Date: Sat, 19 Oct 2019 11:15:38 +0000 (UTC) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line Last of the Line by badboi666 =============================================================================== 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 =============================================================================== Chapter 9 I know I said that two episodes would suffice, and I can't let things pass without a description of the midsummer daisy chain - although the term was unknown to the innocent 14-year-olds at the time. One of Rivers's magazines had contained a rather indistinct picture of a line of boys and men each engaged in buggering the one in front of him. While we generally liked to see close-ups of penetration (and even more to see signs of recent ejaculation on innocent flesh) the idea of multiple coupling stirred the inevitable curiosity of teenagers. Nigger pounced on the idea. "Let's try that!" There was immediate agreement, tempered after a minute or two by Sid, who pointed out that four of us would be both fucked and fucking, while the ones at the front and the back would be denied one of these pleasures. It was Nick who made the obvious suggestion that a circle be attempted, allowing each of us to feel the same sensations. Much desultory discussion ensued, but after ten minutes I said that we should either get on with it or shut up. It was agreed that making the circle needed thoughtful preparation, and that looking forward to it for a few days could only heighten the experience when it was finally time to attempt conjunction. "In here at 2.30 in two days' time," I said, "cock straps on after breakfast." Six of us beamed lustfully, six cocks already gearing themselves up for whatever might happen. Rivers had sent me some stimulating literature describing 'peg boys', of whom we knew nothing. "Apparently long ago in boy brothels they made the boys squat on fucking great pegs - a bit like the butt plugs, Dugald, I imagine - so that their arses were nice and loose for the customers," I said. It seemed an odd idea to me: surely the customers would prefer to fuck tight little arses? If the boys were uncomfortable why would the clients object? We, on the other hand, were willing participants and there was no client forking out money to inflict an unwelcome cock up us: our arses had welcome mats, as it were. Still, the idea of peg boys was an interesting one. I wondered, as did Dugald, what would be the effect of keeping a butt plug in for an extended period. "Only one way to find out, Dab. Let's put one in now and keep it in tonight." It was then late afternoon, so we were looking at 18 hours or so of black rubbery penetration. We each chose our favourite - the 9-incher was still untried, although most of us had eyed it thoughtfully from time to time - and, in the interests of science, carefully inserted it in the other. Ten minutes later the first problem had become only too obvious. "The bloody thing wants to be pushed out all the time," grumbled Dugald. I agreed. Even though there was a nice hollow bit behind the fattest bit it was all too easy for the muscles up young arses to think that what was up there was shit needing to be expelled. "Do you need a shit?" I said. He shook his head. "Well, let's put on several more layers." This seemed to do the trick, although walking with six pairs of pants wasn't altogether straightforward. "You're waddling like a zombie," said Dugald. Still, the plugs stayed in. We agreed that we would remove them in the confined and private space of the bogs. Just as well, we discovered, so we'd have to watch that in future if prolonged wearing was planned. After a good shit two mornings later - the other four had been advised of this necessary piece of foreplay - the plugs were inserted. Six 14-year-olds with black rubber up their arses. Six 14-year-olds busily trying to ingest facts about Cicero, Metternich, the Michelson-Morley experiment and a host of other things, each conscious of the black rubber thing up his arse distracting him from the gaining of knowledge. I wasn't alone in thinking that 2.30 would never come. It didn't take long for us to work out that six of us weren't going to be able to link up if we were all standing. "Why don't we lie down?" said Sid, "I can fuck Nick that way and if we bend round a bit he can fuck someone else. Maybe we can close the circle like that." As before when we experimented with cock straps the farting around trying to get things right occupied the ground between prolonged giggling (with useless flaccid cocks) and considerable frustration as the flaccid cocks wouldn't firm up to be inserted, even into arses gaping from the butt plugs which had been up them all day. "This is silly," I said, "we'll have to get hard before we're going to get anywhere." I accompanied my advice by direct action, taking Nigger's cock which, even flaccid, was a good mouthful, and by my years of skill getting it to a fine pitch of readiness. It was with regret - it was a really nice cock to suck, and Nigger's cum was worth any effort made in producing it - that I removed myself and suggested he stuck it in Tom's arse. Tom's cock was my next port of call, and happily it responded quickly. Whether this was my skilled tongue or Nigger's cock was of no importance. Tom's cock found itself in Sid, and the process repeated itself. Luckily the very restricted amount of room on the cushioned floor of a Second's Den had obliged each succeeding person being penetrated to adjust the angle of his body. So it was that by the time I - hard as hell by then - was the only one left I had no difficulty in squeezing between Dugald, who pushed his cock into me (at last! I thought) while I fucked Nigger. "Can we start now?" breathed Nigger, "I've ben waiting for ages." If you've ever tried this you won't be surprised to learn that it wasn't a complete success. Energetic fucking by boy A, say, makes it more likely that boy F, who has his cock up boy A's arse, will become dislodged. Luckily an orgy of 14-year-olds which quickly collapses is the occasion for gales of laughter: we were too young (and had the opportunity for so much boy-on-boy sex) that a grand failure such as happened that day didn't scar us for ever. What happened when the ring became disconnected was that those who still had an arse up which their cock was still plunged just plunged on until the inevitable happened. Once the fucking had finished those cocks still in the open air - three of them - mine, Tom's and Nick's - were swiftly found a good home back up the arses from which over-energetic action had recently dislodged them. I grabbed Nigger once I'd got my cock back in and went for it. As he sensed I was hear he groaned, "whip it out and cum on my back while I wank." This was an instruction with which I was happy to comply, and Sid muttered that Tom should do the same. The mess was spectacular, and cleaning it up (at least on Nigger and Sid) was fun. The spunk on the cushions merely added to deposits made long before. Four arses, however, still had treasure within. The owners of the arses had, as good experienced lads, done everything possible to keep what they had where it was. Three (Tom, Nick and I) had re-inserted butt plugs while Dugald had turned onto his back and raised his arse. "Come and get it," he said invitingly. I was the quickest. Of all the arses there Dugald's was one of the nicest to graze on, and to find the added pleasure of Nick's spunk made my afternoon even more memorable. ***** By now you have the picture of my first few years at my public school. I don't think we need to detain ourselves any more. What was happening in the outside world continued to be of little interest to me, or indeed to any of my Masters. This must seem strange to a reader - should there be one - in the last few weeks of this disastrous century, but by now, of course, the results of the changes (which at the time were so gradual that no-one paid attention) are everywhere. That's a gross over-simplification, I know, for scientists had banged the drum for 20 or more years before people began to demonstrate - that's when they were still allowed to. I am ashamed, as an old man, that my adolescence, gloriously mis-spent as you have learned, had no moments of the protest that others, less sheltered from reality, carried out. A fat lot of good it did - no, that's unworthy. They did their best, but they were already too late, and the vested interests too deeply engrained. The next landmark in my story was my 16th birthday. ***** It was fortuitous that the instruction my father had given to Dunstable, his Steward, was for him to give me the briefcase "when he becomes of age". Earlier the age of legal majority had been 18 (and astonishingly it had been 21 as recently as the middle of the last Century), but it wasn't until the Bradley government that it was lowered to 16 in 2030, when I was still only 10. At that age I was only dimly aware of governments and what they got up to, and it wasn't until much later the I understood what Bradley was up against. It's all ancient history now of course, but at the time it was pretty revolutionary. Bradley, for all his faults, was faced with over 8 million unemployed and a decade of shortages, including pockets of real starvation, and the quid pro quo for re-introducing compulsory national service was giving the poor sods who would be called up the right to vote. As we know now, it worked, but it took until the 2040s before things began to improve. However this is not meant to be a history lesson, and the turmoil of the 20s and 30s seem small beer now. It was therefore a momentous day when I turned 16. Dunstable and the lawyer, a man called Taverner, came at 9 o'clock and explained everything to me. I had no idea we were so wealthy - you take it for granted that there will be food on the table (not something the 8 million families could do, but at 16 I wasn't really aware of them and their problems). The First Earl had been worth a pretty penny long before he'd done royalty the big favour, as his grandfather (plain Joel Cunliffe) had made a fortune in the California Gold Rush. Joel had bought a lot of land when he returned to England, mainly in Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire, which he believed would bring in a good income from farming. He also bought land in Staffordshire where he built the house in which I was born and where I have spent most of my life. By the time lunch loomed over the horizon I had learned that I was worth around £17 million, with an annual income of just over £1,500,000. That was in 2035 money, of course. The three of us agreed that Dunstable and Taverner should leave everything exactly as it was for at least the next 3 years; after all, they had run the Estate efficiently enough since my father began pursuing his Arab affairs all of 12 years earlier. I discovered that the Estate also owned some land in Scotland - remote and, according to Taverner, wild and useless. There was a house, apparently, but no-one had lived in it since my great-grandmother brought it into the Estate on her marriage. Great-grandmother had apparently been a d'Abernon, so that explained that little mystery. She had married the Third Earl in 1955, but her importance hadn't yet become apparent. It soon would. Taverner stayed to lunch, and as soon as he'd gone Dunstable and I went back to the Office. That was when he produced the document case. "Your great-grandfather left instructions that this should be put in your hands unopened today. As you know, he died a few weeks before you were born, but he knew you would be a boy, and likely to be the Fifth Earl. I think you should read it on your own, at least until you feel you need to discuss any contents with me, or indeed with Mr Taverner. None of us has any idea what it might contain." And away he went to do whatever Stewards did. Naturally that was something I'd have to find out about. In the meantime here was a mystery. The case contained two thick sets of papers - maybe 100 or so pages in all - and two envelopes on the top addressed to "The Fifth Earl of Inchkeith". One envelope bore the instruction "READ THIS FIRST". In it was a letter. "Dear Bertram, "I hope that's your name - it's what your father agreed to call you before you were born. All four holders of the title - I was the Third, as you know - have been what I suppose I should call homosexual. I don't know what the correct term will be by the time you are 16, but when I was your age it was `queer'. `Gay' became the preferred term by the time my son, your grandfather, was your age. Call it what you like, the strain seems to run in the family. I'm therefore guessing that you are also of that persuasion. If you are not, please forgive a long-dead old man and burn this letter and the rest of the contents of this case NOW ... "Happy birthday, by the way. 16 is a wonderful age. "You have read on, so I welcome you to the secrets of the family that only you know. My father and I had a most unnatural relationship in that he was obsessed with young boys. To avoid beating about the bush, let me just say that he began to fuck me when I was 9 and continued to do so until he died when I was 26. If you are of a similar habit you will smile when I tell you that I loved what we did together, and followed the same path with my son, your grandfather. We could only get away with such scandalous behaviour, of course, because of who we were. You probably won't know that sex of any kind between two men, never mind with boys, was illegal until the 1960s, and being queer - always the term I've preferred - was only acceptable to the general public from about the turn of this Century. It must seem very strange to you that we had to be so careful. "The papers are the story of my life and that of one of my - our - ancestors. The latter came into my possession, much as it now comes into yours, when my father died in 1949. I can only assume that he received it when the First Earl's papers were collected after his death in 1930 when I was 7. My father must have read it and been fascinated by its contents, while at the same time horrified lest they become known. You will understand why when you set time aside to enjoy them - as enjoy them I'm sure you will! I wrote my little bit of history when I was about 80, I suppose. There wasn't much to write about by then, but the earlier years might prove interesting to you. Do with them what you think best. "The other envelope contains some details of a search I made many years ago to find someone who had been very important to me when I was a boy. My search was fruitless, but you - much nearer the relevant age than I was when I made the search - may find it an interesting challenge. If you are successful I hope it brings you as much pleasure as I had at the age of 13. I bet that's whetted your appetite, Bertram! "You may think it odd that a family of queers manages to father a succession of sons. You'll find out for yourself how the First Earl's father managed this. Since then successive Earls have always managed one night of duty with their Countess, and since we seem blessed with vigorous semen, one night has so far always been enough. Most of the Countesses have found companionship elsewhere, to the satisfaction of all parties - after all, the Inchkeiths are wealthy enough to ease any perceived difficulties in coming to terms with our unusual requirements. "My Countess, your great-grandmother, brought Inverthrum into the Estate as her dowry. It needed a great deal of attention as it had been left in a sad state by her forbears. If you visit it I'm sure you will find the extensive work I had done in 1972 to be of interest. That was after her death, of course. I have visited periodically and when I was last there in 2010 it was in good repair. A man looks in from time to time to see that nothing is wrong. Your Steward will have the details. You should read the older file first, then the larger, less tattered one, and only after you've read that should you open the other envelope. I'm sorry to sound so mysterious, but you must humour an old man! "With love to you, Bertram, and a sense of mischief ... "Your great-grandfather Bertie; 1 June 2019" I decided not to start on the files or the second envelope there and then. I knew that if they were as racy as seemed likely that I would be unable to put them down. No, Great-grandfather Bertie's papers had lain unread for 16 years and leaving them a bit longer would not be amiss. I had enough on my plate for one day. I shut the case and locked it. Dunstable had given me the keys to the safe, and that was where it would stay until I could give it proper attention. Inverthrum sounded interesting though, although when I found out where it was it did seem an awfully long way away up in Sutherland, half way to the North Pole. You may ask where my mother was in all this. Sadly she was in the usual place she had occupied for many years - an alcoholic haze. It was fairly obvious to me by about the age of 10 that Mummy wasn't always in command of things by the late afternoon. By the time I was 16 she reached her preferred state by lunchtime. It may seem unduly callous, but this is an honest memoir after all, and my mother doesn't figure greatly in my life at all after I went to my public school. For the sake of completeness I should tell you that she died when I was 23, having spent the last three years of her life in a private hospital. In a way she was lucky that such an establishment existed in which she could be looked after - there certainly aren't any now. I was due to return to school a few days later, and it had been a difficult day. I decided to see Rivers for a quiet (or perhaps boisterous) hour or two. I also needed to regularise our relationship. After all, I was now legally a Man, and I had to find out whether his preference for boys might be extended a little. Before I left the Office however, on my journey of gratification, Dunstable knocked and put his head round. "May I have a word, Sir?" I beckoned him in. I would have to get used to 'Sir' and 'Your Lordship' and 'Dab' coming at different times from - often - the same lips. "I've had a quick look in the case, Dunstable, and decided to study the contents later. What can I do for you?" I bade him sit down - it was catching, this being-of-age stuff, I found. Dunstable was clearly ill at ease, but there wasn't anything I could do to help: I was 16 and he in his late 50s. "I joined your great-grandfather's service in 1999 on leaving Cambridge. I was 22 and the opportunity to be part of the estate management of a valuable landed estate was my dream. In those days there were four of us charged with the duties that two now manage, thanks to the computer and all it can do. I told you earlier that your father simplified the Estate greatly, selling the shops and offices and keeping only the farms and buying other land. Since he left in 2023 nothing has changed." I knew all this, and wondered where Dunstable was going. It soon became clear. "I have lived in this house since I was 22, and there is nothing - nothing - which has escaped me." He put up his hand to stop any interruption I might have made, but I was keen to hear the next bit, the contents of which I was starting to guess. "I know that your great-grandfather and your father were, like me, homosexual. I was never involved with them of course - that would have been unthinkable. The family did not mix socially or sexually with the staff, however senior the staff might be." Or junior? I wondered to myself. Dunstable had more to say. "I find my pleasures well away from the house, your Lordship, so you may relax that there is no breath of scandal." He paused, and I knew the next move had to be mine if we were to reach anywhere useful. "Dunstable, I'm the same as my ancestors, so you can relax. If I'm queer and you know I'm queer I don't see a problem. I can be discreet, you know." "And Rivers, is he discreet?" Ah! I thought, here we are. "Let's put our cards on the table," I said, all grown-up now. "Rivers has been fucking me for years, to his satisfaction and mine. If his tastes are for boys rather than men then that liaison will fizzle out. But he will remain my chauffeur. There is no need for me to list any other members of staff with whom I spend illicit hours, is there?" Dunstable blushed. "Of course not. I merely wanted you to be aware that what you and ... others get up to is not as secret as you might wish." I was taken aback, not at the suggestion that my little affaires were not wholly secret, but that - in 2035 - anyone could care less. "Why should any of it be of interest?" I said. Dunstable blushed an even brighter shade, vying with my hair for redness. "Dab, when you were a boy and you were having sex with Rivers he was breaking the law. We all made sure that no-one knew who was not ... of a similar disposition. Now you are 16 there is nothing illegal about what you do with him. Or with Billy," he added quietly. It was my turn to blush. He went on, "but if boys under 16 are what you fancy, then you are the vulnerable one. You do see that, don't you?" I was shocked. It hadn't crossed my mind that were I to bed some luscious 14-year-old I'd be open to blackmail or worse. "Thank you, I hadn't thought of that," I said, rather pompously I fear. My sexual habits at school had indeed veered - no, dammit, had driven headlong towards - the lovelier of the younger intake, and 14 was becoming established as my preferred age of fuck partners. Mind you, at school it was OK, but here, even in an isolated estate, it might be different. Bugger! Still, there was no 14-year-old in my sights on the Estate then. Dunstable got up. I shook his hand. "Thank you for being so straightforward. We seem to speak the same language. And in this room, in private, I'm still Dab." "Very good ... Dab. But I'd prefer to remain Dunstable." I smiled, "as you please," and off he went. My policy of discovering how Rivers would deal with the man who would shortly stand before him - naked if all went to plan - now had to be put in train. =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 10 as Rivers entertains me. The story is, of course, fiction. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================