Date: Sun, 27 Oct 2019 08:00:56 +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

===============================================================================

Chapter 11

Immediately after breakfast the next day - a breakfast not preceded by any
early-morning sexual shenanigans for once - I went to see Jorrocks.  He
looked ill at ease.  "Don't worry," I said, "it isn't bad news.  Billy is
going to move to the indoor staff.  He's to help Byrd, who's incapable of
using ladders nowadays.  He'll be trained to work alongside Dowland in
whatever duties he has - I'm not too sure what they are, but I'm new to
this."  Jorrocks smiled, "it's a big change for you to go from being Master
Dab to running the Estate, and I'm sure you'll make a success of it, Sir."
He paused, unsure whether to ask about Billy's replacement.  "I'm getting
too old to keep things on my own -" I interrupted him.  "There's no
question of that, Jorrocks.  Mr Dunstable and I have agreed that Billy
should be replaced by a gardener who is fully experienced in the duties
he'll have ... under you, of course, while you wish to remain active."  He
chuckled.  "Gardeners don't retire, they just do jobs that require less
bending.  If the new man is young he can do all the other ones."  I said I
hoped that we'd have someone within a few weeks, and we went on to talk
about whether changes were needed.  With better weather in 2033 - less rain
and a long hot summer - the fruit crop had been the best for years.  In
those days I knew very little about fruit and vegetable yields, and I
accepted Jorrocks's view that a decision about what the longer-term plan
should be should await the arrival of the new gardener.  We agree to have a
proper discussion in the Christmas holidays.

While all this was going on I could see Billy in the background, far enough
away not to hear but still close enough for me to have to remind myself to
concentrate.

I went back into the Office.  I was due to return to school by 6 o'clock
the following afternoon, and I wanted to have a quick look at Bertie's
documents, I couldn't take them with me - anyone might have seen them - and
Bertie had made it fairly clear that the contents would best be kept
private.  I was told to read the older file first.  I opened it carefully.
It was a curious story, written in faded ink.

*****

This is the story of my life.  My name is Joel Amos Cunliffe.  I was born
in the town of Uttoxeter in Staffordshire in England, in 1808.  My Father
was a blacksmith, like his Father before him, and I started to work in the
smithy when I was 12.  I had no brother, but four sisters, two older and
two younger than I.

Life in the smithy was hard, and by the time I was 20 I was an equal of my
Father in strength and skill.  My Grandfather had died not long since, and
on my 21st birthday there was a great celebration.  My Father took me into
the business as an equal partner - a move I now see as being exceptionally
generous for the time.  It was 1829 and we had more work that we could
handle.  While this meant we both worked all the hours God sent it also
meant that there was plenty of meat on the table, and we all went in want
of nothing.

In 1833 I had been courting a lass for over four years, and she consented
to marry me.  We were so proud when she told me we were to have a child,
but God punished our pride most severely. A baby boy was born at Eastertide
1835, but my poor Martha died giving him the gift of life.  I was at my
wits' end, but my Mother - God bless her - sought a wet nurse for Amos and
he thrived.

I stayed with the smithy throughout Amos's childhood: I was with my kin,
and they had succoured me and the babe - how could I leave them?  Amos was
a strong mischievous boy - into this and that, darting in and out of all
kinds of scrapes - and I loved him with all my love and Martha's as well.

In the spring of 1848 I spied a bill in a shop window in Stafford where I
had gone to argue about the quality of iron the supplier had sent us.  The
bill was for a ship sailing to America, and it talked of fortunes to be
made in that distant land.  'Men and boys especially sought', it said,
describing the opportunities for anyone willing to undertake hard work.
All the way back to Uttoxeter the idea of a new life for Amos - now nearly
13 - and me grew and grew.  I vowed to speak with nobody until I had spoken
to my boy.  I promised myself that if he was afraid to take such a step
into the unknown I would say nothing to anyone.  I would have to be swift,
however, for the ship was to sail from Liverpool in less than four weeks.

To my joy Amos was as excited by the prospect of a new life in America as
I, and when I told my Father - I was afraid of his reaction - he was most
unhappy.  Luckily little Amos went to stand beside him, and charmed him, as
he had been wont to do throughout his boyhood.  'It will be such an
adventure, Grandpapa, there will be horses to shoe and iron to be wrought.'
Amos had started in the smithy the year before, and was quick to learn the
skills.  His strength would improve as he ate good red meat and his body
filled out - he was still at nearly 13 in a wiry boy's body.  My Father
eventually consented; my Mother wept; my Sisters wept a little too (as, I
am not ashamed to admit, did I).  I know not whether Amos wept, but I think
it likely.

Two weeks later Amos and I set off for distant Liverpool, the fare for our
journey safely stowed with our little luggage.  Before I set off my Father
gave me a heavy bundle.  'Take these, my dear Son,' he said, 'they are the
tools of our trade and they will mean you and the boy never starve.  Send
word to us.  God go with you,' and he kissed us both.  It would be over
five years before we met again - five long years which I shall now
describe.

*****

I was fascinated to find out about my forbears.  I got a pencil and worked
out that Joel must have been my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather -
seven generations before me.  Dunstable had told me that the First Earl had
been Joel's grandson, and that Joel had made a fortune in the California
Gold Rush.  I looked up when that was - 1849! - so Joel and Amos must have
arrived safely and then crossed a wild continent.  The pair of them must
have had some adventures, and no doubt Joel's story would relate them.  So
far there had been nothing particularly needing to be kept from prying
public eyes - perhaps once Joel was away from his parents and his sisters
he might get up to no good.  With a 13-year-old it seemed unlikely
... unless ... surely not?  On the other hand Bertie was queer and said he
came from a line of queers.  Was Joel's life about to take a turn in
another direction?  I stretched.  It was midday.  I decided to leave Joel
and Amos in mid-Atlantic (or perhaps still in Liverpool) while I had lunch,
and resume their story in the afternoon.

*****

We sailed from Liverpool on the 'Europa', a new ship.  It was a mercy the
weather was kind, and Amos and I spoke together about what the ocean must
have been like in an old ship in the depths of winter!  We came to New York
in under three weeks, and not a day too soon.  The bill had spoken of a
place called California, as far beyond New York as we had already come.  I
spoke to the Agent after we had joined a crowd of people on Ellis Island,
where the Americans examined all those from the ship - and, I saw, many
other ships.  Very many of these people seemed destitute, often in ragged
clothing with little or no baggage.  I spoke to some and found they were
from Ireland where a Great Famine had raged for many years.  How strange, I
thought, that there should be a Famine in part of Queen Victoria's realm,
and that none in Uttoxeter knew of it.  Amos wept when he saw the children
seemingly starving.

Others to whom I spoke knew not what I said, for they had come from foreign
lands, further than we had come.  They were bewildered by all they saw,
poor wretches, for without language how could they know what to do?
Happily there were priests - come specially to New York, I discovered - to
speak to them in their own tongues.  But there were few priests and many
lost souls, alas.  Amos kept close.  'I'm glad you are here, Papa, and I
feel safe.'  I pressed him to me.  The Agent had told me that we should go
by another ship which would take us to the other side of the vast
continent.  He seemed unsure about the route it would take, but his
optimistic tone reassured me.  'God will provide,' he said.  'Amen to
that,' said I.  Little did I know what travails lay in our path.

*****

This was looking grim, I thought.  I knew a little about the privations and
dangers the pioneers faced while opening up the American continent, and
although Joel and Amos evidently survived (for how else could I read about
them?) the trip wasn't likely to make easy reading.  I resolved to lock
them away until the holidays.  At least they would be all right in New York
for a while.  On the other hand I would not be seeing Billy for thirteen
weeks.  It hadn't been our habit to meet every day, but this was my last
night in Staffordshire and even though we had exhausted each other less
than 18 hours ago.

I went to find Rivers, ostensibly to discuss the arrangements for driving
me back to school the following day.  "Tell you what," I said, "to thank
you for letting us have your bed last night you can fuck me in the Rolls in
the lay-by again tomorrow."  A grin spread across his face.  "Are you
serious, Dab?  You know how big a kick I got from that the first time.
Besides, I don't need to be thanked.  Having you and Billy beside me all
hot and sexy was reward enough."  I nodded: he had made his delight at the
A429 adventure only too clear, and we had celebrated the occasion on each
end-of-term occasion he had driven past.  This would be the first
end-of-holiday celebration, and Rivers's heart rose at the thought of it.
A brief investigation satisfied me that his heart wasn't the only thing
(and mine was too, but that was probably more to do with that night's fun,
rather than the morrow's).  We agree that we would leave immediately after
lunch.  That would give us plenty of time in the lay-by.

Billy was out at the far end of the big lawn doing something in the border.
My Mother insisted on fresh flowers each day, so I suppose it was something
to do with that.  I knew that about 80% of the Estate land surrounding the
house was given over to fruit and vegetables by then, and the flower beds
were a shadow of what they had been generations earlier.  He stood up as I
approached.  "Hello, Dab," he said shyly.  Even when there was no-one else
with 100 yards Billy's first few moments were awkward for him.  "He made up
for that in bed, of course, where he was anything but shy.)  "I'm off back
to school tomorrow.  But I'd like to spend the night with you, Billy."
There are no words to describe the look of pure happiness he produced.
"I'll be with you around 9."  He nodded.  "I love you," he mouthed.

I had asked Dunstable and Mrs Tallis to join me at Dinner that night.  This
had never happened before, and they were both taken aback to be asked to
eat with His Lordship.  I told them that things would be different now, and
that I needed to get to know them better - a shared meal was the best way
of doing this, I felt.

The three of us sat at one end of a table which, according to legend, had
accommodated Edward VII and his friend (and co-conspirator) the First Earl.
Dowland served us, surprised (though he didn't show it) to see staff
members dining with me.  My Mother, of course, was away with her bottle.  I
briefed them on the changes I was planning to make, and each assured me
that everything would be in place before the Christmas holidays.  I made
sure that Dunstable would have Billy's accommodation uppermost in his mind
while discussing staff bedrooms with Mrs Tallis.  I gave them both my zip
number and asked each of them to report progress (or anything else of
importance) three times a week.  By the end of Dinner I felt that the three
of us, differing as we did in age and status, would be a good team to
manage the Estate as things developed.  How pompous that sounds now!  How
little of what was coming did we foresee, even things that would happen
while I was still at school!

We left the table at 8.45.  It was time for a little boisterousness with
Billy.

When I tapped quietly on his door and went in I found Billy already in bed.
He threw back the bedclothes to reveal a hard cock, pulsing gently with his
heartbeat.  I stripped quickly, throwing my clothes in a heap and within
seconds I was in his arms.  I might have been the Fifth Earl and he my
gardener's boy, but in this bed he was the master and I the object of his
passion.  My lips found his left nipple - the nearest I could get to his
heart - and licked gently, teasing it into a hard nub of insistent
excitement.  He loved it when my teeth grazed lightly on the engorged
flesh, eliciting a deep sigh.  He held me even more tightly.  I looked up,
his freckled face a picture - as mine was - of pure happiness.  "I love
you," he mouthed silently.  "Mmm."  I felt his cock and allowed my hand to
stroke his balls.  Suddenly I needed my lips down there, and I took one of
his balls into my mouth.  Billy's moans heightened my pleasure: I was
giving joy to my lover, and he to me by his surrender to my mouth.  The
other ball took its turn, followed finally by his cock - his wonderful
curved cock, the cock whose effect on my prostate was unlike any other.  I
knew that tonight that cock would tease my prostate and conjure from my
balls the biggest cum of the holidays - the last with Billy for thirteen
weeks.

We had all night, and I was in no hurry.  Billy, on the other hand, was
beginning to boil: his body was twitching with every lash of my tongue on
his cockhead ... his twitching became thrashing ... his hands held my head,
his fingers locked in my hair ... I knew he was nearly there and I wanted
his spunk - his essence, his soul - to drown me with his love.  I pushed
two fingers into his arse (always well lubricated against just such an
eventuality!) and Billy groaned as his cock spurted jet after jet into me.
I kept as much of his spunk in my mouth as I could - this was for sharing -
as he gradually subsided.  His fingers, still tight in my hair, pulled
gently to lift me to his face.  His lips were open ... mine joined his
... spunk flowed between us ... out tongues swan in the joy he had pumped
into me ... we swallowed ... our faces parted ... we saw bright gleams in
each other's eyes ... tears began, tears with which we were both familiar,
tears of shared togetherness.  "Oh Dab," he breathed.  There was nothing to
say.  We lay together for what seemed ages.

It can't have been more than ten minutes before Billy reached down to feel
my cock - soft now after our passion.  You haven't come," he whispered,
"you did so much for me, and now I want to show you how much I love you."
"I know how much you love me, Billy," I whispered, "but I like the idea of
being shown."  My cock liked the idea of being shown too.  "Lie on your
back, I want to worship your arse."  Not a sentiment you hear that often in
general conversation, but one which anyone reading this might chuckle at.
My arse and I loved it when anyone worshipped there, and if the officiating
priest was Billy - well, the reward was infinitely greater.  I smiled at
him as I put my arms behind my knees and hoisted my legs up, giving him
full rein to do what he - and I - so keenly wanted.

In the years since he'd entered service Billy had grown into the body of a
fit young man.  He had broad shoulders and a muscled torso.  His hips were
still narrow and his arse still (to my besotted eyes if to no-one else's)
the arse of a boy.  My body had changed too, and Billy was engaged in
describing it to me as he knelt over me.  "You're so smooth, Dab.  I love
that your chest is still like it was when we first fucked.  Your arse is
smooth too.  Only your balls are hairy."  It was true: I was pleased that
hairs were still largely absent.  "Do you like me smooth, Billy?"  "I like
you the way you are, Dab, you know that."  "When we first fucked I was 13
and had no hair at all."  "Mmm, I like that too."  "How about if we shave
off all our hair - we can pretend we're 15 and 13 again," I whispered,
"that would be fun, wouldn't it?"  Billy's grin told me all I needed to
know, and I made a decision there and then to shave everything off before
the end of the coming term.

A thought hit me.  "Do you have a zipper?"  "No, Dab.  I've never needed
one."  "You need one now, Billy.  I want to zip you from school to remind
you how much I love you.  I don't want you running off with the village
virgins just because I'm not here for you to fuck."  Billy laughed.  "I
don't think there are any village virgins, and besides the ones that there
are will be girls."  I said I would get Rivers to buy him a zipper and tell
him how to use it.  He smiled that lovely smile again.  "Thanks, Dab," he
said simply, "I'll use it every day."

While this conversation had been going on Billy's fingers had been teasing
my arse lips, and now that it had run its course he put his mouth to
another, equally pleasing, use.  Billy's tongue made its usual entry, and
for the millionth time I marvelled at how it did things to me that no-one
else's tongue had managed to do.  "Aaah!" I sighed as he made me melt.
"You want me to fuck you, don't you, Dab?" he said, "but I'm not going to -
not for ages.  I want you to be so desperate when I finally stick it in
that you'll come all over your belly before I've even got going."  I
murmured that his proposal met with unqualified concurrence, except that I
might have phrased my agreement more succinctly.  "God yes, Billy, make it
last all night," or something along those lines, I expect.  Billy was very
good at making foreplay last even beyond the moment of maximum sexual need,
and that night was one of his most treasured.  His fingers, his lips, his
tongue all conspired to render me a quivering jelly of sensual excess: my
skin was on fire with tingling sensations, my heart was full of love, my
eyes feasting on every feature of my beloved Billy - his face, his eyes,
his lips, his - oh, everything.  Every minute particle of him was full of
tenderness and urgency at the same time.  I loved him.  I loved him.  My
whole being was shaped round his, his round mine.

I lost count of time.  I was in a universe of my own - mine and Billy's.
Then my body - that earth-bound source of all the sensations Billy was
conjuring up - started to do what it had evolved to do: to express the love
that my lover was building in me in an explosion of semen.  "Yes, Billy,
yes, quick."  Billy knew the signs only too well, and although he would
have wished to keep me on the brink for longer he knew that there were only
a few seconds.  In he plunged - hard, cruel, forceful, utterly utterly
possessing me - and I erupted as we both knew I would.  Pulse after pulse
of cum shot from my cock drenching my face and chest.  "Fuck, Dab," he
breathed, "I've never seen you shoot that much."  "Fill me, Billy," I
panted, "fill me with yours while I'm still hot and ... oh Christ! you're
so ... "  It's easy to become incoherent at moments like that.

Billy was closer that time when he pushed his cock into me that he usually
was, and he thrusted hard (wonderfully, gloriously hard) into my willing
arse for no more than 30 seconds before he too reached the goal.  I felt
more swellings of his cock as his spunk flew into me than I could remember.
The men who'd fucked me - Guy, Rivers, Prendergast, Fagan - had all come a
lot more than I had, but Billy's balls were fuelled by Billy's love and my
arse - however inappropriately from an evolutionary point of view - was the
hungry recipient.

After he'd finished he collapsed onto me, my spunk metaphorically cementing
us together.  Our mouth met again, not fiercely this time but softly,
gently, our tongues dancing lightly on each other's lips, our breath slowly
returning to normal.  I looked in to his eyes.  "Billy Wilkins, you are the
best fuck I've ever had.  I think I'll keep you on."  "You daft bugger," he
murmured, "I think I'll stay."

His spunk had started to leak from me, so it was harvested and shared.  We
fell asleep still sticky with mine.  When something woke me as it was
getting light - it must have been around 6 - Billy was on his back
snuffling gently, a smile on his freckled face.  Much as I would have loved
to wake him and enjoy the vigour of his hard good-morning cock I couldn't
disturb him.  It was cold and I pulled the bedclothes round us.  And now
although the room grew chilly I hadn't the heart to poke poor Billy.

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The fun continues in Chapter 12 as school resumes.  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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