Date: Mon, 18 Jan 2021 08:46:40 +0000 (GMT) From: Peter Brown Subject: Last of the Line - Chapter 116 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 NOTE to the reader: "Peter Brown" aka badboi666 is, as you might guess, not in the first flush of youth: indeed he is well into the you'll-die-if-you-get-this-fucking-thing age cohort (and, happily, in the you'll-get-a-vaccination-pretty-soon one). It was his habit in all his stories published here to be two or three chapters ahead of publication, but right now, thanks to Santa Claus and other elderly fantasists, there's nothing in the pipeline. If he gets a nasty cough and a temperature he will post a synopsis of what is still to come. Then, if he snuffs it, you can at least have some idea of what befell Dab in the end. =============================================================================== Chapter 116 Hamish wasn't blessed with the biggest cock in the house, even after Jack had gone, but his was the one up my arse at that moment, so thought it was completely straight it was the one working magic. He was no sooner all the way in than I felt the beer - warm and wicked - surging into me, putting pressure on my insides as nothing else ever does. Spunk, when it's being forced out of a cock several inches from daylight, brings its own sensations, no doubt because the boy or man cuming at that moment is himself temporarily out of control. Piss isn't like that; the flow is continuous so the pressure increases inexorably. The pisser is, or certainly was in Hamish's case, completely relaxed, allowing things to take their natural course. Inevitably when the pisser is a teenager the flow is intense and there is a surge of piss back out again, soaking the pisser's belly and running down his legs. Hamish - and everyone else who's pissed up my arse - gets greatly aroused by this sudden soaking, and his cock seems to find an extra inch. But a bladder holds only so much and thrilling though it is to have an arse full of piss it's only a prelude to the joy of being fucked by a rutting animal. On this occasion Hamish went at me like a thing possessed. I heard Billy laughing through the layers of lust my body was being washed by. "I'm in there when you're done," I heard him say. Hamish grunted. Hamish fucked me hard ... mercilessly ... I knew he couldn't last long ... yes, Hamish, yes ... and he came, spurt after spurt ... would it never end? "Fucking hell, that was the hardest ever," he groaned as his cock wilted, still in me. "And one of the best," I whispered, "you're turning into a real stud." As always the laughter caused him to slip out and Billy, already positioned to continue my journey, caught some of Hamish's spunk as it rolled out of my arse. On most occasions it would have found its way into someone's mouth, but not this time. I felt the erotic feel of a hand covered in spunk - fresh, newly-shot teenage spunk - grasp my cock and spread the liquid joy over my throbbing cockhead. I damn nearly came right then. Billy, lovely curved Billy drove home slowly. His right hand wanked my spunky cock. "Oh Christ!" I moaned. Ten seconds later my cock gave a huge lurch and a jet of spunk soared half a mile into the air before landing on my face. Hamish, expecting a feast, was handily placed and was already licking my face when the second blast hit him on the neck. I have no idea how many blasts there were - I wasn't really there. There was a furnace up my arse and another on my face. Don't let it ever stop ... please! When we were in bed an hour or more later Hamish returned to the matter of Liverpool. "Are you going then?" "Of course. I'll go the day after tomorrow. I'll leave Billy behind to keep you company." ***** During the journey I worked out how to get what I needed. I had no idea how many Catholic parishes there were in Liverpool, but I knew there was a cathedral, and cathedrals probably had people inside who knew about things. Naturally I went to the wrong cathedral first, but I was directed along the road to Paddy's Wigwam. A woman on the bookstall directed me to Father Anselm in the enquiry office. He was most interested in my quest. "A Father Corrigan, you say, active in the 1930s. Goodness! Do you know which parish?" I told him that that was what I was seeking, and he waddled off to a bookshelf. He ran his finger along the spines. I wondered whether he allowed that finger to run along the spines of altar boys, but before I could conjure up a picture he was back. The altar boys were spared. "Here we are - the Parish Rolls for 1930 to 1937. Let's see. Corrigan ... yes. St Matthew and St Luke. Father Corrigan was priest from 1923 and still there at the end of 1937. Will that be the man you're looking for? But why, if I may ask?" I explained that it wasn't Father Corrigan I was seeking, but a boy whom he had baptised. "Presumably the parish will have records of baptisms?" He gave me an old-fashioned look. "We have records going back practically to the invention of writing, and as St Matthew and St Luke suffered no bomb damage in the War you'll find your boy there. But he'll surely be long dead." I agreed, telling him that I was really trying to make contact with his descendants, "and his baptism is the only link I can find." Father Anselm looked at his watch. "It's not far short of midday," he said, "and St Matthew and St Luke is only a mile away. Why don't we walk there together and I'll get them to dig out the records. I think I might get a swifter response somehow," and I saw, for the first time in my life, a priest wink. The altar boys crowded back into my mind. When we reached the church, a non-descript building in a run-down part of the city near the docks, Father Anselm marched in. A priest saw him and came rushing over: evidently the sight of someone from Head Office merited swift action. "Father George, we need to see the baptismal records for the early 1920s - can you manage that for us, do you think?" Father George trotted off and Father Anselm lowered himself into a pew. "You're allowed to sit," he said with another wink, "even if you're not one of us." Ten minutes later I had a piece of paper in my hand which attested to the fact that Patrick Joseph Mulloy and Timothy Dominic Mulloy had been baptised by Father Corrigan on Sunday 4th December 1921. Mulloy, I thought, at least it wasn't Smith. There can't have been a huge number of Mulloys running a restaurant in the 1970s. Father Anselm solemnly thanked Father George who seemed relieved that our quest had ended satisfactorily. "Thank you, Father," I said, "you've set my foot on the next part of my journey." It seemed the right sort of thing to say. "I think," said Father Anselm as we walked back to the Cathedral, "that we should give thanks for your good fortune. I know just the place." The place served an excellent lunch and the bottle of claret we split was equally good. I could see why Father Anselm waddled. I was glad I was going home by train. ***** Back home Hamish was keen to hear how his great idea had borne fruit. "What next, Dab?" "If Patrick was on his own I can't see an easy solution, but as he was with Charlie they may have had a Partnership Deed, and if they did then there will be a record of it. I've had a word with Dunstable and he said he would make enquiries. It's more his field than mine. It was his idea actually." It was three weeks before Dunstable showed me the letter from Companies House. Patrick Mulloy and Charles MacKenzie had been partners in a restaurant in Aylesbury and had, over the years, taken Adrian Gold and Simon Willoughby into partnership. The latter two had dissolved the partnership in 2017. "Does that help, Dab?" he said. "It certainly takes me a lot further forward. I'll have to try to locate Gold and Willoughby if they're still alive. They may have sold the restaurant in 2017, and you never know - they may be on the new owner's Christmas card list." Dunstable laughed. "It's as good a place to start as any - you might find an agreeable menu awaits you." I'd left Billy behind on the Liverpool trip but he insisted on coming with me to Aylesbury. "We'll be back tomorrow, Hamish, so you're in charge," I said. Hamish promised to do his best. Companies House had provided the address of the business in Aylesbury and it was easy to find. To my delight it was still in operation. I parked the electro and we went in - it was just before midday and though it was open there were no customers. A man of around 60 greeted us- did we have a reservation? I explained that we had visited Aylesbury on spec, but that we'd had a recommendation to eat there. We were invited to have a seat in the bar as they didn't start lunch until 12.30. As we were still the only customers he stayed to talk after we had our drinks. He was the owner, he told us, and as conversation developed (guided by me) he told us that he had bought the place from a gay couple "back in 2017". There was no obvious way to jump from there to what I was after, so I let the matter drop, and the three of us talked of other things. His wife did the cooking and she appeared with a couple of menus. We ordered and were led to a table. When it was time to pay I made my move. "The people who gave us a recommendation ate here a few years ago, and they told us that they had been in the habit of dining here for special occasions - anniversaries, I think - when they were much younger. They must have eaten here when your gay couple were still here. I think they mentioned - Simon, was it?" Billy, briefed, agreed. Our host laughed. "They have a good memory. Yes, the younger one was Simon. We're still in touch now and again - he comes in occasionally. His partner died a few years back - they stayed nearby." I had the information I needed, so we made our farewells. "Let's hope he's old-fashioned enough to be in the phone book," I said. Five minutes later I had an address of an S. Willoughby. "There can't be two of them." S. Willoughby was at home. He was in his 70s and was delighted to have visitors. Tea and chocolate biscuits appeared. I decided that I would be completely honest. "You must think it odd that two strangers should appear out of the blue. I've spent three months trying to find information about somebody - somebody long dead - and the trail has led me to you. I hope you can finish the picture for me. My great-grandfather once met this person when they were both boys and he left in his papers a description, and that's what I'm trying to follow. His name was Patrick Mulloy." "Good heavens! That's a name I haven't thought of for years. Yes, he and Charlie - they were a gay couple like Ade and me - " "And us," I added. Simon smiled, remembering. "Patrick and Charlie recruited Ade when he was - oh, I don't know, 15, 16 - they were into boys - " "And us," I said again. Simon grinned, "it all seems so right somehow, your coming here. Ade recruited me. He was 29 and I was 14. We were in love. The four of us lived together for years until Patrick and Charlie retired. They're both long dead, as you said. They were so unlike and yet they'd been together ever since they met as bell boys on Queen Mary before the War. They were together for over 80 years. Not many people, gay or straight, can say that. Patrick came from Liverpool - he had a twin brother - and Charlie came from Scotland, way up in the north, I think." He lapsed into silence, back with Patrick and Charlie and Ade all those years ago when he had been a boy. We stayed and talked for over two hours. It was a wrench having to go as Simon was so pleased to talk about the old times and to recall the love which had pervaded the restaurant when he and Ade ran it. "I hope you found what you were after," he said as we left, "I'm afraid I've rattled on rather." I assured him that he had told me everything I was hoping to hear. "My great-grandfather and Patrick - and Tim, the twin brother - shared a few hours in bed when they were all 14, and it made such an impression on him that I just had to find out what became of Patrick." "And now you know. I've enjoyed this afternoon more than I thought possible. Things have been bleak since Ade died. It's two years almost. You've brought him back to life - and Patrick and his Charlie as well. Thank you." There were tears in his eyes. As we drove home Billy and I discussed what we'd learned. "Are you satisfied you've found out all you can now?" asked Billy. "Yes, I think so. We know what became of Patrick after 1936. He lived a long and happy life with Charlie. There's no more to know." How wrong I was! ***** That evening Hamish insisted on hearing all the details. When I got to the bit about Charlie having come from the north of Scotland he put his knife and fork down in amazement. "What was his name again?" "Charlie MacKenzie. Why?" "Dab, that my Grandad's name, and he's from Durness in the north. You don't suppose they're related? MacKenzie's quite common, but it's worth trying to see, isn't it?" I thought it unlikely, but I'd had the fun of a chase for a few months and it would have been unkind not to be enthusiastic about Hamish having a chance of discovering something too. "Why not write to him and ask him. He'll be interested in how you're getting on here, so give him the news. You'd better write to your parents as well." "No way," he said, "but I'll phone them. Is that OK?" "Of course it is. You can speak to your Grandad at the same time - he lives with them, doesn't he?" Hamish nodded. I left him in the office to get on with it. When he came back 20 minutes later he had the appearance of someone who had struck gold - and perhaps he had. "You look excited," I said. He threw himself into a chair. "I've earned a beer." Billy got three and set them in front of us. "It's your turn now," he said. "I talked to Dad for a few minutes then Mum came on. We had the usual 'are you all right?' conversation - I think she thinks there are wild animals here in a zoo or something - and then I asked her about Grandad. 'Dab's found some papers from ages ago mentioning a Charlie MacKenzie. It would be long before Grandad though - 60 years ago maybe. Is he there? Can I have a word with him?' She went off and a bit later Grandad was on the line. He's a bit deaf - I'm surprised you didn't hear me yelling. 'What's this about me?' he said. 'Not you, Grandad, another Charlie MacKenzie, 60 years ago. Do you remember a man called Patrick, and his friend Charlie MacKenzie?' He didn't say a word. 'Are you OK?' I said. "Yes, yes, Hamish, I'm fine. I was remembering that time - I was 14 and my grandmother had just died. I was called after this other Charlie, Tearlach I was then, my father's little brother.' He went quiet again. I kept my mouth shut while he was remembering. Then he said, 'I can't say more on the phone, Hamish, but there's more to tell. Why don't you come and visit us and you and I can have a big chat, and I'll tell you all about Charlie and Patrick. I'd forgotten all about them, but they were very important when I was 14, I can tell you.' And he wouldn't say another word on the subject. And then Mum came on and asked what all that had been about, but I just mumbled, and that was that. Can we go and visit and find out?" Billy turned to me. "Of course we must, Dab. You've got this far: you can't give up now." I agreed, but upping sticks and driving to Inverthrum in November wasn't the most attractive proposition. "Let me talk to Hester, Hamish, and if she can do without you for a few days the three of us will go. Jack will be jealous, but he's probably found someone to play with at college." To Billy's and my delight Hamish grinned happily. "So he tells me. I'm glad. He promised to share the dirty secrets when he gets home." "And you're happy with that?" I asked. "Of course I am, Dab. You've taught me the rules and if he's getting a load off his ... mind then I couldn't be happier. Besides I'm not exactly behaving like a monk, am I?" Hester said she could do without Hamish for as long as I needed him, and then blushed at the implication. "Make sure he spends time looking at how things are coming along - better still make him write a report for me." I said I would make sure he did his homework. I phoned his parents to let them know we were coming for a few days, and his mother was delighted. "You must have a meal with us - will Billy be with you as well?" "Yes, Rose, that's kind of you. We'll be coming up by train tomorrow night, so we'll be at Inverthrum by late Tuesday morning. Can we come to you that evening? The plan is to go back on Thursday's sleeper." "My goodness! That's a flying visit." "I want to see how the planting is doing - whether it's survived so far - and I want to consult your father about something - something way back that he might know about. If he's able to come I'd like it if he would agree to come to Inverthrum for lunch on Wednesday - I'll come to collect him, of course." "It's all very mysterious, Dab, but I'm sure he'll be delighted. He doesn't get out of the house much and it'll give him something to look forward to. He and Hamish have always got on well - they had great secrets when Hamish was wee - so it'll be nice for the two of them to have some time together without Rob and me." It was agreed that we would arrive in time for lunch at one. Hamish was like a dog with two tails, and he showed his gratitude (and his excitement) in bed that night. "You won't get a chance on the train," said Billy, "and if you let your Grandad see you all shagged out after a busy night at Inverthrum he'll know you've been a bad boy." "So you want me to be a good bad boy tonight then?" I didn't for one moment think that Inverthrum would not witness much love-making, and I didn't for one moment think that Hamish's powers of recuperation would not be sufficient to allow him to look innocent by lunchtime. Still, there was my lover in our bed as well as a feisty 15-year-old, so none of us held back. "When we get to Inverthrum I'm going to shave you, Hamish, so make the most of your last hairy night." Hamish took a bit of a back seat that night. He insisted that if he was to look innocent for his grandfather that he ought to restrain his urges. "So you only get to fuck me once each this time." I went first, partly because I knew that when Billy gave Hamish a long slow one it made the boy glow for hours afterwards, and a glowing 15-year-old is a sparky thing to have in your bed. That night his sparkiness led him, some 90 minutes after we'd gone to bed, to demand that Billy and I put on a show for him. He didn't quite put it that way though. "I want to see you two giving each other a really intense 69ing. I always remember the first time I saw you do it, and I've never forgotten what it made me feel inside." "Suits me," said Billy, "are you up for it?" I whispered something in his ear and he looked surprised. "Sure?" "Yeah, why not? It'll give him something else to remember." "OK then." Billy lay on his back and I got on top. Mouths engulfed familiar cocks, cocks welcomed by familiar tongues. "I love watching you two," murmured Hamish, "it makes me all warm inside, just like when Jack makes love to me." Minutes passed, minutes full of slowly building thrills. It had been well over an hour since I had cum, and Billy and I both knew I'd cum first - that was why I was on top. I took my mouth briefly off Billy's cock to ask Hamish to stick as many fingers up my arse as he felt like. Once they were in - three, maybe four from the feel of it - I knew I was less than a minute away. Billy knew the signs and kept still. "Aah!" I cried and raised my hips. My cock was no longer in Billy's mouth: it was inches above his face as it erupted. Spunk flew out onto Billy's face. His eyes were shut, his mouth still open. I shot four lines into him and lowered my cock back into his mouth so that he could catch the last drops. "Fuck!" breathed Hamish, "you planned that, didn't you." I rolled onto my back and Billy put his cock back into my mouth. "Again, Hamish," he said, "it's time Dab got coated." Fingers went in and Hamish sought Billy's prostate. "Yesss," he sighed, "go for it, Hamish." Hamish went for it. Billy's hips rose. My face received hot streaks of white wonder. Billy groaned as his balls fired again and again, and my lips reached up to gather the last precious oozing. He rolled off and turned round. We each regarded the spunk-covered face in front of us. "That was something special," I whispered. "You're kinky, Dab Cunliffe, but I still love you. Now clean me off." I did. And so did he. Hamish applauded softly. "I promise I'll get Jack to 69 me like that for you both to perv over in the holidays." =============================================================================== The fun continues in Chapter 117 as the MacKenzie history is revealed. Drop me a line at badboi666@btinternet.com - that is after you've dropped nifty a few quid. ===============================================================================