grandfather and great-grandfather had been
as bent as he was and I am, and as keen on under-age boys, what's more.
His father, who died while his own father - Bertie - was still alive and
thus never inherited the title was, ironically, the only male member of the
family who might have been heterosexual (although, as you will learn, there
is room for doubt about this).

There.  That's got you interested, hasn't it?

I'd better go back a bit, I think.  I'd been sent away to prep school at 8
like most boys of my class - they still had boarding schools then - and I
suppose I was lucky in that the master who seduced me was a kind and gentle
man.  As I have learned, not all 8-year-old boys who are seduced emerge
from the experience undamaged, but as I say, I was lucky.  My seducer (Mr
Fawkes, the maths master) went about his business with great patience, and
it was not until the middle of my second term in February 2028 that he
succeeded in getting what he wanted.  And in case you are wondering, it was
what I wanted too.  Not that I was aware in any detailed sense of what I
wanted.  I knew I loved looking at other boys' cocks and I was happy to
wave mine about (not that it was big enough to wave properly - not then
anyway) when the rest of them were having a dormy wave-about (what names we
had!).  Several of the cocks being waved ceased waving quite quickly as
rigidity prevented the earlier flapping about, and when the other boys'
cocks were hard (like mine invariably was) my interest grew as did my cock.
A few of the cocks were joined onto boys who, over the first few weeks of
our first term, showed as much keenness to play with mine as I had for
activity with theirs.  And - joy! - the dormy prefect (one Stubbs), who was
all of 13, possessed not only a cock to marvel at (we were only 8,
remember, and inexperienced in the matter of teenaged cocks) but an
overwhelming desire to show us how it worked and what it could produce.  I
will always remember the Sunday morning (the getting-up bell didn't go
until 8 on a Sunday) when Stubbs, busily and openly masturbating, groaned
"got some" and the rest of us flocked to witness - in my case for the first
time - an erect cock cascading spunk like lava pouring from a volcano.  I
accept that the passing of time may have added both volume and vigour to
what I saw that September morning in 2027, but the magic of suddenly seeing
what had until then been only the smutty imaginings of a bunch of children
has never left me.

Stubbs annoyingly wouldn't let any of us touch it.  Not that morning,
anyway.  Being 13, and therefore several years more wily than the rest of
us, he knew that the curiosity of small boys could be turned into a useful
source of income.  After lights-out the following Saturday he announced to
the rest of us - eleven 8-year-olds all by that stage of our education
experienced, if unproductive, wankers (we had learned the word by then) -
that for the payment of 50p he would allow any boy to examine his
performance the following morning from the front seat, as it were.  "Can we
touch it?" somebody asked.  "For £1 you can lick it" came the reply.
Several cries of 'ugh!' were heard: several, but considerably fewer than
eleven.

The following morning saw all of us gathered round poor Stubbs, whose
ability to perform was understandably somewhat inhibited.  'Come on,
Stubbs' was the general cry.  One brave boy leant forward and licked
Stubbs's cock (foreskin drawn back, allowing us all to see pre-cum for the
first time).  "What's that?  Is it piss?"  Stubbs was scornful.  "Course
not.  It comes out of my cock and makes it all slippery."  The boy
(Timmings) whose tongue had ventured where no-one else had dared explained.
"My brother likes me doing that.  He's 14 and he spunks in my mouth."  With
one bound Timmings's social standing had taken a massive upward leap.
Stubbs shrewdly adjusted his pricing structure.  "You can suck mine for
nothing if I can spunk in your mouth, Timmings." A bargain was sealed.
Timmings settled down in pole position and Stubbs, erect now, given the
added inducement of being sucked off, began the performance.

"Hang on," said one boy, "we've paid 50p to see you spunk, but if you do it
in Timmings's mouth we won't see a thing.  It's not fair."  Timmings
offered to show the assembled company a mouthful of spunk before he
swallowed it, but that didn't meet with universal approval.  "Oh fuck it,"
panted Stubbs, "keep your money then; I'm getting there soon."

Two minutes later it was over.  Stubbs had come into Timmings's mouth;
Timmings had licked up as much as he could and opened his mouth to show an
alarming quantity of greyish goo before swallowing and theatrically patting
his stomach.  No money had changed hands, but a queue had begun to form of
those willing to subject themselves on the following Sunday to what
Timmings had so willingly undergone.

"I can do it more often than once a week, you know," said Stubbs.

That was the start of my sexual life as a promiscuous homosexual, and
perhaps it explains why boys of Stubbs's age (or a year or two older) have
remained my favourite sex partners in the 72 years since.  The Tuesday of
that week was the first time I consciously used any of my family's wealth
to buy me a privilege.  I offered Stubbs £2 to let him do what I wanted
with him.  Stubbs, always short of a few pennies, accepted blindly without
discovering what was in my mind.  I told him I'd let him know at bedtime on
Tuesday: meanwhile I planned to discuss my options with the experienced
Timmings.

Alas, Timmings and his brother hadn't ventured beyond what Timmings had
already told us, but still, being in Stubbs's bed after lights-out and
sucking (Timmings had said that you didn't just lick) his cock before
feeling him explode was pretty exciting for an 8-year-old neophyte.
Stubbs's wealth gradually increased that term as my intake of Stubbs's
spunk continued.

You mustn't think that Stubbs was my only sexual contact, although all the
others were still years away from producing spunk.  One boy in particular
(Barnes) was a major step on the road to knowledge.  Barnes was 9 and, like
Timmings, the recipient of attention from an older brother - or in his case
no fewer than three older brothers.  Barnes's parents had spaced their
family with mathematical precision: four boys, born in 2012, 2014, 2016 and
Barnes himself (I don't recall ever using - or even knowing - his Christian
name) in 2018.  One quiet Sunday afternoon he and I had found a corner of
the woods to ourselves where we had planned a detailed exploration of each
other's cocks before 'I'll do you if you'll do me' - a common pastime.  On
the way Barnes told me that each brother had, on his 8th birthday, been
inducted into certain secret matters by the other brothers.  "When it was
just John and Gordon all John did was wank Gordon.  I was luckier though.
John was 14 when I was 8 and the three of them gave me a show.  Douglas
showed my how to wank, and after he did he said I could watch the other two
if I kept my mouth shut.  I had no idea what he meant, but I agreed - how
could I not?  What I saw was John fucking Gordon, although I had no idea
that's what he was doing.  They both seemed to be enjoying it, and John
whipped his cock out and stuff poured out onto Gordon.  Spunk, obviously,
but I didn't know that then."  "What happened?" I asked.  "I asked John if
he did that to Douglas.  It turned out that he'd only done it to Douglas
once, and he'd hated it.  So to be one up on my nearest brother I had to
let John fuck me, I decided."  "And?"  "I loved it.  Well, no, it hurt like
hell the first time, but by the third or fourth time I was really looking
forward to it.  He does me a lot now, more than he does Gordon, I think."
"What's it feel like?"  Barnes looked sideways at me.  "Hard to describe
... why don't I show you?"  "You mean you'll fuck me?"  Barnes nodded.

Well, he did, and it wasn't a great success.  When that first attempt was
over both of us were feeling embarrassed, but I got down on my knees and
sucked his cock, which made him (and me) feel better.  "Why don't you ask
John to teach you in the holidays, then you can fuck me next term?"

And so it was.  By next term instruction had been sought and given; lube
had been obtained and its use mastered; the simple matter of fingers had
been suggested ... and when Barnes and I found a quiet corner he got his
cock (all 3 inches of it) safely into my arse and made fucking movements.
Thus I can date the loss of my cherry to January 2028, and I take pride in
the knowledge that my first outdoor fuck occurred in mid-winter.  As has
been observed, outdoor sex in such conditions makes one proud to be
British.

Mr Fawkes (the maths master) was therefore onto a good thing the following
month, or at least he was onto a boy whose arse had had 3 inches up it.  Mr
Fawkes was blessed with rather more than 3 inches of course, and I was to
be blessed with them too.  I liked maths and I liked Mr Fawkes, and I guess
- looking back on it - that the chemistry between us must have been obvious
to him from the start.  His seduction technique was straightforward.
"Cunliffe," he said one day, "see me after class."  He'd chosen a maths
lesson immediately before Break, so the rest of them hopped it, leaving me
at his desk.  "Yes, sir?"  "You will do very well in maths, Cunliffe, and
you're way out in front of the rest.  Would you be interested in extra
stuff?  You might take the Maths exam a couple of years early?"  What
8-year-old could resist?  Not this one, and at that stage all that was
turning me on was the thought of more stimulation in the area of geometry.
It was agreed that I would present myself at Mr Fawkes's door after tea the
following day.

I can't go on calling him Mr Fawkes - we called him Guy (thinking it
terribly original, in the way of 8-year-olds) - but he liked being called
`Sir', even when it was just the two of us.  He and three other unmarried
masters lived in a house in the school grounds - goodness knows how secret
the activities were from the masters not immediately involved: for all I
knew all four of them were ravishing their charges.  When I knocked on
Guy's door the next day I was excited, but I honestly don't think it was
sex which was exciting me.  Just Euclid.  Anyway, he invited me in and sat
me down.  Cocoa was offered, and chocolate biscuits.  Geometry was
discussed and I said I was keen to learn more.  After half an hour Guy said
that that was enough for a first lesson.  He was sitting right next to me,
looking over the text book with me, and I felt his leg pressing against
mine.  My cock was hard, and Guy must have noticed.  He stroked my leg and
I must have sighed.  "Like that?" he whispered.  I nodded.  I closed my
eyes, and he rightly interpreted that as a sign that were he to proceed I
should not object.  He proceeded, and I felt his hand press on my cock
through my short trousers.  I sighed again and wriggled.  "Mmm," I
murmured, "that's nice, Sir."  I felt him take hold of my hand and place it
on his cock.  Even through his trousers I could feel it was as hard as
steel.  I was enjoying what he was doing, but at the same time I was a bit
worried about the size of his cock.  It was one thing having Barnes's 3
inches, but Guy's felt more like a foot, and that scared me.  Still, what
was happening wasn't scary yet.

Guy stood up and whispered, "look at me.  Do you like what I'm doing?"  I
nodded.  "More?"  I nodded, "yes please, Sir."  He took my hand and led me
into his bedroom.  Over the next few years I would enjoy hours of ecstatic
sex in that room, but on the first occasion it was all new and a mixture of
thrilling and dangerous - just the right combination for a boy of 8.  He
took off my clothes and stood admiring what he saw.  As far as I was
concerned I was an ordinarily skinny boy.  I had the bright red hair all
the Cunliffes had (maybe that's what turned Guy on in the first place) and
an ordinary uncut cock.  Barnes and I had measured a few days before and I
got mine up to 3 1/4 inches.  Grape-sized balls still.  I'd never seen my
arse of course, but when Guy turned me round and made me touch my toes he
told me it was the nicest arse he'd seen for ages.

"Do you want to fuck me, Sir?" I said, inferring that the sort of praise he
had heaped upon my arse might indicate a wish to become more intimately
involved with it.  "Not right away, no," he said, "but if I wanted to later
on would you like that?"  I said I'd been fucked before, but only by
another boy.  "Your cock's bound to be bigger."  (I paused.) "Can I see
it?"  Guy was out of his clothes in no time and I saw a naked man for the
first time.  Stubbs had a few wispy pubes, and we had an awareness that men
were hairy, but nothing had prepared me for my Ruskin moment.  Happily it
wasn't traumatic - merely startling.  Guy's cock, already erect as I've
said, was about 7 inches uncut.  His balls seemed enormous and his whole
body from the neck down was covered in hair.  Like a fucking wolf, I
thought to myself.  I don't know what made me think that it was up to me to
take the first step, but I found myself kneeling in front of him doing to
his cock what I had learned so skilfully to do to Stubbs's.  Guy's hands
stroked my hair.  "God yes, that's good, Cunliffe."

I don't know whether it was my innate skill as a cocksucker, or the fact
that it was an 8-year-old who was servicing him, but whatever it was
brought Guy to orgasm far more quickly that he (or I) wished.  "It's
... I'm ... aaah!" and a greater quantity than Stubbs ever managed erupted
into my mouth.  Five hard jets were more than I could accommodate, and most
of it ran down my chin.  Still, I swallowed what I could.  It was much more
bitter than Stubbs's, but still thrilling to taste.  I stood up and to my
amazement Guy kissed me.  No-one had done that before, and I didn't know
how to react.  I must have pulled away, because Guy was apologetic.  It
took me three or four seconds to twig that if I kissed him back it would be
all right again.  After all, if I wanted to be fucked it wasn't a big price
to pay having him kiss me.  (Naturally when his tongue got going and I
opened my mouth I soon found that kissing was a lot more fun.)

He didn't fuck me that day.  He made me lie on the bed beside him and he
told me to close my eyes and relax.  "I want you to enjoy the next half
hour," he said.  Well, I certainly did.  He stroked me with his finger tips
and did all kinds of sexy things I'd never guessed about.  With Barnes and
the others all we did was get down to the serious business of wanking or
whatever. With Guy I experienced the erotic sensations of fingers on skin,
and later of tongue on skin.  He licked my arse!  (The exclamation mark is
there merely to remind you that, at the age of 8, your arse wasn't
something you remotely imagined anyone would want to lick.  Fuck, yes, but
lick, no.)  The Propositions of Euclid were not the only things to which my
eyes (and other parts) were being opened.  I said that he didn't fuck me
that day.  That is true only in the sense that his cock didn't get in my
arse.  Fingers did though, and much pleasure was obtained by both of us.  I
was getting very wriggly when his fingers hit something, and he grinned.
"I think you liked that."  "Mmm.  Do it again."  And he did, and while he
kept on doing it he told me what it was.  "Do you want to come now?"  "Mmm.
Will you do me?"  He did.  It was wonderful.  No-one had sucked me to
orgasm before.

Two days later he fucked me.  It was wonderful too.

Guy and I got together once a week throughout the rest of my time at prep
school.  Two days after my 12th birthday I shot spunk for the first time
and when the next term started a week or so later our sessions were messier
in consequence.  Guy had an insatiable desire for spunk, so our sessions
thereafter were largely me coming in his mouth and him fucking me.  Put
like that it sounds dull, but to a boy of 12 dull would have been the last
adjective to come to mind.

By that final year I was dormy prefect and I confess I took pleasure in
behaving in much the same way that Stubbs had done four years earlier.  I
can't remember all the innocent 8-year-olds whom I thrilled with fountains
of spunk flying out of my cock and pouring down the sides, but I'm sure
they were as turned on by it as I had been.  Like Stubbs I found a few of
them particularly tasty and some of them spent a happy quarter of an hour
in bed on a Sunday morning with me - names all lost to history sadly.

By the time I left prep school and went on to public school in 2032 I
reckon I had had some form of sexual contact (wanking, sucking or fucking)
with around 70 boys (and one man).  I made a resolution that when I got to
my new school I would turn over a leaf and seek to rid myself of the
reputation of being a filthy little queer.  Not that I minded, you
understand, as it described me accurately and I felt no shame.  No, it was
more that a degree of camouflage might not be foolish.

It was, of course, doomed to failure.

The public school to which my father sent me in 2032, like all such
establishments, no longer exists of course.  However, it lasted long enough
for me to complete my five years and to gain entry - although not a
Scholarship (to the Headmaster's dismay) - to Cambridge.  Of that, more
anon.  We have five years of adolescence to get through first (and, if
truth were told, five years of adolescents as well).


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The fun continues in Chapter 2 as we learn about my time at public school.
The story is, of course, fiction.

Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped
nifty a few quid.
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